Freya’s arguing about rugby statistics with Harry.
Hannah’s telling Rowan she could run this place better.
Clara’s trying to organise a girls’ trip that will absolutely never happen.
Emma rests her head on my shoulder.
“You know what the best part was?” she says quietly.
“What?”
“Milan was incredible. The clothes. The interviews. The chaos.” She pauses. “But the best part was coming home.”
My hand tightens around hers.
She tilts her face up to look at me. “Not because I had to,” she adds. “Because I wanted to.”
There’s something about the way she says it. Not dependency. Not relief. Choice. That’s the difference now.
“I don’t ever want you choosing smaller,” I say quietly.
She studies me. “I don’t,” she replies. “And I don’t want you choosing silence.”
I nod. Deal
Rowan brings over another round we absolutely did not order.
“On the house,” he says. “For surviving your dramatic era.”
Emma laughs. “We were not dramatic.”
Freya snorts wine out of her nose.
Mark raises an eyebrow. “Mate.”
I shrug.
“We’ve evolved.”
Emma squeezes my hand.
Later, when the pub starts thinning out, we stay seated longer than the others.
Just watching.
The Old Oak hasn’t changed much.
Same beams. Same floorboards that creak like they’re gossiping. Same booth we’ve occupied through arguments, reconciliations, flirting, near-misses, inside jokes.
But we have.
And that’s enough.
She shifts closer.
“I love that we’re not frantic anymore,” she murmurs.
“Me too.”
