I’m in the kitchenwhen I hear footsteps on the stairs. Light, cautious ones, like she’s still getting used to the place. Bernard lifts his head from his spot by the Aga, gives a single thump of his tail, then decides to save his energy for something more promising.
I'm removing the teabags from the pot just as she appears in the doorway, looks around the kitchen, takes in the low beams and the mismatched mugs, then smiles.
“Smells good,” she says.
“Nothing fancy,” I reply, pouring two mugs. “Just proper tea. Thought that was the safest choice.”
“Safe is good,” she says lightly, stepping closer. “Tea’s one of the few things I don’t overthink.”
I hand her a mug, our fingers brushing briefly. It’s nothing, really, just one of those accidental touches, but I feel it all the same.
She takes a small sip. “Perfect.”
“I’ll take that as approval,” I say.
Her lips twitch in a small smile. “You’ve set the bar high already.”
Bernard decides this is his cue and wanders over to investigate her boots. She bends down to greet him, scratching gently behind his ears until he melts into a puddle of contentment.
“I think he remembers me,” she says.
“Hard to say. I have learned his approval isn’t actually that difficult to obtain. He’s affectionate with anyone who might feed him.”
She glances up at me, smiling. “Smart dog.”
“He has his moments,” I say. “Mostly between naps.”
I nod toward the table. “There’s lemon tart if you’re hungry. Thought we’d start with dessert and lower the bar from there.”
That makes her laugh, soft and genuine.
“Thank you for picking me up,” she says after a moment.
“Anytime,” I reply, and I mean it.
For a second, she just looks at me, that small, searching look that feels like she’s trying to figure out something neither of us has quite named yet.
Then, Bernard sighs loudly, clearly impatient for crumbs, and she laughs again, shaking her head.
I turn to cut the tart, still smiling, and try not to notice how natural it already feels having her here.
We talk so long, by the time I realise hours have passed, the light outside has slipped into dusk. The kitchen has gone soft and golden, the last of the day filtering through the window while the teapot sits empty between us.
Eve’s leaning forward in her chair, eyes bright, asking more questions about the Himalayas—how cold it really was above six thousand metres, whether the silence feels different that high up. She’s been like this for over an hour,alive with curiosity, her words tumbling out faster than usual. I’ve never seen her so animated.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Somewhere between the story about the monastery at dawn and the avalanche that never quite reached camp, she stopped looking like someone trying to stay polite and started looking like herself.
It hits me then, no longer just an idea, now I am determined—one day, I’ll take her there. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m already imagining it. The two of us standing somewhere above the clouds, her cheeks pink from the cold, that spark still in her eyes.
I clear my throat and push back from the table before my thoughts can wander too far. “I should make us some dinner,” I say. “I’d love to claim I’m a decent cook, but my repertoire mostly consists of sandwiches and regret. So, your choices are one of Abby’s frozen lasagnes or one of her frozen cottage pies.”
She grins, still a little flushed from laughing. “Cottage pie sounds perfect.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll save the lasagne for tomorrow.”
While I hunt down the oven gloves and try to remember what Abby told me about the Aga, Eve gathers the plates from the table. I tell her she doesn’t need to, but she waves me off and carries them to the sink.
