Steady Current

I shoulder my door open with my tool bag hanging from the other hand and my drill squeezed between my legs… it always sticks. I really should do something about that.

Once I get it shut again, the house goes quiet. I stand there listening for a moment.

It’s a long way from the job I’ve just come back from. Nothing stays quiet for long at Mrs. Harris’s. The fridge hums too loudly, and the TV talks to nobody. At one point, her kettle clicked off and she called through from the kitchen, “Daniel, don’t you dare leave that on the counter. I just cleaned.”

Then there was the job itself. “It was smoking,” she’d said, pointing at the socket. “I smelled it and I thought, that’s it. This is how I go. Taken out by my own toaster.”

“It’s just a loose connection,” I’d told her, already reaching for my screwdriver. “But you definitely did the right thing calling me. Easy fix.”

She watched my hands the whole time I worked. When the new socket was in and tight and the breaker held, she let out a breath and pressed a hand flat to her chest.

“Oh, thank God.” Then, quieter, “You always come.”

I’d smiled up at her and made some joke I can’t remember now.

When I packed up my tool bag, she patted my arm. “You want something to eat, Daniel? You look drawn.”

I told her I was fine, and that I had dinner ready at home.

Now I’m back in my own hallway with my boots still on, my bag in one hand and the drill in the other.

The shoe rack is mostly bare, with one pair of work boots and one pair of trainers. I put my keys on the hook and check the mail tray. Two envelopes I haven’t opened are sitting there. One has my full name typed neatly across the front, so it’s definitely from the solicitor.

Claire will have signed her part already. She always was organized.

I know I should open it, but I don’t. I flick on the kitchen light instead and stand in the doorway.

The counter is clear, the sink empty, the kettle lined up against the backsplash. My mug is still beside the coffee machine where I left it this morning.

I rinse it, then wash my hands. The water runs over my skin until my knuckles turn pink. I stop with my fingers still under the stream for a moment, steam warm against my face, then shut the tap off.

The house is quiet again.

I go into the living room and turn on the lamp. Nothing looks as though it’s moved since this morning. The throw is still draped over the back of the sofa, the coaster is set dead center on the wooden coffee table, and the remote is lined up straight beside it.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking why.

Mrs. Harris called earlier because something was wrong, and I turned up and fixed it. Here, the fridge hums to itself while the heating clicks in the walls.

I put the kettle on, then leave it without making anything. After a minute, I go back into the living room and sit down.

My phone has been in my pocket all day. I take it out and scroll through the news without really reading any of it. Something about roadworks. The weather for a week I can’t think that far ahead.

I close it and open the dating app.

There are a few messages today. Someone has written Hi with nothing after it. His profile has a photo, at least, but no bio. Another has no photo at all, only an opening line that could have been sent to anyone.

About a year ago, I went on my first date through here. Nathan. I think he was thirty-four and worked in Marketing. No, he was definitely thirty-four and worked in Marketing. He talked through the whole evening, all opinions and stories and plans. I asked questions, and he answered them at length without once thinking to ask anything back. I came home afterwards and stood in the hall realizing I’d spent three hours with him and couldn’t remember him asking me a single thing.

I close that app and open the other one, the grid of faces laid out nearest first.

I tried them both during the first winter after Claire left. Downloaded them, used them for a few weeks, then deleted them again and told myself I was better off focusing on work. A few months later, I was back on both.

I met Scott through this one, around the same time as Nathan. The messages made it clear from the start what it was. Neither of us pretended otherwise. I spent half an afternoon getting the room ready, changing the sheets and taking out the things I’d been keeping in a crate at the back of the wardrobe, things that had never had much reason to come out. I remember being excited just to use them.

He arrived at eight. We’d agreed on an hour and a half and stayed close enough to that. It was fine. Afterwards, I went back in, changed the sheets, packed everything into the crate again and put it back in the wardrobe.

It’s been out a couple more times since then, never for anything that felt much different.

I put the phone down on the coffee table and sink back into the sofa. Outside, a car passes and the street goes quiet again.

Eventually I go back to the kitchen and sit at the table with my laptop open. I check my bank account, look at a few recipes I could make and browse a couple of holiday comparison sites. Maybe that’s what I need.

The doctor told me to take time off. Two weeks. “Reset,” he said.

I said okay, signed the form and came home to discover that a day lasts a lot longer when it doesn’t end with a van lock and a job sheet.

After a while, I stop looking at holidays and end up on a forum thread about a breaker panel issue I don’t need to solve.

An ad slips in between posts.

Meridian Companionship Services. Discreet. Professional.

Tailored to you.

I breathe out through my nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

My hand stays on the trackpad before I click.

The landing page has a calm header and the kind of careful language meant to make everything sound simple.

Emotional support. Travel partners. Event dates. Intimacy services for gay and bisexual men.

I keep reading.

Discretion. Background checks. Privacy. Reliability.

The whole thing looks more legitimate than it feels. Company branding, account verification, payment terms, a customer-service chat window sitting politely in the corner.

I have no idea how any of this works legally. Presumably someone does.

I keep scrolling.

Extended arrangements. Overnight stays. Routine and care.

I look up from the screen. The counters are clear, the sink empty, the chair across from me pushed in straight. Everything is exactly where I left it because nobody else ever touches anything.

My eyes go to the stairs. The spare room is up there with clean sheets, a lamp on the bedside table and half the hangers in the wardrobe still empty.

I look back at the screen and try to picture someone else in the house with me. Footsteps that aren’t mine. A voice from another room. Someone stretched out on the sofa while the TV plays and I pretend I’m not listening to them breathe.

The booking button sits at the bottom of the page. I rest the cursor over it and leave it there.

I can’t do the apps again, and the quiet’s no better. This feels easier than either of those.

Booking it would make it real.

I sit there for a while, listening to the fridge cycle on and off behind me.

Then I click.

The next page is full of young, attractive men with handsome smiles and perfectly posed photos.

A filter menu drops down.

Booking type: Hours. Day. Overnight. Extended.

Then:

Kink-inclusive.

My thumb catches on the edge of the laptop.

Soft. Moderate. Intense.

I click Soft.

The description opens underneath.

Warmth. Clear boundaries. Containment that doesn’t hurt. Stop when asked.

A chat bubble opens in the corner.

Meridian: Hi there. Need help booking?

I stare at it for a moment, then type back.

Me: Yeah thanks. I’m considering your service.

Three dots appear.

Meridian: Understood. Would your selection be kink-inclusive? If so, would it be soft, moderate or intense?

I rub my thumb against the edge of the table.

Me: Yes. And soft. Clear boundaries. Consent up front. Safe word. That sort of thing.

Meridian: Understood. Duration?

If I book one night, I’ll spend the next day measuring out the hours until the house goes quiet again. If I close the laptop now, I already know where I’ll end up tomorrow, sitting in the same chair under the same light in the same kitchen.

I type before I let myself think too hard about it.

Me: One to two weeks.

Meridian: Excellent. If you click here, you’ll be able to quickly set up an account with us. You can also select your preferences so we can find your best match there.

I follow the link through to a registration page, type in my email address and set up a password. Underneath, it asks for preferences: age, race, height, body type, body hair, hair color, eye color, kink role.

I go through them and click Create account.

Meridian: That’s perfect. Thank you. I can see that. We have a special offer for new customers. 10-night extended arrangement starting tomorrow. New-customer rate applied. Ready to be matched with one of our Meridian companions? Do you agree to me processing your account and purchase?

The word purchase almost makes me close the window. Then the fridge hums behind me and I stay where I am.

I look at the screen for a moment, then start typing before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Yes, sounds good.

Meridian: Wonderful. Please fill out your details to complete transaction.

The payment screen opens. My card details are already stored from a hardware order.

Again, I think about closing the laptop, going upstairs to bed, getting up for work and carrying on exactly the same.

I hit authorize instead.

A spinning circle appears, followed by a block of text.

PAYMENT CONFIRMED

BOOKING ID: MCS-EX-1048

DEPOSIT NON-REFUNDABLE

Underneath:

ESCORT MATCH CONFIRMED: LEO CARTER, 26M

PRELIMINARY MEET: TUESDAY 2ND SEPTEMBER, 14:00

DURATION: WEDNESDAY 3RD SEPTEMBER – SATURDAY 13TH SEPTEMBER

I set my hand back on the mouse and leave it there.

There’s a See Leo’s Profile button and a Confirm button. I click the profile first.

A headshot against a neutral background. Dark hair. A soft mouth. Eyes that look tired but still expressive, like he’s had a long week and not slept enough. Unlike the other profiles, he looks more like someone I might actually meet.

Verified. Background checked. Kink-inclusive: Soft.

The bio is short.

Discreet and Reliable. Submissive. Bottom. Hard limits around pain and humiliation.

I read it once, then again.

My hand stays on the mouse for a second before I go back and click Confirm.

The screen refreshes.

Tomorrow at two I’m meeting Leo Carter.

I sit there with one hand still on the laptop, looking at his photo until I notice the fridge humming again.