Chapter 3: Excavation Paused

The first weeks after returning to London were chaotic. Theo sent me a brief email through the department system: “We need to talk. Somewhere safe. Saturday at two, South Kensington Museum café.”

It was a cold afternoon in late November. When I walked into the café, Theo was already sitting in the corner, an untouched coffee in front of him. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.

I sat down and ordered tea. An awkward silence settled between us.

“About that night in Dorset,” he finally began.

“I know,” I interrupted, “it was a mistake. We both know that.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but sometimes mistakes feel so right, don’t they?”

I looked into his eyes and saw the same conflict I felt. “So what now?”

Theo took a deep breath. “The reality is that I’m still married. Legally, morally, the commitments I made aren’t over. But I also can’t pretend that night didn’t happen, or that what I feel for you doesn’t exist.”

“So?”

“So I want to ask for something even more wrong,” he said honestly. “Before I sort out my life, before I can offer anything more, could we see each other occasionally? No promises, no relationship, just two people drawn to each other, sharing some time without hurting anyone else.”

I knew I should say no. I knew it would only make things more complicated. But in that moment, looking at his pleading eyes, thinking about the intensity between us, I found myself nodding.

“Occasionally,” I said. “Very occasionally. And with absolute discretion.”

Relief flashed across his face. “Of course. Absolute discretion.”

And so we began months of secret meetings. It was a strange relationship, both intimate and distant, both intense and restrained.

We usually met every two weeks, always in different places, benches in Kensington Gardens, corners of Tate Modern, quiet stretches of the riverside path. Our conversations always began with work, the department, archaeological discoveries, but soon drifted into more personal territory.

One afternoon in January, we were walking through Hyde Park. It was cold but sunny, our breath forming white clouds in the air.

“My wife noticed,” Theo suddenly said, his voice calm but tense.

I froze. “Noticed what?”

“Not us. Not that. But she noticed I was distracted, that I was working late so often. She asked if there was someone else.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no,” he gave a bitter smile. “Technically that’s true. We don’t have a ‘relationship’, do we? Just a series of moments.”

I stopped and turned to him. “How does that make you feel, lying to her?”

Theo’s expression tightened. “Terrible. But telling her the truth would be worse. Our marriage has been dead for years, but at least we’ve maintained a surface peace for the child. If she knew, even that would disappear.”

“Then why keep seeing me?” I asked, sharper than I intended. “If you feel so awful?”

He caught my hand on the empty path, the gesture surprisingly bold. “Because every time I try to stop, try to do the right thing, I remember that night in Dorset, your scent, your voice, the way you looked at me in the dark, and I know I can’t stop.”

His honesty was both intoxicating and terrifying. I pulled my hand back. “This won’t end well, Theo. We both know that.”

“Maybe not well,” he said, “but at least truthfully. My marriage is a carefully maintained illusion. With you, I feel real.”

After that conversation, our meetings began to include physical contact. At first it was just holding hands, hugging, then kissing in his car. One evening in early February, when he pulled over on a quiet street near my halls to say goodbye, things escalated.

The kiss began gently, then quickly became urgent. His hand slipped inside my coat, stroking my back through my jumper. I could feel his desire, hard against my thigh.

“My flat’s empty,” he murmured against my lips. “My wife took the kid to her parents’. Just tonight…”

Reason told me to say no, but my own desire was roaring too. Months of secrecy had left us both in a constant state of tension. I nodded.

His flat in Islington was tidy but impersonal, a place that looked maintained but soulless. As soon as we were inside, he pressed me against the wall and kissed me, urgent, almost rough.

“I need you,” he breathed. “Now. I can’t wait anymore.”

We had sex on the hallway floor, hurried and intense, clothes only pushed aside as much as necessary. It wasn’t like that night in Dorset, with its sense of exploration and discovery, but more like a release, an escape from reality.

Afterwards, we lay on the hard wooden floor, catching our breath. Theo turned to me, his fingers lightly tracing my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t romantic.”

“It’s fine,” I said softly. “Sometimes romance isn’t what you need.”

He took me into the bedroom, and this time we slowed down. On a real bed, in real privacy, we explored each other’s bodies, learning what made the other sigh, what made the other tremble. Theo was an attentive and passionate lover, exquisitely sensitive to my responses, always making sure I was satisfied first.

“I love watching you come,” he whispered in my ear, his fingers moving inside me. “Your eyes lose focus, your lips part, it’s heartbreakingly beautiful.”

That night we had sex three times, with long, intimate conversations in between, about childhoods, dreams, regrets. In those moments, I felt closer to him than ever before, not just physically but emotionally.

But morning brought reality back with it. I had to leave before dawn, to avoid being seen by neighbours. At the door, Theo hugged me tightly, as if he never wanted to let go.

“Someday,” he promised quietly. “Someday I’ll be free. I’ll sort everything out, and then we can…”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. We both imagined a future where we could be together openly, even though we knew the chances were slim.

At the same time, my relationship with Linus was also developing, though in a completely different way. As my dissertation supervisor, we met every week. The meetings were always professional, but gradually warmer.

One afternoon in March, we were discussing the third chapter of my thesis in his office. Outside, rare London sunlight fell across his desk.

“The methodology here is solid,” Linus said, making notes on my draft with a pencil. “But you could go further in exploring the social implications of these spatial patterns. Not just what they are, but why.”

I nodded and wrote down his suggestions. When the discussion ended, a comfortable silence settled between us.

“You look different,” Linus suddenly said, without looking up.

“What do you mean?”

He put down his pencil and looked at me. “More confident. Fieldwork suited you.”

I felt a stab of guilt. The change wasn’t because of fieldwork, at least not entirely. “Thank you.”

Linus stood and walked to the window. “For the Northumberland project in spring, I’d like you to act as one of the student leaders. Are you ready?”

“Of course,” I said, excited. “I’d be honoured.”

“You deserve it,” he said simply, turning back to me. “You have all the qualities of an excellent archaeologist. I’m proud of you.”

His praise warmed me. Linus’s approval always carried weight because he never gave it lightly.

“Thank you, Professor Alder.”

“Call me Linus,” he said, a rare, barely perceptible smile crossing his face. “At least informally.”

In that moment, I felt a connection entirely different from what I had with Theo, one based on respect, admiration, and intellectual resonance. It wasn’t as fiery, but it was deeper, steadier.

April came, and with it the Northumberland project. It was larger in scale, with teams from several universities. My new role gave me more independence, but also meant closer working contact with both Linus and Theo.

On the first evening, there was an awkward moment during accommodation allocation. As one of the student leaders, I was supposed to share a small tent with another leader, but Linus intervened.

“She needs to be near the equipment tent,” he said to Theo, his tone firm. “As spatial data coordinator, she may need access at night.”

“That should be my place or yours,” Theo frowned.

“I suggest the three of us stay in the area near the equipment tent,” Linus said calmly. “More efficient.”

In the end, our tents were arranged in a triangle, Linus’s and Theo’s opposite each other, mine slightly further away but still within sight. The arrangement created constant proximity and intensified the tension already there.

The project went well. Near Hadrian’s Wall, we uncovered a series of Roman military structures, including a well preserved barracks and what appeared to be the foundations of a shrine.

One afternoon, while Theo and I were recording a newly discovered pottery hoard, an argument broke out. It began as a methodological disagreement but quickly became personal.

“You’re too conservative,” Theo finally snapped, frustration in his voice. “Always thinking about procedure and missing the essence of discovery.”

“And you’re too impulsive,” I shot back, hurt. “Ignoring proper procedure means losing information.”

We stood by the trench, glaring at each other. Then Theo’s expression softened.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, procedure matters.”

“I’m sorry too,” I said. “I understand your passion.”

The tension dissolved, replaced by something else. We stood close, the air thickening between us. I could see desire in his eyes, that familiar mixture of longing and struggle.

“Tonight,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. “My tent. After everyone fall asleep.”

I hesitated. In Northumberland, under Linus’s eyes, it felt more dangerous than in London. But I found myself nodding.

That night, I waited until the camp was silent, then slipped out of my tent. Theo’s tent glowed softly with a small lamp inside. When I unzipped it, he was waiting.

No words. He pulled me in, zipped the door shut, and kissed me. The kiss felt desperate, as if we were both trying to hold onto something slipping away.

We had sex in the narrow tent, muffling our sounds, freezing whenever the canvas shifted in the wind or footsteps passed outside. The secrecy added a dangerous thrill.

“I can’t stand this anymore,” Theo whispered afterwards, as we lay cramped together in a sleeping bag. “Sneaking around, lying. I need to end my marriage, properly, completely.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, tracing the contours of his chest.

“I am,” he said firmly. “Not just for you. Not entirely. For myself. For not living in lies anymore.”

In that moment, I believed him. I believed change was possible, that maybe there really was a future.

But the next morning, reality intervened. At breakfast, Linus sat opposite me, his gaze moving between Theo and me, his expression unreadable.

“You worked late last night?” he asked calmly, tapping his fingers lightly against his coffee cup.

My throat tightened. “Yes, sorting out trench records.”

Theo sat further away, laughing loudly with the students, but his laughter sounded forced. Linus didn’t look away, his grey eyes seeming to see straight through my carefully constructed lie.

“Make sure you rest,” he finally said, his tone returning to its usual restraint. “We’re surveying the northeast defences today. Clear heads are needed.”

Over the next few days, Theo seemed different. Instead of avoiding me, he showed more attention in public, standing closer when guiding me with equipment, sitting beside me at meals, even affirming my suggestions in team meetings with unmistakable warmth in his eyes. The change was so obvious that Emma asked me privately, “Has Theo been especially supportive of you lately?”

At the same time, Linus grew quieter. He remained professional and efficient, but his silence had weight. While checking data in the work tent, he would suddenly pause, staring out at the rolling hills beyond the window, his gaze distant. Once, when I asked him about a stratigraphic matrix issue, he was silent for a moment before answering, as if pulling his thoughts back from somewhere far away.

“Professor Alder, are you alright?” I asked.

He turned to me, his eyes complex. “I was just thinking,” he said. “About boundaries. About how some boundaries, once blurred, can never be clearly redrawn.”

His words felt like a fine needle, pricking the fragile calm between us. I wanted to say something, to explain or deny, but instead I lowered my head and returned to sorting pottery sherds.

The turning point came three days before the end of the project. A sudden storm forced work to stop in the afternoon. We crowded into the mess tent, listening to rain hammering on the canvas roof. Theo suggested a card game, and the atmosphere lifted briefly. When it was Linus’s turn, he shook his head, picked up an archaeology journal, and went to a corner of the tent.

Halfway through the game, Theo’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and went pale.

“I need to answer this,” he said quietly, standing and heading for the entrance.

The rain was loud, but the tent wasn’t soundproof. Through the downpour, fragments of Theo’s agitated voice drifted in.

“…I said we need to talk… no, it’s not about money…”

“…I know, but she’s already grown up, we should…”

“…I can’t go on like this…”

The laughter inside the tent faded. Everyone realised this wasn’t an ordinary call. Linus lifted his eyes from the journal and met my gaze briefly. There was no surprise in his eyes, only a deep, almost sorrowful understanding.

Theo returned, soaked, his eyes red, whether from rain or something else. He forced a smile. “Family stuff. It’s fine. Let’s keep playing.”

But the atmosphere had changed. That phone call was like a ghost, slipping into the tent and sitting among us.

That night, the rain stopped and the moon emerged from behind the clouds. I couldn’t sleep and stepped outside my tent. The camp was silent, only the indicator lights on the equipment blinking in the dark. I walked towards the work shed, thinking to organise the last batch of records, but saw Theo’s silhouette at the door.

He stood with his back to me, shoulders slumped, holding a photograph. I moved closer and saw it was a family portrait, a younger Theo, a woman with a gentle smile, and a little girl of about ten with a ponytail.

“Her name’s Lily,” Theo said without turning around, his voice hoarse. “She’s fifteen now. This was taken five years ago.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“My wife, Susan, cried on the phone today,” he continued, his fingers rubbing the edge of the photo. “Not angry, just heartbroken. She said Lily asked her if Dad doesn’t love us anymore, why he’s never at home.”

He turned to me, moonlight illuminating his face, the tear tracks clearly visible. “I told her I want a divorce. She just asked, ‘What about Lily, Theo, our daughter?’”

“Theo…”

“I said I’d do everything to minimise the damage to Lily, visit her every week, pay whatever, the house, anything. But Susan said, ‘You’re already hurting her. Every time you choose somewhere else instead of home, you’re hurting her.’” His voice broke. “And she’s right. I’m a selfish bastard.”

“You’re not…”

“I am,” he raised his voice, then lowered it. “I am. I’m addicted to this feeling, the chase, the novelty, the passion, being wanted. I thought I was pursuing truth, but maybe I was just escaping the ordinariness of middle age, escaping the weight of family responsibility.”

He put the photo back into his pocket and covered his face with his hands. “I thought ending my marriage was the honest thing to do, but maybe real honesty is facing the harm I’ve caused and trying to repair it, even if it’s too late.”

I stood there, a cold loneliness spreading through me. This wasn’t what I’d imagined. No romantic promises, no bright future, only brutal, muddy reality.

“So what about us?” I finally asked, barely audible.

Theo dropped his hands and looked at me, his eyes filled with a pain I’d never seen before. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “All I know right now is that I can’t chase my own happiness while Lily’s crying. That would make me despise myself forever.”

He stepped closer, but didn’t touch me. “I need time. Not days, but maybe a long time. To deal with my family, to try to fix what I can, to become a father my daughter won’t be ashamed of one day.”

“And us?”

“Paused,” he said, the word heavy. “If… if you can wait for me, after I’ve sorted all this out. But I’m not asking you to wait. I have no right.”

He reached out this time, cupping my face gently, his thumb brushing my cheek. Only then did I realise I was crying. “You deserve a better beginning,” he whispered, “not one with a middle aged mess of a man, starting from ruins and lies.”

Then he let go, turned, and disappeared into the darkness. I stood alone by the shed, moonlight cold, my heart hollow, filled with the sense of an approaching loss.

The next day, everything carried on as usual, but a transparent yet solid wall stood between Theo and me. He returned to his professional manner, polite, efficient, impeccable, but his eyes no longer lingered on mine. At breakfast, Linus watched us eat our cereal in silence, said nothing, only sighed softly, that sigh heavy with everything left unsaid.

On the last day of the project, as we packed up, Emma leaned over and whispered, “Did you and Theo have a fight? It feels strange.”

“No,” I said. “Just tired from work.”

On the coach back to London, I chose a seat at the back. Theo sat at the front, discussing future thesis topics with the students. Linus sat beside me at the back, mostly looking out of the window at the passing landscape. A few times he turned to look at me, his gaze calm, as if asking, “Do you understand now, the weight of reality?”

I leaned against the window and closed my eyes. Yes, I was beginning to understand. Passion is fire, it can light up the night, but it can also burn everything down. Responsibility, commitment, harm to others, these are waters that cannot be evaporated by flames, only hiss and leave deeper scars.

In the weeks after returning to London, Theo kept his word. We had no private contact. When we met at the department, we nodded politely and walked on. I heard he’d moved out and rented a small flat, but went back weekly to spend time with his daughter. His face looked more tired, but that restless intensity seemed to have settled into something firmer.

My contact with Linus, unexpectedly, increased. He invited me to join more core research projects, and our conversations, while rooted in academia, occasionally expanded into broader territory, the grey areas of ethics, the conflict between personal desire and professional responsibility, how archaeology teaches us that no site can be interpreted without its full context.

One November evening, we finished processing a batch of data in his office. Outside, London’s lights were coming on. Linus didn’t immediately pack up as usual but leaned against the desk, thoughtful.

“Theo is dealing with his situation,” he said suddenly, as casually as if discussing the weather. “It’s not easy. But he’s trying to do the right thing, or perhaps the more right thing.”

I looked up, surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he smiled faintly. “I’m not judging you. Feelings are hard to measure in simple terms of right and wrong. I’m just observing.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

Linus was silent for a moment. “I’ve known Theo for many years. He has a quality of being swept up by intense emotions, whether passion, anger, or guilt. But at his core, he’s not a bad person. He just sometimes loses his way.”

He walked to the window, his back to me. “I’ve lost my way too. In my marriage. Not in the same way, but yes. Sometimes we all need a ‘site’, something to excavate, analyse, and interpret, to understand our own lives.”

He turned back, his gaze clear and direct. “You’re an excellent archaeologist. You have the patience and skill to uncover truths beneath the surface. But remember, some excavations require special care, because living ‘sites’ are more fragile than those asleep for thousands of years.”

In his calm words and perceptive eyes, I felt a strange comfort. Not the burning warmth of passion, but the steady light of a lamp in the night. I knew that with Theo, that chapter was far from over, unresolved and full of painful possibilities. But I also knew that ahead of me were other layers to explore, deeper, more complex, perhaps ultimately more solid.

Outside, London rain began again. But beyond the curtain of rain, the city lights still shone, layer upon layer, illuminating countless intertwined stories, like the echoes buried in the strata beneath our feet. And my story had only just turned a page.