“What?”
“How did you even…”
He shrugs. “You’ve been swooning over her since I’ve known you. And that’s a long fucking time. It was inevitable.”
“That’s not confirmation.”
“Mate,” he says dryly, “you’ve been looking at her like someone who has either just slept with her or desperately wants to.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “Can you keep your voice down?”
Mark grins. “So I’m right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t need to.”
The line moves forward. He leans slightly closer while Rowan pulls pints for the group ahead.
“You look terrified though,” he adds.
“I’m not terrified.”
“You look like your entire life is about to change and you’re shitting yourself.”
That, annoyingly, is not entirely inaccurate.
“Mind your own business,” I mutter.
Mark lifts his hands. “Just saying.”
We collect the drinks and head back to the table. The conversation folds around us easily enough. People swapping seats, stories from the trip, someone arguing about the football on the television over the bar. But the whole time there’s a quiet pull in my chest every time Freya laughs or turns slightly toward me. I realise about halfway through my pint that I’m not going to survive this evening pretending nothing has changed between us. Because something has. And the longer I sit here acting like it hasn’t, the more ridiculous it feels.
Rowan is behind the bar when I eventually stand and wander over under the pretence of getting another round.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
I hesitate. “Can I borrow the party room for a bit?”
He raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Just a chat.”
“With Freya?”
I stare at him. “Am I that obvious tonight?”
“Painfully.”
He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Go on then. I’ll lock the door so nobody wanders in.”
“Cheers mate.”
I head back toward the table. Freya is mid-sentence when I reach her.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
