Oh god. He wants to walk with me. Act normal. Donotdo that weird arm swing you do when you overthink walking. Just… be human. A human who walks. Normally.
Pete holds out a hand, guiding me forward and we fall into step. The water is slap-slap against the boats; seagulls wheel overhead, plotting crimes.
“I do this loop when my brain’s noisy,” I say. “Less therapy, more sea breeze and passive-aggressive seagulls.”
“Same,” Pete says. “Although I tend to find it’s the pigeons who are really out to get me.”
“Well, they can be particularly devious.”
It’s stupid, how quickly the conversation loosens. Tesco had felt like a fluke—two strangers flirting in an aisle built for hummus. This feels like… a sequel. The good kind. ThePaddington 2kind.
“So,” Pete says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “What do you do when you’re not consulting on avocado ripeness for the community?”
“Currently? Not a lot. Sabbatical. Life administration. Long walks. Arguing with my cat.”
“Ah, a cat person.”
“Don’t put me in a box,” I say. “He won’t allow it.”
Pete grins. “How long’s the sabbatical?”
“Undefined.” I try on the word and it fits and doesn’t fit all at once. “I used to work in finance—long hours, very sexy spreadsheets. My dad died and it sort of… reoriented me. I’m figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Sorry about your dad,” he says—simple, no pity, which I appreciate.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “What about you?”
“I do a lot of project stuff,” he says, and proceeds to describe work in those modern terms that mean everything and nothing—stakeholders, deliverables, timelines. “Basically, I herd people and make sure things happen when they’re supposed to.”
“So, you’re a wizard.”
“I’ll put that on my LinkedIn,” he says, and we both snort.
A child on a scooter slaloms between our knees like a small, helmeted assassin. We keep walking, swapping Bristol notes—favourite coffee spots (we both say Ahh Toots by the Christmas Steps and then argue over our favourite cakes), favourite place for a roast (I admit my booking at the Bank Tavern for October made over ten months ago better be the most wondrous roast in existence), the Balloon Fiesta (we both pretend it’s whimsical while quietly admitting watching balloons rise is only so much fun and the traffic is post-apocalyptic).
He asks if I grew up here. I nod. “Bristol-born, yes. Redland. Mum died when I was young. So, I was just mainly me and Dad…”
“And how was that?”
“Um, well he was…complicated.”
“Oh, complicated how?” he asks gently.
“Um, well…we never quite… connected,” I say. “He wasn’t the most emotional man, kind of like having a relationship with your school headmaster. We loved each other, we just never really knew each other.”
Pete nods in that way that says he’s listening and not planning his next sentence. “Family can be like that,” he says. “Like you’re both tuned to slightly different radio stations.”
“Exactly.” I smile, surprised by the relief of being understood. “What about you?”
“I grew up all over,” he says. “Bit messy, bit chaotic. Bristol’s the first place that felt like somewhere I chose.” He kicks at a loose stone. “I like that it’s beautiful without trying too hard. Scruffy-pretty.”
“Like me,” I say automatically, then die inside. “I mean — not that I—”
He laughs. “Scruffy-pretty works for you.”
I wonder if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from blushing.
We loop by the water taxis and I, in a moment of overzealous eye contact, nearly walk into a bench. Pete catches my elbow. His touch is light, anchoring.
