Page 137 of Claim

A while later he came in, suited and ready for court, tie knotted, hair damp. Looking every bit the barrister he’d fought to become.

“What are you doing up?” He passed behind me, running a hand over my arse before kissing the side of my neck.

“Been up since you tried to murder me with that alarm.” I handed him a mug over my shoulder.

He smiled. “You love structure.”

“I tolerate it. For you.”

He took a sip, then set the mug down to wrap his arms around my waist, pulling me back into him. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Gym.” I turned and kissed him, sliding my hands under his blazer to feel him. “Lennon’s got the kids in early. Couple of school groups booked in.”

He nodded, already half in his day, and reached for the toast I’d made him, biting into it while checking the time on that very expensive watch of his. One day, I’d get him something of my own to give. Not heirloom-posh, not something passed down through generations. Something earned. Something that meant us. That thought sat in my chest most mornings. Kept me moving.

Gave me a goal to reach for.

Cause my work didn’t pay much. Not in the way my old life had. Lennon and I ran Levi’s Gym in Hackney. Though it wasn’t just a gym anymore. Tristan’s sister-in-law had come through in a way I’d never forget, helping us turn that crumbling council shit hole into a proper youth centre. New flooring, proper ring, weights not rusted to death. Offices. Classrooms. Showers that worked. It was a charity now. Official. Registered. Paperwork and safeguarding and funding bids and all the stuff I’d never thought I’d understand.

We got referrals from schools, youth offending teams, social workers. Kids who were halfway down the wrong road. Kids who needed somewhere to burn it out, punch it out, talk it out. We ran boxing sessions, mentoring, workshops about what the streets actually cost. No glamour, no bullshit. I told them the truth because I’d lived it. Lennon handled the training. We both did talks in schools too. Classrooms full of teenagers who thought gang life looked shiny until you explained the parts they never put on Instagram.

Funding came in the way it always does for places like ours. Piecemeal and hard-won. Small donors. Local grants. A couple of bigger charities who liked what we were building enough to back it properly. Enough to keep the lights on, the doors open, and pay us a wage to cover the basics. On paper, Lennon and I were listed as directors, which still made me laugh if I looked at it too long. In reality, we kept our pay to minimum and poured the rest straight back in. Into the kids. The building. And making sure the place kept running long after we were done for the day.

We even had staff now. Monica on reception, running the front desk with the sort of calm authority keeping everything from descending into chaos. A handful of trainers on zero-hours who drifted in for evening sessions. Volunteers who showed up week after week because they believed in it. Some of them had lived the same life we were trying to steer kids away from. The life I’d lived. Some had records of their own for some other reason. Some were coppers giving up their free time because they knew locking a kid up wasn’t the same as giving them somewhere else to go.

It meant we could keep the place open late. Not quite round the clock, but long enough for if someone didn’t want to go home, or didn’t have one to go to. Giving them somewhere safe to land, rather than be coerced into a drug den by opportunists with no bleeding heart like mine. Community support officers sent kids our way sometimes, too. Gave a quiet nudge in our direction instead of a warning. And yeah… every now and then one of those names would show up later in a case file Tristan was working on. Full circle, in a way that made chest ache if I thought about it too hard.

Was honest work, though. Hard work.

But work that counted.

Lennon still kept the building-site job, which meant most of the day-to-day stuff landed with me. Turns out running a charity ain’t that different from running a line. Schedules. Stock. People. Risk. Paperwork instead of paranoia, but the bones of it were the same. You kept things moving, kept everyone safe, spotted trouble before it kicked off. Different stakes. Better ones.

I’d even been talked into going to fucking college. Enrolled on a business studies course, of all things. Nights and weekends. Essays. Deadlines. A student loan I still couldn’t quite believe I qualified for. The idea of me, sat in a classroom again, would’ve been funny if it wasn’t real. Tristan pretended not to make a big deal out of it, but I still catch the look in his eyes when I’m studying.

But that meant he was the one bringing in the proper money. The steady money. While I lived in his flat, made his coffee, packed his lunch on mornings like this, and tried not to feel as though I was always a step behind. Building myself up from scratch while he was already standing where he belonged. It was a hard pill to swallow, but that was my Pretty Poison.

And yeah…I was hooked on it.

On him. This. Us.

“I’ll swing by the gym after my last court appearance.” Tristan raked his hands into the back of my hair and pulled me down to kiss him. It got a bit heated. Like it usually did. Cause I fucking loved him in his suit. Loved ripping it off him too. Loved him in my hoodie. Loved him naked.

I just fucking loved him, alright?

Ain’t no crime.

Tristan pulled back first, because he always did when we were both about to forget the time. “Remember to pick up the cake.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

I caught his hand before he stepped away, held on for a second longer. He let me. Fingers lingering until he finally headed for the door and I was left standing in the kitchen with the coffee cooling and the day properly starting.

* * * *

Several hours later I was at the gym, sweat-damp and running on fumes. Lennon and I had finished with our second school group of the day. Two coach loads of Hackney teenagers all noise and bravado and sharp little eyes that had already seen too much. They came in buzzing, thinking they were about to meet real-life gang legends. Thought we’d have war stories for them. Thought we’d tell them it was glamorous.

They left with bruised knuckles, aching arms, and a very different picture.