Page 150 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“They're talking about it,” I breathed. “Finally.”

“Not all of it. Never all of it.” Tom's expression was complicated. “But enough. Enough that people know.”

We bought a paper from the vendor, a cheerful man who gave us exact change and wished us happy Christmas. Tom tucked it under his arm, and we found a bench near the square, brushing off snow so we could sit and read.

The article was cautious, still dancing around specifics, but it confirmed what we'd always known: the codebreaking work at Bletchley and its satellite stations had been crucial to Allied victory. Shortened the war by years, saved countless lives, turned the tide when everything looked darkest.

“They mention the December raid,” Tom said, finger tracing a line of text. “Don't name the location, but it's there. 'Intelligence diverting enemy bombing runs.' That was you.”

“That was us.” I looked at him, at the man who'd pulled me from rubble and held me while I broke and put me back together piece by piece. “I did the codes. You did everything else.”

“Team effort.” Tom folded the paper, set it aside. His hand found mine in the space between us, hidden from view by our coats but present, solid, real. “We make a good team.”

“Yeah.” My throat felt tight. “We do.”

We sat there for a while, watching snow fall on Nelson's Column, watching couples hurry past with wrapped packages, watching the city breathe and move and live without the shadow of war hanging over it.

Eventually the cold drove us back home. We climbed the stairs to our flat, stamping snow off our boots, and Tom fumbled with the key while I stood behind him, hands tucked under his coat for warmth.

“Oi,” Tom protested, but he was laughing. “Your hands are freezing.”

“Your fault for dragging me outside.”

“You loved it.”

“Maybe.”

Inside, the flat was cold but welcoming. Tom lit the small fire we allowed ourselves, rationing coal even though we could afford more, and I pulled out the new notebook I'd been saving. Fresh pages, unlined, waiting to be filled.

Tom settled on the sofa with his own notebook, the one he'd been scribbling in for weeks, and we fell into comfortable silence. The kind of silence that only came from knowing someone well enough that you didn't need to fill every moment with words.

I opened to the first page, pen hovering. What did I want to say? What needed recording?

After a moment, I began to write:

The war is over. We won, though the cost was steep and the scars run deep. The estate is gone, converted back to a country house or training facility or museum, depending on who you ask. The people scattered: some dead, some damaged, some thriving in ways we never expected.

Tom came back. That's the miracle I don't take for granted. Every morning I wake beside him and remember the night I thought he was dead, the night I thought I was dead, the thousand small moments when we could have lost each other.

We found a language the world can't read. Polari, yes, but also the language of glances and touches, of knowing when the other needs space or closeness or distraction. The language of building a life in the margins, of creating safety in a world that says men like us don't deserve it.

I paused, reading over what I'd written, and felt Tom's presence beside me before I heard him move. He read over my shoulder, his warmth pressing against my back.

“That's good,” he said quietly. “But you're missing the most important bit.”

“What's that?”

Tom reached past me, taking the pen from my hand. In the margin, in his untidy scrawl, he added:

And we are going to use it to build a life. Not in secret, not in shame, but carefully, deliberately, together. However long we have.

I turned my head, looked up at him. His eyes were soft, certain, and I felt the weight of two years together settling into my bones. The fights and reconciliations, the nightmares and quiet mornings, the slowly built trust that maybe, impossibly, we were allowed to be happy.

“Bona omi, this, yeah?” Tom said, mangling the Polari with a grin. “Good man, this?”

I laughed, the sound surprised out of me. “Your accent is terrible.”

“Teach me better, then.”