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Penny trots into the bedroom and jumps onto the bed.

“No, you don’t.” I scoop her up before she can nose at Ryan. “Leave him be.”

I should go. Instead, I linger in the doorway with Penny in my arms, drinking him in.

His right eye is back to normal size, and the bruising has faded to a faint yellow shadow. The Braehead scar—the one Vale split open again—is still pink and raised where the stitches were. Give it a few months, though, and it’ll be no more than a thin pale line, like the old ones on his cheek and above his lip. As for his bottom lip, you’d hardly even know it was stitched.

He’s on his back, one arm flung across my side of the bed, the broken finger still taped to its neighbour. The sheet has slipped down to somewhere round his hips, which leaves rather a lot of Ryan on show: those broad shoulders, his chest rising and falling slow and even, and the ridges of his abs.

I still can’t quite believe this specimen of a man is mine.

My eyes drift to the phoenix across his ribs. Just for a moment, I think of the boy in the stories he’s told me, the one with nothing in the cupboards, and of the man he’s become.

I tuck Penny under one arm, tiptoe over to the bed, and ease the sheet up over him.

Out in the hall, I put Penny down and sit on the wee wooden bench to put my shoes on. It was a charity-shop find and, in my opinion, an essential addition to his flat. Nobody should have to put their shoes on while hopping about on one leg.

I clip on Penny’s lead, and we leave Ryan to his sleep.

Mrs Dunlop is going into her flat as we pass it. “Morning, dear.” She bends to give Penny a pat. “How’s the champion doing today?”

“Sleeping the sleep of the just.”

Mrs Dunlop bought a streaming subscription especially to watch the fight. She told me afterwards she hadn’t been so thrilled by anything in years.

“I tell you,” she says, “if I were a few decades younger, I’d be fighting you for that man, so I would.”

“Well, you’d have quite the fight on your hands. Sorry, Mrs Dunlop, but I’m not letting him go.”

She laughs then lets me go to get the shop ready for the day.

I love autumn as a florist. The buckets are full of the last of the Scottish dahlias—burnt orange, burgundy, a dusky pink that’s almost brown—along with rosehips, crab apple branches heavy with tiny red fruit, and copper beech. With Halloween on Saturday, I’ve tucked mini pumpkins in among the displays.

Our new florist has made some pretty autumn wreaths to sell too. She’s been getting on great and is now with us for good, working a couple of days a week. I’m already seeing the difference. For the first time since I opened the shop, I have something resembling a life outside it.

I’m in the back conditioning stems when Emmy bustles in, unwinding an enormous scarf. “Morning,” she says. “When did it get this cold?”

“I know. How was Ardmara?” She and Niamh are just back from a weekend away in the Highlands.

“Oh my God.” She hangs her jacket and scarf up on the hook. “Have you been?”

I shake my head.

“Briony, it’s so pretty.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. The tips are plum now. “Pastel houses and fishing boats and everyone so friendly and relaxed. My only complaint is the B&B we were staying in had the squeakiest bed in the whole of Scotland. And our bedroom was right next to the landlady’s! She was an absolute sweetheart, but I could barely look her in the eye at breakfast.”

Only Emmy could go from pastel houses and fishing boats to bedroom antics in the space of a few sentences.

An hour later, I’m restocking the shelves of vases on the back wall, and Emmy is at the till with a customer. The bell goes and a woman comes in, slim and middle-aged, with greying hair pulled back in a clip. She grips the strap of her handbag with both hands.

“Morning,” I say brightly. “Can I help you?”

“Briony.” Her accent is broad Glaswegian. “I’m Michelle. Ryan’s maw.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. “Er, hello.”

She takes a small step closer. “I’m no here to cause any bother. But I just thought, maybe you could have a word wi’ him for me? See if he’ll speak to me? I’d really appreciate it, hen.”

“I see.” I have absolutely no idea how to handle this. “Er, would you give me a moment?”