The smell hits me instantly. Roast chicken and honey glazed parsnips. That slightly overdone gas fire that never quite behaves but is always lit anyway.
For one reckless second, I feel eight years old again. Rory is in the doorway to the living room, sleeves of his navy jumper pushed up to his elbows revealing his muscular forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. Fuck he’s gorgeous. Delicious even.
“Hi,” he says carefully.
“Hi,” I reply, matching him.
Theo barrels past us before anything can settle too heavily. “ISLA!”
She appears from the sofa in matching antlers and they collide mid-room like puppies.
I take off my coat and place it on the bannister. The house hasn’t changed. Same crooked angel on the tree. Same faded rug. Same faint scorch mark on the hearth from the year Rory insisted we could roast marshmallows without supervision and nearly set fire to Arthurs slippers.
Dinner is loud, warm, chaotic in the best way. Theo insists on sitting next to Isla, which means I end up directly beside Rorywhether I like it or not. Our knees brush under the table as everyone reaches for gravy and we both react like we’ve touched a live wire. He shifts first and I pretend not to notice.
“So,” Arthur says cheerfully, “who’s winning at life these days?”
“Me,” Theo and Isla shout in unison.
Maggie laughs. “That answers that.”
Rory’s elbow grazes mine when he reaches for the stuffing and this time neither of us flinches dramatically. We just… pause. A second too long. Then continue like adults who absolutely have their emotions under control. He’s being careful. Almost overly so. Just distant enough to prove he’s keeping his word. Which is ridiculous, because wasn’t that what I wanted? And yet every time he laughs at something Theo says or leans forward to listen to Maggie properly, I feel this flicker of something unsettled in my belly.
After dessert, the kids vanish upstairs in a rush of sugar from Maggie’s famous apple pie.
“Right,” Maggie says, clapping her hands together. “You two. Kitchen.”
“I…err” I begin.
“Nope,” she interrupts sweetly. “You can wash. He can dry. Consider it character building.”
Rory and I exchange a look that says we both know exactly what this is. Forced proximity in its most domestic form.Thanks Mags, thanks a bunch.
The kitchen is warm from the oven, fairy lights reflecting in the window above the sink. For a few seconds we move around each other wordlessly, plates clinking, tap running. He hands me a tea towel without looking directly at me. “You didn’t have to come tonight,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I glance at him. He looks… tense. Like he’s scared to move, talk or breathe for that matter in case he puts a foot out of place.
“Theo would’ve rioted,” I say lightly.
He smiles. “Isla too.”
Our fingers brush over the same plate. We both pull back slightly, then pause.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For… being weird.”
I blink. “You’re being weird?”
“Apparently I have a face when I’m trying not to be.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. “You absolutely do.”
