Not certainty. Not healing. Just… possibility.
She got up. Pulled on an old hoodie. Went downstairs.
Her mother was at the stove, frying bacon. Her dad was at the table with the paper.
Mia slid into her chair.
“Morning,” she said.
They both looked up—smiles soft, eyes still a little red, but steady.
“Morning, love,” her mum said, setting a plate in front of her. “Hungry?”
Mia nodded. “Starving.”
She ate slowly, tasting everything. The bacon crisp, the eggs soft, the tea strong the way she liked it. Her parents sat with her—no rush, no questions. Just presence.
After breakfast she walked out to the veranda, mug in hand, and looked at the hills. The sky was clear, the air sharp with early summer. She breathed in deep.
She wasn’t ready to say yes to the job. Not yet.
But she wasn’t ready to say no, either.
And that small shift—tiny, tentative—felt like the first real step she’d taken in a long time.
???
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lucas
The first half of the season ended with a hollow thud. Lucas flew back to London alone—first-class seat, noise-cancelling headphones, the city lights of Heathrow blurring past the window as the plane touched down. The flat in Notting Hill was quiet when he walked in: clean, minimalist, unchanged since he’d left for Bahrain in February.He dropped his suitcase in the hall, poured a glass of whiskey, and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows watching the street below—couples walking dogs, taxis idling, life moving on without him.
He didn’t sleep well that first week.
He didn’t call her. Didn’t text. She’d made it clear.
The flat felt too big. Too quiet. Too empty.
The silence pressed in harder with every passing day. He’d sit on the sofa with the TV off, staring at the black screen like it might show him something—anything—that would make the ache stop. He tried music, tried running, tried anything to fill the space she used to occupy. Nothing worked. The quiet wasn’t peaceful; it was accusing. Every empty corner reminded him of her.
By the third day he was exhausted from fighting it. That was when Sienna’s message came through.
It was a surprise; it had been almost a year since they last talked.
A simple message:Back in London? Coffee? No pressure.
He stared at it for twenty minutes—thumb hovering over the screen—then typed:Sure. Tomorrow?
He didn’t know why he said yes.
Maybe because the silence was louder than any engine roar.
Maybe because thinking about Mia hurt in a way that made his chest feel caved in.
Maybe because Sienna had never asked for pieces of him he couldn’t give. She’d been uncomplicated once—warm body, easy laugh, no questions about ghosts or instructions to be human. Right now, uncomplicated felt like mercy.
They met at a quiet café near Hyde Park—mid-morning, no cameras, just two people who’d once filled space together. She looked the same: long blonde hair, easy smile, trim, disciplined physique in leggings and an oversized sweater. She hugged him lightly, smelled like vanilla and citrus, and ordered the same oat flat white she always had.
