Page 141 of Claim

Usually, people like that would’ve made me uncomfortable. Too polished. Far too removed from the world I’d grown up in. But somewhere along the way that had changed. Cause the four of us had done dinners in London. Drinks after work. A few awkward attempts at hosting them at Tristan’s where I’d nearly set off the smoke alarm twice. They’d come here. We’d even ended up on a couple of double dates.

And somehow, without me really noticing when it had happened…

We’d become friends.

Weird.

Henry gestured toward the tongs in my hand. “You do realise if you poison half of Tristan’s family, I’ll be the one dealing with the aftermath?”

“Exactly why I’m doing it.” I winked at him. “You need the practice.”

He snorted. “I’m training to be a surgeon, not perform emergency sausage resuscitation.”

Henry bumped my shoulder as he reached for a beer from the cooler. “Try not to burn the place down, Slade. I am off duty.

“No promises, Redmayne. I’m never off duty from giving you work.”

He chuckled.

Pretty good having friends in high places.

Tristan’s parents arrived last. His father slower than I remembered, thinner still, but upright. Clear-eyed. Recovered in the way that meant something. His mother fussing with gifts and coats and making sure everyone had enough to eat within seconds of stepping through the gate.

The place felt… full.

Kids everywhere. Laughter carrying across the lawn. Music low from someone’s speaker. Plates clattering. Someone opening a bottle of something fizzy too early. It wasn’t perfect. The paint on the back wall still needed another coat. One of the windows stuck when you tried to open it. The decking had a slight dip where we’d misjudged the level.

But it was lived in.

Lennon stood beside me at the grill, smoke drifting up between us as we turned sausages and burgers, an easy working rhythm coming from being side by side long enough not to need words.

Then I felt someone step in close, along with another presence behind me. Tristan’s father. With Tristan just off my shoulder. Lennon clocked it instantly and made himself scarce, muttering something about checking the gas and retreating with admirable speed.

Charles stood there for a moment, drink in hand, taking it all in. The garden full of people, the house alive with noise, the barbecue smoke clinging to the air. Then his eyes settled on me. He was in full recovery now. Remission, if that’s what they called it. Had retired too. Spending time with his wife. His family. Being a Grandpa.

“You’ve done good work here,” he said at last.

I shrugged, heat from the grill warming my face. “Needed doing. And… I owed it.”

He nodded, accepting that without fuss. He couldn’t argue with it. He and his family had done so much for me and mine, me fixing a few things here and there was the least I could do. Beside me, Tristan rested his head on my shoulder, sliding his hand up and down the sweat on my back. He’d been doing that more lately. Easy touches. Public ones. It had taken me a while to stop bracing for it. Stop feeling as if someone might notice, might object.

I knew why he did it. Proof, maybe. To them. To himself. To me.

No one had expected us to last. Least of all me.

And yet here we were. A year on. Me hosting his family in a country cottage. Me running a charity. Me back standing shoulder to shoulder with Lennon. Me being… steady. A boyfriend to a bloody barrister.

Life had a sense of humour.

“You’ll be pleased to know,” Charles said suddenly, almost conversational, “that a line has been drawn.”

Tristan lifted his head from my shoulder. “What line?”

I flipped a burger, watched the fat hiss as it hit the grill, and waited.

“There was an internal review.” He took a sip of drink. “Quiet. Professional. Focused on… influence. The handling of intelligence. Charging decisions.”

I listened.