“Too late,” he says with the faintest grin. “I’m sticking with it now. Has a nice ring to it.”
I look down at the muddy path, trying to hide the smile that insists on creeping up. “And you’re Aaron, right?”
“Guilty.”
There’s another stretch of silence after that, but it’s softer somehow. Comfortable.
I focus on the rhythm of our steps, the rain pattering against our hoods, the steady sound of our breathing in sync.
I should say something. Normal people make conversation, don’t they?Except every topic that comes to mind feels either too personal or painfully dull. The weather? Too obvious. Work? Too long to explain. Compliments? Absolutely not.
Still, the silence feels full of potential now, not heavy, and before I can talk myself out of it I say, “So… have you done this walk before?”
He glances at me, rain sliding off the edge of his hood. “First time. I only got here yesterday.”
“Oh, you’re not from here either,” I say, relieved to have found neutral ground.
“Not even close,” he replies, smiling faintly. “London originally. Thought I’d trade the traffic for mud.”
“That’s… brave,” I say, my lips twitching into a small smile. “Or reckless.”
“Still deciding which,” he admits.
That pulls a quiet laugh from me, the sound surprising me. “I was told it’s just a short, gentle walk. Which I now suspect was an outright lie.”
He chuckles. “Depends on your definition of gentle. Around here, it usually means uphill both ways.”
“Good to know,” I say, glancing ahead at the faint outline of the group disappearing into the mist. “I’ll pace myself.”
We walk on for a bit, our boots squelching through the mud. I risk another glance at him. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “So, what brings you to St Claire then? Holiday?”
As soon as the words are out, I almost wince.Holiday? Really, Eve?I don’t even make small talk with my neighbours, and now I’m interrogating strangers in the rain.
He looks at me, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Something like that,” he says. “Bit of a holiday, bit of a reset. Needed to get out of London for a while.”
“That makes sense,” I say quickly, relieved that he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s definitely quieter here.”
He smiles. “That was the idea. I figured a few weeks of peace and bad weather might do the trick.”
I smile back. “So far so good, then.”
The joke is gentle, unforced, and something about it settles my nerves. I’m not used to this—conversation that doesn’t feel like a performance.
He carries on, his voice unhurried. “What about you? You visiting too?”
I hesitate, not because it’s a secret but because it feels strange to talk about myself. “Yes. Just a short stay. Needed a change of scenery as well.”
He nods thoughtfully, then glances over. “Where’s home, then?”
“Norfolk coast,” I say, tucking a damp curl back under my hood. “Small village. Not much happens there, which I quite like.”
He chuckles. “So you left one quiet place for another?”
“I suppose I did,” I admit. “Seems a bit pointless when you put it like that.”
“Not at all,” he says easily. “Different kind of quiet. The sea kind is wide and loud, even when it’s calm. Up here it’s softer. More… close.”
I glance at him, surprised by the accuracy of it. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
