As the car pulled off hedge-lined country roads onto a winding route through green rolling fields, Jay caught his first glimpse of Medway Castle.
“Oh, fuck me,” he breathed.
“Castle” wasn’t some precious moniker; originally a stately home in Kent, the building had been converted into a private hotel in the 80s but retained its crenellated stone walls and looming towers. There was even a moat surrounding the whole affair, complete with drawbridge and portcullis. Lit up from within in the fading light of the evening, it looked like something out of a film full of singing woodland creatures.
At Jay’s side, Moran had draped himself casually across the back seat of the private car that brought them from London. He was formally dressed in a suit he’d insisted was not black, but charcoal, the tailoring of which showed off his broad shoulders and athletic build in a way that Jay suspected was very deliberate.
Jay’s own suit was custom-made by a tailor Moran had recommended last year, who specialised in transgender clients. He’d been informed by said tailor that the suit was an English cut, meant to flatter his slim frame rather than try to add artificial bulk. Jay, out of his depth throughout the whole process, had simply nodded along; his only specific request was a double-breasted jacket, solely because he liked how retro it looked.
He also very much liked how Moran’s face looked when he saw Jay wearing the suit for the first time.
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