Hosting the Dark

Chapter 7: Friendly Visit

He was coming at 8 p.m., and the thought carried a restless energy through me all afternoon. To quiet it, I busied myself with small tasks around the house. I took down the laundry from the drying rack, folding each piece carefully and stacking it into neat piles, though I noticed my hands moved slower than usual. My eyes kept drifting toward the window. The strange bird I’d seen earlier was thankfully gone, leaving the garden quiet and still. Yet a trace of unease remained, like a faint hum in the background.

I shook it off and made my way to the bathroom. A long, hot shower seemed like exactly what I needed. The water poured over me in steady sheets, warming my skin, coaxing away the leftover tension clinging to my muscles. For a while, I simply stood under the stream with my eyes closed, breathing in the faint scent of soap and steam. By the time I stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, my body felt looser, calmer—though a small knot of anticipation still lingered deep inside.

In front of the wardrobe, I frowned at the rows of clothes. The decision seemed strangely complicated: I didn’t want to look too casual, as if I hadn’t cared, but neither did I want to appear dressed up, polished, or suggestive. That would send a message I wasn’t sure I wanted to send.

One hanger after another was pulled out, considered, then tossed aside onto the bed. Dresses felt wrong. Skirts, too formal. Anything low-cut, immediately discarded. After nearly ten minutes of waffling, I landed on the safe middle ground: a pair of fitted jeans and a soft blouse. Comfortable, modest. The kind of outfit that let me feel put together without inviting questions.

I leaned closer to the mirror, applying only a touch of makeup—concealer, a brush of mascara, the faintest sweep of lipstick. I combed my hair, the natural waves falling loose around my shoulders. Staring at my reflection, I tried to convince myself I looked calm and casual, even though my pulse said otherwise.

Once ready, I moved to the dining room. The small ritual of setting the table steadied me: two plates, glasses for wine and water, cutlery laid neatly, napkins folded with unconscious precision. For a moment, I considered adding candles, even carried two small ones from the cupboard to the table. But after a pause, I carried them back again. Too romantic. Too suggestive. This wasn’t that kind of evening.

At 7:58, the doorbell rang.

I inhaled deeply, smoothed my blouse, and opened the door.

Thomas stood there, smiling. His expression was as familiar as it was disarming, warm in its simplicity. That smile eased something in me instantly, dissolving the nerves I hadn’t wanted to admit to.

“Hi,” I said, my voice a little softer than intended.

“Hey,” he replied. The sound of it made me feel like nothing had changed, even though so much had.

We exchanged a brief hug—polite, almost formal—and then I stepped aside to let him in. His presence filled the hallway easily, as though he belonged there.

In the dining room, I gestured toward the table. “Wine or beer?”

“Beer,” he said with a grin, settling into the chair as if he’d been there a hundred times before.

I slipped into the kitchen, retrieving a cold bottle from the fridge. My own glass of water felt safer, grounding. Two slices of lasagna went into the microwave, and the aroma soon drifted into the air—familiar, comforting. When I returned, I set his beer in front of him and placed my water beside my own plate.

“The lasagna will be ready in a few minutes,” I said.

“Lasagna? My favorite! You’re spoiling me already.” He licked his lips dramatically, making me laugh despite myself.

“How have you been?” he asked, once he’d poured his beer. His gaze was warm, lingering.

“Fine, actually,” I said. “It’s been a quiet time. I’ve had space to breathe.” I tilted my head. “What about you? Anything new?”

He studied me for a long moment over the rim of his glass. Then his voice softened. “I missed you.”

The words landed heavier than I’d expected. Before I could think, my own reply slipped free. “I missed you, too.”

It wasn’t untrue. I had missed him—but only as a friend. Still, saying it out loud left a weight between us I wasn’t sure how to move around.

The microwave beeped, a welcome interruption. I excused myself, retrieved the food, plated it with care, and brought it back to the table.

“Mmm, this smells amazing,” Thomas said, eyes lighting up. He waited for me to pick up my fork before digging in.

The meal passed in gentle rhythm. We spoke about work, little day-to-day things, mutual acquaintances. Nothing monumental, but it felt easy. Familiar. For the first time in days, I found myself laughing freely.

After dinner, we carried our drinks into the living room. The lamplight softened the space, making it feel smaller, more intimate. I curled into the corner of the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me, while he sat opposite with casual ease.

At some point, I found myself telling him about the strange guest who had checked in the night before, how the man’s presence had unsettled me. Speaking it aloud made me realize how much the feeling still clung to me.

Thomas frowned, leaning forward. “Are you sure you’re safe?”

I nodded, though the truth wasn’t so simple. “He’s in the cottage, not in the main house.”

“Still,” he said firmly, “you don’t know him. Not really.”

Then he surprised me. “I’ll stay with you tonight. I’ve got the day off tomorrow.”

My first instinct was to object, but he lifted a hand before I could speak.

“It’s settled,” he said gently. “Don’t argue. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

I hesitated, torn between protest and gratitude. The truth was—I didn’t want to be alone.

“If you’re sure, there’s a guestroom,” I said finally. “But only if you’re really okay with it.”

“It’s no trouble.” His expression softened. “There’s nothing waiting for me at home. And I’ve missed… just being here.”

Something eased in me at that. “Thank you,” I murmured.

To shift the moment, I suggested a movie. Neither of us was ready for bed, and the easy distraction sounded welcome. He agreed, so I flicked on the TV and queued up a romantic comedy.

Laughter soon filled the room, light and unguarded. Halfway through, I brought in two bowls of ice cream, and we ate them while the characters fumbled through their scripted romance. The evening slipped past in a kind of gentle blur, ordinary yet soothing.

By the time the credits rolled, the clock read 10:30. Reluctantly, I stood and gathered the empty bowls. I handed Thomas a towel and a toothbrush, then busied myself with making the guest bed. I fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, and adjusted the blanket with more care than necessary, all to keep my hands occupied.

When Thomas returned, he was dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers. Heat crept into my cheeks before I could stop it. I turned quickly, fussing with the bedding as though it still needed attention.

But when I turned back, he was closer than I’d realized. Too close.

I froze, breath catching.

He leaned in slowly, giving me just enough time to stop him if I wanted to. I didn’t move. His lips brushed against mine, soft, tentative.

The world tilted. My pulse raced.

For a second, I thought I should pull away. This was dangerous ground, a line I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross. But when his arms slid around me, warm and careful, something deep inside me melted.

I kissed him back.

A voice in the back of my mind whispered that this was a mistake, that I’d regret it by morning. But my body had its own logic, its own desires.

And for now, I surrendered to it.