“I’ll see him Christmas Eve and Boxing Day,” she adds quickly, like she needs to justify being sad. “It’s just… the morning. The presents, the chaos. It feels strange not to have it.”
Of course it does. The idea of Isla waking up on Christmas morning somewhere that isn’t within reach of me makes something primal and uncomfortable twist in my chest. Before I can think it through, before I can apply logic or restraint or any of the sensible filters I keep promising myself I’ll use around her, I hear myself say, “You could come to ours.”
She blinks.
“My parents’ house,” I clarify, because apparently I enjoy digging my own grave. “For Christmas Day. If you don’t want to be on your own.”
What are you doing? I am actually insane.
I can feel the moment I’ve overstepped even as the words are still settling between us.
Her expression softens first. Then it shifts. “That’s… really kind,” she says carefully. “But I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Not without Theo.”
I nod immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. I didn’t mean… I just thought…”
“It’s sweet,” she says, offering me a small smile. “But I think I’ll just… wallow. Chick flicks. Ice cream. Possibly wine.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Living dangerously.”
“Oh, completely.”
There’s a flicker of ease again. A thread of something that could be comfortable if we weren’t both standing on the edge of something much bigger.
“Right,” I say, turning back to the cupboard. “Let’s fix this before I make any more festive invitations.”
I tighten the final fitting, turn the tap from below, and test it. No drip.
“Sorted,” I announce, shifting to sit up. And promptly smash my head into the sink unit. “Shit!” I recoil, hand flying to my forehead.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, dropping down instantly. “Are you okay?”
She kneels beside me, one hand already on my arm, the other reaching for my head. It happens in slow motion. Her face close. Eyes scanning my forehead for damage. Her fingers brushing my hair back. The warmth of her breath against my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I start to say. But neither of us moves. Her hand is still in my hair. My palm is braced on the floor beside her knee. The space between us is barely there. I can see the faint freckles across her nose. The way her lips part slightly as her eyes drop to my lips. She inhales. I feel it. And for one reckless, stupid, inevitable second, we both lean in. Her mouth is right there. Our eyes meet, both full of fire and need. My tongue darts out and wipes across my bottom lip as my eyes drop to hers. I lean a little further. And then she pulls back with a sharp, deliberate withdrawal. She stands up first. I stay kneeling, heart thundering, feeling like I’ve just missed a step on a staircase.
“I… You don’t get to do that,” she says quietly.
I look up at her. “Do what?”
“Disappear for years,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “and then come back and look at me like that. Like I’m just… there. Waiting.”
The air shifts. “That’s not what I…”
“Isn’t it?” Her arms fold now, protective. “You don’t get to just reappear in Oakwood and act like I’m some kind of back-up plan. Some safe option when the city didn’t work out.”
That hits harder than the cupboard did.
“I don’t see you like that,” I say, standing now, frustration bleeding through. “You know that.”
“Do I?” she challenges. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you only look twice when someone else does.”
Scott. This is about Scott.
“This isn’t about him,” I say.
Her laugh is brittle. “Then what is it about, Rory?”
About you. Always you. I rake a hand through my hair, pacing once because I can’t seem to stand still. “You think I didn’t feel it? Back then? You think I just… forgot?”
