“You should do it more often,” I tell her. “You look like you might actually be enjoying yourself.”
She smiles. “Don’t ruin it by pointing it out.”
I grin. “Noted.”
The conversation drifts after that. We talk about Bernard’s tragic love affair with the pig, the sound of the wind outside, and how quiet the village feels at night. Each pause lasts a little longer. The air feels thicker, softer, threaded with something neither of us wants to name.
When she leans forward to set her glass down, her knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves.
Her eyes lift, meeting mine in the flicker of the firelight, and the world narrows to the faint sound of Bernard’s breathing and the soft crackle of the fire.
It would take almost nothing, just a breath, a tilt forward, for our mouths to meet.
And that’s when Bernard lets out an almighty fart.
There’s a beat of stunned silence before the smell hits. It’s catastrophic.
Eve jerks back first, grimacing. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s… potent.”
“It’s a weapon,” she says, already standing. “We have to go.”
I’m up too, waving a hand in front of my face. “Evacuation confirmed.”
We flee to the kitchen, both laughing by the time we make it through the doorway. She leans against the counter, trying to catch her breath between giggles.
“Unbelievable,” she says. “How can something that small produce that?”
“Years of practice,” I manage.
She presses her hand over her mouth, still laughing, her eyes bright. “Well. That was… atmospheric.”
“Ruined by a beagle,” I say. “The story of my life.”
At that exact moment, Bernard appears in the doorway, pink pig in his mouth, tail wagging gently. He doesn’t even look guilty. He just strolls past us, pads up the stairs, and disappears towards his room as if he’s clocking off for the night.
Eve watches him go, still smiling. “He’s very pleased with himself.”
“He should be,” I say. “Mission accomplished.”
We stand there for a moment, the laughter fading into a quieter kind of warmth. The air’s still faintly smoky from the fire, the smell mercifully left behind in the other room, and all I can think is that even with the chaos, I don’t want the evening to end.
She glances towards the stairs, her smile softening. “It’s probably time for bed.”
“Good plan,” I say, though the thought of the evening ending sits heavier than it should. “I’ll lock up in a minute. What time do you want breakfast?”
She hesitates, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Eight?”
“Eight it is.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Well,” she says at last, her voice softer now. “Good night, then.”
“Good night, Eve.”
She gives a small nod, starts towards the stairs, then glances back once—just long enough to meet my eyes again. There’s nothing said, nothing obvious, but something in that look feels like a promise of sorts.
