The quiet stretches between us, soft and steady.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, it feels like the world’s turning the right way again.
Epilogue
Aaron
Three months since wetemporarily relocated to Yorkshire, and somehow, we’re still here.
St Claire in summer feels like an entirely different place—the hills greener, the air thick with honeysuckle, Bernard trotting proudly past the cottage most mornings with his pig still tied to his harness like a badge of honour.
Eve and I have already extended our stay twice. The owners were delighted, probably because we’ve singlehandedly funded their next holiday. But this time our luck’s run out. The booking ends next week, and someone else has already claimed the cottage.
Eve’s on the sofa, legs curled under her, completely lost in a book. She doesn’t even notice me watching her. Sunlight catches her hair, and for a moment I forget about the ticking clock of our lease.
I reach out, pluck the book gently from her hands, and set it aside.
“Hey,” she protests, blinking up at me. “I was reading that.”
“I know,” I say, tugging her closer until she ends up sitting across my lap. “I was feeling neglected.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away. “You’re impossible.”
“True. But you love me anyway.”
“I do,” she says softly, and something about the ease in her voice still floors me.
I trail my fingers along her arm, pretending to sound casual. “You know our booking’s up next week.”
Her smile falters. “I know.”
“Which means we’ll have to pack up and say goodbye to this place.”
She looks down, her expression turning wistful. “That sounds awful.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing a kiss on her temple. “It does.”
I let the silence linger for a heartbeat, then reach for the envelope sitting on the coffee table. “Luckily,” I say, “I might have a plan.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. “What have you done?”
“Nothing too reckless,” I promise, handing her the envelope. “Open it.”
She takes it, still eyeing me like I’m about to unveil something outrageous. When she slides out the contents, her expression changes. It’s a brochure—photos of a stone cottage framed by climbing roses, a wide garden, and hills rolling away behind it.
“Where is this?” she asks, her voice suddenly softer. “I haven’t seen that on the holiday cottage website.”
I hesitate for a second, then smile. “You wouldn’t have. It’s not for rent.”
She looks up, frowning slightly. “Then what is it?”
“For sale,” I say, watching her closely. “I’ve been talking to the estate agent. It’s old, but solid. Needs a bit of work—the kind of work you’d complain about while secretly enjoying.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. “You’re thinking of buying it?”
I nod. “Not thinking. Planning.”
“Aaron…” she breathes, half in disbelief, half in warning. “That’s… that’s a big thing.”
