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Tom was not a heavy sleeper, Mary had learned.
Even from the very beginning it seemed his body was attuned to hers, stirring at the slightest movement and rolling toward her in the dark; arms wrapping around her like a vice, reluctant to let her go.
Days when it was Mary’s turn to collect stock from their suppliers found her rising between half three and four in the morning; a task that had become significantly more difficult due to the clingy, six-foot-three human furnace who had taken up permanent residence in her bed.
When they had first begun sharing a bed (which happened to be immediately following their first official date), there had been a period of trial and error regarding blanket numbers and heating arrangements. Tom, they discovered, ran very hot, and had awoken that first night drenched in sweat and panting under Mary’s thick duvet.
Conversely, Mary was cold blooded, donning long sleeved trousers, socks and blankets before turning in each night.
They had eventually found a system though, rugging Mary up with layers whilst leaving Tom’s side of the bed practically bare. They came together often, Tom’s tactile nature combatting Mary’s perpetual chill. Tom wrapping solid arms around her to warm her up, Mary tucking freezing fingers underneath his shirt to cool him down.
Two and a half years later, circumstances had changed but they had not, finding each other in the dark, balancing the heat and the chill.
Tom had, after nine months together, admitted in a haze of exhaustion, that he wanted to move in with her.
The admission had followed several weeks of nonstop work for him, barely having time to phone Mary between the hours of meetings and stacks of documentation to sift through.
Mary had been kissed gently awake after drifting off to sleep, waiting up for him on his sofa. She hastily slid on her glasses and was met with an expression of such profound guilt and sorrow that she’d briefly wondered who had died.
Tom looked wracked with exhaustion, kneeling before her on the grey carpet.
‘I want to come home with you.’ He’d said without preamble.
‘Okay.’ She’d replied.
‘And I want to stay.’
And knowing exactly what he meant, how he felt, Mary had just nodded.
‘Okay.’
And that had been that.
So it was that Tom broke his lease, packed up his filing system and moved into Mary’s flat, which fortunately, wasn’t too much farther from his building than his own had been.
Mary’s flat was smaller, a little cramped and cluttered, and much like the woman herself, was a veritable landscape of pattern and colour. Mary’s green thumb extended past just flowers and blooms, and thus flora of all kinds were shooting across the space varying in texture and shades of green.
A plethora of mismatched bookshelves had essentially become the walls of the flat, wood creaking beneath the thick stacks of tomes ranging in subject from botany to history to geology and further.
It was warmly lit, several thrifted desk lamps having been thoughtfully scattered about the living area, casting golden rays in every direction.
The lamps, they had both agreed, were not the most practical in terms of switching on and off, as one had to find and flip, upwards of seven power sockets, all of which were housed on different sides of the room, before they could retire to bed.
This agreement had been reached following a scenario in which they had been on their way to the bedroom, Mary’s legs wrapped around Tom’s waist and each of his arms occupied with both holding his lover up and finding the bedroom door handle; tasks that are easier said than done whilst simultaneously necking with one’s girlfriend.
Mary had pulled away abruptly, but didn’t go far, leaving Tom a little cross eyed.
‘The lamps.’ She’d stated simply.
‘Mhm.’ He’d responded, leaning back in.
‘We have to turn them off. Or we’ll forget.’
Her voice went wobbly as Tom worked his way down her neck.
She wound her fingers into his hair, pulling him back firmly in the way she knew he loved.
Obediently, he went, eyes blown wide.
What followed was a tangle of limbs and laughter as Tom marched his way around the flat, fumbling to find the various switches for each lamp, Mary still very much in his arms and very loudly expressing her fear at being dropped.
When they had eventually fallen into bed, some ten minutes later, the activities that followed were filled to the brim with mirth, laughter filling the space, warming it up. It was a memorable night indeed.
When Tom began to move in, Mary had taken it upon herself to partially clear out her tiny spare room, which had thus far had housed her rarely used desk and even more books.
She’d cleared the shelves and desk, storing the lesser read tomes at the back of her wardrobe, and encouraged Tom to begin bumping in his filing system, making insightful suggestions on how to do so.
Mary had easily rearranged, making room for Tom with his quirks and peculiarities, fitting them in amongst her own, in her space.
Her study became their study.
Her bed became their bed.
Her flat became their flat.
And Tom loved it because Tom loved her.
Mary rose, successfully evading Tom’s clinging limbs and slipping from the bed.
Tom uttered a pained sound and flopped back down in defeat, hand coming up to rub sleep from his eyes.
Mary quietly made her way to the wardrobe, kicking a pair of Tom’s trousers out the way of the door.
She had learned very quickly that Tom was a clothes pile individual. His side of the wardrobe erupting into chaos at least once a week due to his frequent ‘fashion emergencies’. She’d learned that Tom was very particular about colour, fretting often about if his tie matched the vest or his socks the shirt.
This fretting resulted in Tom spending lengthy amounts of time in front of their full-length mirror, frustratedly discarding rejected clothing articles into The Pile.
The Pile hardly ever lasted more than a day, Tom being mindful of sharing the space with another and creasing his clothes by keeping them scrunched on the floor. So, The Pile often became Tom’s half of the closet, shoved quickly out the way before he rushed to work, made late by his own pedanticism and indecision,
Conversely, Mary would throw on anything and everything that landed in her line of vision on any given day, hence the explosion of colour she often became. One morning even donning the shirt and tie combo Tom had laid out the night before in the hopes of avoiding The Pile.
Mary selected her clothing for the day; a thick cable knit jumper and long tartan skirt and made her way to the bathroom as quietly as possible.
When she eventually emerged in a wisp of steam, hair pulled back into a plait and fringe parting stubbornly in the middle from the damp, there was a steaming mug of tea beside a plate of avocado toast waiting for her on the kitchen bench. She smiled softly and dug in.
It was ten to four when she re-entered the bedroom, finding Tom facedown on the bed dozing on top of the covers, hair completely untamed, spiralling out in all directions.
She laid a hand on his back and he stirred, turning over to squint at her.
‘I’m going.’ She whispered, carding a hand through his hair.
He leant into her touch, humming.
It was here that Mary made a fatal mistake, leaning down to kiss him.
Tom struck at once, wrapping arms and legs about her, hugging her tight to him.
Mary huffed a laugh as he began to pepper kisses all over her face.
‘Don’t go.’
‘Tom- I’m going to be late.’
He held her tighter, head shaking defiantly.
‘Five minutes.’
‘Tom.’
‘Two.’
‘I brushed my teeth in the kitchen.’ He offered, eyebrows raising.
‘Thomas Hayward, I do not have time to make out with you before I go to work.’ Said Mary feigning seriousness.
‘Two minutes.’ He repeated. ‘Please.’
Mary glanced at her watch, gleaning that she’d have fifteen minutes before actually being in danger of being late.
Tom watched, enraptured, as she set a timer, watch chirping cheerfully as she did so.
She met his eyes.
‘Three minutes.’
Tom got to work, unwilling to waste a second.
The day passed in a whirlwind, with restocking to do and orders to fill, Mary scarcely found a moment to breathe in amongst it all. She enjoyed the constant rush of the job though, the challenge of balancing multiple things at once keeping her hands busy and mind activated.
With the job came the Tom of it all, subtle reminders of him everywhere, even before they’d sorted things and out gotten together.
Mary often reflected on their first meeting, fate having them collide on a small backstreet in an explosion of papers and daffodils.
She’d been returning from showing the blooms off to an elderly woman living down the road, having left a few with her as a gift, when a young man had suddenly spawned in front of her and knocked her to the ground.
He’d been endearingly flustered, blushing up to his ears as he apologised, and Mary had found herself quite instantly enraptured.
On autopilot, she offered the back office as a place to hold his meeting, already crafting a clever explanation to provide to Caroline should she question anything.
He seemed very sweet, Tom, he’d said his name was, and truly looked quite unfairly handsome in his loosely cut tweed suit and burnt orange tie.
So it was that after assuming Tom had a partner, Mary came to pine after him quite pathetically; agonising over his company and then lamenting over his absence.
Mary tried not to dwell on that period of her life too much, the stupidity coming from both ends of the equation. They’d found each other in the end, against a brick wall outside of Tom’s office.
They’d figured out they loved each other some two months into their relationship, which was entirely too fast by anyone else’s standards, but for Mary and Tom, this amount of time felt glacial.
The argument had been pointless. They’d talked around in circles: Mary maintaining that she did not need a date to Lydia’s engagement party and Tom insisting that he didn’t mind accompanying her.
Tensions had been high already, given that Tom couldn’t decide on the correct shade of teal for his socks and tie combo and Mary couldn’t offer any advice about this predicament because she was busy tearing his flat apart searching for her noise dampening earplugs.
Mary huffed, opening the side table drawer for the third time. ‘My mother can meet you properly at some point, just not now.’
‘I’m not going to be phased by your family, Mary.’ Tom replied gruffly, tugging on another pair of socks. ‘I just want to support you.’
Mary had whirled around, eyes blazing.
‘Then support me!’ She exclaimed, hands wringing together. ‘I’m telling you what I want and you’re not listening.’
Tom wrenched off the socks, throwing them into The Pile.
‘I am listening!’ He shot back. ‘I’m offering solutions.’
‘You aren’t!’ Mary turned away again, sifting through her bag once more. ‘You’re thinking you know better than me, and you don’t. I don’t need you there.’
Tom stopped midway through sliding another sock on.
‘Fine, go by yourself.’ His tone was clipped, cold and dismissive.
Tom tugged on the other sock, reaching for his shoes which were lined up beneath the bed.
At the sound of his voice Mary had nodded, her decision settling firmly in place.
‘I will.’
She had stormed out of his flat and all the way to work, hardly noticing the tears tracking down her cheeks until she arrived.
Mary had been guilt ridden over the course of the day, regret twisting low in her guts whenever Tom crossed her mind, which was often. She supposed that he really had been trying to help in his own way, but had failed to understand that her reluctance to bring him along was entirely to do with her family.
Mary’s need for agency and independence was born out of necessity, living in the shadow of her sisters and a controlling mother, having to decide on her fate and carve out an existence all on her own. She knew Tom was only trying to look out for her, but she also knew she would need him to understand, she knew, that this could be s deal breaker.
She’d known too, that she had fallen very in love with Tom, gently and gradually over the months they had known each other, it wasn’t so much falling as settling securely into it, feeling accepted, wanted, accepting and wanting in return.
Mary did not want to end things over a single argument, but she’d decided to put herself first. She thought distantly, trembling with dread, that if Tom didn’t meet her halfway, she would have some reevaluating to do.
So, when the man in question trudged through the shop doors, head hanging and eyes miserable, she steeled herself, preparing for the worst.
‘I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you this morning.’ She began abruptly, needing to get the words out before they deserted her. ‘I know you were only trying to help. I appreciate you looking out for me.’
At her robotic tone she saw something shift in Tom’s eyes, an alertness flaring to life, he went rigid.
Was her tone weird?
She was just repeating what she had rehearsed.
Slightly taken aback, Mary continued, intent on saying her piece.
‘However, I need you to understand that when I talk- you have to listen to what I’m saying.’
Tom hadn’t moved, standing straight up, eyes glassy.
Unnerved further still, Mary went on.
‘If you can’t do that, then this isn’t going to work. But I’m sure it wo-‘
‘Is it over?’
Tom had gone pale, hands trembling at his sides.
‘What?’
‘Have I broken us up?’
Mary faltered, panic spiking in her stomach.
‘Are you breaking up with me?’ She asked in disbelief.
Tom furrowed his brows, bottom lip quivering in part misery part confusion.
‘No!’ He seemed almost offended at the question. ‘No Mary I am not breaking up with you!’
‘Oh, good. Because I’m not breaking up with you either.’ She replied, relief colouring her words. ‘I was just saying- that I need you to listen to me.’
Tom ran his hands down his face, exhaling deeply as he did so.
‘Good God, Mary.’ He sighed, making his way over to the counter. ‘That was terrifying.’
He reached a hand over the barrier and took one of hers, running a thumb gently over a knuckle.
‘I wanted to apologise too. I shouldn’t have pushed you.’ His voice was steady, genuine remorse evident in every word. ‘I hurt my own feelings assuming you didn’t want your family to meet me.’
Tom let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
‘I realise now that it wasn’t about me.’
Mary gripped his hand back, lacing their fingers together.
‘I’m sorry you felt I wasn’t proud of you.’ She said, meeting his eyes.
‘I’m sorry for not listening to you.’ He replied, looking right back.
Mary pulled her hand back, turning to walk out to the office.
‘One second.’ She called, speed walking away.
Mary returned a few moments later, in her arms a small bouquet made up of purple hyacinths and red roses. She held it out to him like a declaration, hands shaking just slightly.
‘The hyacinths mean- ‘please forgive me.’ She began, fingers twisting against one another.
Gone was Tom’s pale hue, he’d brightened to a deep crimson, fingers tight around the stems in his hands.
He pointed to a rose amidst the bunch.
‘And- and these?’
Mary swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
‘Those- mean.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I love you.’
Tom’s eyebrows had met his hairline.
‘You do?’ It came out broken in disbelief.
‘Yes.’
‘I love you, too.’ Tom said in a rush, practically hurdling the counter to get to her.
He turned briefly away, setting the bouquet down ever so gently before just as gently wrapping her into a hug and pressing a kiss to her temple.
‘I’m glad we aren’t breaking up.’ He managed, into her hair.
‘I can’t believe you thought we were breaking up.’ Mary replied, which only made Tom squeeze her tighter.
There had been shockingly few arguments since that initial one, Tom learning quickly to give Mary space, offering solutions but not pushing if they were rebuffed, and Mary becoming adept at reassuring Tom, being candid with her affection for him, upfront about how she was feeling, good or bad.
Mary finished up at the shop around midday, leaving Ann to cover the afternoon and early evening shift with their new hire.
She’d snagged a small bunch of wisteria from the spare stock that morning, wrapping it up sweetly to display in their entryway. It had become somewhat of a tradition for Mary to bring Tom flowers after work, presenting them to him as he cooked dinner (which he did every night, because he liked to), or simply setting them down somewhere within their home for him to find.
Tom had taken the day off, mumbling something about a headache when questioned. How one could predict a headache over a week in advance, Mary wasn’t sure, but she didn’t push it at the time.
So, when she arrived home to find it empty, Mary was minutely surprised, having expected Tom to be there. She spied a salad sandwich set out for her on the benchtop and noticed Tom’s bike and helmet missing from their little patio.
After eating her lunch, Mary flopped down onto the couch, exhaustion from the early morning crashing in all at once.
She’d been up for several hours when Tom arrived back home, playing the upright piano which had been crammed into a corner of their living room a year or so earlier.
After discovering Mary’s skill on the instrument, Tom had immediately set out to acquire her an acoustic piano, deeming the old crackly keyboard she owned unfit for her musical prowess.
He’d secretly scoured Facebook marketplace, eventually finding something suitable and putting the money down.
Tom had tried very hard to have it installed in time for her 29th birthday, but had succeeded only in breaking two fingers whilst attempting to bring it into their house. A certain William Ryder had lost his grip on the instrument, causing it to roll forward, crushing Tom’s hand between the piano and wall.
Will had called Mary immediately, explaining in far too much detail how part of Tom’s bone was sticking out, while the man in question cursed up a storm in the background.
They had spent the remainder of Mary’s birthday huddled together in the emergency room, Tom apologising profusely for having ruined the day, and Mary, genuinely delighted with her gift, thanking him over and over again.
Back at the piano, Tom gripped her shoulder, hand long since healed, and she leant back to kiss him, tilting her head up to do so.
‘Shall we get dinner tonight?’ He asked, a hand carding through her hair.
His demeanour was strange, vibrating with an indecipherable energy.
Mary nodded, catching his hand with hers and pressing a kiss to it.
‘Are you okay?’ She asked, turning completely on the stool to face him.
Tom bit his lip, eyes darting to the left shiftily. He looked back at her.
‘Yes.’ He asserted quickly. ‘I’m going to put on a nice shirt.’
Tom scurried away, leaving Mary having half a revelation on the piano stool.
Seeing Tom’s choice of attire for the evening, Mary had followed suit, opting for a sage green flowing dress, her less scuffed pair of boots and her favourite spotty scarf.
Tom was clad in a light green button up rolled to his elbows and some loose-fitting wool slacks that Mary had told him once were her favourite. Interestingly, he had also chosen to don his thick framed tortoiseshell glasses, which he only ever wore in public on bad anxiety days, when his hands would tremble too much to get contacts in.
Mary knew Tom was aware she loved the glasses; the first night she’d seen him in them having landed them in bed before dinner, and then again after.
They walked hand in hand to their favourite Japanese spot, settling in at their usual booth and melting easily into their usual routine of nonstop chatter.
It was only toward the end of their evening that Tom began to clam up, somewhat, speaking in jerky sentences and exhaling deeply through his nose between them.
Mary counted a fifteen second period in which he drank two glasses of water and filled a third, lifting it halfway to his mouth before thinking better of it and setting it down.
Mary could sense something on the horizon, but every attempt to question after it was quickly shut down, Tom repeatedly emphasising that he was just having a normal dinner with his normal partner under completely normal circumstances, which, unfortunately for Tom, made the entire scenario sound anything but.
Mary took the hint, deciding that Tom needed to see something through, and letting him do it with no further intervention.
Later, walking hand in hand down a street, Tom directed them down a familiar alleyway, coming to a stop right outside the little florist shop.
The street was dark and quiet.
Tom’s hand was clammy in hers, shivering despite the warm temperature.
A string of fairly lights buzzed to life across the shopfront and above their heads, engulfing the street around them in a warm glow.
Mary gasped quietly, turning to look at Tom who was gazing softly at her, one hand resting over his trouser pocket.
‘Mary.’ He started, voice soft and wistful. ‘Bumping into you has been the greatest blunder of my life.’
Mary stared, hand still held tightly within his, brain scrambling to reach a conclusion regarding what was happening.
‘I’ve never known anyone like you. So funny, so clever, beautiful.’ He paused mouth quirking in mirth before continuing. ‘Witty, skilled, assertive, kind, resourceful, fashionable- I could go on forever.’
Tom exhaled out a long breath, free hand coming up to rub over his chest in a self-soothing gesture. Trembling a little herself, Mary’s hand came up to rest over his, steading him as he went on.
‘You take care of me in more ways than you know. By just being who you are. Existing near me every day.’
There were tears forming in his eyes, though he was smiling down at her through them.
‘Sorry…sorry.’ He rasped, laughing a little. ‘I didn’t want to cry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Mary soothed, offering a watery smile back at him. ‘Go on.’
‘There isn’t and will never be anyone else in the world for me but you Mary. I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you.’
Tom eased his hand out from underneath hers and slid it into his pocket producing a small green velvet box. He flipped open the lid revealing a vintage silver band, engraved with swirling patterns and a dazzling emerald in the centre.
‘Mary, would you take me as your husband?’
Mary stared, not at the ring but at him, mouth slightly agape, unadulterated adoration flooding her completely, tears springing to her eyes at the feeling.
It was only after a few moments that it occurred to her that Tom needed a response.
‘Yes.’ She agreed quietly, tears slipping down freely.
Tom inhaled a ragged gasp.
‘Yes?’
Mary grinned up at him.
‘Yes!’
They kissed then, ring forgotten, dangling still from Tom’s hand as they embraced.
Tom pulled back, giddy with joy and relief.
‘It doesn’t have to be a wedding, we don’t have to get married straight away, we can do whatever you want, whatever you’re comfortable with, we can sign a prenup, we can have separate accounts, if you’re worried about that, we can elope, so your mother doesn’t know, whatever you want, Mary, whatever you want. We can-‘
‘Tom.’ Mary interjected, face flushed and radiant with happiness. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. Take a breath.’
Tom did, drawing her against him once again, sighing contentedly against her forehead.
‘There’s one thing I did want to ask.’ Tom said eventually, voice teetering off into unsure once again.
‘Ooh, it’s gonna be tough to follow up that last question.’ Mary joked, leaning back to meet his eye.
Tom smiled, leaning in to kiss her cheek quickly.
‘On the subject of names.’ He ventured. ‘You’ve expressed that Mary Bennet has become someone you’ve grown into.’
‘Yes.’ Mary agreed. ‘I have.’
‘Someone you’ve grown to be proud of. Someone you’re proud to be.’ Tom continued, gazing down at her.
Mary felt tears threatening to fall once more.
‘Yes.’ She repeated. ‘It’s taken a very long time. But yes.’
‘How would you feel…’ He trailed off, tongue tracing the inside of his cheek.
His eyes flicked away and then back, determined.
‘Mary, I’d like to take your name.’
Mary felt a grin beginning at the corners of her mouth.
‘You would?’
‘I love Mary Bennet. I’m proud of her too. I want to be part of her family.’ Tom explained, any traces of shyness long gone, leaving only the earnest sweetness of his confession.
Mary laughed fully and openly.
‘You already are my family, Thomas Bennet to be.’ She tested the name out, enjoying the novelty of it. ‘You can have my name, of course.’
Tom sighed, finally sliding the ring onto her finger and kissing her again.
He paused.
‘I forgot to get down on one knee.’ He gasped, genuine horror gracing his features.
Mary slid the ring off her finger, holding it back out to him.
‘Better try again.’