I straighten, pushing off the railing, and walk toward her. I keep my pace casual, giving her every second she needs to decide whether to stay or bolt. I stop three feet away. Close enough to speak; far enough to leave a clear exit.
“Morning,” I say.
I don’t use her name. I don’t frame it as a question.
“Morning,” she replies.
Her voice is anchored. Steadier than the last time I heard it. That shift is more important than any confession Damien could have wrung out of himself.
We stand there as the city pulses around us, two people temporarily exempt from the rush. I don’t comment on the dark circles under her eyes or the way she’s holding her mug. I don’t mention the house, and I certainly don’t mention him.
“I didn’t plan to run into you,” she says.
“I know.”
A flicker of something crosses her face—not suspicion, but a quiet, assessing trust. It’s the look of someone realising they aren’t being managed.
“I’m not here to take you anywhere,” I add, my voice low against the hum of a passing bus. “I was already here.”
She studies me, her eyes tracking the honesty in my expression. She’s earned the right to be skeptical. “Why?”
“Because this is where people come when they stop negotiating with themselves.”
A beat of silence. “That sounds rehearsed.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “It’s just something I’ve learned the hard way.”
She looks back at the river, then back at me, her silhouette sharp against the cities slate. “You always do that. Say things that don’t ask anything of me.”
“I don’t want anything you have to break yourself to offer.”
I see the words land. Her shoulders shift—not a slump, but a settling. She’s finally occupying her own skin.
“Damien is learning how to be quiet,” I state. It’s not a warning. It’s a status report.
She nods. “I know.”
The silence that follows is comfortable. It doesn’t need to be filled with excuses or plans.
“You don’t have to choose anything,” I tell her. “Not me. Not him. Not today.”
She exhales, a long, full breath that clears her lungs. “I’m starting to understand that. And it’s… terrifying.”
I let a small smile touch my mouth. “That means it’s yours.”
She looks at me then—really looks—and the performance is gone. No mask, no test. Just a raw curiosity and a steadiness that makes my own pulse catch.
“Walk with me?” she asks.
It isn’t an invitation to follow. It isn’t a promise of a destination. It’s a question between equals.
I nod once. “Of course.”
We fall into step. We don’t rush. Our rhythm finds its own shared beat without a word of discussion. The river keeps pace to our left, carrying the city’s debris toward the sea. I don’t reach for her hand. I don’t need to. She’s already walking, and for the first time, she’s the one picking the path.
The path narrows as we move toward the greener stretches of the Embankment. The noise of the traffic fades, replaced by therustle of turning leaves and the lapping of the tide against the stone.
“I keep waiting for the catch,” she admits, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. “For the moment you tell me what this costs.”
