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Aweek after showing Tristan his place, Leo was still on a high on the idea that as soon as the contractors got their ducks in a row, Tristan would be moving in with him. Was it wrong to hope the roof would collapse so that he’d have to stay longer? Probably, but a part of him couldn’t help hoping—the part that wasn’t in charge of his finances, obviously. Even at work, when he should have been, well, working, more often than not he found himself thinking of Tristan, spending much longer than he should have on homewares and furniture websites, like an anxious bird looking for exactly the right nest decoration to impress that other bird—the one with the really fancy tail feathers.
Leo blinked at his screen and at the display of garishly sequined cushions he was somehow considering, glad he’d caught a moment of self-awareness before clicking to add them to his cart. Tristan liked him for him, not for how many sparkly cushions he could fit on his couch. At the same time though, he liked that being with Tristan was encouraging him to step outside his comfort zone. Contemplating new cushions that weren’t beige might not seem like a huge deal for most people, but for Leo? Earth-shattering stuff.
He clicked out of the webpage before anyone walking past noticed that it had nothing at all to do with his job and forced himself to concentrate on his work again. He’d barely been at it for half an hour when his phone buzzed with a call, and Tristan’s name appeared on the screen.
Leo flushed with warmth as he answered. “Hey.”
“Hey there.”
“Hey,” Leo said again, and smiled dumbly at his co-worker Aaron. He didn’t even realise he was doing it until Aaron gave him an odd look. Leo turned in his chair. “Um, how’s it going?”
“Well,” Tristan said, “that’s what I’m calling you about.”
Something in his tone sharpened Leo’s senses. “What?”
“Well, Jason the mould guy was just here taking pictures or something, and the builder’s guys were here, too, measuring something, and they were all having smoko out the front or whatever it is that people with jobs do, and when I went downstairs to see if anyone wanted a cuppa, there was this other guy there. And I asked who he was, and he gave me his card. Hold on.” Cloth rustled. “Gary Hooper-Maddings. Property valuer.”
Leo frowned. “I already had it valued.”
“That’s what I said,” Tristan said. “And I thought maybe he was with the bank, because you said something about getting a loan, so I asked him, and he said he was doing the valuation for pre-sale. Pre-sale, Leo.”
“But I’m not selling,” Leo said. “And I didn’t hire a valuer.”
“Well, that’s why I thought I’d better check in,” Tristan said. “Since I’m not aware of bands of travelling property valuers who go from house to house doing inspections just for shits and giggles.”
“Shit,” Leo said.
“And giggles.”
“No.” Leo scrubbed a hand over his hair. “My fucking parents. It’s got to be them. I told them I’m not selling, but of course they think they know better.”
“So I should tell this guy to fuck off?” Tristan asked.
“He’s still there?”
“No, I already told him to fuck off,” Tristan admitted. “I just thought I should check if that was the right thing to do.”
Leo laughed despite himself. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” Tristan said. “Come over for dinner tonight and look at all the fluro paint markings Davo One and Davo Two have left all over the walls, and I’ll prove it to you.”
“Who are Davo One and Davo Two?”
“The builder’s guys,” Tristan said.
“And they’re both called Davo?”
“Well, they both answer to Davo, so I can only assume,” Tristan said airily. “Anyway, I’m making fettuccine carbonara since that’s our thing now.”
“Is it?”
“Either that or Korean barbeque tacos, but I’m less likely to fuck up fettuccine.” He hummed. “Marginally.”
“Marginally less fucked-up fettucine sounds incredible,” Leo said earnestly, and Tristan laughed. “See you after work.”
“See you then, babe,” Tristan said, and ended the call.
Leo made it to Newtown just before seven, a bottle of wine tucked inside his messenger bag. Tristan met him at the door like a 1950s sitcom housewife—if 1950s sitcom housewives had worn harem pants slung so low on their hips that they were almost indecent, bare feet and nothing else. The light caught Tristan’s nipple piercing in a way that completely short-circuited Leo’s brain and left him standing slack-jawed on the doorstep.
