“Of course, love. My lips are sealed.”
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up.
I stay late at the Grays’ to make up for the hours I missed earlier, so it’s dark by the time I get home.
Ainsley’s back. Her car is in her drive, and lights glow warm behind her curtains.
I sit in the van for a wee while, keys in hand, staring at those lit windows. Part of me wants to march over there, knock onher door, and... what? Apologise? Explain? Kiss her until she forgets why she was upset in the first place?
Space, I remind myself.She asked for space.
So instead I head inside. The house greets me with silence.
I make myself pasta with pesto—easy, mindless, something I can do on autopilot while my brain churns through everything else.
Memories from earlier keep replaying in my head. Not the sex—though, Christ, that was incredible—but everything after. The way Ainsley looked at me when we were tangled together in my sheets, soft and open in a way I hadn’t seen before. Like she was finally letting me in.
Then our mums appeared, and all of that vanished. Shutters slamming down. Walls going back up.
Fuck.
I swear I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her, and she’s just on the other side of the wall. But I can’t go to her.
The pasta tastes like cardboard. I eat it anyway.
Then, through the wall, muffled but unmistakable: Lily crying. No, not just crying, proper wailing. A full-throated tantrum.
I hesitate.
She asked for space, the sensible part of my brain reminds me.
But the crying continues—escalates, in fact—punctuated by thumps and snippets of Ainsley’s voice, strained and pleading.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out my front door and approaching hers. At it, though, I hesitate again. Is this a terrible idea?
I push aside my doubts and knock.
After a short wait Ainsley answers, looking like she’s been through a war. Hair dishevelled. Cheeks flushed. Eyes glassy with exhaustion. Lily’s sobs spill from the living room.
“Struan.” She blinks. “What are you?—”
“I heard Lily.” I keep my voice gentle. “Thought maybe you could use a hand.”
Something crosses her face, too fast to read. “I’m fine. And I don’t need help with my own daughter.”
“I wasn’t saying you did, I just?—”
“I told you I needed space, Struan. I couldn’t have been any clearer.” She takes a deep breath in, and then out. “Goodnight.”
She doesn’t slam the door. Just closes it on me, gently but firmly.
Back in my own house, the silence presses in from all sides.
I wash my pasta bowl. Wipe down the worktops. Tidy things that don’t need tidying. Anything to keep my hands busy while my head refuses to quiet down.
When my phone rings, it’s Sophie’s name that flashes on the screen.
“Hey, Soph.”
