Note: this chapter contains brief description of toxic relationships, and some sexual detail.

•••

Humiliation is perhaps the most dramatic understatement, to describe the way George feels after the realisation this stranger has provoked within him. Once the initial shock wears off, he feels heat rush to his cheeks; as he flushes red. His only saving grace, is the knowledge that this man cannot see just how embarrassed he looks.

"I'm so sorry," he just about manages to choke out. No amount of throat-clearing can dislodge the lump that has formed in his oesophagus. "Please pardon my—just me. Have a good evening."

"What's your name?" the man interrogates. His voice is low, holding a certain enigma to it; although, George evaluates, this air of mystery is most-likely derived from not knowing the appearance of the person.

"G-George," he stammers in return. "Yourself?"

"Levi." A soft, almost-inaudible chuckle hums down the line. "Nice talking to you. Oh — and good luck with the missus."

"Thanks." His reply is a little more blunt, to emphasise his sarcasm. "Good luck calling the right number, this time."

"Fair comment." The pair share gentle laughter, before Levi concludes the awkward conversation. "Bye for now."

"Bye." Having muttered this final farewell, George hears the sound of the phone being connected to its receiver on Levi's side. A prolonged beeping tone rings in his ear, signifying the end of the call. Feeling slightly lightheaded, George returns his own phone to its receiver, before his eyes move to no particular spot; and he stares into space for a moment to process what has just occurred.

He was so convinced that the phone call was going to change his life forever — but now, it seems, it has only made it all-the-more uncomfortable. George has — in essence — just outed himself to a complete and utter stranger. His mind replays the deep, cool voice of this Levi character; specifically when he was complimenting George for his bravery in confessing.

"That took some guts to admit."

The painful irony, of course, is that George feels entirely the opposite to this statement. In reality, he couldn't be further from having the 'guts' to admit to anything involving his sexuality. He gives himself some credit, though; because had the caller have been Stephanie, then he would have finally gotten the secret off his chest. It isn't his fault that it wasn't her. Eventually, he zones back in to the world surrounding him, heaving a sigh as he plods back up the stairs to go to bed. Even more failed attempts at sleeping are the result of George's brain working excessively; he cannot get the voice out of his head.

"You don't need to keep thinking about it," he scolds himself; he shakes his head in disapproval of his own actions, flipping his body so that he lays down on his side. His eyes, having adjusted to the darkness within the room, remain fixed on a random spot of the mattress. "You'll never meet this person, or speak to them again — he'll forget about it by next week. He won't even remember your name. You're overanalysing this, just like you do with everything." His ongoing monologue, taking on the form of a rant, intensifies the more he speaks. "You're just a mess, Georgios. A complete mess. How could you be so foolish, as to think it was really Steph calling? What made you think it was a good idea to start blurting out that you're gay without making sure it was her first?" His eyes close; he joins his hands together in a praying position, resting his index fingers against the bridge of his nose in shame. "Absolute tosspot."

•••

"I'm going to assume you're nursing a hangover." George waits for Steph to hold out her hands, before he transfers the warm mug he's holding, from his grasp to hers. He stands by the bed, largely towering over her petite frame as she takes a sip of her beverage. Her free hand moves up to her forehead, pressing firmly to psychologically alleviate some of the pain that's pounding through her temples.

"It was worth it though. I had so much fun with the girls," she comments. A subtle smile touches upon her mouth briefly, until the throbbing causes her to wince in slight agony. "On second thoughts, perhaps it wasn't so worth it, after all."

George can't refrain from finding amusement in her words and behaviour. "Well, maybe it'll deter you from going out again any time soon."

Her eyes snap open; anxiety is clearly evident in her brown irises. "Are you saying that because you don't like me going out?"

"Listen, my darling, we've been through this — in fact, only last night." He sets himself down on the side of the bed, next to her. A reassuring smile from him, to her; as well as an affectionate hand rubbing against her arm, aids in getting his point across. "I've told you, that you can go out whenever you want to. I only said that because of your headache."

"But he used to get annoyed if I went out too much. Why aren't you the same?" Whether out of shyness, or embarrassment — or, perhaps, both — her eyes cannot remain on his, so she looks down at the contents of her mug.

"Because I'm not an abusive arsehole," George explains shortly, releasing air from his nostrils as a substitute for laughter. "And I'm definitely not him, either."

If there's one thing that makes him feel as guilty as he does about his big secret, it's the ordeal that Stephanie had to endure prior to the start of their relationship. Before she met George at the cinema in Watford, Stephanie had been in a heart-wrenchingly toxic relationship with another man for almost two years — since she was seventeen years old. This man was five years older than her, making him twenty-two at the time they began seeing one another. At first, like all romances, everything seemed as perfect as it could have possibly seemed. After a few months, though, it became an incredibly hostile connection. Poor Steph was too naïve to notice at the time, but this boyfriend of hers would make subtle comments about her appearance and weight (the latter of which was actually perfectly healthy); as well as controlling the friends she made; the places she'd go; and the time she'd be expected to come home at night. It was a miserable existence for her, but she knew no better. To her, that was what love was. When she met George, she spent several excruciating months unlearning all the toxicity she had acquired through her ex-partner. But George was kind; and George was patient with her. Had he have been true to the image he has built of himself, their relationship would be beautiful. There are still times such as this, where Stephanie's insecurities and lack of confidence override all else; but George never dwindles in his support towards her. He knows that even when the truth outs about his sexuality, he wants to remain friends with her purely for the bond they've created.

Her frightened stare melts into a softer gaze; she nods in understanding, knowing deep down that George could never come even remotely close to being the disgusting man that her ex was. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise for anything," George playfully scolds her, his sweet grin showing, "You deserve so much better."

"And luckily I have you to give it to me." Her content expression briefly matches his, until her next words bring a serious expression to his face. "I love you, so much."

He doesn't wish to lie to her about his lack of mutual feelings, so he remorsefully diverts the subject to something different. With no second thought, he forces himself to initiate the painful conversation he attempted — and failed — last night. "You know, I think we should talk about the future."

"The future, in what sense?" Steph places her now-empty mug onto the bedside table beside her, her curiosity making the implication that she's definitely interested in what he has to say.

"Well." A heaviness burdens the bottom of George's stomach, as he prepares mentally to confess once again. "I mean, about this. About us. This relationship we've got going on."

Her eyes visibly light up, as her mind soars through the potential options for what he's going to say next. Of course, all of these options involve the relationship progressing further than it already has done — which, to her, can only be a positive.

"You mean marriage? Kids?" An uncontrollable beam spreads across her facial features; in excitement, she reaches over to grab his hands in her own. "Oh, George, tell me that's what you're saying."

With this, the guilt creeps in once again; he so-desperately wishes to tell her exactly what runs through his brain right now, but given the context of the discussion he's currently engaged in, it seems inappropriate to. His mouth opens to speak, but alas, no words are formed from his seemingly-diminished vocal cords. For a few moments, his lips perform a silly quivering dance; as he tries to find a response that will effectively allow the conversation to move forward. Finally, the velvet of his voice fills the void of silence that previously dominated the room.

"Well, I mean, never say never, right?" He internally curses to himself over the choice of phrasing, but knows he cannot take back what he has said. His frustration is because of a mix of two things — one being, that his response seems too harsh; yet simultaneously, the reality is that it isn't harsh enough to depict the truth.

Giving no word of warning, Steph brings herself forward, planting a deep kiss upon George's lips. With only the sound of drawn-out breathing between the pair, she clutches his shirt collar; pulling him to her, so that he hovers above her on the bed. The single kiss rapidly becomes a prolonged, fire-fuelled make-out session; this escalates into articles of clothing being removed piece-by-piece, until both of them are bare. Being a little less selective sexually, George has no issue in feeling his arousal build up inside of him as their fingers roam to the most intimate, daring places of one another. They withdraw their mouths from one another's, with a seductive stare-off following. Stephanie takes her bottom lip between her teeth, biting to suppress any verbal reactions she may be fighting the urge to let out. Giving in, she coils one arm around George's neck; drawing his head in to the crook of her neck, so that she can whisper into his ear.

"I want you, George."

His eyes close a moment, as his mind's fantasies try to override the guilt in his heart. With a sharp breath in, and a loud breath out, he allows his body to fully press to hers; so that she can feel every inch of him against the most fragile parts of her.

"Your wish is my command." This is the only sign of approval he gives to her, before he slowly enters her. He pauses a moment, to give her the opportunity to get used to the sensation; then, he starts to move deeper into her, giving her the satisfaction she wishes for. Rhythmic motions send them both woozy with pleasure; George's soft panting mingles erotically with Stephanie's gentle sighs, as the former starts to notice the familiar inkling of his upcoming climax. With all his might, he tries to hold off giving into the feeling — not wanting it to end after only a brief time, for his partner's sake rather than his own. He successfully halts the inevitable outcome for a further minute or two; until the unmistakable trembling overpowers his strength. George begins pulsating erratically as the crescendo of ecstasy shocks his core; and he lets out an overwhelmed groan as a means of releasing the emotions clustered together in the depths of his soul. Having found immense attraction in George's reaction to his own high, Stephanie too reaches hers only a minute or so after him.

"You're too good at that," she compliments, her respiration decreasing in speed to calm herself down.

•••

While Stephanie is in the bathroom freshening up after their private affair, George lays in bed alone. With his modesty only preserved by a crisp white blanket, he remains frozen in position; once again overthinking what has just occurred between himself and Steph, with eyes locked on nothing specific. The more he enables situations such as the one he just experienced — the meaningless sex — the harder it's going to be once he finally divulges his secret. He can't help but know that she will accuse him of leading her on; this sentiment is entirely true, although he wishes it wasn't. His thoughts are interjected, when he feels the delicate fingers of Stephanie's dainty hand run through his drooping, lightly-waved mop of hair.

"What a hangover cure that was," she chuckles, keeping her voice low to fit the understated atmosphere between them.

"I'm tired," George announces quietly, with no emphasis in his tone. "I think I'll take a nap, if that's alright with you."

"It's only 2:00PM," she answers; but she shrugs regardless. "But of course. I'll leave you to it. Come and see me downstairs when you wake up." She uses her hands to thrust her body up from off the bed, leaving the bedroom as promptly as she entered it.

Having been isolated once more with only his internal monologue, he doesn't resist the huge sigh of despair that expels from his lungs. Until the last twenty-four hours, he has been so convinced that he can remove himself from this issue he has created for himself. But now, his hope has dwindled. He thinks, maybe, he truly is going to be stuck in this rut of unhappiness for the rest of his life.

•••

Chapter three! I hope you're still enjoying the story! xx