Her expression shifts. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I see you. All of it.”
She exhales like she didn’t realise she was holding that breath. Then she presses her forehead to mine. “Good,” she whispers.
And in that quiet kitchen, with Lego on the floor and a half-folded pile of washing waiting upstairs, I realise something.
The fire didn’t save us. The big romantic gestures didn’t save us. Seeing each other did. That’s what saved us. And this time? We’re not letting go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAN
The Old Oak smells the same as it always has.
Wood polish. Spilled lager. The kind of laughter that sinks into Tudor beams and refuses to leave.
It’s early evening when we walk in, the sky outside fading into that dusty blue Oakwood does so well. Fairy lights are already glowing behind the low windows, golden against the black beams.
Rowan looks up from behind the bar as the door swings shut behind us.
He clocks us immediately.
“Ah,” he says, wiping down the counter with exaggerated calm. “Team Us.”
Emma laughs beside me. “That’s not our official name.”
“It absolutely is,” he replies. “Been unofficially reserving your booth under that title for months.”
I glance at her.
She squeezes my hand.
The booth is ours. It always has been. Raised slightly on that uneven wooden platform near the stage, close enough to the bar, close enough to the toilets, dangerously close to karaoke.
Freya’s already there, curled into the corner with a large glass of red.
“Finally,” she says. “You’re late. I’ve nearly had to socialise without you.”
“You’re welcome,” Emma says, sliding in beside her.
Hannah’s at the end of the table, aggressively judging the playlist. “If this DJ plays one more Ed Sheeran song I’m walking out.”
Clara waves at us with tequila in hand. “We’re on our third emotional spiral already. You’ve missed very little.”
Harry and Mark are at the bar talking to Rowan and Rory about rugby, something about The Ravens and a suspicious refereeing decision last weekend.
It feels… normal.
Not performative. Not fragile.
Just ours.
Emma slides in beside me. Her knee presses against mine under the table. I feel it all the way up my spine.
She looks good tonight. Not Milan red-carpet good. Not styled-for-a-camera good. Just her.
Jeans that fit perfectly. Hair loose. That soft glow she gets when she’s tired but content.
