The rain didn’t let up.
It hammered the windscreen in relentless sheets as Jude guided Warren into a narrow car park overlooking the seafront. The wipers strained to keep up, smearing across grey as the storm raged on.
Outside, Worthbridge Beach was nothing but a ghost. Sea and sky blending into a single wall of mist. Streetlamps shimmered in the puddles pooling along the promenade, their glow broken by gusts of wind toppling bins and sending chip papers cartwheeling down the pavement like soggy confetti. Somewhere, a seagull screamed its disapproval into the storm.
Warren squinted through the downpour. “This the place?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah. Best fish and chips in town.”
Warren raised a sceptical brow. “Says who?”
“Me. And the Year Elevens who bunk off every other Thursday for chips and emotional damage control.” Jude shot him a sideways glance. “Also, it’s the only chippy on the front with a license.”
And fuck did Jude need a drink.
It wasn’t the best idea, but it was the only one he had. Dull the edges. Blur the lines. So when he went back home to Callum, he might not be so fucking scared all the time.
Warren snorted. “Hence the appeal to those not technically old enough to drink.”
“Exactly. And I’m fairly sure the owners don’t know what a legal ID looks like.”
“But we, as responsible educators, shouldn’t be encouraging that.”
“We’re not.” Jude reached for the door handle. “As soon as we walk in, it’ll send them scattering.”
Warren rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s ruin some teenagers’ night and save a few liver cells while we’re at it.”
They made a run for it, Jude ducking his head, shielding himself with an elbow as the rain came down in buckets. Warren laughed beside him, nearly sliding on the stone, then slid a hand on the small of Jude’s back, guiding him inside. It was steady. Warm. And right over the place Jude kept covered. Where the ink lived. His one private truth, buried under cotton and silence. For a second, his muscles tightened, preparing to flinch away, anticipating the sharp push that used to follow. Like when he’d been dating Freddie for that short time, and he’d slipped his fingers up his shirt during a kiss, Jude had instinctively eased away. But this time, the push never came. There was only sustained, grounding pressure.And something in him reacted in a way it hadn’t in years.
Alive. Exposed. Seen.
Fuck.
He felt as if he were on fire.
The small shopfront glowed like a beacon in the storm, golden light spilling onto the rain-slick pavement.The Golden Galleonwas spelled out in flaking gilt letters above the window, proud despite the wear. Inside, it was all tiled walls, laminatedmenus, steamed-up glass, and the sacred scent of deep-fried everything. And as they stepped through the door, Warren finally let his hand fall from the small of Jude’s back.
The absence hit like a cut. Sharp, sudden, senseless.
Ridiculous, really.
And so painfully, disastrously ill-timed.
The place was half-empty. Only one older couple in the corner, sharing a pot of tea and watching the rain beat the glass.
Warren stomped water off his trainers. “Proper British summer holiday vibes. All we need now is a wasp and a cancelled train.”
They slid into a booth near the window, the plastic seats sticky from vinegar and years of overuse. Rain pummelled the glass beside them, the sea wall barely visible beyond it, spray crashing up in bursts. Thunder rumbled somewhere out to the east, low and threatening. Jude stared out for a moment, watching the wind carve across the coastline.
Home.
Not the home he’d imagined as a boy, but the one he’d built. Fought for.
And now, it was starting to feel exactly like the prison he’d once escaped.
He knew that was on him. He should be fighting harder. Standing firmer. Braver. Not slipping back into silence. Not shrinking. He’d sat through the workshops. Attended the therapy. Delivered safeguarding seminars on this very thing. Coercion. Manipulation.Abuse.
He could define it. Spot the signs. Say all the right things in a classroom.
