“You should play me something,” she says, nudging her foot against mine lightly. “Maybe not tonight. But sometime.”
I raise a brow. “And what would I play? Some soft acoustic ballad to sweep you off your feet?”
“I mean, if you have one in your repertoire, I wouldn’t complain.”
“I’m more of a ‘poorly tuned strings’ kind of guy,” I deadpan.
“Oh, be still my heart.” She leans back dramatically, hand over her chest. “Next you’ll tell me you sing off-key, too.”
“I do,” I say without missing a beat. “You’ve been warned.”
She laughs, head tipping back, and the sound hits me square in the chest. God, she’s something else.
“You’re ruining the fantasy, you know,” she teases, eyes dancing.
“Good,” I mutter, leaning back into the cushions beside her. “You don’t want to build up expectations I’ll never live up to.”
“Oh, Aidan.” She shakes her head. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Her eyes catch mine, steady and sure. “You’ve already far surpassed any expectations I had.”
twenty-one
LUCY
We’ve been talking for hours, drifting from easy, surface-level conversation to the corners of his world he doesn’t usually invite anyone into. The only time we stopped was when my stomach growled loud enough to make both of us laugh, and we realized it was time to order food before I embarrassed myself further.
Somewhere between the laughs and eating, I learn his middle name is Hamish—delivered with a reluctant shrug because he was half embarrassed to share it. As if Janet is any better.
Then he drops a detail that sticks. As a kid, his mum used to call him “Aidy-Pie.” It’s absurdly sweet, and I catch myself smiling before I can stop it. The way his eyes flicker with something almost shy makes me want to catalog every little thing about him.
I notice the stack of books on the end table after that—old Scottish poetry, spines worn soft. He tells me he always cleans his glasses twice before reading, a habit he can’t break. I tuck that detail away, too.
Somewhere in the soft hush of the evening, I realize I’m already holding onto these pieces of him that don’t need loud declarations. To me, it’s these little moments that matter the most.
“Can I ask you something?” I finally say as we’re winding down. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
He gives me a wary look, but nods.
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. “What happened with Isla’s mother?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and unavoidable. Aidan’s expression shifts immediately.
For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. His eyes darken, focusing on some distant point beyond me, and I can almost see the walls rebuilding themselves brick by brick.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked that. You don’t have to?—”
“No,” he interrupts. “It’s all right.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. When he finally speaks, each word seems carefully measured.
“Her name is Emily.” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Our relationship moved fast. She got pregnant after only a few months together.”
I stay perfectly still, afraid that any movement might make him stop.
“We tried to make it work, but she didn’t want this life. Didn’t want the responsibility. Said she wasn’t cut out for it.”
