That’s mine. She chose me.
After all the chaos. After the roommate phase. After the near-misses.
Me.
I exit the story before I spiral into imagining some bloke buying her a drink.
Instead, I text her.
Dan:You look unreal tonight.
I stare at the typing bar for a second.
Too much?
Too casual?
Sod it.
Dan:Also I miss you.
Dan:Also come home soon before I start texting you things that will get me in trouble with the girls.
I toss my phone onto the counter like I’m not immediately waiting for the reply.
I pour myself a whisky.
One ice cube.
I am not twenty-two anymore. The house creaks. I wander into the living room and sit on the sofa. The same sofa we nearly…
Nope. Don’t think about that.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it too fast.
Emma:Behave.
Emma:Or don’t.
Emma:I’m wearing black lacy underwear again.
I actually laugh out loud. “Jesus, Emma.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. She hasn’t flirted like that in years. Not like this. Not playful. Not daring.
And suddenly I’m picturing her walking through that pub, shoulders back, legs in those ridiculous gold heels, black lacy underwear under her tiny black dress.
Men looking.
Her not shrinking.
Not apologising.
And I realise something uncomfortable. I used to be scared of that version of her. Scared she’d outgrow me. Scared she’d realise she could do better. That someone smoother, richer, less tired could walk into a room and take her. Which is probably why I defaulted to jokes. To chores. To safe territory. Because wanting her that much feels risky. It always has.
I pick up my phone again.
