Page 72 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
For the second time that day, I grabbed his hand, firmly interlacing our fingers, squeezing until Rory’s forehead smoothed back out.
“I hope you’re ready for this, Maxwell,” Rory muttered as we approached the manor’s entrance, his hand tightening around mine.
“Don’t call me Maxwell,” I found myself saying. “I’m not using my real last name. Plus, that would be a weird thing to do… call your boyfriend by his surname.”
Why did I care quite so much? Everyone at the station called me Maxwell—even George, who I’d known since academy days, still called me Maxwell when we met for pints or hikes outside of work. The formality had become so normal I barely noticed it anymore.
The only person who ever called me Theo was my mother.
Rory blinked at me, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Okay, Teddy.”
I groaned. “I was thinking more along the lines of Theo. You know, my name?”
“Teddy is such a cute pet name, though, don’t you think?” He grinned at me, horizon-wide, and for a moment, I forgot to tell him no.
Because he was already dragging me through the large oak double doors, through to a marble-floored lobby within a grand entrance hall, its vaulted ceiling adorned with elaborate plasterwork. From somewhere to our right, the buzz of conversation flowed—multiple voices overlapping in animated discussion, punctuated by occasional laughter.
An older man with silver hair and impeccable posture appeared from a side door. His eyes widened fractionally as they landed on Rory.
“Master Rory,” he said. “It’s been quite some time.”
“Bernard.” Rory grinned at him. “This is my boyfriend, Theodore.”
Bernard’s gaze shifted to me, assessing. “Yes, we were told that you were bringing a… boyfriend.” He blinked at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Welcome to Thorne Manor, sir. May I take your coats?”
The moment Bernard turned away with them, Rory’s hand shot out to grab mine again, the movement so swift and desperate I nearly laughed. His palm was clammy against mine, his fingers trembling slightly.
As we approached the source of the noise, waves of anxiety radiated from Rory. Surface thoughts leaked through my mental barriers despite my best efforts.
…they’ll all be staring…
…should never have come…
…what if she…
Yet Rory marched determinedly, practically dragging me along.
I stopped abruptly, yanking on his arm. “Hold on a second.” I caught his other hand, drawing him close. His wide eyes searched my face, panic swimming just beneath the surface. “Hey,” I murmured. “Breathe.”
Rory’s gaze darted towards the noise, then back to me. “I am breathing!”
I squeezed his hands, where he wasn’t quite able to hide his trembling. “You don’t have to prove anything to them. You’re here because you chose to be, not because you owe them anything.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded, some of that old stubborn fire flickering back into his expression. “Right. Fuck them if they don’t like it.”
“That’s my Terrier,” I said quietly, and was rewarded with the ghost of his usual grin.
We stepped into a spacious parlour dominated by antique furniture—leather armchairs, mahogany tables, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Around a dozen people were scattered throughout the space, dressed smartly in brown overcheck woollen waistcoats or pantsuits. The moment we entered, a hush fell over the room. Every face turned in our direction, the pin-drop silence absolute.
I held very still, waiting for Rory’s reaction, waiting for him to make some sort of sarcastic comment about the dramatic welcome, or break the tension with his usual easy laughter.
But nothing came, and the moment stretched painfully, Rory’s hand gripping mine so tightly my fingers began to tingle.
Eventually, Alex cleared his throat. “Rory! Good to see you,” he called out too loudly, moving towards us. His voice seemed to break the spell, and conversations gradually resumed around the room.
Rory’s face was the very picture of misery, his usual animation completely gone.
Alex took a few steps towards us, but froze as another man materialised, nodding curtly at Rory before turning to me with an extended hand.
