“Walls don’t usually build themselves,” he says.
That one stings.
Bloody Rowan and his bloody wise words.
The pub hums around us. Laughter. Glass clinking. The low murmur of Oakwood living its small, busy life.
Harry claps my shoulder.
“Talk to her,” he says.
“I do.”
“No. Not logistics. Her.”
I nod slowly.
When I get home, the house is quiet. Lights off downstairs. Dishwasher humming. Emma’s already in bed. She’s on her side, facing away, curls spilling over the pillow. I stand in the doorway for a moment.
I still want her. That hasn’t changed.
I slip into bed carefully. This time, I don’t hesitate. I slide my arm around her waist. She stiffens for half a second. Then softens.
It’s small.
But it’s something.
In the dark, I press my face into her hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
I don’t know if she believes me. I’m not sure I know how yet. But I’m starting to realise that if I don’t learn, properly, I might lose her.
And I don’t think I could survive that.
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA
Dan’s arm is around my waist.
It’s been a while since he’s done it like this, not a quick touch in passing, not a foot brushed against mine under the duvet, but the full, steady weight of him pulling me in like he’s claiming space.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
My body believed him before my brain did.
I soften into him. My back presses to his chest, his breath warm at the nape of my neck. He smells like soap and that faint, familiar aftershave that used to meannight outandme in a dressandhim looking at me like he couldn’t wait to get me home.
That’s the inconvenient truth.
I still want him.
Even now. Even when I’m exhausted and my hair is greasy and I’ve heard “Mum” so many times it’s lost meaning. Sometimes his hand lands on my hip and my body sparks to life like it remembers us better than I do.
But wanting isn’t the same as reaching.
Reaching feels risky. Because if I turn to him and he’s not really there, not fully, it’ll hurt more than the distance.
