But he’s already scooping Lily into his arms, one hand supporting her head. She stirs, makes a small sound of protest, then burrows closer into his chest and goes still again.
And just like that, my body reacts in a way I very much did not authorise.
It’s just because you’re tired, I tell myself.It’s been a long day.
But I know that’s not the whole truth.
I follow Struan up the stairs. In Lily’s room he lowers Lily onto her bed, eases his arm out from beneath her, then steps back to give me space.
I tug the duvet up around her shoulders, smooth her hair back from her forehead, and lean down to press a gentle kiss there. “Night, baby.”
As we quietly head back down the stairs, voices drift in from the street—two of them, tipsy and cheerful, belting out a very enthusiastic rendition of “Caledonia”. I smile faintly. Must be on their way home from the pub.
I pause.
Wait, doesn’t Struan usually play at the pub on Thursdays?
In the living room, Struan runs a hand through his curls, still clearly half-asleep. “She didn’t even stir when we put her down,” he says. “Out like a light.”
“Aye.” I hesitate, then: “Struan, something just occurred to me. Weren’t you supposed to play at the pub this evening?”
He shrugs then reaches for his hoodie, which is draped over the arm of the sofa. “Aye, but I told Ellie and Rab I’d sit this one out.”
I stare at him.
He must catch the look on my face because he adds, “They can still play without me. It’s not the first time one of us has had to pull out of a gig. Just means an adapted set, that’s all.” Another easy shrug, like it’s nothing. Like cancelling his eveningplans to babysit his neighbour’s four-year-old is just what you do.
“You cancelled,” I say slowly, “to help me? And my family?”
“It’s not a big deal, Ainsley.”
Except it is.All those assumptions I made about him. The walls I built, brick by brick, to keep men like him safely on the other side. And here he is, dismantling them without even trying. Just by being... this. Kind. Dependable.Good.
“Well,” he says, moving towards the door and pulling on his hoodie. “Goodnight, Ainsley.”
“Wait!”
He turns, brows lifting.
My heart is hammering. This is impulsive. Probably a terrible idea. But the words are already forming, rising up from somewhere beneath all the caution and the fear and the carefully maintained distance.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Aye? About what?”
“I’d like that date.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “If it’s still on offer.”
For a moment he just looks at me. Then his hands come up, palms out. “Ainsley, you don’t have to go on a date with me as a way of paying me back for this evening. I meant what I said before?—”
“I know. But I’d still like that date.”
His eyes don’t leave me. He searches my face, looking for... what? Obligation? Gratitude dressed up as interest?
Whatever he finds must satisfy him because he breaks into a slow smile. Not the easy grin he deploys like a weapon, but something softer. Warmer.
“Well, then. A date it is.”
There’s a flutter in my chest. Nerves. Excitement. A complicated tangle of both.
