“Then maybe your therapist asks the wrong questions,” he says gently.
I cover my face with both hands. “I’ve just unloaded twenty years of baggage on a man I barely know.”
He waits a beat, then says, “On someone who wanted to know. And who’s not going anywhere.”
When I lower my hands, his gaze is steady, unflinching. There’s no pity there—only warmth, quiet and unassuming.
And that’s what undoes me a little. Not the question, not the memory, but the simple fact that he listened without attempting to fix it.
I take a slow breath, trying to pull myself back together. The steam from the water makes everything hazy, soft. I’m about to ask himtruth or dareagain, to move things along, to undo what I’ve just confessed, when another thought slips out before I can catch it.
“It sometimes scares me,” I say quietly, staring at the ripples between us, “to wake up in my forties and realise I’m not the priority in anyone’s life.”
The words hang there, raw and awkward. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out brittle. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Completely self-absorbed.”
Aaron doesn’t say anything, and I can’t bear to look at him.
“I mean—” I fumble for words, “What a thing to say. As if pain only matters if someone else feels it.Look at me, I should leave some gaping hole in someone’s life if I die.How narcissistic is that?”
My voice breaks, smaller now. “But…”
I stop myself. There’s more I could say, but I’m afraid of what it might sound like if I do.
I take a deep breath and force a smile, trying to steady my tone. “Right. Truth or dare?”
He doesn’t answer straight away. The bubbles fizz softly between us, filling the silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
“Truth,” he says.
And for a moment, I almost wish he’d chosen dare.
Chapter 8
Aaron
It’s a slow, greymorning. The kind where the whole village smells faintly of wet stone and moss. Abby and I are at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in hand, the remains of breakfast between us. Jon’s already taken Layla to school, leaving the house quiet apart from the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Abby gives me a knowing smile as she butters another slice of toast. “So,” she says, “how was the spa?”
I blink at her over my mug. “That didn’t take long.”
She grins. “Petra called this morning."
"The village gossip mill is working, I see," I grumble.
Abby ignores my comment. "She gave us the full report. Said you two were very polite and didn’t break anything.”
“High praise,” I say, smiling into my tea. “And yes, it was good. Quiet. Peaceful.”
“Peaceful, hmm?” she says, her tone too casual to be innocent. “You looked rather pleased with yourself when you got in last night.”
“Just relaxed,” I say lightly. “First time I’ve been in a hot tub without a dozen rugby lads shouting over me.”
Abby laughs. “I’d imagine Eve was a bit more civilised company.”
I pause, then nod. “She was.”
Abby tilts her head, studying me with that quiet curiosity of hers. “What’s she like?”
