Atlas sniffed once, then pushed his nose through the gap in the gate.
Rowan looked down at him, his expression sharpening with interest. ‘He remembers this place.’
‘Of course he does. Good memories, I hope. Mostly sanding dust and me pretending I know what I’m doing.’
‘He wouldn’t choose to come closer if he didn’t feel safe.’
The words landed softly.
Marcus looked from Atlas to Rowan. He wanted to ask if Rowan felt safe here too, but the question felt too large for the narrow lane, the half-painted house, and the fragile thing growing between them.
Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Have you eaten?’
Rowan’s brows lifted slightly. ‘That depends why you’re asking.’
‘Because I’ve made cottage pie.’ Marcus gestured over his shoulder towards the house. ‘Possibly too much cottage pie. It turns out cooking for one person after living on takeaways is more complicated than it sounds.’
Rowan’s gaze flicked towards the cottage door.
Marcus saw the hesitation. He felt it too. Inviting Rowan into the house felt different from letting him help at Ruff to Regal or stand in the front garden with sandpaper. This was not work. Not Atlas. Not the competition.
This was lunch.
In his home.
‘You don’t have to,’ Marcus added, because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation. ‘I just thought, since you’re here, and I’ve made enough to feed half of Seagull Bay...’
Rowan looked down at Atlas. ‘He might not come in.’
‘Then we can eat outside. I’m not precious. Though I should warn you, the vegetables are peeled and everything. I’ve gone very advanced.’
For a moment, Rowan only looked at him. Then he nodded. ‘Outside would be good.’
Marcus’s chest loosened. ‘Outside it is.’
Ten minutes later, after deciding microwaving the veg would be quicker, he carried two plates out, balancing them with the pride of a man who had not only cooked but also managed not to burn anything. Rowan had settled on the front step, Atlas stretched in the shade near the wisteria, watchful but calm.
Marcus handed Rowan a plate and sat beside him, leaving a careful gap between them.
Rowan looked down at the food. ‘This looks good.’
‘Sound more surprised, why don’t you?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
Marcus laughed. ‘Relax. I’m surprised too.’
They ate in companionable quiet for a few moments. The cottage pie was not perfect. The mash could have been smoother, the mince needed more salt and he had possibly overdone the gravy, but Rowan ate as if it mattered. As if Marcus had offered him something more than lunch.
Maybe he had.
‘You’ve made a home here,’ Rowan said eventually.
Marcus looked out at the small garden, the paint tin, the dust sheet, the half-finished window frame to his left. ‘I’m trying.’
‘It shows.’
Marcus turned his fork over in his fingers. ‘Does it?’
