“Supervised knives,” I correct immediately.
He pulls back. “You’re coming. You’ll see.”
Yes. I am coming. Because I am a teaching assistant at this school and therefore technically a responsible adult. And because I am a control freak who volunteered within twelve seconds of the residential being announced. And because the idea of Theo sleeping in a tent in the Welsh countryside without me hovering somewhere within a fifty-metre radius felt physically impossible. So here we are. Bags packed. Boots by the door. Coach due at eleven. And somewhere in the background of all of this, humming quietly but persistently, is the fact that Rory is also going. I know that because I absolutely did not use my staff access to glance at the parent register.
“Isla + parent.”
There is a small, ridiculous part of me that wondered if Sienna might suddenly develop a passion for wilderness bonding, but realistically, no. Which means it is Rory. Which means four days. Four days of tents and campfires and survival classes and being in close proximity with the man who shook my hand and called us friends and has stuck to it.
I zip Theo’s bag shut and take a slow breath. It will be fine. I am absolutely not spiraling. I don’t even believe my lies to myself anymore
The school playground at departure time looks like a mildly chaotic expedition base. Children in oversized waterproofs. Parents triple-checking medication forms. Teachers clutching clipboards like flotation devices.
Theo spots Isla immediately and sprints toward her. “ISLA! I brought Gary!”
Isla holds up what appears to be an entire backpack dedicated to glitter pens. “I brought glitter!”
They disappear into a world of their own.
Rory is standing by the coach, Isla’s rucksack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing, baseball cap low over his eyes, sleeves pushed up in that infuriating way that makes him look like he’s accidentally stepped out of a photoshoot titled Rugged Single Dad Goes Camping. He catches my eye and I do my best to bury my thoughts and not let any of my emotions be visible to him.
“Morning,” he says as I approach.
“Morning.”
“Ready for four days of organised chaos?”
“I was born ready,” I reply “I have labelled snacks.”
He laughs at that, properly, head tipping back slightly. “Of course you have. I wouldn’t expect anything less, Frey.”
We load bags. Herd children. Conduct head counts twice because I don’t trust my own handwriting under pressure. Eventually everyone is seated and the coach lurches forward. Theo and Isla, naturally, claim the seats together near the front, already mid-debate about who will be chief fire builder. Which leaves… Me and Rory. Side by side. For what Google Maps informs me is approximately four hours. Brilliant. We sit down with the kind of polite choreography you perform when you’re both hyper-aware of elbows and knees and hips.
“Plenty of room,” he says, shifting slightly.
“Loads,” I agree, even though our thighs are absolutely brushing.
The coach fills with noise quickly. Singing. Snack packets rustling. Someone already asking if we’re nearly there.
I focus on the clipboard in my lap trying desperately to not give Rory a glimpse of the awkwardness I’m currently feeling.
“So,” Rory says after a few minutes, tone easy, “did you check the register to see if I was coming?”
I look at him sharply. How the hell does he know?
He grins without looking at me. “You’ve got that look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmm.”
I hate that he knows me.
“I may have glanced,” I admit eventually. “Purely for safeguarding reasons.”
“Of course.”
“And I assumed it would be you. I can’t see Sienna trading Pilates for a campfire.”
