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“You know, most people don’t call me this regularly.”
Tom forced his smile to settle into something closer to a smirk as the door swung open, revealing the man beyond. For a professional, Grace still didn’t know how to blend in seamlessly at the kinds of high-end hotels clients like Tom preferred. Grace liked to say it was part of his charm. Tom liked to think of it like the beginning of a project that, one day, he would be allowed to fix.
“You know, most hookers don’t complain about repeat business,” Tom said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossing across his bare chest.
He hadn’t long got out of the shower, his hair still a tangled mess of sodden curls. He’d pulled on the same long yellow jeans he had been wearing on set all day, knowing better than to answer the door in nothing but a towel. He felt briefly, annoyingly unsteady, the heat lingering after his shower and his impossibly long day finally catching up with him and making the edges of the room feel that little bit too fuzzy to fully focus.
Without a word, Grace turned to leave, hands resting on the strap of his messenger bag. He made it three steps – Tom too stunned to move – before the actor called after him, panic rising in his chest. “Wait, no–”
Unimpressed blue eyes looked back over Grace’s shoulder, lips pressed into a thin line. The look that Grace sent him was firm, even as disappointment laid beneath his words. “No. You know the rules. If you can’t be polite…”
Tom took a deep, steadying breath. He let it out in a long, low huff. “I know.”
He had only made the mistake of upsetting Grace enough for the other man to leave – truly leave, and refuse to come back – once. It wasn’t an experience that he wanted to repeat.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Tom’s fingers curled around the edge of the door as he waited for Grace’s decision. He wondered if the other man could see it written on his face, just how long of a day it had been. With his makeup washed off, the dark bags beneath his eyes were undoubtedly visible, the slope of his shoulders that little bit looser, his stubble in need of tidying up. Again. He forced a lopsided smile onto his lips, knowing from experience that it was better not to risk digging himself into an even bigger hole if Grace was already displeased with him.
Grace turned slowly. Tom’s eyes flicked down, taking in the simple dark slacks, the hint of a button-down shirt beneath an oversized cardigan, and a frankly hideous yellow coat.
Huh. It… actually kind of matched Tom’s own jeans. For a moment, he wondered where Grace had even found it. Maybe he’d ask later.
“Apology accepted,” Grace said at last, padding across the hallway and towards the open door. Tom grinned, and Grace shook his head. “I am not paid enough to put up with your bullshit.”
“I mean, you kind of are–” Tom cut himself off, hand darting out to carefully grasp Grace’s elbow as the man began to turn back towards the elevators again. “Wait no, seriously! Get in here.”
“Don’t you have something to say first?” he asked.
Tom’s stomach twisted. Barely minutes in, and Grace was already done with his bullshit. Right. “...the cash is on the dresser?” he said, aiming for light-hearted and failing.
“Tom.”
He ducked his head, not quite able to hold Grace’s gaze. He paused in the doorway, refusing to go any further.
Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Right. Fuck. I’m sorry. It’s been a really fucking long day. We shot for like, fifteen hours straight–” It had been closer to eighteen, with hair and makeup and waiting around for crew and the fucking stunt team. “–and that is still no excuse to call you a hooker. I mean escort. I mean–”
A huff of fond laughter cut Tom’s words short. “Stop talking.”
Tom followed behind Grace, closing the door with a careless bang. He stares blankly at the unimpressed look Grace sent his way. He hadn’t been lying when he said it was a long day. He was feeling that awful combination of exhausted and wired that meant either he needed to call his guy to get something delivered, or he needed to get laid – whichever could turn his mind off the fastest. And after the last time he had shown up on set still hungover and coming down off his high… he couldn’t risk pissing Gail off. Again.
Which left him with calling his other guy…
Lingering by the door, Tom watched as Grace moved around the room with the kind of ease that spoke of experience. He bypassed the beers Tom had left out, condensation still trickling down the dark glass, instead placing his bag on the couch – a leather monstrosity that was built to make a statement, not for comfort – and pulling out his own water bottle.
Right. He had meant to get something Grace actually liked. Something fancy and glass that cost way too much from the mini-bar. Tom swallowed, and for a moment had to wait for the slight wave of light-headedness to pass before he moved again.
Grace slipped his cardigan off, letting it pool on top of his bag. Blue eyes caught Tom’s over his shoulder, fingers lingering on the buttons of his shirt. Normally, Tom’s texts gave a little more context as to what he wanted. Tonight, all Tom knew was that he wanted to feel good.
Tom shrugged off his accidental faux pas, flipflops padding across plush carpets as he crossed the room to snag one of the beers. The temptation to down it in a few deep gulps was almost too much to bear. Fuck, he was never agreeing to do an action-comedy again. Nothing about that day’s takes had gone right. He didn’t need anyone to tell him; he could feel it in the energy surrounding the crew. And in the retakes already starting to stack up.
“What do you need tonight?” Grace asked in that soft manner of his. Tom’s shoulders inched up. He was literally paying a professional. Grace wasn’t about to judge him for what he wanted, and yet, it didn’t make things any easier. Silence stretched between them. “You know the rules.”
A little sigh – not quite disappointment, but closer enough that Tom flinched. He forced himself to straighten, eyes not quite able to look directly at Grace despite the thick layer of yellow-tinged glass between them. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, uncaring that they made him look like more of an asshole than usual, if certain coworkers were to be believed. He began picking at the label of his unopened beer, trying to find the words to speak, to explain. Sometimes, it was like without the fallback of a script to rely on, words failed him entirely.
“No.” Deft fingers snatched the beer from his hands, then the other before Tom could reach for it, holding it out of reach. As if an afterthought, Grace plucked the sunglasses from Tom’s face next, tossing them onto the couch.
“No?” Tom blinked, mouth open.
Grace sent him an unimpressed look. “I'm not spending the next few hours trying to work out whether you're tired, tipsy, or actually dropping. Let’s keep a clear head tonight. If you get drunk, I’ll take my full fee and call it a night. I’m not letting you fuck me if you’ve been drinking.”
“I haven’t even had one drink yet,” Tom said belligerently. “I know my limits. And what if I want you to fuck me while I’m drunk?”
“And I know mine.” Grace’s eyebrows rose. “That’s an entirely different kind of negotiation. One we aren’t doing at nearly midnight in your hotel room. You can make a reservation for brunch or dinner, and we can talk it over at a more civilised hour.”
Tom’s breath caught. It wasn’t a no. He had fully been expecting a no. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, mind racing. Grace watched him with a lopsided little smile, patience blanketing him.
“Is it…”
“Hm?”
“Is it the fucking me part that needs more talking? Or the drunk part? Because I’m not buzzed right now. Not even a little bit.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t had a single drop. But after a full day of shooting on nothing but black coffee and half a fucking apple, there was a faint, floaty edge to things that he only really noticed when he stopped moving. Not enough for anyone else to see – just enough that, if it was Gail, he’d already have a coffee shoved into his hand and a bright-smiled suggestion to go walk it off around the block.
The edges of Tom’s mind seemed to drift. Some days, focusing was hard. It shouldn’t be. He knew it shouldn’t; he was Tom fucking Ryder. The best at what he did. And he was no fool – no matter what gossip liked to insinuate. He knew how lucky he was to be where he was – and how precarious of a position it could be. But that didn’t make it any easier, when the days of back to back long shoots stacked up, hours spent under hot lights, with limited access to water if he wanted to keep his muscle definition on point, and even less access to food if he didn’t want half a dozen people on his back.
“Hey, is everything alright?” Grace asked.
Tom opened his mouth, and found there was a small delay between thinking and speaking that hadn’t been there earlier. He blinked. When had Grace gotten so close? A hand cupped his jaw, tilting his head down to meet Grace’s gaze.
Blue eyes narrowed as Grace twisted Tom’s face towards the light, trying to catch a better view. “Did you take something before you called me?”
“What? No. No, I know the rules. I do.” Grace had made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t see Tom if he was high. Grace looked unconvinced. Or maybe he just looked worse than he thought. “Really. I'm just tired. It's been a long day.”
“Okay then.”
Tom blinked as Grace took a step back. “Okay?”
“Do you want me to not believe you?” Grace tilted his head, that same calm smile in place.
“No, of course not. I… just… it’s not really safe to just believe some guy who’s paying you for–” Tom cut himself off before he could get into any more trouble. The corner of Grace’s lips twitched up in a lopsided smile.
“Speaking of which. You do realise I’m on the clock?”
Grace turned, making his way back towards the dresser. Tom already knew the routine; Grace would double-check the cash, the envelope would disappear into his bag, and then they could begin. In an hour, or two, or three from now, or maybe in the morning if Grace was feeling particularly generous and Tom desperate, Grace would leave, and Tom would send an obscene tip that made Grace’s callout fee look like pocket change. To Tom? It was worth every penny.
“You know I’m not staying over,” Grace said once, as if confirming a detail they both already understood. “So what’ll it be? Or do you need me to decide tonight?”
“Fuck yes.” The words left Tom’s mouth before he could realise what he was saying. Heat rushed along the back of Tom’s neck, covering his cheeks. Before he could say something – could brush it off, or make light of his over-eager slip-up, Grace made his way to the couch. He settled in the middle, deft fingers snatching a bottle of water from the low coffee table before making himself comfortable. He tossed one of the scatter cushions onto the floor, eyes sliding back towards Tom.
Without a word, Grace gestured towards the cushion. Tom almost tripped over himself in his haste to reach Grace’s side. The room tilted for half a second when he stood too quickly.
A low, breathy laugh filled the air. “Easy. On your knees. You need someone else to take charge for a while, don’t you? To make sure you don’t say anything else to get yourself into trouble? That’s okay. I know just what you need.”
Embarrassment and need swirled together in Tom’s chest, his mouth too dry to formulate a response. He settled on his knees, the fabric shifting beneath him.
He took a moment to wonder if he should have undressed first, but no, Grace would have told him if he wanted that. Wouldn’t he? He was always so precise with his commands. Nerves twinged at the back of Tom’s head, the familiar buzz of something not quite right he got on set whenever he missed a cue or had to ask for a line, a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t be easily dismissed. Before he could start to spiral, fingers tangled in his head, forcing him to tilt his head back, neck exposed. He gazed up at Grace with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Who is in charge tonight?”
“You are?”
“You don’t sound very certain,” Grace said teasingly.
Leaning into his touch, Tom let out a breathy little laugh. “You are.”
A small smile spread across Grace’s face, approval clear in his eyes. “Good boy. You don’t need to think. You just need to do what I say. What’s your safeword?”
“Seavers.”
Grace’s lips pressed into an unimpressed little line. Tom opened his mouth, instinctively already regretting it, but Grace shook his head. “Next time, you are picking something else.”
Rough fingers turned gentle as Grace tugged on Tom’s bleach blonde curls, urging him up and forward on his knees, guiding him exactly where he wanted him to be. Tom forced himself to hold Grace’s gaze, even as, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other man unzipping his trousers and tugging them down just enough to pull his length out from between the folds of fabric.
Fingers slipped into the depths of Grace’s pocket, the familiar tearing of a wrapper sounding between them before the scent of artificial cherries wafted between them. The corner of Grace’s lips twitched with amusement as Tom let out an unsteady little huff of breath through his nose. Even without looking, he could feel his mouth already beginning to water, his attention drifting south.
“No thinking.” The soft command drifted through the edges of awareness as Tom allowed Grace to guide him forward, a thumb brushing against the hinge of his jaw. Plush lips parted obediently, trusting Grace to give him what he needed. “Just feel. Leave everything else to me.”
The first taste against his lips was a sickening mix of fake cherries and a faint underlying taste of rubber. Tom swallowed back the little whine of disappointment that threatened to break free.
Grace was always so careful to come to him clean and neat and ready. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he offered, Grace refused to forgo protection. The sharp, taunting little voice at the back of his head – the one that sounded suspiciously like a certain asshole stuntman – couldn’t help but point out of course Grace wouldn’t risk letting someone with Tom’s reputation get his mouth anywhere near him without wrapping it.
The blunt tip pressed forward, lips parting, mouth soft and pliant, allowing Grace to use Tom’s mouth at his own pace. Tom’s eyes fluttered as the weight of Grace settled onto his tongue; there were no little shallow thrusts to get him used to the stretch, no careful words asking if he could take a little more. Grace knew Tom’s limits better than Tom did.
Hands cradled his jaw, drawing Tom forward, pressing in, and in, and in, until he could feel the press at the back of his throat, the tip pressing past what remained of his gag reflex to settle in deep. Tom swallowed carefully around him, a low, grateful moan reverberating around the other man’s length as he held Tom in place.
Grace’s left hand drifted lower, feeling the thick column of Tom’s neck, pressing against the dark stubble there as if expecting to feel the bulge of his cock. Tom’s eyelashes fluttered, eyes sliding closed. Like this, he didn’t have to think, to say the right things, to worry about how he was holding himself, or who the most important person was in a room and if he needed to impress them. With Grace, like this, all he had to do was obey.
Slender fingers carded through his hair, a low, soothing sound finally starting to penetrate the blissful haze that had settled around Tom thick and fast. Hips pulled back, the weight of Grace’s cock dragging across Tom’s tongue. He let out a whine, trying to serge forward, to follow the source of his bliss. The hand lightly encircling his throat gave a light, barely-there squeeze. Tom fell still, forcing his mouth to go slack, palms pressing against his thighs through tight yellow jeans.
“That’s it. Relax. You don’t need to do a thing. You’re just here to be used. You know your place.” Grace cooed, voice soft and teasing. Tom stared up at him with wide, blank eyes, the thought of pulling back enough to agree with him didn’t even occur to him; all that he knew was that he had to be good, and to stay still.
Hips flexed and Tom whined with pleasure as Grace rewarded him, sinking back inside to the hilt until the tip of Tom’s nose brushed against soft, dark fabric. He swallowed instinctively, the thought of allowing himself to drool all over Grace something he couldn’t quite bear.
Grace’s hand fell away from his throat, both burying in Tom’s hair as hips flexed up, a cut-off groan resounding above him. “What did I say about relaxing and letting me do the work? If you’re messy, you’re messy. We can clean you up later. I want you to be good. I know you can do it.”
A foot pressed between Tom’s thighs, the tip of Graces white converses pressing against the straining outline of his cock. Tom’s length twitched, hot and hard and heavy against the battered fabric, only thin layers separating them. A muffled, pleading whine reverberated around Grace’s cock as Tom tried to let the other man know just how much he needed his touch.
Grace’s foot shifted, the pressure pulling back enough to draw another desperate cry from deep within Tom’s chest. Frustration pooled at the corners of his eyes, the first sharp spikes of anxiety starting to blossom in his chest. Grace didn’t ask for much from him; just that he was good. That he listened. That he obeyed. Was he really too stupid to do even that?
Hands cupped his cheeks, forcing Tom to tilt his head back. He swallowed around Grace’s cock in an effort to keep him in place. A gentle thumb brushed against Tom’s cheek as Grace met his gaze. His other hand trailed slowly down, brushing against stubble, the sharp line of Tom’s jaw, before settling at the base of his throat. He held it there for a moment; tight enough for Tom to feel with every shaky inhale, yet not quite enough to restrict his breathing.
“Relax.” Something about the softly-spoken command sank beneath Tom’s skin, forcing shoulders to lower and eyelids to droop. It was like he was powerless to obey.
Grace stroked himself, gripping the base of his cock before feeding the tip back into Tom’s waiting mouth, sliding in, and in, and in, until he brushed against the back of his throat. Tom swallowed around him again.
“There he is,” Grace said, pleased. “That’s it. You are doing so well.”
Grace’s words sounded so distant, the pressure between Tom’s legs barely more than a faint memory. All he could focus on was the weight of Grace against his tongue, the taste of cherries filling his mouth, and the warmth radiating around him. Hips rolled as Grace sank in to the hilt, a pleased, breathy sigh sounding between them.
This was why Tom kept going back to Grace, again, and again, and again. It was better than any high. If Grace would allow it, Tom would fly him out to every set, no questions asked, first class all the way, no expense too great. But Grace wouldn’t even entertain the thought.
This was the most relaxed Tom could remember feeling in weeks. The best he had felt since long before shooting had started for his current film, before casting even. It was as if the seed of anxiety that accompanied every new script sent his way could only be fully uprooted by Grace.
“You’re doing so well for me, Tom. I’m going to fuck your throat now. If you want me to stop, put your hands on my thighs. Otherwise, I expect you to just kneel there and take it for me.”
Tom’s jaw went slack, throat working around Grace’s length with one last, pleased swallow, before he let the blissful, fuzzy edges take over. Grace had him. Grace would make sure that he was safe. Grace would fix everything, like he always did.
Hips moved with confidence, slow but steady, ensuring that Tom wouldn’t choke before he could start to build up momentum. Hands carded in the back of Tom’s hair, tugging roughly on the bleach-blonde strands, pulling until Tom’s nose pressed firmly against his pubic bone, until he could grind into that hot, wet, tight heat with abandon.
Thighs flexed, the straining of his cock against his jeans almost enough to drag Tom back to the present. A foot pressed against him again, providing just enough pressure for Tom’s own hips to flex forward, to chase the skittering sparks of pleasure.
Above him, Grace’s breathing grew laboured. Tom had no sense of how long the two of them had been locked like that. How long Grace had managed to hold back, teasing himself as much as Tom, before, at last, the need to come tempted even the ever practical man.
Tom inhaled shakily through his nose as Grace pressed against the outline of his cock; precome soaked through the thin layers, enough to turn the mustard fabric dark and slick. Were he with anyone else, Tom would have given in to the temptation to pull himself out, to wrap his hand around his cock and to stroke himself off to completion and to face any teasing comments or little disappointed looks later. But with Grace, the need to be good, to please him, to obey, overtook everything else.
A thumb pressed to the corner of Tom’s stretched-wide lips, forcing Tom to open even wider, accepting what Grace had to give him. Tom could feel him stroking across the slick surface, pressing as deep as he could alongside his cock.
Tom’s tongue curled around salt and synthetic cherry. His eyes drifted shut – letting go, trusting Grace to have him.
Grace broke first. A hitch in his breathing, sharp and uneven. Blue eyes opened halfway, unfocused for a second before locking down again as he looked at Tom through damp lashes. A firm press between Tom’s thighs. Then he drove back in, rhythm faltering as control slipped in small, satisfied cracks.
“That’s my good boy. You’re getting better at this.”
Tom keened around his length, hips driving forward with newfound desperation.
“You can come, Tom.”
The words didn’t fully register with Tom’s mind, but his body was only too happy to obey.
Pleasure surged through him – vision whitening as Grace drove in and held him there.
The pulse of him against Tom’s tongue dragged everything tighter, pushing him right to the edge in a way that bordered on overwhelming. Tom whined around him, breath breaking as he struggled to remember how to breathe at all, a wordless plea for mercy slipping out between reflex and instinct.
His hands flexed against his thighs, nails biting lightly through fabric as he tried to hold on, trying to stay with it – until, at last, he tapped weakly against Grace’s legs.
In an instant, the other man pulled back, cock sliding out from between swollen lips. Hands cupped Tom’s cheeks, holding him carefully in place, warm eyes crinkling at the corners as Grace met his gaze.
“You did such a good job, Tom. You did so well for me. I’m so proud of you.”
Tom came back to the low, warm glow of dim lights and warm thighs beneath his cheek. A hand carded through his hair, gently stroking him. In the background, he could hear the low thrum of a television playing, though he couldn’t focus enough to hear any of the words.
Blue eyes blinked open, slow and heavy. He turned his cheek to find Grace sitting on the couch, Tom half curled in his lap, a book in Grace’s hand. He lowered it as soon as he saw Tom shifting, awareness in his eyes for the first time in what felt like it must have been hours.
“Hey there sleeping beauty. Do you think you can sit up a little bit for me? Or do you want to keep floating? There’s no wrong answer.”
Tom stared back at him blankly, not quite sure how to answer. Grace smiled indulgently down at him, before slender hands wrapped around his shoulders, helping Tom upright.
At some point, they shifted from the floor to the couch; Tom wasn’t quite able to track things. The oversized hotel couch creaked beneath their combined weight, with Grace tucked comfortably into one corner while Tom lay half-curled against him, one cheek pressed to warm thighs. A throw blanket had somehow appeared around them, draped over Tom's legs and tucked around his hips.
The television cast a soft glow across the room, muted enough that the voices blurred into little more than background noise. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered in the darkness, distant headlights threading through unfamiliar streets several floors below.
The sound of a bottle opening drew Tom's attention back to the present.
"Hey," Grace murmured, one hand settling between Tom's shoulder blades. "Can you sit up a little bit for me?"
Tom blinked slowly up at him. "Think so?" he said, voice rough, throat sore.
Grace hummed, looking down at him thoughtfully. "You don't sound convinced."
Grace's hand remained steady against his back as he helped Tom to carefully settle upright, not rushing him when Tom swayed slightly before settling against Grace's side instead. Grace adjusted automatically, one arm around Tom's shoulders to anchor him there while he pressed a bottle of water into Tom's hand.
"Small sips," he instructed. "You don't have to prove anything."
Tom obediently lifted it to his lips. The water was cold enough to make him pause. Grace had raided the minibar after all. Good. He swallowed once, twice; the cold seeping through the last lingering traces of blissful floating that remained.
"There you are," Grace said softly, pulling the bottle away.
Tom blinked. When had he finished the bottle? Or had he been sharing with Grace? He couldn’t remember. Tom frowned faintly. "'m here."
"You are now." There was no criticism in Grace’s observation. Just warmth. Grace brushed a hand through Tom's curls, gently working through where they'd tangled. "How are you feeling?"
“Tired,” Tom said honestly, the word slower than intended, as if trying to travel through syrup. He shifted without thinking and immediately hissed. He ached all over. How long had he been kneeling for? It usually wasn’t a problem, but after back-to-back long days on set – and Gail’s insistence that he do some of his own stunts – his schedule was finally catching up with him.
“What hurts?” Grace’s hands stilled, sharp eyes scanning the length of Tom, looking for any injuries. “Dizzy? Nauseous? Cramps? Did you pull anything?”
Tom considered the question more seriously than he normally would have. He tried stretching again, another hiss drawing from his lips. “It’s nothing. Didn’t sleep much.”
Fingers caught his chin, gently urging Tom to turn and look at him. “Hey. We don’t do that. You know the rules. Don’t try to be a smartass now.”
“The rules are only for during our sessions,” Tom said, unable to hide the petulant edge to his words. Grace sent him an unimpressed look.
“I asked what hurts. Not whether you’ve decided it’s bad enough to count. Aftercare is still a part of our sessions, Tommy. A non-optional one,” Grace added, the argument old by that point.
Something fluttered in Tom’s chest a beat later as the nickname settled in. Nobody dared to call him Tommy. Tom, from fans and costars and members of the public who thought they had more right to him than they really did. Mister Ryder from those on set who knew his reputation. It was… nice.
“So. Any headaches?”
"No." Tom said automatically. Could it really be classed as a headache if it hurt no more than usual?
"Hungry?"
Tom made a face. It was far too late to be eating. His nutritionist – the one Gail had hired for him, not the studio-approved one the director had insisted on – had made it very clear: no water after 6pm before any shoot day where he might need to take his shirt off, only enough sips to wet his mouth on set and absolutely nothing between wardrobe and wrap.
No carbs. No salty foods. No food at all after 6pm, or within four hours of sleeping, and an extra hour of cardio if he was even tempted to snag something from the craft table that wasn’t a protein shake or filled with good macros. And dumbbells scattered everywhere. If he had time to reread parts of his script, he had time to get in a few reps before they were back to shooting.
Everyone feels like this before a shirtless scene. It’s just the price to pay if you want to be on camera.
Tom’s attention snapped back to Grace as the other man huffed out a quiet laugh. “I'll take that as a yes.”
Tom shifted against him, cheek finding Grace's shoulder this time. He could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath the television's quiet murmur. He really didn’t want to finish their evening on a sour note.
“"I had food," Tom insisted. He frowned slightly as he said it, like he was trying to line the memory up properly. Grace's silence spoke volumes. “I did.”
“Coffee isn't food.”
Tom rolled his eyes. The coffee on set might not have been food, but at least it tasted better than the same grainy protein shakes, even if he did have to take it plain.
His day replayed through his mind in little snippets. Coffee for breakfast – he had a table read with revisions to go over, and craft services had only brought pastries for everyone which, obviously he couldn’t touch. A protein shake after wrapping up an extra half hour with his personal trainer over lunch. One final coffee while Colt was switched in to film that chase scene for him with the motorbike – which should have made things easier, except it rarely did when Colt was involved – though that coffee Gail confiscated before he managed to get more than a few sips in.
“It's not like I forgot to eat,” Tom said, defensive.
“Tom–” Grace started; Tom didn’t let him get any further.
“I’m on a very strict diet right now,” Tom said and Grace paused. Tom shrugged one shoulder. “Shirtless scenes this week. That's just how it works. I had an omelette for dinner,” Tom said with an easy smile. Dietitian approved and delivered.
Grace looked skeptical. The pause was brief enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice. Tom did. “Uh-huh. What kind? And how long ago was that?”
Tom reached between the couch cushions for his phone, fumbling for it and finding nothing. Grace held his out, the glowing display neatly showing that it was almost half two in the morning. Well, shit.
“Six egg whites, around…” Tom trailed off. That was right; Abigail – or was it Annabelle? – had brought it for him, but then Colt had fucked up one of the stunts. They needed longer to reset, so it was up to Tom to jump back in and use the time to grab some alternative shots until the stunt team were ready to go again.
Food can wait, Gail had insisted, chances to build goodwill with directors don’t come around every day. And this director is going to make it big.
It had taken a little over an hour for Colt to be ready to go again – long enough for the schedule to start tightening around the edges again, like it always did when Colt was involved. By that point, it was after six. Tom eyed the empty water bottle in Grace’s hands, eyes tracing over it as if that might somehow undo all those hours of hard work.
He was going to be in so much trouble come morning.
Grace stared at him. For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely lost for words. “...six egg whites? And?”
“And it was a long day,” Tom said, an air of defensiveness slipping into his words. He didn't need someone else to tell him he had fucked up. He had had enough of that on set.
Grace tipped his head back against the couch cushion for a moment. "Oh, Tom."
The disappointment in his voice wasn't sharp enough to wound, but it still made guilt curl unpleasantly in Tom's stomach. Right. He really couldn’t do anything right, could he?
"It was a long day," Tom said weakly. “It's nothing. I've had worse.”
“Walk me through it,” Grace instructed. Tom blinked. “From the beginning. What did you eat today? All of it.”
“Coffee before hair and makeup. Protein shake around lunch.” Tom paused, shifting. Grace waited, eyebrow raised. “I had an omelette waiting for me, but then I got called back onto set…”
The pulsing behind his eyes had started again, the dull ache creeping past the lingering softness that Grace always seemed to make him feel. Regret curled in Tom’s chest. He had been hoping that sweet, floating feeling would get him through the next day. Instead, he was beginning to feel hollow all over again.
He pushed himself up, shaking his head. He couldn’t bear to look at Grace. “Look. I think the professionals the studio hires know what’s best for me. They pay me a lot of money to look good on camera. The dietitian–”
"–would survive you eating something after a fifteen-hour shooting day."
The day had been closer to eighteen. Tom didn’t correct him. Nobody liked to hear the guy getting paid as much as he is complaining about shit.
Tom looked up just in time to see Grace reaching into the bag he'd left by the couch. His eyebrows rose. “You planned for this?”
“I have met you before,” Grace said dryly. In one hand, Grace held out a protein bar. In the other, a banana and a small square of chocolate.
Tom stared at them both, his stomach cramping – not from hunger; that was easy enough to ignore. But the thought of disappointing them further – his dietitian, if she ever found out. Gail for sure – after all the time and effort she put into him. Or Grace himself. He tried not to question too closely why the thought of disappointing the escort he paid an extortionate amount to see made his chest ache worse.
“No,” he said at last, refusal final.
“Tom.”
Tom shook his head. Scooting away, he didn’t stop until his back rested against the opposite side of the couch. A shiver ran through him at the loss of contact. He pushed it down; he didn’t need to be held. That wasn’t what he was paying for. “It isn't on the plan.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you also weren't supposed to survive today on what, caffeine and eggwhites and edging?”
"It's not studio approved,” Tom insisted firmly. “I drink protein shakes too. These guys know what they’re doing. The studio–”
Grace's mouth twitched. "The studio isn’t here right now."
“If I start making exceptions…” he swallowed hard. “You don’t understand how quickly people notice.”
Grace paused. “People?”
“Wardrobe. Makeup. Gail. The studio.” Tom laughed, the sound thin and thready. “Me. It might not mean anything to you, but I work hard to look like this.”
“Nobody is saying you don’t work hard. But Tom… you need to eat something. What we do together takes a lot out of you, and if you haven’t eaten enough today…” Grace paused, clearly weighing up his words. “I need you to trust me when I say I need you to eat something. Can you do that? For me?”
Tom eyed his options with open suspicion. While he usually stuck to protein powders, the bar didn’t look much more appealing. Plus, it would count as a whole meal, just… hours too early. The banana though…
Grace simply waited. Patient, unhurried, like this was already decided and Tom just hadn’t caught up yet.
He shouldn’t read into it, Tom told himself. That was the point of all of this – wasn’t it? Grace was just good at this. Good at knowing what to do. Good at making it feel simple when it wasn’t. Tom was the one who made things complicated if he wasn’t careful.
Grace didn’t push. Didn’t prompt. Didn’t fill the silence. He just stayed there, calm, waiting. As if he knew that Tom would make the right choice if given the chance.
Tom’s eyes flicked between them again. Neither option was good. Both came with a cost. His mind automatically started assigning it anyway – water retention, cardio time, sleep disruption, camera readiness.
Yet, the thought of disappointing Grace further felt, in the moment, worse than seeing the scales come morning – or the director’s face, if he wasn’t shirtless ready. Like he was getting something wrong without being told what the rule actually was.
Eventually, with all the enthusiasm of a man accepting his own execution, Tom reached for both the banana and the chocolate. He placed the banana on the table – he could have it as a treat, if he managed to double his morning workout; he would need to try and sweat off that extra water weight.
"One piece," he said, already calculating how much longer he’d need on the treadmill tomorrow. Or rather – trying not to. It wasn’t meant to be complicated. Why couldn’t he just do what he was told? Why did he have to make everything so much more complicated?
"One piece,” Grace confirmed.
Tom bit the corner of the square. His nose immediately wrinkled. It was like eating pure sugar. "It's too sweet."
Grace laughed. "You say that every single time."
He did. It wasn’t as sweet as the one Grace had tried giving him the first time – that had nearly been enough to make Tom hurl – but it was still a lot, compared to the bland and bitter diet Tom was allowed.
"It is,” Tom insisted, hand clenching around the water bottle. As sweet as it was, he didn’t actually want to wash the taste away.
As if sensing his thoughts, Grace spoke up, teasingly reminding him, "And yet, you keep eating it."
"...because you keep making me."
Tom’s words hung heavily between them. Grace's expression softened.
"No," he corrected quietly. "It’s because you want to be good for me.”
Something in Tom's chest tightened unexpectedly. He looked down at the remaining chocolate before finishing it without further complaint. Considering all of the people in his life that Tom trusted to make things run smoothly for him, the words and opinion of someone who boiled down to just another member of his hired help really shouldn’t have made such a difference for him.
"There," Grace said, sounding absurdly pleased. "Good job."
Heat climbed the back of Tom's neck. It was ridiculous how much that simple praise still affected him.
Grace settled back against the couch again. For a moment, his hand stayed where it was on Tom’s shoulder, not moving. Then he checked his watch – slower than necessary – and didn’t stand. Tom followed instinctively, curling into his side beneath the blanket until Grace's arm found its way around him once more. At some point, Tom stopped tracking when things would end. He’d started assuming there was always a buffer – a bit of time after, before anything changed. Enough time for this to just… continue.
Grace would let him know when their time was up. He always did. For now, he could focus on trying to recapture that blissful floating feeling before it was too late.
The city lights beyond the windows had begun to blur together. Tom’s thoughts felt slower. Quieter, now, with the steady beat of Grace’s heart beneath his ear. Tomorrow still existed: calls sheets and expectations and endless pressure to perform – not just on camera, but for everyone else. Gotta be the guy who remembers the hair and makeup lady’s name, who thanks the intern for coffee, who listens to the director and learns endless script revisions and, and, and.
You can do whatever the fuck you want when you’re a household name, Tom.
That’s what Gail had told him, once upon a time, when he was still doing stupid, thoughtless shit, like getting a haircut when he knew he had auditions coming up or, god forbid, shaving after a casting director said she liked his look but it wasn’t what they were going for. Funny, how it didn’t seem to matter how many number ones he had in the box office, that some-day still seemed unobtainable far into the future.
Fingers combed through his hair and Tom tilted his head back, surrendering beneath the gentle, steady touch. The cloying taste of chocolate still sat heavy and warm on his tongue. Beneath it, there was Grace – scent, warmth, something steadier than the room around them.
Thoughts of tomorrow may have filled his head, but they no longer pressed against the inside of his skull hard enough to suffocate him.
"I hate that this works," Tom mumbled, eyes locked on the window and the gentle, rhythmic thudding beneath his cheek.
Grace’s hand fell still, chest rumbling beneath Tom’s cheek. "You hate most things that are good for you,” he reminded him gently. “...We don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
Tom let out a sleepy huff of laughter. “You sound like a therapist.”
“They charge more than I do,” Grace said teasingly. Fabric moved beneath Tom’s cheek as Grace snagged his water bottle, taking a much-needed drink.
“How much?” The words slipped out before Tom could stop them. The question came out wrong immediately. Tom swallowed, staring at the space between them. “I mean–”
He tried again, quieter. “Do people ever ask you to… not leave right away?”
Grace didn’t move.
The room fell quiet again. Outside, rain continued to patter against the bank of windows lining the wall overlooking the cityscape below. Bright lights of hotels and office buildings gleamed through the window, barely registering as Tom waited for Grace to say something. Anything.
Beneath Tom's cheek, Grace's breathing never changed. His chest tightened.
“Just one night,” Tom said before he could stop himself – like it was already something that could be agreed on. He wasn’t sure why he assumed it was even negotiable – he knew it wasn’t. And yet, it just… felt like the whole night had been leading somewhere softer than this. Something more than a quick fumble.
Tom hated how small his voice sounded. How it wavered at the end. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He knew better than to ask. How hard was it to keep his shit together? To not sound so needy, and desperate?
But… Grace had said to trust him, hadn’t he? And Tom could. He knew that he could trust Grace, that Grace had never let him fall – not once in all of their sessions together. He hadn’t left him alone to drop, still tied to the bed and discarded like he meant nothing. He hadn’t refused to check in on him, expecting Tom to pull together the pieces the next day, when anxiety overtook everything else, and all he could think about was if he had been good enough.
Grace was silent for long enough that Tom regretted asking.
“I know you don’t usually–” Tom didn’t get any further before Grace’s arm tightened around him, briefly squeezing him. Tom wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he'd kept his mouth shut. Fingers tightened once against the edge of the blanket pooled in his lap.
Tom exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a laugh that didn’t land. “Forget it. That was stupid. Let me get you something to drink. Or did you want me to call room service?”
Silence.
“I think,” Grace said, more carefully than gently, “that's my cue to start packing up.”
Tom blinked, confused for a second too long.
“Packing up?” His voice came out lighter than he meant it to. “You mean after– like, later?”
Like there was still a later. Grace looked at him steadily. Tom's stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
Grace shifted, just enough that Tom had to lift his head to look at him. Blue eyes met his steadily. “You didn't do anything wrong by asking.”
“I know.” It was the first outright lie Tom had told him all night. Grace, as always, looked at him as if he could see right through him.
“You don't sound like you know,” he said softly. Tom looked away, unable to stand the feel of Grace’s gaze on his skin. Carefully, he shuffled away, putting some space between them, even though each new inch felt like it was opening up something empty and gasping and all-consuming in his chest. Grace reached over, brushing his knuckles lightly against Tom's cheek until he looked back.
“You've had an awful few weeks,” Grace said. “You're exhausted, you're overwhelmed, and you've finally relaxed enough to actually feel it.”
Tom swallowed. He could feel himself shrinking in place. He hadn’t realised he had been messaging Grace so much to complain between sessions. That was the only explanation for it. For him knowing how bad Tom’s filming schedule had been. Sure, he liked to drop the occasional message or two, but enough for Grace to have picked up on just how bad filming had been going? Fuck. He would have to find a way to make it up to him. Was it inappropriate to send an escort a fruit basket? Maybe a cash tip would be better…
“I don't think you need me here all night,” Grace continued, pushing himself up and off of the couch. Tom remained sitting, not quite daring to look up at him. Hands hung between spread knees as Tom stared down at the floor, bare feet wiggling against the plush carpet.
“No?”
“No.” There was a firmness to Grace’s words, a certainty, that had Tom look up. Grace smiled down at him, a gentle, soft thing. “I think you're worried about what happens when I leave,” Grace said gently, “but I am still leaving tonight.”
Tom didn't say a word. He didn't really have to.
Grace's expression softened. It wasn’t enough to stop him from shrugging his cardigan back on, condom long since neatly discarded, trousers zipped back up. Tom risked a look through dishevelled curls; one his eyes were on Grace, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. If it was going to be the last time he saw Grace – not that cheap knockoff, Colt – then he wanted to really remember him. Would he even accept his next booking after such a colossal fuck-up?
It took longer than it should for Grace’s next words to register. “If things start getting loud again over the next few days, you call me.”
Tom blinked. Hope flickered in his chest. “What?”
"If you're struggling to sleep. If you start spiralling. If you find yourself thinking about calling your other guy because it feels easier than dealing with whatever's actually going on." Grace's voice remained calm and matter-of-fact. "You call me."
Tom stared back at him blankly. He didn’t have another guy. Not for this. He wondered if Grace knew about his other kind of other guy, or if it was something that everyone just assumed: big movie star has to have a guy for everything. Or, Tom thought, maybe Colt had mentioned something? But no, why would Colt talk to Grace about him? It wasn’t like he knew what Grace did. Or that Tom knew him. Or–
“You’re spiralling already.”
“Grace–”
“I'm serious." For just a moment, steel threaded through the gentleness. "You don't white-knuckle your way through it alone. You don't decide you're being dramatic. You call me; whether you think you’re dropping and need someone to talk you through it, or you need another session.”
Tom stared at him before finally nodding. “...Okay.”
Grace held Tom's gaze for a second longer than usual. “I mean it.”
“I know.” Tom managed to dredge up something that passed as a smile. Only then did Grace seem satisfied.
Tom forced himself up, hovering awkwardly as Grace packed away the few things he had got out during their time together; book, spare condoms, lube – still sealed – and the rest of the chocolate bar all disappearing into his messenger bag. Tom wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, pressing his face against the soft fabric and their combined scents. Would it be weird to take it with him on set in… fuck, four hours? Fuck it; it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing anyone had done on set that week.
He trailed after Grace towards the door, finally looking up as Grace paused, hand resting on the doorknob. "You did really well tonight, Tom."
Lips tugged into a familiar lopsided smirk. Tom shrugged. “I’m pretty sure you did all the hard work.”
Grace shook his head, lips twitching at the corner as he offered a lopsided smile of his own. “You know, you don’t have to earn taking care of yourself. Try to remember that.
Then, after one final squeeze to Tom’s shoulder, Grace paused – just long enough that Tom almost thought something might change – then let go and left. The door clicked closed behind him, leaving only Tom to stare at it blankly. The suite felt different afterwards. Somewhere between empty and peaceful.
He moved without thought, his body going through the motions, his mind too exhausted to deal with anything else. Tom brushed his teeth because it seemed like the kind of thing Grace would expect him to do. He had another small glass of water – ignoring the voice at the back of his head lecturing him about his shoot in just a few hours – because it seemed like something that would make Grace happy. He changed into actual pyjamas instead of collapsing face-first onto the mattress, because Grace would somehow know if he hadn't.
By the time he slid beneath the expensive hotel sheets, his limbs felt pleasantly heavy, his mind closer to empty than full. The motion of lying down sent a brief, distant spin through him that faded almost as soon as he noticed it. Outside, the city continued moving without him.
Tomorrow would still bring early call times and cameras and expectations. But as Tom curled onto his side, reaching automatically to place his phone on the bedside table within easy reach, he realised the familiar dread felt more like it was hovering, rather than blanketing him fully.
Eyes flicked to his phone, the temptation to scroll almost too much to bear. Had anything leaked from set? It was always a possibility. And it wasn’t like he had been out on the town recently; maybe someone had tried to snap a photo or two on his way to or from set? Or his hotel? Or–
His phone screen lit up. He reached for it without thinking. One new message:
03:38: Grace - You did well tonight. Try to get some sleep. Message me if you need me; I’ll respond when I can. And remember to send me a picture of what you have for breakfast. Goodnight, Tommy.
Tom stared at the message for longer than he cared to remember. He started typing, deleting, typing again – half a dozen messages that never quite made it past the cursor.
At some point, his hands went still. His eyelids followed not long after, but he didn’t put the phone down.
It wasn’t an end, he told himself as sleep began to pull him under. Just a gap between sessions. If money wasn’t enough to make Grace stay… what, exactly, would it take for him to see Tom for more than a handful of hours at a time?
Strictly as a client, he reminded himself, already half gone.
He was Tom Ryder. And people like him didn’t build things like that. Not properly. Not with nobodies. Not even when it felt like it might be be good for them.