Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carla walked down the busy pavement of the city; her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her jacket as she made her way to the corner store. She had been living on takeout and instant coffee for far too long, and it was time to pick up a few basic necessities: bread, milk, and something to eat for dinner. Simple, routine things, things she once did without a second thought.

She took a deep breath, feeling the familiar pulse of the city all around her. The hum of conversations, the distant blare of car horns, the rush of people moving in every direction. It used to be comforting, the heartbeat of a life she’d built. But today, it felt suffocating.

As she made her way down the street, weaving through pedestrians with a practiced ease, she realized she hadn’t been out like this for weeks. She hadn’t felt the need to leave her apartment, not since... well, not since everything started to fall apart.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café. She watched as people rushed past her, lost in their own worlds. For a moment, she almost forgot the weight of her own name, her own reputation that followed her wherever she went.

But that illusion shattered when she heard a voice call her name.

“Oh my God, it’s Carla Connor!”

Carla froze, her heart skipping a beat. She had hoped for just one quiet morning. She didn’t even mind meeting fans. It was part of the job, after all. But today? She felt a tightness in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, there they were. A small group of young women, their eyes wide, full of excitement. They were standing just a few feet away, practically bouncing on their heels.

Carla tried to smile, but the action felt forced. She wasn’t sure anymore if she could pull off the confident, cheerful author persona. Not today. She had enough of the constant demands, the expectations, the questions.

One of the fans, a woman with a ponytail and a soft blush on her cheeks, approached her hesitantly. “We’re huge fans,” she gushed. “We’ve read all your books. Can’t wait for the next one! When’s it coming out? Is it going to be a standalone, or are you starting a new series?”

The questions poured out, rapid-fire, one after the other.

“When’s it coming out? Will it be adapted into a film like the others? We just love your work so much. Is there going to be a film about The Lost Horizon?” They all exchanged looks, clearly in awe of the woman standing before them.

Carla’s throat tightened, and she could feel the familiar weight of their expectations pressing down on her chest, suffocating. She should be happy. She should feel grateful. These people were the reason she had the life she had. But lately, the questions had become too much. The demands, the pressure. Carla could feel them inching closer with every interaction.

She forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Uh, thank you,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “I’m glad you enjoy my books. I’m working on the next one, just... taking some time to get it right.”

The fans weren’t satisfied with the vague response. They pressed on, asking if she had a timeline, what her process was, and whether the book would be good enough to live up to the ones that came before. The weight of their expectations pressed heavier on her. She felt the sharp sting of panic start to claw at the back of her mind.

A cold sweat began to form on her neck as they continued to ask, unaware of the storm inside her. She felt her breath quicken, and for a moment, it was like the whole world narrowed down to those few voices asking her to be perfect, to give them what they expected. She wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn’t find the words.

She could feel the tears welling up behind her eyes, but she couldn’t - wouldn’t - let them see her break down in front of them. She had always been composed, polished. The Carla Connor persona was unshakeable. But today, it felt like it was slipping, like the cracks were getting too wide to ignore.

"I—I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go,” Carla said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She didn’t wait for their response, just turned on her heel, her heart racing as she hurried away from the group, away from the pressure, away from everything.

The city buzzed around her, but she could barely hear it. The pounding of her own pulse filled her ears. She walked quickly, faster than usual, as if by moving faster, she could outrun the suffocating weight of her career.

Back in the safety of her apartment, Carla shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her chest heaving as though she had just run a marathon. Her apartment - usually a sanctuary - felt more like a prison now.

The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, the way it rattled in her chest. She glanced at the pile of unopened letters on her desk, the blinking cursor on the manuscript she’d barely touched in months. The pressure, the expectations - they followed her here, even in this small space, and she couldn’t escape them.

The phone buzzed in her pocket, and she didn’t need to look to know it was another message from her publisher. She’d ignored the last dozen, but this one had a different tone. A question, a request for an update.

Carla dropped her bag onto the couch, sinking into the cushions as she pulled her phone out. The screen lit up with the message: “We’re eagerly awaiting the manuscript. Are you ready for your next step? Please let us know where you’re at.”

She stared at it for a long time, her hands trembling slightly. The words felt like a weight around her throat. She hadn’t written a single word for months. How could she deliver anything? The pressure to succeed, to live up to what she had already done. It felt like too much.

She needed space. She needed air. She needed to disappear for a while.

Without thinking, her fingers moved, and she typed a quick response. “Taking a small break. Family emergency. I need to push back the deadline.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. She was taking a break. But the real reason? She didn’t have a clue what came next for her. She had no words, no ideas, and nothing to give. She needed time, not just for herself but to figure out what came after the pressure of success.

She walked to her closet and pulled out a suitcase, not bothering to fold her clothes. She threw in a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and some essentials - enough to get away for a while. But as she packed, her eyes drifted to the shelf of her past books. The books that had made her famous, the ones that had been adapted into films, the ones that readers had devoured.

She wanted to feel that magic again. The rush of creating something new, the joy of writing again. Writing something her readers would love. But the pressure… the fear of failing them... it was all too much.

Carla took one last look around her apartment. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving it all behind, but she knew she couldn’t stay. Not like this.

She zipped up her suitcase and grabbed her car keys. The city felt like a distant echo as she stepped into the cool night air. She slid into her car, buckling her seatbelt with a deep breath. She had no idea where she was going, no idea how long she would be gone, but she knew it didn’t matter. She just needed to get out.

Carla had been driving for what felt like hours, though she’d lost track of time somewhere between the hum of the car engine and the rhythmic motion of the tires against the motorway. Her thoughts drifted like the passing landscape. A blur of trees, fields, and endless road stretching in all directions. How far had she travelled? She didn’t even know. The world outside seemed so far removed from the one she’d left behind, and yet the knot in her stomach tightened with each passing mile.

The motorway before her was endless, a long ribbon of grey stretching into the horizon, as though the road had no beginning and no end. Every mile felt like a step away from the life she had built - the expectations, the demands, the noise. She was moving further and further from everything, and a strange sensation settled in her chest. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but a quiet emptiness, as if she were shedding a layer of herself, piece by piece.

The sun had started its slow descent, casting long shadows across the road. Carla squinted at the horizon as orange and gold light spilled across the sky, painting it in vibrant streaks. It was beautiful, but the colours felt like they belonged to someone else’s world. Her world was all too familiar: deadlines, pressures, the public’s insatiable appetite for her next book, the pressure to deliver more - always more.

Just as she was about to let her mind slip deeper into the haze of exhaustion, something unexpected caught her eye. A small sign on the side of the road, half-obscured by the thick embrace of trees. It wasn’t much, a weathered wooden plank, the lettering faint and chipped, but the name stood out, almost as if it were waiting for her.

Willowbrook.

There was something about the name that seemed to draw her in, something quite yet magnetic, like the town was calling her, inviting her to slow down. Without thinking, almost on impulse, she swerved the steering wheel and took the exit toward Willowbrook, the tires of her car humming as they left the familiar motorway behind.

The road twisted and turned, winding its way through dense woods and rolling hills. The scenery shifted, the air growing fresher, lighter, and somehow more alive. Carla cracked the window, letting the cool breeze wash over her, carrying the scent of pine trees and fresh earth. It was a scent she hadn’t realized she’d missed. The city air always felt heavy, thick with the lingering scent of pollution and the metallic bite of concrete. But here? It felt clean, natural.

With each mile that passed, the noise in her head seemed to quiet. The knot in her chest began to loosen, little by little. Willowbrook was nothing like the city she had just left behind. It was... quiet. So quiet. Carla couldn’t even remember the last time she had been in a place this still. There were no honking horns, no shouts, no urgent voices asking her when the next book would be released. There was only the soft whoosh of the wind and the occasional rustling of leaves.

The town itself seemed to unfold before her like a scene from a painting. The streets were narrow and lined with quaint, old houses, their gardens bursting with the colours of late summer - vivid blooms of purple, pink, and yellow spilling over fences and hedges. She passed a flower shop, its windows crammed with delicate arrangements, each one more beautiful than the last. The little diner had a few people sitting outside, their quiet conversations a soft murmur as they sipped coffee and exchanged pleasantries. She saw a couple of people walking their dogs, a young child riding a bicycle with training wheels, a pair of elderly women chatting on a park bench. It all felt so... normal. So peaceful.

As she drove deeper into the heart of the town, she felt something inside her shift. The tension that had been gnawing at her for months - years, really - began to dissipate. It wasn’t just the beauty of the place, though that helped. It was the stillness, the way the world around her seemed to move at its own pace, slower, more deliberate. She hadn’t realized how much she had longed for quiet, for a space where she didn’t have to be anyone or anything. Where no one expected her to be the bestselling author, the icon. Here, she could simply... be.

Carla found a spot to park on a quiet side street, gravel crunching under the tires as she came to a stop. She sat there for a moment, her hands resting on the steering wheel, the engine purring softly beneath her. The air felt different here - cooler, fresher, like it had been untouched by the chaos of the world. She closed her eyes and breathed it in, feeling the weight of the city life lifting, just a little.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers instinctively swiping across the screen. She needed somewhere to stay for the night. Maybe just for a few nights, maybe longer. She wasn’t sure. She typed in “places to stay in Willowbrook” and waited, watching the search results populate. There weren’t many options, but there was one that stood out. A small hotel called Willowbrook Inn. The reviews weren’t extensive, but they were positive. It seemed like just the place she needed. A quiet, unassuming spot where no one would expect her to be.

With a sense of relief, she followed the directions on her phone, heading toward the town’s main street. The hotel wasn’t far off, nestled between a couple of small shops. As she rounded the corner, the building came into view. It was exactly what she had hoped for. A charming, two-story structure, its ivy-covered walls glowing in the golden light of the setting sun. A hand-painted sign swayed gently in the breeze, reading “Willowbrook Inn” in delicate, flowing letters.

Carla parked in front of the inn and took a deep breath, letting the peaceful atmosphere wash over her. It was strange. She hadn’t even walked inside yet, but she could already feel the weight lifting off her shoulders. The noise, the pressure, the constant demands of her life. It all felt so distant now. This town, this inn, was a world away from the one she had left behind. For the first time in what felt like forever, she could feel her body unwind.

Inside, the lobby was just as warm and inviting as the exterior. The scent of freshly polished wood mingled with the subtle, calming fragrance of lavender. The walls were decorated with vintage photos of the town, old black-and-white pictures capturing moments from decades past. A large wooden counter dominated the small space, behind which a woman was standing, ready to greet her.

“Good evening,” the woman said, her voice gentle, like a soft whisper in the quiet room. “How can I help you?”

Carla hesitated for a moment, unsure if she was making the right decision, if she should have kept driving on the motorway but as she stepped into this small, cozy space, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease, even if just a little. The soft light in the room, the faint scent of lavender mingling with the wood, made her feel like she could actually breathe for the first time in days. She gave the woman a tired but grateful smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was enough. "Hi, I was wondering if you had any rooms available for tonight?"

The woman’s eyes brightened, and her smile widened, lighting up her face in a way that felt like the first real kindness Carla had encountered in a while. "It’s your lucky day. Just one room left." She moved behind the counter with an effortless grace, her hands quick and sure as she plucked a set of keys from the hook. Her movements were fluid, almost like a dance, and Carla found herself grateful for how unhurried everything was.

“It’s not much, but I’m sure you’ll get a good night’s rest,” the woman said, her voice carrying a softness that matched the quiet hum of the inn. The warmth in her tone made Carla feel like the room wasn’t just a place to sleep, but a little refuge.

Carla nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over her, the tension in her chest loosening with every second. She gave the woman a more genuine smile this time, one that held a hint of gratitude. “That sounds perfect.”

The receptionist glanced up from the keys, studying her for a brief moment before speaking again. “Are you just passing through, or will you be staying a while?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Carla replied, her voice quieter now, still tentative. “Can I have the room for three days? Just until I decide?”

“Sure thing,” the woman said, offering a sympathetic smile. She handed over the key, a simple brass number tag attached, its weight reassuring in Carla’s palm. “Room 3,” she said, pointing toward the staircase that curved up toward the second floor. “Breakfast is served from seven in the morning until ten.”

“Thank you,” Carla said, her voice finally feeling lighter, less burdened by the unrelenting pressures that had followed her for so long. She turned toward the stairs, the weight of the world outside seeming to stay behind in the lobby. She could hear the faint rustle of her footsteps on the creaky wooden floors, the kind of sound that reminded her of simpler times.

As she climbed the stairs, the old-fashioned carpet runner beneath her feet felt worn, like the kind of carpet that held memories in its fibres. The soft glow from the overhead lights cast long, golden shadows across the walls, which were painted in a warm, buttery yellow. The air smelled faintly of pinewood and the soft, almost imperceptible trace of something floral -perhaps lavender - something that made her feel like she wasn’t just in another random hotel, but a home away from home.

She reached the top of the stairs, where the hallway stretched before her, dimly lit and inviting. The hallway felt intimate, as though it had stories to tell in every creaking floorboard, every picture hanging crookedly on the wall. She followed the quiet corridor to Room 3, her fingers brushing lightly against the old wallpaper that flaked at the edges.

Carla unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was small but cozy, wrapped in warmth from the evening light that filtered through the window. A patchwork quilt, worn with time but still vibrant, covered the bed, its soft, mismatched colours inviting her to sink into its comfort. A small wooden desk sat near the window, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. She walked over and pulled back the curtain, gazing out over the quiet street below. The calm outside mirrored the peace inside the room, the soft murmur of life from the town just barely reaching her ears.

She dropped her bag onto the bed with a soft thud, the silence settling around her like a blanket. For a long moment, Carla simply stood there, eyes closed, letting the stillness wrap itself around her. The room felt safe, almost sacred in its quiet, offering her the space to simply be. She could feel the weight of expectation that had been pressing down on her for so long lifting, slowly but surely.

She had no idea how long she would stay here. A few days? A week? Longer? She didn’t know, and, for the first time in what felt like forever, that uncertainty didn’t scare her. The world outside had felt like it was closing in on her, but here - here, she could breathe. There were no deadlines, no expectations, no questions about the next book, the next chapter in her life. Just the softness of the bed beneath her, the quiet hum of the town beyond, and the promise of a good night’s sleep.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains of Carla’s hotel room, casting a gentle glow on the pale cream walls. The early rays stretched across the floor, creeping toward the bed as if coaxing her to wake. It was a subtle reminder of the day ahead, a day she wasn’t rushing into. No deadlines, no interviews…just quiet.

Carla woke for the first time in months feeling ready. Ready for a day that would be hers alone. A day where the world didn’t demand anything from her. There were no missed calls from her editor, no urgent emails with frantic subject lines, no reporters waiting to get a soundbite. She wasn’t going to have to put on a mask of composure.

It was just her.

For a long moment, Carla lay still, savouring the emptiness of it. The silence that surrounded her felt foreign, like a lullaby she hadn’t heard in too long. She breathed in the scent of the hotel. Fresh linen, the faint earthiness of pine trees from the nearby woods. Carla felt a sense of calm seep into her. It was the kind of air she’d forgotten existed, the kind that didn’t have the hum of city life drowning out everything else. Here, in Willowbrook, there was space to simply breathe.

The weight of external pressure that usually clung to her like a second skin had been shed. No one was watching her every move. No one was waiting for the next quote or the latest social media post. Here, she could just... be.

Carla swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool wooden floor greeting her bare feet. She revelled in the feeling of the smooth surface beneath her, different from the plush carpets and marble floors of the hotels and penthouses she was used to. This was simple, yet it was grounding. She stretched her arms above her head, feeling her spine elongate with the motion. A deep breath in. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease, the weight lifting from her chest. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself until this moment.

She didn’t need to rush. No appointments, no obligations.

The world outside was waiting for her, but it didn’t matter. It could wait a little longer. She had all the time in the world today.

She moved to the small closet, the soft rustle of fabric as she pulled out a simple jacket and a pair of well-worn trainers. She smiled at the familiarity of it—no designer labels, no carefully curated outfits. Just clothes. And for the first time in years, she didn’t mind that. She slipped them on without a second thought, the shoes snug and comfortable against her feet.

Stepping out into the hotel hallway, Carla was greeted by the quiet stillness of Willowbrook, the sounds of the town waking up around her. It was a stark contrast to the bustling city she had become so used to.

As she wandered down the main street, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle differences in the town’s rhythm. The sound of birds chirping in the trees, the distant rattle of a wind chime swaying on a porch. There were no honking horns or people shouting over the noise. Instead, the town felt like it was moving in slow motion, giving her time to notice details she never would have caught in her usual rush. The warmth of the sun starting to creep over the horizon, the way the flowers in front of the local cottages were just beginning to bloom, their vibrant colours dotted across the otherwise green landscape.

She walked at a leisurely pace, her footsteps falling in rhythm with the quiet pulse of the town. There was no rush. No reason to hurry. The air was cool and crisp against her skin, and with every step, she felt lighter, like the weight of the world that usually clung to her shoulders had momentarily lifted.

A few people passed her by locals, perhaps. They walked at their own slow pace, unhurried, lost in the rhythm of their own lives. Some nodded politely as they passed, others offered a quiet “Good morning,” their voices gentle and warm, like a greeting between old friends. Carla nodded back, a small, comfortable smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Their gazes lingered for only a moment, as if they, too, were content in this unspoken connection. A shared understanding that in this moment, there was no need for anything more than a smile.

It was the kind of interaction she hadn’t had in years - brief, yet genuine. No one was asking for an autograph, no one was angling for a picture. No one recognized her as the bestselling author. No one looked at her as someone to admire, someone to question. It was as though, for the first time in a long while, she was invisible. Just another face in the crowd.

And, oddly enough, that was exactly what she wanted.

Turning a corner, Carla’s gaze landed on something unexpectedly charming. A small bookshop tucked between two larger, more imposing buildings. It wasn’t flashy or attention-grabbing in the usual way. The storefront was simple, almost quaint, the wooden sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze. The wooden door itself was slightly worn, its paint chipped in places, as if it had weathered the years with a quiet pride. Through the window, she could see the outline of old wooden shelves crammed with books - some stacked neatly, others in disarray, adding to the shop’s inviting, lived-in charm.

There was something about the place that immediately drew her in, a magnetic pull that made her forget about the rest of the world for a moment. She didn’t even think twice before her feet were already carrying her toward the door. It was the kind of place that felt timeless, where the books seemed to whisper to you, urging you to come in and lose yourself in their pages.

As she reached for the handle, the door creaked open with a soft jingle from the bell hanging above. The sound was faint, but enough to break the silence of the street outside. Carla winced slightly at the familiar noise, that unmistakable bell she had heard so many times in bookshops around the world. It was the kind of sound that accompanied her entrance, the moment when people would often glance up, recognizing her immediately. The press, the fans, the questions, the cameras. They all followed her wherever she went. She braced herself for the inevitable.

From behind the counter, a woman looked up as she heard the door chime. Carla’s heart skipped a beat at the possibility that this woman might recognize her. But the woman didn’t react as Carla had feared. Instead, she smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that immediately made her feel at ease, as if she had just walked into a friend’s home. There was no flicker of surprise, no hint of recognition in the woman’s expression, just a genuine, friendly smile.

“Can I help you with anything?” the woman asked, her voice gentle but steady, offering no hint of the recognition Carla had braced herself for.

Carla blinked, her breath catching in her throat for a moment as a wave of relief washed over her. She smiled back, though it was guarded, as though she were still weighing whether to let herself fully relax. “No thank you,” she said lightly, her voice almost casual, as though she were speaking to a stranger rather than someone who might know her life’s details. “I’m just gonna have a look around.”

“Of course,” the woman replied, her smile never faltering, her voice still warm and inviting as she turned back to the counter. She resumed arranging a stack of books with a quiet efficiency, completely unbothered by the brief interruption.

Carla stood there for a moment longer than necessary, still in the doorway, letting the sense of anonymity settle in around her. This was exactly what she needed. Peace. No cameras, no expectations. Just the simple pleasure of wandering through a bookstore, surrounded by the quiet hum of the space. It was as though she was just another customer entering a small, peaceful bookstore. She could almost feel the weight of her past life slipping off her shoulders. It felt so strange, so freeing to be nothing in this space. To simply exist without the weight of recognition. Carla finally moved away from the doorframe into the store.

The interior was even more inviting than she had imagined. The air was thick with the scent of old leather and freshly printed pages, a comforting mix that made her feel as though she had stepped into another world. Classical music played softly in the background, barely audible over the gentle rustle of pages being turned and the soft shuffle of feet moving between the aisles. It was the kind of shop that smelled like stories, where time seemed to slow down, and you could hear the soft hum of quiet conversations and the steady flipping of pages.

Shelves ran the length of the walls, stacked high with books: paperbacks and hardcovers, new and secondhanded books, pages that have been read and reread. Some books were neatly arranged, while others were stacked in haphazard piles on tables. The space was cosy but not cluttered. Every inch of it filled with stories waiting to be discovered. Several armchairs were scattered throughout the shop, placed strategically next to shelves or by the windows where sunlight would stream in during the day, inviting people to sit and get lost in a book for hours.

Carla took a deep breath, her fingers brushing along the spines of the books as she walked deeper into the shop. She could feel a sense of calm settle over her the further she went, the weight of her identity and the demands of her life outside this space melting away. For once, she didn’t have to be anything more than just another person in a bookshop, drawn to the magic of words on a page.

She passed a small table near the back, where a pile of mystery novels caught her attention. The covers were colourful and vibrant, some familiar, others unknown. She paused, her fingers skimming the edge of one book in particular - a strikingly beautiful cover with a deep red and black design. The title was enticing enough, but it was the blurb on the back that really drew her in.

She couldn’t resist. She picked it up, opened the first few pages, and began to read. The words seemed to flow effortlessly, and within moments, she was lost in the rhythm of the story, completely unaware of her surroundings. The book had a familiar ring to it, like one of those classic whodunits, with a twist of suspense that kept you guessing on every page. The writing was sharp, the characters engaging, and the plot unfolded in a way that was effortlessly compelling. Carla smiled softly to herself, letting out a breath of satisfaction. This one was definitely going to keep her hooked. It felt like the kind of story she could lose herself in completely.

But then, just as she was about to lose herself in the pages, a voice broke through her thoughts.

“That one’s a really good one,” the woman from behind the counter said, appearing beside her with a quiet grace. She was smiling warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her approachable, even comforting.

Carla’s heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest of moments, her pulse quickened at the thought that she might be recognized. But the woman’s expression didn’t change. There was no flicker of recognition, no moment of hesitation. Just a smile, genuine and kind. The woman’s presence was easy, unpretentious and friendly, as if she had all the time in the world for a casual conversation about books.

“I highly recommend it,” the woman added, her voice gentle but firm, as though she truly believed in the book’s value.

Carla blinked, her relief almost palpable. She smiled back, though there was a guarded quality to her expression. “Are you just saying that to make a sale?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in playful scepticism.

The woman’s smile widened, amused by Carla’s comment. “No, not at all,” she said with a soft laugh. She finished arranging a stack of books on the counter before turning back to Carla. “Why do you think that tactic would work? Maybe I should try it more often.”

Carla couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. There was something refreshing about the ease of their conversation. In a world where every interaction had an ulterior motive or hidden agenda, this felt… real.

Carla studied her for a moment, intrigued by how effortlessly the woman handled herself. The smile never faltered, her demeanour as inviting as ever. “Don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” Carla said, her own smile growing wider.

“Well, if I use it on my next customer, I’ll have to let you know,” the woman said with a light-hearted wink, her voice playful yet warm.

Carla let out a small huff of laughter, her eyes crinkling in amusement. She raised the book in her hand. “So, this is a good book then?”

The woman’s eyes twinkled as she nodded. “Yeah, I’ve read it myself. It’s one of those books you can’t put down. The kind that keeps you up all night, reading just one more chapter.”

Carla smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her fingers lingering on the pages for a moment longer. “Maybe I’ll give it a go.”

The woman nodded with a soft smile, returning to her work, adjusting a few books on the counter. Carla appreciated the natural ease with which their conversation flowed. It felt effortless—no pretence, no fakeness. In a world where every exchange she had was often weighed down by expectations or assumptions, this was a rare and welcome change. Here, it was just two people, talking about something they both enjoyed, without any added weight of who Carla Connor was or what she represented. In this little bookstore, she was simply another person deciding what book to take home.

The hum of classical music in the background added to the tranquillity of the moment, filling the air with a sense of calm. The faint scent of paper and leather filled her nose, and the quiet murmur of the shop, with only the occasional sound of a book being placed or rearranged, made the world outside seem far away. It was peaceful, and for a brief moment, Carla forgot about everything - the demands, the noise, the expectations.

But then, the woman spoke again, her voice breaking the silence that had settled around them like a soft blanket.

“If you’re really into murder mysteries, I can recommend a few others,” she said, her voice warm, her tone as gentle as ever. It was the kind of offer that felt genuine, like she was sharing something with Carla because she thought it would be appreciated, not because she had to.

Carla turned to look at her, surprised by the offer. The last time someone had recommended something to her, it had felt like a ploy for something more. But not with this woman. There was no ulterior motive, just an invitation to explore something new. “You know, I think I might take you up on that,” Carla said, her curiosity piqued. “I’m looking for something that’ll keep me hooked.”

The woman’s smile deepened, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. It wasn’t the kind of smile that made Carla feel exposed or scrutinized; it was the kind of smile that made her feel seen and understood. Someone who was genuinely interested in making a connection, not because of her fame, but because of her genuine love for books. Carla hadn’t felt like that in ages.

“Well, let me show you where the classics are,” the woman said, her voice taking on a warmth that made Carla feel as if she were being welcomed into a secret world. A world of old books and well-worn stories. She led the way down one of the aisles, her steps sure and steady, and Carla couldn’t help but notice the ease with which the woman moved. It was as though she was comfortable here, in this space, surrounded by books and the quiet of the shop. It made Carla feel like she’d been coming to this shop for years, as though they were old friends.

As they walked, the woman paused by a shelf, her fingers tracing along the spines of the books before pulling one out. “Here’s one by Agatha Christie,” she said, holding the book up to Carla. “It’s one of her most famous. If you haven’t read it yet, you should definitely give it a try.”

Carla nodded, intrigued by the recommendation. “I’ve read quite a few of hers, but it’s been a while. I think I might’ve missed that one. Thanks.”

The woman smiled again, her eyes twinkling with the knowledge of someone who truly loved what they did. She moved to adjust a few books on a nearby shelf, leaving Carla to flick through the aisle of murder mysteries on her own. There was a calming rhythm to the shop, an unspoken understanding between them that this wasn’t a hurried exchange. It was an invitation to discover something new at your own pace.

For some reason, Carla felt compelled to keep the conversation going, to keep this simple, human connection alive. “So, I’m assuming you work here?” she asked, breaking the quiet as she scanned the books. “Unless you’re a massive bookworm who spends all her free time here, and the owner trusts you to manage the store?” she joked lightly, the warmth in her voice genuine.

The woman glanced over at her, her smile now tinged with amusement. “Well, I am a massive bookworm,” she said with a chuckle, “but I do work here. In fact, it’s just me running the place.” She paused, her smile softening a little. “My daughter did work here at one point, but she’s moved away for university. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” Her voice held a slight note of fondness, the kind you reserve for something you deeply care about.

Carla smiled warmly at her, feeling a quiet respect for the woman and the way she ran the store on her own. “This place is... it’s incredible. So cozy and welcoming.”

The woman’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, but she shrugged it off with a humble laugh. “I’m glad you think so. It’s not much, but I’m happy with how the layout is. For now, anyway.” She glanced around the shop, as if she were still taking it in herself, the modest pride in her tone unmistakable.

Carla looked around once more - the shelves of books, the little reading nooks tucked in corners, the soft light filtering through the windows. There was something special about this place, something that made her feel safe, like she had found a small pocket of calm in the middle of her chaotic life.

“Well, it seems like you’re doing a pretty good job,” Carla said with a smile.

“Thank you,” the woman replied, her smile warm and sincere. She turned back to her work, moving books around with ease.

Carla hesitated for a second. She wasn’t sure if she should offer up her name - her true identity. It would break the anonymity she had come to enjoy here. She was just another person browsing the shelves, not Carla Connor, the bestselling author. But there was something about this woman’s kindness, her warm smile, that made Carla feel like she could trust her. Besides, if this woman knew who she was, surely, she would have said something by now.

“I’m Carla, by the way,” she said quietly, a little unsure, but hopeful.

The woman turned back around, meeting her gaze. “I’m Lisa,” she replied with a soft smile.

They stood there for a moment, the air between them light, but the quiet understanding between them was palpable. It felt... good. Peaceful.

Lisa leaned a little against one of the bookshelves, her gaze thoughtful as she studied Carla for a moment. “Are you new to Willowbrook?” she asked, her voice casual, but there was an undeniable curiosity behind it.

 Carla nodded, her smile softening as she looked around the bookstore, taking in the calm of the place. “I suppose you could say that. I’m just here for a little while. I guess you could say I needed a break.” Her voice was almost wistful, the weight of the past few months still lingering behind the words.

Lisa nodded knowingly, her smile turning gentle. “Sometimes, you just need a break. This town’s good for that. Trust me.”

Carla let out a soft laugh, her shoulders relaxing as she nodded in agreement. “Yeah. I’m starting to feel the effects of this town already,” she said, her eyes drifting toward the window, where the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden light across the streets. It was the kind of quiet morning that made everything seem possible, as though the world was giving her permission to just stop and breathe.

As the conversation continued, it flowed easily, like a gentle current. And for the first time in a long time, Carla felt like she could drop the act. The weight of her fame - the expectations, the pressure, the constant surveillance - seemed miles away in that little bookstore, and for a while, it was almost as if she had forgotten it existed.

After a while, Carla held up the murder mystery book that Lisa had first recommended, its cover bright and bold, a stark contrast to the quiet atmosphere of the shop. “I’ll take this one,” Carla said with a small smile, her tone light and casual.

Lisa’s smile widened, her fingers already reaching for the register. “Great choice. I hope you enjoy it.” Her hands moved steadily, ringing up the book without missing a beat, as if she’d done it a thousand times.

Carla chuckled, her fingers still lightly brushing the pages of the book. “Yeah, well this know-it-all about books recommended it to me, so I’ll just have to see if she was right.”

Lisa laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with humour. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be right,” she said, her voice full of warmth.

Carla smiled, the moment feeling lighter than it had any right to. “Thanks again for the recommendations. I’ll definitely be back.”

Lisa’s smile softened, her eyes warming with a kind of quiet sincerity. “I’ll be here,” she replied, her voice steady and welcoming. “Take care, Carla.”

“See you around, Lisa,” Carla said, her smile lingering as she turned toward the door, the bell chiming softly above her as she stepped outside into the crisp air.

She left the store with the book in hand, already looking forward to the next time she could visit again. The simplicity of the exchange had settled over her like a blanket, comforting and familiar. And maybe, just maybe, a small part of her hoped she would see Lisa again. It was a rare thing, to have such a normal conversation with someone who wasn’t looking at her like she was a celebrity or a headline. For the first time in a long while, she felt seen for who she truly was. Not as a famous author, but as just another person wandering the streets of Willowbrook. And that made her want to return, to find a little more of that peace.

As she walked away from the bookstore, the soft weight of the book tucked under her arm, Carla felt something inside her stir. Something light. Something hopeful.

Maybe she would come back tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains when Lisa woke, the soft golden light spilling across the room in gentle streams. It painted the walls with a soft, comforting glow, as if the world outside was slowly waking up. She always woke early. A habit from her old job, perhaps, or maybe she simply needed solitude before the world started demanding things from her. The peace of these moments, with no one needing anything from her, felt like a small gift each day. It was a time she could just be.

The bed was cool, still a little too empty, and she always took a moment before getting up. The absence beside her was a weight she had learned to carry, but some days, it still felt like an ache she couldn’t quite shake. The place where Becky used to be, the warmth of her body, the quiet rhythm of her breath, was just gone. No matter how many years passed, there were still some mornings when it hit harder than others. She let out a soft breath, willing herself not to linger on it too long.

Her hand reached over to the nightstand, where the small silver ring rested on the surface, its smooth, polished surface catching the early light. She slipped it onto her right hand, her fingers brushing the cool metal before it settled into place. She had moved it there a few months after Becky had passed, unable to let go of the symbol entirely. The ring on her left hand had felt like it was holding onto too much, too many memories. But on the right hand, it was more manageable - still there, still a part of her, but in a way that didn’t hurt as much. Over the years, Lisa couldn’t bring herself to take it off. Becky would always be a part of her, and in time, she had learned to be okay with that.

With a long sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching her back as she slowly got to her feet. She moved slowly, almost ritualistically, as she made her bed. She smoothed out the covers, a slight distraction from the thoughts that tried to creep in.

Some days, the house was too quiet for her liking. She missed the noise of a teenager stomping around, leaving socks on the kitchen floor, slamming the bathroom door, making messes in the hallway. That constant hum of life that had once filled the house seemed like a distant memory now.

Today was one of those days.

And so, Lisa made her way downstairs to the small kitchen, the familiar warmth of the space wrapping around her like an old blanket. She grabbed her phone from the counter, she needed the house to feel a little less quiet today. She needed to hear her daughter’s voice.

The phone rang twice before it clicked on the third. “Morning, sweetie,” Lisa said, trying to keep her voice light, a little teasing. “Sorry if I woke you up. I know it’s early.”

There was a soft laugh on the other end. “You forgot that not everyone gets up at a ridiculous time like you, then?” Betsy joked, the fondness in her voice clear even through the phone.

“Sorry again.”

“It’s fine, Mum, really. I was about to leave to go to the library anyway. Got to do some work and need some quiet.” Betsy’s voice was calm, but Lisa could hear the underlying warmth there.

Lisa smiled as she cracked an egg into the pan, the sound of it sizzling familiar. “Everything going well at uni, then? Doing all your work on time? You getting enough sleep?” It was a ritual at this point, these questions, but she couldn’t help herself. She just wanted to know that Betsy was okay.

“Yeah, Mum, don’t worry.” Betsy’s voice lightened, and there was a brief pause. “I miss you, though. How’s everything there? You keeping busy?”

Lisa hesitated for a moment. She could tell her daughter was trying to keep the conversation easy, light. But it was still so hard to keep things light when a part of her ached for more connection. More time together. But she couldn’t burden Betsy with that.

“Yeah,” Lisa replied, her voice softer now, the sound carrying the weight of something unspoken. Something that could have been sadness, or contentment or maybe both. “You know me, staying busy. The bookstore’s the usual. Quiet, but good.”

Another pause. Then Betsy’s voice came back, warmer now, a touch of concern in it. “Is the bookstore okay? We aren’t struggling for business, are we? I wish I was there with you, Mum.”

Lisa smiled, even though her heart tugged a little at the thought of her daughter being so far away. “Business is fine, Bets. Stop worrying. I’m okay. Focus on your studies, alright? Keep working towards your dreams, kiddo.” The words felt right, she just wanted Betsy to be happy.

“Alright. I love you, Mum. I’ll be back to visit soon.”

“I love you too, Betsy.”

The call ended, and Lisa felt a bit lighter. Sometimes, all she needed was a short conversation with her daughter to make her feel better. Betsy’s happiness meant everything to Lisa and seeing her pursue her dreams brought her more peace than she could explain.

Lisa finished her breakfast, savouring the quiet moment. The kitchen was still, but now it felt more like a space she could occupy comfortably, even if it wasn’t filled with the noise she’d once known. She set the dishes aside and, after a moment of reflection, pulled on her coat, grabbed her keys, and stepped out the front door.

The brisk morning air greeted her with the familiar scent of pine and damp earth, a smell that never failed to ground her. She inhaled deeply, letting the coolness fill her lungs, feeling the weight of the world drop off her shoulders. The rhythm of the seasons, the quiet hum of life, it all felt steady in Willowbrook. It was grounding. Peaceful.

The bookstore was only a short walk away, a luxury that Lisa never took for granted. The crisp morning air against her skin, the sound of leaves crunching beneath her boots. It gave her a moment to settle before starting the day.

The shop had been her refuge for years now, even before she’d opened it - the hours spent decorating it exactly the way she wanted, picking out each piece of furniture, each display shelf, the cozy little nooks. Every detail, every touch, was hers. And it was in this space that she’d healed. It had been her safe place, her breath of fresh air when the weight of grief had threatened to drown her.

And now, the shop had become a place of comfort for others. Lisa had poured everything into it, and she took pride in knowing it provided solace for those who needed it.

She unlocked the door, stepping inside. The familiar scent of paper and old books hit her immediately, a comfort, a reminder that this was hers. Her space. The deep calm settled over her once again, like an old friend wrapping its arms around her.

Lisa had never thought she’d be someone who appreciated quiet, who craved stillness. Her life before Willowbrook had been full of chaos and noise, unpredictable and fast-paced. But the slower pace of life here had helped her discover a version of herself she didn’t know existed. A version that found peace in the quiet moments, in the small routines. And she couldn’t imagine leaving this place now.

Behind the counter, Lisa set down her coat, pulling open the blinds. She went through the motions of setting up the store. Checking the shelves, dusting a few corners, turning the open sign to face the street. It was almost meditative, this part of the day, a ritual that gave her peace.

Lisa was busy arranging books at the counter, her fingers moving swiftly as she aligned the titles on the display when the soft jingle of the doorbell rang out, sharp and clear, slicing through the quiet of the store. It signalled the arrival of a new customer. Lisa looked up, as she always did, offering a warm smile to welcome whoever had entered.

The woman standing in the doorway looked... uncertain. She hesitated in the threshold, her eyes scanning the room as if she wasn’t quite sure if she was allowed to be there. Like she was out of place. There was an uneasiness in her posture, a slight tightness in her shoulders that betrayed her discomfort.

And then, their eyes met.

Lisa’s heart skipped a beat.

She knew that face.

It was unmistakable. The woman standing in front of her wasn’t just any customer. It was Carla Connor. Bestselling author, one of the most famous names in the literary world. Lisa had seen her face countless times: on book covers, in glossy magazine spreads, even on the news.

Lisa’s breath caught in her throat. Carla was more than just an author; she was an enigma, a figure who had shaped so many of Lisa’s late-night thoughts. The books she had written were riveting, haunting, stories that had kept Lisa awake long into the night, her fingers gripping the pages, desperate to know what happened next. Even the soppy romance novels. Ones that had made her cry, her tears staining the pages had left an impression. Lisa had read nearly every single one, devouring them like they were part of her own personal history.

But to think that someone like her - Carla Connor - was standing in her small little bookstore... it felt surreal. What was someone of her calibre doing in a tiny, quiet shop like this?

A flutter of excitement bubbled up inside Lisa, but she quickly pushed it down. Carla still hadn’t moved from the doorway, her figure standing frozen like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to come further in. Sensing the hesitation, Lisa calmed herself. She reminded herself that fame meant nothing here. This was just another customer. A person who deserved to be treated with the same kindness and respect as anyone else.

Besides, there would be time later, when the atmosphere was more relaxed, for a possible autograph or maybe even a photo that she could hang up in the store.

Lisa took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand, to treat Carla like any other customer. She kept her voice gentle as she called out, “Can I help you with anything?”

Carla blinked, the tension in her face slowly dissipating. Lisa could see it, the subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders dropped just a fraction. It was almost as if Carla had been holding her breath and was now letting it out.

Carla’s eyes met Lisa’s, and the smile that stretched across her face was small, but real like a flicker of comfort in a strange place. “No, thank you,” she replied, her voice a little softer now, “I’m just gonna have a look around.”

Lisa nodded, keeping her expression warm but neutral, careful not to make Carla feel overwhelmed. “Of course,” Lisa said, her tone kind and inviting.

With a brief nod, Carla turned and began to walk deeper into the store. Lisa watched her from the corner of her eye as she returned to her task of rearranging books on the counter. She could feel her pulse quicken, but she tried not to show it.

Carla was moving slowly through the aisles now, her gaze sweeping across the shelves, pausing only to pick up a book here or there. Lisa noticed that she was gravitating towards the thrillers, the murder mysteries. The kind of books that kept readers up late, turning pages, consumed by the twists and turns of dark, complicated plots.

There was something about the way Carla moved careful, deliberate, as if she were trying to shed some invisible weight, as if there were more to her than met the eye. Lisa noticed it in the way Carla’s hand lingered on a stack of books. She paused, her fingers brushing against the spines before pulling one free, its cover immediately catching her attention.

Without thinking, Lisa picked up a stack of books that needed to be put away in that direction and made her way over, drawn by an urge she couldn’t quite explain. She moved quietly, standing a few feet away from Carla, but close enough to see what she had chosen. It was one of Lisa’s favourites, a book with a black and red cover, one that had captivated her from the first page. The suspense, the pacing. It was everything she loved in a mystery novel.

Before she could stop herself, she found herself speaking.

“That one’s a really good one,” she said, her voice warm.

Carla’s fingers froze on the book for a moment. Lisa held her breath, wondering if she’d overstepped. Had Carla sensed that Lisa knew exactly who she was? Had the mask of calm that she had carefully placed on her face cracked just a little too much?

Lisa quickly reminded herself that nothing was lost now. She might as well keep speaking “I highly recommend it,”

Carla remained quiet for a moment, the air thick with a kind of hesitation. And then, as if to test the waters, she smiled a small, guarded smile. “Are you just saying that to make a sale?”

Lisa couldn’t help but smile wider at the comment, stepping a little closer, her usual warmth shining through. “No, not at all,” Lisa said with a soft laugh, her voice light. “Why do you think that tactic would work? Maybe I should try it more often.”

Carla let out a laugh, the sound escaping her lips like a brief moment of relief. It was light and infectious, and Lisa felt her own smile grow at the sound of it. It was clear that Carla was starting to relax, to let go of the tension that had been wrapped so tightly around her. Carla’s eyes lingered on Lisa for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, more open. “Don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” she said, a small smile curling at her lips.

“Well, if I use it on my next customer, I’ll have to let you know how it goes.” Lisa teased. She winked at Carla, her voice light and playful, making the interaction feel like a shared joke between friends.

Carla let out another small huff of laughter, and her eyes crinkled with amusement, something light and real shining through the calm exterior she had maintained. Then, with a curious glance, she raised the book in her hand again. “So, this is a good book then?”

Lisa’s eyes sparkled as she nodded, genuinely pleased at the chance to share something she cared so much about. “Yeah,” she said, her voice bright with enthusiasm, “I’ve read it myself. It’s one of those books you just can’t put down. The kind that keeps you up all night, reading just one more chapter.”

Carla’s smile deepened, a more genuine curve of her lips this time. It wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t hesitant. For the first time since she had stepped into the store, Carla looked like she was truly letting herself be in the moment. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her fingers lingering on the pages of the book just a little longer before she closed it gently. “Maybe I’ll give it a go.”

Lisa nodded, giving Carla a small, soft smile in return, her heart light. She turned back to the counter, returning to her task of organizing the books that needed to be stacked neatly. The books weren’t going to arrange themselves, after all. But as she worked, her mind wandered, her fingers moving through the books almost automatically.

She had enjoyed the brief interaction with Carla. It felt... natural. But still, Lisa couldn’t shake the curiosity that bubbled up inside her. She wanted to know more. She wanted to understand why Carla, one of the most famous authors in the world, was standing in her small, humble bookshop.

It wasn’t every day someone famous walked into your store. Lisa couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing a golden opportunity. But then again, there had been hesitation in Carla’s manner. It was clear she wasn’t here for the spotlight. Maybe she didn’t want to be recognized, and Lisa feared that drawing attention to Carla’s fame might be the wrong thing to do. She didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, and she definitely didn’t want to overstep.

The classical music playing softly in the background wove through the air, filling the space with its peaceful rhythm, making the entire shop feel quieter, calmer. The gentle flow of music seemed to wrap itself around her thoughts, making everything feel just a little more intimate, a little more serene.

Lisa picked up another book, her mind still swirling with questions. What should she say next? Should she just let Carla browse in peace? Or should she take the opportunity to learn more, to maybe bond over their shared love of books? After all, this was her shop, and talking about books was something Lisa could do for hours.

Finally, she spoke, settling on something that felt safe but still connected to their earlier conversation. “If you’re really into murder mysteries,” she said, her voice carrying across the aisles, “I can recommend a few others.”

Carla turned to look at her, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Lisa couldn’t quite place why Carla looked so surprised. It was her job, after all, to help customers. Not that she was only doing this just because it was her job. No, she genuinely loved sharing her knowledge about books, pointing people toward stories she knew they’d love. It was the best part of her day.

The briefest of moments passed, but Carla nodded, her eyes filled with curiosity. “You know, I think I might take you up on that,” she said, her voice lighter now, tinged with interest. “I’m looking for something that’ll keep me hooked.”

Lisa’s smile deepened, the excitement of the moment bubbling up. She could share her passion - share what she loved with someone who would truly appreciate it. She moved a little closer, her steps sure and steady, ready to dive deeper into the world of books she knew so well.

"Well, let me show you where the classics are," Lisa said, as she began to walk through the aisles, weaving between the stacks of books. Her steps were practiced, as if the rhythm of the shop had become second nature to her over the years. She paused in front of a shelf, her fingers skimming the spines of the books until she found what she was looking for.

"Here’s one by Agatha Christie," Lisa said, holding the book up to Carla, her voice quiet but sure. "It’s one of her most famous. If you haven’t read it yet, you should definitely give it a try." She added the last part quickly, just in case Carla had already read it. Despite quickly realizing that Carla was just like any other customer, she couldn’t help but feel a little starstruck. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of someone who had written books that had shaped the way Lisa thought about stories.

Carla nodded, intrigued. "I’ve read quite a few of hers, but it’s been a while. I think I might’ve missed that one. Thanks."

Lisa smiled again, a little giddy at how easy the conversation was flowing now. She adjusted a few books on a nearby shelf, noticing that some were slightly out of order. She wasn’t obsessive about neatness, but she liked things to be organized, to have a sense of order. It made everything feel more... peaceful.

Lisa wasn’t sure if she should leave Carla to browse or if she should continue the conversation. She was enjoying their chat, but she didn’t want to overstay her welcome. She didn’t want to push too much, especially if Carla was just looking for some alone time.

Before she could overthink anymore, Carla’s voice broke the quiet. “So, I’m assuming you work here?” Carla asked, a slight teasing tone to her words as she continued scanning the books. “Unless you’re a massive bookworm who spends all her free time here, and the owner trusts you to manage the store?” she joked, her voice warm and light.

Lisa glanced over at Carla, biting her lip to suppress the wide smile threatening to spread across her face. There was no use. It came out in a rush, her smile wide, tinged with amusement. "Well, I am a massive bookworm," she said with a chuckle, "but I do work here. In fact, it’s just me running the place." She paused, her smile softening slightly as she added, “My daughter did work here at one point, but she’s moved away for university. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” There was a note of fondness in her voice, a quiet pride. She truly loved the bookshop. If she didn’t have this place, she wasn’t sure what she would do with herself.

Carla smiled warmly at her, her eyes lighting up with an appreciation that made Lisa’s heart flutter just a little. There was something in the way Carla spoke, in the way she looked around the shop. It was almost reverent. "This place is... it’s incredible. So cozy and welcoming."

Lisa’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she quickly tried to brush it off with a humble laugh. Compliments were always hard for her to take. But the warmth in Carla’s voice; it was impossible to ignore.

"I’m glad you think so," Lisa said softly, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s not much, but I’m happy with how the layout is. For now, anyway.” She glanced around the shop, her gaze sweeping over the familiar rows of shelves, the cozy reading nook by the window, the soft light that filtered in during the afternoons. The shop felt like home to her, a place that reflected her love for books in every corner.

Carla seemed to be doing the same thing. Looking around, taking in the space with a quiet appreciation. The way she looked at the shop made Lisa feel proud again, but it was a quiet, humble pride, one that didn’t demand attention.

“Well, it seems like you’re doing a pretty good job,” Carla added, her voice full of warmth. And Lisa couldn’t help but smile back.

“Thank you,” Lisa replied sincerely, her voice full of gratitude.

There was a brief pause, and Lisa felt the tension in the air shift just a little. She glanced up, sensing the subtle change, and saw Carla hesitating, her gaze flickering over her. For a moment, Carla seemed lost in thought, as though she was deciding whether to say something more. Lisa didn’t rush her. She let the silence hang between them, the quiet weight of the moment settling into the space, waiting for Carla to find her words.

Finally, Carla looked at her, the vulnerability in her expression almost palpable. "I’m Carla, by the way," she said softly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. There was an uncertainty in her eyes, a flicker of doubt, as though revealing her name felt like a decision she hadn’t quite fully made. It made Lisa pause for just a second, her heart skipping a beat.

Carla had trusted her enough to tell her her name. She could easily tell Carla that she was a huge fan of her work. She could share how many of her books had lived on her shelves, how she admired the way Carla wove words into gripping tales. But Lisa hesitated, unsure if this was the right moment. Carla hadn’t introduced herself as an author, and something in the quiet exchange made Lisa wonder if maybe she just wanted to be seen as a person, not as a celebrity.

Instead of mentioning anything about her fame, Lisa simply smiled warmly. "I’m Lisa," she replied, her voice gentle and inviting. She met Carla’s gaze, hoping her smile would help ease whatever tension lingered in the air. Carla’s smile in return was tentative but genuine, a flicker of relief behind her eyes.

For a moment, they simply stood there. The air between them was light, almost comfortable, but there was something else. An unspoken understanding hung between them, quiet yet undeniable.

But still, Lisa’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned slightly against one of the nearby bookshelves, the action casual, but her eyes were focused on Carla. She was intrigued. “So, are you new to Willowbrook?” Lisa asked, her tone casual. She didn’t want to cross any boundaries, but she genuinely wanted to know more. There was something about Carla, something beyond her books, that had Lisa’s attention.

Carla nodded, a soft smile curving her lips. She glanced around the bookstore, her eyes taking in the calm and stillness of the shop. “I suppose you could say that” she said, her voice almost reflective. “I’m just here for a little while. I guess you could say I needed a break.”

The way her voice trailed off, almost wistful, tugged at something inside Lisa. There was a heaviness in the words, a vulnerability that spoke volumes. It was clear that Carla wasn’t just here for the quiet atmosphere of the bookstore. There was something deeper at play, something Lisa could relate to. She had felt that same need to escape, to be away from the demands of life when everything became too much to bear.

Lisa nodded, her expression softening with empathy. Her smile was gentle, warm, and full of understanding. "Sometimes, you just need a break," she said softly. Her words carried a quiet truth, the weight of experience behind them. “This town’s good for that. Trust me.” She meant it, wholeheartedly. Willowbrook had given her space to breathe, space to heal, to be herself without any expectations. It had been her refuge after everything fell apart. The perfect place to pause, to grieve, and to find herself again.

“Yeah,” Carla agreed, her voice lighter now, like the weight of the world was lifting, just a little. “I’m starting to feel the effects of this town already.” Her eyes shifted toward the window, her gaze softening as she took in the view of Willowbrook outside. The sight of the town, peaceful and serene, seemed to soothe something in her, and Lisa could almost see the tension in her body start to slip away.

It was in that moment that Lisa swore to herself that she would forget about Carla’s fame. She was simply talking to a stranger, and they were sharing their love for books. Lisa didn’t need an autograph from Carla, or a photo to brag that a best-selling author had been in her shop. No, she didn’t need any of that superficial stuff.

It was clear to Lisa that Carla needed a break from her life of fame. Here, in this quiet corner of the world, Carla wasn’t Carla Connor, the bestselling author. She wasn’t the woman whose name brought excitement and awe to readers. She was just Carla, someone who had walked in looking for peace. And so, Lisa wasn’t going to deny Carla of that. Carla was never going to find out that Lisa knew who she was.

After a while, Lisa watched Carla raise her arm, holding up the first murder mystery book that she had recommended to her. “I’ll take this one,” Carla said with a small smile, her tone light and casual. There was a relaxed ease about her now, her earlier tension fading like a distant memory.

Lisa couldn’t help but smile back, the warmth in her chest spreading as she reached for the register. “Great choice. I hope you enjoy it.” Her fingers danced over the register’s keys with practiced ease, the rhythmic sound of it grounding her in the moment. As she slid the book into a brown paper bag, she took a moment to glance up at Carla, appreciating the change she’d seen in her since their first exchange.

Carla chuckled, her fingers still lightly brushing the pages of the book as if savouring the moment. “Yeah, well this know-it-all about books recommended it to me, so I’ll just have to see if she was right.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a softness to it now that made it feel like a joke between friends rather than a casual remark between strangers.

Lisa laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She was still surprised by how natural it all felt. There was a kind of lightness in the air that she hadn’t expected. "Oh, I’m sure she’ll be right,” Lisa replied with a teasing smile.

“Thanks again for the recommendations,” Carla said, her voice sincere and softening with genuine gratitude. “I’ll definitely be back.” There was something in her eyes, a quiet sincerity, that made Lisa believe her words. This wasn’t just another polite remark.

Lisa’s smile softened in return, her gaze steady and warm. “I’ll be here,” she said, her voice genuine, steady in the quiet of the shop. “Take care, Carla.”

“See you around, Lisa,” Carla said, her smile lingering, the edges of it reaching her eyes. She turned toward the door, and the small bell above it chimed softly as she stepped outside. The cool, crisp air of Willowbrook greeted her, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. Carla paused just outside the door for a second, as though taking in the town she’d entered so quietly, before she was gone.

Lisa watched her go, her eyes following the way Carla’s figure faded into the quiet morning, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the streets of Willowbrook. A small sigh slipped from her lips, and for a moment, she remained still, her hands resting on the counter, her gaze lingering on the empty space where Carla had just been. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when Carla walked into her shop, but it certainly hadn’t been that. A connection so effortlessly shared.

Lisa found herself smiling softly, the memory of Carla’s laughter still lingering in her ears. The way she had joked, her voice light and free, how her eyes softened when she smiled. It was like a weight had been lifted from her, not just from Carla but from herself too. Lisa hadn’t realized how much she missed making someone laugh, making someone feel at ease without any pretences. It had been so long since she had shared such an uncomplicated moment with another person.

She hadn’t expected to enjoy Carla’s company as much as she did, but she did. In fact, she found herself forgetting that Carla was even famous. She wasn’t the author anymore. She was just a person, a woman who needed a space to breathe. The celebrity, the books, the fame; it all fell away, leaving just two people, standing in a quiet bookstore, sharing a brief moment of peace.

Just two people. Talking. Laughing. No strings attached.

Lisa let out a quiet sigh, and for the first time in a long while, Lisa found herself hoping for something more than just the next quiet day in her shop. She hoped Carla was telling the truth. She hoped that Carla would come back to the shop. She wanted to see Carla again. She wanted to hear that laugh once more. To see the way her eyes lit up when she spoke. She wanted to find out who Carla really was, outside of the pages of her books, outside of the world that had made her famous.

She didn’t know why exactly but there was something about Carla that made Lisa want to know everything.

Chapter Text

Carla couldn't help but find herself standing outside the bookshop again. It was as if some invisible force was pulling her toward the familiar door, the quaint sign hanging above, the smell of paper and dust drifting out every time it swung open. She wasn’t even halfway through the book she had bought yesterday, and yet, here she was, standing in front of the shop, her fingers already reaching for the brass handle.

If she was being honest with herself, though, it wasn’t the book that had brought her back. The book was good, she had no complaints about it, but the truth was simpler, even a bit unsettling. She wasn't just here for another story.

She was here to see Lisa again.

The conversation they’d shared yesterday had stuck with her in a way Carla hadn’t expected. The easy banter, the way Lisa's eyes sparkled when she teased, the soft laugh that had escaped her lips when Carla made a silly comment. It had all been unexpectedly pleasant. It was something Carla had missed: genuine, unforced conversation. The kind that felt easy, like slipping into something familiar and comfortable.

With a small exhale, she pushed open the door. The bell above chimed, its sharp ring cutting through the quiet of the shop. The familiar smell of old paper, and wood filled the air. A smell that was quickly becoming somewhat of a comfort to Carla.

"Back so soon?" Lisa’s voice was light, teasing, the corners of her mouth lifting into a playful grin. She stood tall (as tall as she could) behind the counter, her blonde hair caught in a soft wave that framed her face. "Either my recommendation was terrible, or you loved the book so much you’re already back for another."

Carla paused for a moment, feeling a smile tug at her lips. The truth was more complicated, but she wasn’t about to admit it. "The book is great," she said, her voice lighter than before. "I haven’t finished it yet, though."

Lisa raised an eyebrow, that mischievous smirk of hers never wavering. “You haven’t finished the book…” she repeated, clearly enjoying the moment. “What are you doing back so soon then?”

Carla shrugged with a soft laugh, her gaze shifting for a brief moment to the rows of books on the shelves, feeling the warmth of the shop wash over her. “Well, I was going to the café, and then I ended up here.” She offered a playful look, as if that explanation was the most natural thing in the world. “Must be a magic spell or something on this place. You just get drawn in.”

Lisa grinned, stepping around the counter slightly as if to lean in closer, her voice dropping to a teasing tone. “Damn, you figured out my secret.” She crossed her arms, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Although here’s me thinking you consciously made the decision to come here again.”

Carla felt a lightness in her chest at Lisa’s teasing. There was something about her that made Carla feel like she could be herself, even if it was just for these brief exchanges. “Well, I did tell you I’d be coming back yesterday. Maybe I did plan on coming here.”

“Just when you finished the book?” Lisa raised an eyebrow, her lips curling in that knowing smile.

Carla leaned in slightly, the distance between them small but charged with something unspoken. "Or maybe when it was near closing time so I could have a conversation with someone." She said it casually, but her pulse quickened at the implication of her own words.

“Has this someone got a name?” Lisa’s smile was coy, playful, her eyes sparkling with the kind of curiosity that was hard to ignore.

Carla’s heart skipped, but she leaned into the playful teasing. She felt the corners of her lips twitch upward as she said, “Potentially.”

Lisa burst out laughing, shaking her head in mock exasperation, her blonde hair catching the light from the windows. “You’re ridiculous.” Her voice held no trace of judgment, only amusement, which made Carla feel lighter, less self-conscious.

Just as Carla was about to respond, the bell chimed again, signalling another customer’s arrival. Lisa glanced over her shoulder, letting out a small sigh. “As much as I would love to stand here and chat all day, I’ve got to get working.” She grabbed a stack of books from the counter, her fingers brushing the spines as she began to walk away.

Carla felt a little pang of disappointment, but she caught herself. Lisa was working, after all. This was her job. She wasn’t just there to entertain Carla. And besides, it was entirely possible that Lisa didn’t feel the same way about their conversations. It was a small town, with plenty of other interactions that probably filled her days. Carla might be the only one who needed someone to talk to. Maybe Lisa didn’t crave it as much as Carla did.

“Oh, and Carla.” Lisa’s voice pulled Carla out of her thoughts, and she turned back, feeling the weight of her own thoughts dissolve as she looked at her.

“Yeah?” Carla asked, surprised to hear her name again.

“If you don’t have anywhere to be today, feel free to sit in one of the armchairs and relax. That’s what they’re there for. And, well, maybe I wouldn’t mind a little bit of company either.”

The invitation hung in the air between them, a simple offer, but it sent a warmth through Carla’s chest. She hadn’t expected Lisa to ask, but there it was. An unspoken invitation to stay, to linger a little longer.

Carla smiled, shaking her head, her heart fluttering as she let the words settle. “Well, I’ll just grab a seat then.”

She made her way toward one of the armchairs by the window, the soft carpet beneath her feet quieting her footsteps. The chair, an old, plush thing in deep green velvet, creaked slightly as she settled into it, feeling its welcoming embrace. She let out a contented sigh, glancing down at the book still in her hand.

Carla flipped open the cover of her book, but her mind couldn’t quite settle. As her fingers skimmed the pages, the words blurred into the background, and she found herself drifting, her thoughts slowly returning to Lisa.

She had only met Lisa yesterday, yet here she was, sitting in the warmth of the bookshop, the faint hum of the store around her: soft conversations, the occasional shuffling of footsteps, the rustling of pages and Lisa, always just out of reach, moving gracefully between the shelves. Carla couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it had been to talk to her. Yesterday, everything had felt so light, as though they'd known each other far longer than just a few fleeting hours.

Normally, Carla would feel embarrassed, pathetic, even. What kind of person found themselves so drawn to a casual interaction with a stranger? But here, in Willowbrook, everything felt different.

She wasn't sure when it happened, but today, she found herself not caring about how she appeared to others. In fact, she relished the quiet freedom of it. There was no one here who knew her. No one to judge the subtle cracks in her carefully crafted persona. Willowbrook, small and tucked away from the world.

Carla hadn’t expected to feel so at ease in this town. She had come here on a whim, for a break. Searching for something she wasn’t entirely sure of, and yet, in the span of a single day, she had found a peace that she hadn’t experienced in years. It was as though she had stepped into a small pocket of the world where she could simply exist without all the usual weight of expectation.

She didn’t even care that she was spending hours in a bookshop, waiting for an opportunity to chat with a woman she barely knew. Normally, that would have felt strange - maybe even a little desperate. But not here. Not now. She was becoming someone who could sit and wait without guilt, who could lose herself in the simple joy of being present in a moment without worrying about time slipping away.

Every interaction she had had with someone in Willowbrook so far had been disarmingly simple. A friendly smile from the hotel clerk, a warm nod from an older man at the bakery, even the casual “hello” from a passing stranger on the street. They weren’t deep conversations or profound moments, but they were enough. Carla hadn’t realized how much she missed simple human interactions. How much she needed them until now.

And yet, there was one person who had stood out more than the others. Lisa.

The truth was Carla had spent the most time talking to Lisa of anyone since she arrived in Willowbrook. And it wasn’t just because Lisa worked at the bookshop. It was because talking to her felt… well, easy. There were no awkward silences, no pressure to fill the space with words. Every conversation flowed, even when it was light-hearted or teasing. Lisa’s company had become a welcome respite from the world, a place where Carla didn’t have to wear any masks.

As Carla let out a soft breath, she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had someone around her own age to talk to. Someone who understood the ebb and flow of a conversation without forcing it, someone who laughed at the same small things, someone who didn’t look at her with pity or judgment.

The book in her lap felt oddly distant now, the words blurred on the pages as her thoughts wandered back to Lisa again. She sighed softly, the weight of the book finally settling in her hands as she realized she had barely registered any of the pages. Instead, she was consumed by the quiet hum of the shop, the occasional shuffle of customers browsing, the faraway sound of Lisa’s voice.

The shop was warm and inviting, the soft glow of the afternoon sun spilling through the windows and casting golden light across the wooden floors. Carla glanced out the window, watching the slow shift of shadows on the street as the day began to soften into dusk. It was a peaceful moment, one that felt like it could stretch on forever. She could easily see herself staying here, sinking deeper into the cozy corner of the shop, losing track of time.

And if she was being honest with herself, she would stay until closing time if she had to - just for the chance to talk to Lisa again. To hear her voice, to exchange another few words. It wasn’t even that she needed to say anything important. She simply wanted to bask in the quiet connection that had already formed between them.

Carla stretched her legs out in front of her, settling deeper into the armchair, feeling the soft fabric beneath her skin. She could hear the sound of a page turning in the distance, a low murmur of conversation, but none of it felt intrusive. It all felt like a backdrop to the stillness she was craving.

Carla refocused her attention back on the book in her hands. She wasn’t lying when she said it was a good book. It really did have her hooked. The words seemed to flow effortlessly, each sentence pulling her deeper into the world within the pages. Slowly, without realizing it, she had become completely absorbed in the atmosphere around her. The quiet hum of the shop, the soft rustling of pages, and the distant murmur of customers browsing. The air felt warm and comforting; it was a peaceful kind of stillness that allowed her to lose herself completely.

She had gotten so lost in the book, in the calming rhythm of the shop, that she hadn’t even noticed when Lisa slipped into the chair next to her. It wasn’t until Lisa’s voice broke through the quiet that Carla looked up, blinking in surprise.

“And here I thought you were here for my dazzling company,” Lisa said with a teasing lilt, her tone light and amused, her lips curling into a playful smile.

Carla quickly grabbed her bookmark and slid it into place, snapping the book shut as she shifted to give Lisa her full attention. She smiled, though there was a touch of mock defensiveness in her voice. “You think highly of yourself, don’t you?” she teased, her heart skipping a beat as she met Lisa’s gaze.

Lisa’s chuckle made Carla’s heart flutter softly, an unexpected warmth spreading through her. She leaned back casually in the armchair next to Carla, her posture so relaxed it almost seemed effortless. Her legs were stretched out before her, one arm thrown casually over the back of the chair, the other resting in her lap. There was something so easy about the way Lisa held herself. An air of quiet confidence that seemed to make the small space between them feel comfortable. "Maybe a little," she teased again, her eyes sparkling with amusement, her lips curling into a small smile that made Carla feel oddly at ease.

Carla couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. Lisa’s presence was undeniably comforting, and Carla found herself leaning into it, her guard slipping down without her even trying. “Thought you were working,” Carla said with a raised eyebrow, her lips curling slightly. “What are you doing sitting down here?”

Lisa shrugged, her easy smile never wavering. "I close for lunch," she explained, her tone still light. "With no one else working here, I need to take a break. No one else to cover for me." She gave a playful roll of her eyes as if to say, it’s just how it is, but there was something endearing in her nonchalance.

Carla raised an eyebrow. “How long do you normally close for?”

Lisa stretched her arms above her head with a small sigh of relief, a soft sound that seemed to echo the satisfaction of finally taking a moment to breathe. "Usually about an hour. I find it’s nice to have a little quiet time to recharge." Her voice softened a little as she spoke. "Sometimes I grab a bite, sometimes I just… sit and think." There was a far-off quality to her gaze now, and Carla could almost see her retreating into the small quiet space in her mind. "It’s the one part of the day when I can kind of let my mind wander." Her words were laced with a peacefulness that made Carla want to ask more.

Carla, still feeling a pull toward the openness of Lisa’s personality, blurted out before she could stop herself, “Think about what?”

Normally, she would’ve never asked someone about their personal thoughts so directly, but for some reason, it was easy with Lisa. She wanted to know what went on in her mind when there was no one else around, what had shaped her into the person she was. It was that same pull, that magnetic draw she couldn’t explain.

Lisa gave a soft laugh, the kind that came from a place of comfort and ease, as though she had no problem with Carla's question. She shrugged, the motion light and graceful, and her eyes softened as she looked down at her hands for a moment. "Anything, really," she began. "Sometimes it’s just about life here, and how different it is from the city. Other times, I think about what books to bring in next or how to make the shop feel more… like home for the people who come here." Her voice softened further as she spoke, becoming almost reverent. "I try to make it a space that feels more than just a store. You know?"

Carla tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued. She was surprised by how thoughtful Lisa sounded; how much she cared about the space she had created. "You’re from a city?" Carla asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "I would’ve never guessed. You seem... so at home here. So... calm."

Lisa laughed softly at Carla’s reaction, her smile widening slightly. “I used to live in a city. A big one. Manchester. Lots of noise. Lots of people.” She paused, her voice carrying an unspoken weight in the last words, as if the very mention of Manchester was a reminder of something distant, something left behind. "Definitely a different pace," she added with a small sigh.

Carla’s eyes widened at the mention of Manchester. It felt strange, almost surreal. “I thought your accent sounded a bit Manc,” Carla admitted, her tone a mixture of surprise and amusement. “I just assumed I was wrong, and you were from here wherever in England we are. I’m originally from a small little town in Manchester.”

Lisa’s face lit up, and the playful glint in her eyes became more pronounced. “No way, small world!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with genuine surprise. She gave Carla a warm smile, the kind that made her feel like they were sharing an inside joke, even though they had just met.

Carla felt her curiosity growing, the pull of wanting to know more about Lisa’s life, the life she had chosen to leave behind in the city. "What made you leave Manchester for Willowbrook? How long ago did you move?" she asked softly, her voice gentle, but there was an undercurrent of genuine interest. "I mean, that’s a big change, right? A city with connections to pretty much everywhere to, well, this town in the middle of nowhere."

Lisa’s expression softened, her eyes losing some of their usual lightness, and for a brief moment, she seemed far away. She gazed off toward the window, as though lost in a memory, before finally speaking, her voice quieter now, more reflective. “It’s a long story,” she said, her tone growing more serious. "Maybe I’ll share it with you one day, when there’s more time." She met Carla’s eyes again, and something unspoken passed between them. "But to answer your question, I moved here about five and a half years ago. I needed a change. A big one. So did my daughter."

Carla nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of Lisa’s words. She could sense there was more behind them, but she didn’t want to press further. Not yet. Instead, she spoke softly, acknowledging the gravity of Lisa’s decision. "Five and a half years ago," she repeated, her voice thoughtful. "That’s a while. Must’ve been a big decision."

Lisa gave a small, knowing smile, but there was a slight sadness to it now, as though the memories weren’t as simple as she made them seem. "It was. But I think it was the right one," she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty. "Willowbrook... it’s quiet. It’s different. And sometimes, different is exactly what you need." She shrugged lightly, but there was a weight in her words. "I’m glad I made the move."

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence. Lisa leaned forward slightly, the quiet of the bookshop cocooning them both. “So, Carla,” Lisa said, her voice softening but carrying a genuine curiosity. “What brings you to Willowbrook, anyway? I know you said you needed a break, but did you preplan, or did you just stumble across this place?”

Carla shifted in her seat slightly, considering how to answer, without giving too much away but. "It wasn’t exactly planned," Carla began, her voice steady, but there was a slight vulnerability in her words. "I just kind of ended up here. I was in the city, London, and things just felt... too much. I needed to leave. So, I got in my car and just drove to clear my head. I didn’t even know Willowbrook existed until I found myself here."

Lisa smiled, her expression softening with a knowing understanding. "I get that," she said, her tone quiet but warm. "Sometimes, you don’t realize how much you need to step away until you do it. It’s easy to get lost in the chaos." She paused, her eyes twinkling with a playful warmth as she leaned forward a little. "So, are you planning on staying long? Or will your life in the city claw you back?"

 Carla tilted her head, feeling a gentle smile tugging at her lips. "I’m really liking it here so far," she said, her voice light but sincere. "It’s a nice change from the constant noise. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay here, though."

Lisa’s eyes twinkled with something playful yet sincere as she leaned forward slightly, her smile widening. "Well, I hope you stick around for a while," she said with a wink, her tone light, but there was something deeper in her gaze, an unspoken invitation, a suggestion that Lisa enjoyed Carla’s company as much as Carla enjoyed Lisa’s.

Carla leaned back in her armchair, her eyes drifting over the cozy bookshop once again. The shelves were lined with books - some old, some new - each one holding its own world of adventure, waiting to be discovered. The sunlight from the window filtered in softly, casting a warm glow on the wooden floors, making everything feel grounded and safe. Her gaze finally returned to Lisa, her expression thoughtful, and a little more reflective than before. "I’ve been meaning to ask you," Carla said, her tone casual but sincere, "what made you want to open this place? A bookshop like this. It’s got its charm, but it must’ve taken a lot of work to get it going, right?"

Lisa’s smile deepened, her eyes flickering with a mixture of fondness and nostalgia, like a memory was tugging at her. "Yeah, it definitely took a lot of work," she admitted, her voice softening. "It was actually what convinced me to live here instead of some other towns I looked at. I needed a career change, and well, this store gave me the opportunity to do something I love. I’ve always loved books" She paused, her expression distant for a brief moment, before she returned to Carla, a quiet kind of determination in her voice. "It just felt like the right place to be, you know?"

Carla nodded, listening intently. “So, the career change is that also part of the long story?”

"If you stick around for long enough, you might find out," she said with a soft, half-smile, her tone was light, but there was a quiet depth behind it.

Carla smiled back, her curiosity still piqued but tempered by the sincerity in Lisa’s voice. She could tell there was a lot more to Lisa’s past. Something deeper, more personal that she wasn’t ready to share just yet. And Carla respected that. "Fair enough," she said softly, her voice gentle. "I guess we all have our stories. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to share mine too."

Part of Lisa felt a small, persistent pang of guilt. She already knew things about Carla. Things Carla hadn’t shared herself. She’d known who Carla was the moment she’d walked into the shop. She had recognized her face, even before the brief mention of her name during their first conversation. It wasn’t like Lisa had ever stalked her, but the tabloids, the news, the magazines - they didn’t let people like Carla fade into the background. Carla’s face had been plastered everywhere for years. She was a household name in the world of entertainment, but Willowbrook was different. Here, people didn’t gossip about the latest scandal or the newest celebrity sighting. Willowbrook was a place where people came to escape the noise, not add to it. And Lisa had kept that in mind, carefully hiding the truth from Carla.

The guilt lingered whenever she saw the way Carla looked at her so open, so trusting. Carla had no idea that Lisa knew about her public image, her struggles, her triumphs. Lisa couldn’t help but feel like a bit of a fraud. Here she was, engaging in an easy, normal conversation with Carla when Carla had no idea Lisa knew she was famous. Would Carla still willingly share information if she knew Lisa knew? Would she be more guarded in fear of information getting out?

The guilt gnawed at her. She had already heard things about Carla that the public had never been privy to, how desperate Carla was to get away. Lisa’s chest tightened, feeling like she was betraying Carla’s trust by knowing so much without her even saying a word.

Still, Lisa had to let this unfold naturally. Carla had chosen to come here, to this quiet little town, to seek solace. She had chosen to connect with Lisa without the weight of her celebrity status, and Lisa had promised herself she wouldn’t let that status define their interactions. Carla deserved to be seen for who she truly was, not just who the world thought she was. Because what truly mattered was getting to know the woman sitting in front of her and not the version of Carla that she chose to portray to the world.

She pushed the guilt aside, carefully compartmentalizing it, and focused on the conversation at hand. She wouldn’t rush Carla. She wouldn’t force her to reveal anything before she was ready. Lisa needed to learn about the woman sitting in front of her. She wanted to learn everything she could about Carla while she was in Willowbrook.

So, with a smile that masked the knot of discomfort in her chest, Lisa shifted her attention back to Carla. She wasn’t going to let this knowledge change how she treated her. She would let Carla share her story in her own time. The pieces would come, when Carla was ready to offer them up, and Lisa would be there, patient and understanding, waiting for the moment when she could know Carla the way she deserved to be known.

The two sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, while the quiet hum of the bookshop filled the air around them.  After a beat, Carla spoke again, her voice thoughtful but light. “Yeah, well, I might just stick around for a little bit longer. There’s something about this place... and you,” she added, her lips curling into a playful smile. “Could be a good excuse to stay, right?”

Lisa’s lips twitched upward, her eyebrow lifting slightly as she met Carla’s gaze. “I’m not one to twist your arm, Carla," she teased, her voice light and breezy, "but it’s been nice to talk to someone around my own age again. The average age around here is 75.” She leaned back in her chair, an exaggerated look of mock horror crossing her face.

Carla snickered. “Well, I suppose I couldn’t let you go back to socializing with the old age pensioners,” she joked, raising an eyebrow at Lisa.

Lisa’s laugh filled the room, warm and genuine, the sound so effortlessly contagious that Carla couldn’t help but join in. The light-hearted energy between them lingered in the air, like a blanket of comfort.

As the laughter faded, the playful energy still danced around them. For a moment, Carla allowed herself to truly relax, to just let go of any tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding. It wasn’t often that she felt this at ease with someone, especially someone she’d only met the day before. But here, with Lisa, it just felt easy. It felt right.

Lisa glanced up at the clock, her gaze flicking briefly to the time before she stood, stretching her arms overhead with a soft sigh. “Duty calls again,” she said with a wry smile, making her way toward the door to turn the ‘Closed’ sign back to ‘Open.’

Carla pushed herself up as well, realizing that she’d probably taken up enough of Lisa’s time during her break. "I’m going to go explore the rest of the town now. See if I actually make it to that café," she said, the playful glint returning to her eyes.

Lisa’s laughter bubbled up again, filling the small space. “They do a good bacon butty there. Little bit of ketchup, and it’s perfect.”

Carla’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh no, a bacon butty has to have a lot of ketchup. I always ask for extra.”

Lisa’s face contorted in disgust. “You’re joking, right?”

Carla grinned. “Why would I be joking?”

“That’s a crime against humanity,” Lisa said, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “You’ll taste more ketchup than butty!”

“Sounds delicious,” Carla replied, unfazed. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Lisa laughed again, and this time there was something else in the sound. Something that suggested she wasn’t just laughing at the joke, but at how quickly and easily they’d slipped into this comfortable back-and-forth. “I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one,” she said, still smiling.

Carla paused at the door, her hand resting lightly on the handle. She turned back to face Lisa, her voice softer now, tinged with sincerity. “Hey, thanks for letting me hang out here today. I really needed a place to just... be. It’s been a long time since I felt like I could just relax.”

Lisa’s expression softened, and her gaze held a quiet sincerity that Carla could feel all the way to her bones. “Anytime, Carla. This place is always open to you. You’re welcome to come by whenever you need a break.”

Carla’s smile deepened, a warmth settling in her chest at Lisa’s words. It wasn’t just the space that made Willowbrook feel like a refuge. It was moments like this, when she felt seen, without needing to explain anything, when she felt like someone understood, even without asking. That was rare. And it felt like a gift.

With that, Carla stepped outside, the door closing softly behind her. She lingered for a moment, looking around at the small, quiet town. The sky stretched wide above her, soft and blue, with only a few clouds dotting the horizon. The streets were lined with little shops, their awnings fluttering gently in the breeze, and houses tucked behind lush green hedges. It was a world so far removed from the chaos of the city. There was something comforting about it all. Something that made Carla feel at peace, like she had finally found a place where time wasn’t rushing her forward.

She turned back to glance through the window, catching one last glimpse of Lisa as she returned to her work. A small part of Carla didn’t want to leave. Not just the bookshop, but the feeling of ease that had settled over her during their time together.

What was the harm of extending her stay just a little longer?

Chapter Text

Carla only had one last day in the hotel, and the thought of extending her stay weighed on her mind like a heavy stone. She wasn’t sure if she could justify spending more money on a place that didn’t feel like home, especially when she wasn’t even sure if she was staying long-term. The room itself was fine, neatly arranged with white linens and a small desk tucked into the corner, but it felt sterile, almost clinical. It lacked that comforting, personal touch. The little things that made a place feel like it was hers. Nothing in the space had any trace of her personality. No well-worn books, no mementos from her travels, no photographs. Just four walls and sterile, corporate furniture that felt more like a temporary stopover than a place to settle into.

As she mulled it over, she realized she was still uncertain about what she was really doing here in Willowbrook. Sure, the town had its charm, but could it be more than a fleeting escape from the bustle of city life? She’d come to Willowbrook for a change of pace, a breath of fresh air, but it wasn’t exactly home - not yet. But maybe it could be. Maybe for just a little longer. A few more days, a few more weeks... But could she really commit? Could she see herself living here, even temporarily?

She wasn’t sure, but for now, the decision would have to wait. She still hadn’t explored much of the town - just the bookshop and the diner. She had to admit that the bookshop was quickly becoming a favourite haunt. The smell of aged paper, the creaky floorboards, the endless shelves that invited you to lose yourself in another world. And, if she was being honest, it had something to do with the owner too. There was something warm about Lisa, a quiet kind of charm that made Carla linger a little longer than she might have otherwise. As for the diner, she had to admit, it was one of the best meals she’d had in ages. The comforting clink of plates, the hum of a busy kitchen, the food was simple but satisfying. But there was more to Willowbrook. She was sure of it.

Determined to get to know the town better, she decided to spend the day exploring. At least before making any big decisions. After all, Willowbrook had to have more to offer than just a couple of places.

Her first stop was the café. She was in the mood for breakfast, and Lisa had mentioned the bacon butty the night before. Carla couldn't resist the idea of bacon tucked between warm, buttered bread - especially with extra ketchup. She didn’t feel like enduring another hotel breakfast. There was nothing wrong with it, but nothing could beat freshly cooked food from a café.

The walk to the café was short, but it was a lovely one. As she strolled down the street, her eyes took in the town around her. There were old buildings with ivy creeping up their walls, vibrant flower boxes hanging from windows, and the occasional burst of colour from a bright door or a whimsical shop sign. She couldn’t help but marvel at the difference from London. She’d never been much of a walker. London was so grey and impersonal, with its towering buildings and endless stretches of concrete. But Willowbrook? Willowbrook was different. The crisp air, the bright blue sky, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. It was like the town itself invited you to slow down, to breathe.

By the time she reached the café, she realized she’d hardly noticed the walk. The town was so picturesque that it made her forget about time. Inside, the warmth from the radiator and the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee welcomed her. The café had a cozy, intimate atmosphere, with soft chatter from the locals and the clink of cups and saucers. There was a low hum of a radio playing light folk music in the background, and it felt like the world outside had paused just for a moment. Carla ordered her bacon butty and coffee and then settled into a corner seat by the window.

The food arrived promptly, and it looked every bit as good as Lisa had promised. Carla grinned as she saw the generous squirt of ketchup oozing from the side. She took a cautious bite, and her eyes widened in delight. The richness of the warm bacon, the soft bread, and the ketchup hit all the right notes. The flavours were simple, but each bite was a little slice of heaven.

She took a few more bites, savouring the flavours as she sipped her coffee. The café was filled with the sounds of the town: people chatting, the clinking of plates, the occasional burst of laughter. But all of it felt like a soundtrack to the calm, steady rhythm of life in Willowbrook. It was the kind of place where time didn’t rush by. Carla felt herself leaning back in her chair, her eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the town looked even more magical. The streets winding past buildings that seemed to have stories to tell. It almost felt like a town plucked from the pages of a book. And as soon as that thought entered her mind, she found herself pulling out her phone.

It had been so long since she’d had any real inspiration, but something about the town, about the moment, made her want to write. She opened her notes app and quickly typed under the heading Story Ideas: A small town where time moves slower (literal???)... an escape…a lifeline.

It wasn’t much, just a spark of an idea, but it felt good. For the first time in a long while, she felt the urge to create. She tucked her phone back into her bag, finished the last bite of her bacon butty, and sipped her coffee, content.

When she left the café, the weather had warmed up slightly, and she could hear the faint rustling of leaves in the trees. She stepped back into the street, eager to see more. She didn’t want to return to the hotel just yet. She wanted to walk, to see what else Willowbrook had to offer.

Wandering down the main street, she noticed more of the town’s quirky charm. She passed by a bakery, its warm, sugary scent wafting out into the street, and a small antique store where the bell above the door jingled every time someone entered or left. The shopkeepers, busy inside, waved cheerfully to one another. There was something so peaceful about it all, so... right.

Somehow, the pace of the town seemed to match the rhythm of her thoughts. No one was rushing around, eyes fixed on their phones or trying to beat the clock. People were chatting with neighbours, walking their dogs, even just sitting on a bench in the park, watching the world go by. Carla couldn’t help but smile. It was the kind of town where you didn’t feel guilty for slowing down. Where it felt okay to stop and breathe, to take in the little things, to notice the sunlight filtering through the trees or the quiet hum of life around you.

As she neared the end of the street, something caught her eye. A small shop nestled between two others, with a faded poster flapping gently in the breeze. The words were still legible: House to Sublet – Fully Furnished, 3 Months – Call Now!

She slowed her pace, intrigued. There was something about the idea of a real home, even for just a few months, that tugged at her heart. She’d been debating whether to extend her hotel stay or return to London, but the thought of having a proper place, a real home, even if only for a short time, felt like the perfect solution. The house might be the change of pace she needed, a way to stay in Willowbrook a little longer without feeling like a visitor.

Without thinking too much about it, she pulled out her phone and dialled the number on the poster. The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Is this the number for the house sublet?” Carla asked, her voice casual, though her heart beat a little faster.

“Yes! Yes, it is!” The voice on the other end was sharp, almost breathless. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting many calls. We don’t get a lot of visitors here. How can I help you?”

“I saw your poster,” Carla said, leaning casually against a nearby lamppost. “Is the place still available?”

“Oh, yes! Absolutely! I need to get it rented out as soon as possible,” the voice responded quickly, with an edge of urgency. “I’ve got a family emergency, and I need to leave for America soon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Carla said softly, her empathy kicking in. “I hope everything’s okay.”

“Hopefully,” came the rushed reply. “But I need to go soon. I was hoping to have the house sorted before I left.”

Carla, though still intrigued, wasn’t about to make a hasty decision. “Can I come by and have a look at the house?”

“Of course! Absolutely!” The voice answered almost too eagerly. “I’ll give you the address. It’s at 44 Orchard Lane. Just head down the main road, take the second right, and you’ll see the big brick house with blue flowers out front. I’ll be there to show you around. No deposits, no upfront payments. Everything’s sorted with my landlord. If everything looks good, you can move in tomorrow.”

The offer was quick and straightforward, almost too good to be true, but there was something refreshing about the simplicity of it. It felt right. The house sounded perfect, the location ideal. Maybe it was just what she needed. A place to stay while she figured things out. No pressure, no strings attached. Just a place to be for a little while.

“Alright, I’ll be there soon,” Carla replied, feeling a surge of excitement. “Thanks.”

“No problem! See you soon!” The line clicked off.

Carla looked at her phone for a moment, letting the decision settle in her mind. A house. A real place to stay. It didn’t have to be permanent, but it was a start. She could see it, feel it, and take her time deciding what to do next. There was no rush. Taking a deep breath, Carla turned towards Orchard Lane, ready to see the house and maybe, just maybe, find the home she had been searching for.

She could feel the town’s charm tugging at her already: the bookshop, the café, the small-town friendliness, Lisa. But this was different. A home meant she could stay longer, settle in, and truly experience the rhythm of Willowbrook. It would also give her the opportunity to spend more time with Lisa, something she hadn’t allowed herself to think too much about until now. Without the looming uncertainty of having to leave at a moment’s notice, she could enjoy the people and places that had started to intrigue her.

Her pace quickened as she walked along the street, the prospect of a home for the next few months pulling her forward with quiet enthusiasm. Willowbrook had already offered more than she expected, and she was eager to see what else it had in store. The idea of a fresh start was both exhilarating and calming, and the thought of settling in felt like a weight slowly lifting from her chest.

Today, it seemed, was the beginning of something new. And for the first time in a long while, Carla felt like she was on the right path, the ground beneath her feet solid and reassuring.

Carla arrived at 44 Orchard Lane, pausing for a moment at the end of the quiet street. The brick house stood nestled in the greenery, a beautiful, traditional structure. Its modest size made it feel homely, not too big, not too small. The front yard was dotted with bright blue flowers -lobelias, if Carla had to guess - each bloom reaching toward the sunlight. The house had a peaceful, almost storybook quality to it, tucked away from the hustle of the main road.

Before she could even raise her hand to knock, the door swung open, revealing a woman in her early thirties. She had dishevelled dark hair that framed her face and a warm but slightly rushed smile.

“Hi!” the woman said, her voice bright but carrying a hint of urgency, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day. “You must be here to see the house?”

Carla blinked, momentarily surprised by the immediate recognition. “Ah yes. I’m the one who called earlier.”

“Sorry if this all seems really rushed. This family emergency came out of nowhere. I’m a little flustered trying to get everything sorted before I can leave. I’m Maggie, by the way.”

Carla shook her hand with a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you, Maggie. I’m Carla.”

“Carla,” Maggie repeated, as if committing it to memory. “Well, come on in. I’ll show you around.”

Carla stepped inside, and a wave of warmth and familiarity instantly enveloped her. The house was everything she had hoped for and more. Soft light streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, filling the space with a calm, welcoming fragrance. It was the kind of place that made you feel at home right away, like you were meant to be there.

The living room was filled with character. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with novels and knick-knacks. A small fire crackled merrily in the corner, its gentle warmth a welcome touch despite the mild weather outside. Carla’s eyes lingered on the vintage armchairs, the deep red fabric giving the room a cozy, lived-in feel. There was a framed painting of a lake on the wall, a soft blue that made the whole room feel like it was connected to the natural world outside.

“I really love the feel of this place,” Carla said, her voice soft as she took it all in. “It’s so cozy.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Maggie replied, walking over to a small table by the window, her fingers brushing the edge as she glanced back at Carla. “I really did mean what I said over the phone. The landlords on board with everything, and I’ve got the lease all set up. No deposit, no upfront costs.”

Carla considered this for a moment. The offer was so refreshingly straightforward, with none of the complicated paperwork she had grown used to. She hadn’t expected things to be this easy. Especially not in a small town like Willowbrook, where everyone seemed to move at their own pace. There was something about Maggie’s urgency that made Carla trust her instinctively. The house felt real, and the opportunity felt right.

“That sounds perfect,” Carla said, the words slipping out easily, her smile widening. The weight she had been carrying for the last few weeks, the uncertainty about where to go next, seemed to lighten just a little more.

Maggie’s face lit up with a smile of her own. “Great! We can get the paperwork done right away, if you’re ready.”

Carla nodded, feeling an unexpected sense of clarity settle over her. For the first time in months, she felt like she was taking a step in the right direction, even if it was just a small one.

“I’m ready,” Carla said, her voice firm and confident. “Let’s do it.”

“Here it is,” Maggie said, her voice warm yet still carrying a touch of the flurry she was trying to manage. She handed Carla a single sheet of paper, the lease agreement. “I’ve already filled in the basics. Just read over it, and if everything looks good, you can sign.”

Carla glanced over the paperwork, reading carefully. The lease was simple, with no hidden clauses or confusing fine print. Everything seemed in order. Clear terms, no deposits, no upfront payments. Maggie had truly thought everything through, making sure everything was set up for an easy transition. It was one of the most straightforward deals Carla had encountered in a long time, and she found herself appreciating that simplicity.

She nodded to herself, impressed by the clarity of it all. No surprises, no catches. Just a solid, no-frills agreement for a temporary stay in a house that, with each passing moment, felt more and more like a place she could truly call home.

After a moment of consideration, Carla signed the paperwork, the pen gliding smoothly across the page. Maggie smiled as she took the signed documents from her.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, handing Carla the keys to the house. “I’m getting on the first flight I can to America. You’ll be able to move in as quickly as tomorrow. Everything’s ready for you.”

Carla took the keys, her fingers closing around the cool metal, feeling a rush of relief and excitement. “Thank you, Maggie. I think this could be just what I needed,” she said, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. “I promise to take good care of the house.”

Maggie nodded, a reassuring smile on her face. “I don’t doubt that, Carla. I really think you’ll love it here.”

Carla stood up, tucking the keys into her pocket. She felt a wave of calm wash over her. The decision had been made, and the next step of her journey was already beginning. Willowbrook, with its quiet charm, was starting to feel like the fresh start she had been hoping for.

“Good luck with everything in America,” Carla said, offering Maggie one last smile.

“Thanks,” Maggie replied, her eyes lighting up with appreciation. “Take care of the place, and I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

Carla gave her a final nod, then turned toward the door. The decision was made. She would be staying in Willowbrook for a little while longer, and Carla couldn’t help but think she had made the right decision. The soft click of the door behind her echoed in the quiet house, a new chapter beginning with each step she took.

Carla made her way to Lisa’s bookstore for the third day in a row, the excitement of her new living situation still buzzing in her chest. The small town was starting to feel more and more like a place she could settle into, with its cobblestone streets and the soft murmur of daily life that seemed to slow everything down. The sound of birds calling out as the sun dipped below the horizon, the distant hum of conversations as people passed by. Everything felt like it was slowly wrapping her in a quiet, reassuring embrace. Lisa had quickly become someone she could trust, someone she wanted to share this moment with. Each day she spent in Willowbrook, each conversation with Lisa, made her feel like she was unearthing a new layer of herself and the town she had come to love.

As she approached the door to the bookstore, the familiar jingling of the bell greeted her, the sound a comforting signal of safety and welcome. She pushed the door open, feeling the cool air from outside mix with the warmness of the bookshop.

Carla stood there for a moment, watching her. The way Lisa's hair fell loosely around her face, the way she bit her lower lip as she worked. Everything about her was easy to watch, comforting in its familiarity. The light from the overhead light cast soft shadows on Lisa’s face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and for a moment, Carla just took it all in.

Before Carla could approach, she heard Lisa's voice float over her shoulder. "We close in 2 minutes."

Carla grinned, her own voice tinged with a teasing note. “Good thing I’ve come for a chat then and not a book,” she replied, feeling a little lighter at the prospect of spending time with Lisa outside the usual routine.

At that, Lisa’s head snapped up, her eyes locking with Carla’s as a smile tugged at her lips. “Didn’t think I’d be getting to see you today,” she teased, but there was something else in her voice. Something a little quieter, almost as if she was relieved to see Carla. The way her shoulders relaxed as she looked at her, the brief softness in her eyes. It was as if Lisa had been waiting for this moment too, just to see her, to know how she was doing.

Carla raised an eyebrow, playing along. "You thought I wouldn’t see you on my last night at the hotel?" she teased, crossing the threshold into the shop, feeling an unexpected sense of home just by being there.

At that, Lisa’s face faltered for a brief moment. Her smile slipped just a little, and her gaze dropped to the desk, as if she were momentarily unsure of how to respond. The shift was subtle, but Carla noticed it

“You made up your mind then?” Lisa asked softly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant, as though she were bracing herself for something she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear. “Going back to the big city?”

“Well…” Carla began, her voice trailing off. She had wanted to tease Lisa a little longer, drag her performance out but after seeing Lisa’s disappointment she didn’t want to wait to tell her the news any longer.

“That’s what I’ve actually come to talk about,” she said finally, her voice steady but filled with something else; an excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time. She met Lisa’s eyes and let the words spill out, her heart thumping in her chest. “I’m not extending my stay in the hotel,” Carla continued, watching Lisa closely. "But… I’ve found a place to stay! I’m moving into a house here in Willowbrook. It’s all set. I have the keys and everything.”

Lisa blinked, her lips parting slightly as if the words didn’t quite register at first. She just stared at Carla for a moment, her expression a mixture of shock and delight. Then, a slow smile spread across her face, a wide, genuine grin that made her eyes sparkle with warmth. She laughed softly, the sound light and filled with relief.

“How long are you staying for?” Lisa asked, her voice still tinged with a sense of disbelief, as if the news had only just settled in.

“Three months,” Carla answered, a smile tugging at her lips as she saw the change in Lisa’s demeanour.

“Well, I guess I better get used to seeing you around more then,” Lisa said, a teasing glint in her eyes. She leaned against the counter, her arms folded across her chest, but there was a warmth in her voice that made Carla’s chest tighten in a way that felt good. It was the kind of warmth you only found in small towns, where connections seemed to grow effortlessly between people.

“Oh, you’re going to be stuck with me,” Carla said, grinning playfully. “By the end of the three months, you’ll be wishing you filed for a restraining order.”

They both laughed, the sound of it light and carefree, echoing off the bookshelves around them. It was such an easy, natural moment. One that made Carla feel like she truly belonged here. The connection between them was already so comfortable, like they’d known each other for years, not just days.

“I’m really happy for you,” Lisa said, her voice sincere, and the warmth in her tone made Carla’s heart swell. “I think this could be good for you. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’ve seen a difference in you already, and it’s only been a few days.”

Carla’s smile softened, grateful for the kindness in Lisa’s words. “Thanks, Lisa. I think so too.” She paused, feeling something shift inside her. There was a subtle strength growing within her, something that had been missing for a long time. It felt like she was standing on the edge of something new, and with Lisa’s support, she was ready to take the leap.

“Right, that settles it,” Lisa said, suddenly animated. “We’ve got to celebrate. What do you fancy going to the pub for a few drinks?”

Carla raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a grin at the excitement in Lisa’s voice. “A few drinks at the pub? I think that sounds like exactly what I need right now.”

Lisa’s eyes lit up like a spark had been ignited inside her. She leaned forward, her excitement bubbling over. “Now that’s what I like to hear! Thought I was going to have to convince you a little longer.” She gave Carla a wink, her grin mischievous. “Willowbrook’s finest pub is calling your name. You won’t regret it.”

“Alright, Lisa. Lead the way.”

Lisa grinned widely, pushing herself off the counter, her energy infectious. “Follow me. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

As they walked toward the pub, the cool evening air wrapped around Carla like a fresh embrace, carrying the scent of pine and earth, the whisper of distant conversation floating through the streets. The sun was beginning to set, casting the town in a soft, golden light that seemed to give everything a dreamy, almost magical quality. For the first time in a long while, Carla felt at peace, as if every step she had taken had brought her to this moment, to this place. Willowbrook was starting to feel like home.

For the first time in ages, Carla felt like she was truly on the right path. And having someone like Lisa beside her in this journey made the decision to stay a little longer feel like the best one she had made in years.

Chapter Text

As they neared the pub, the low hum of laughter and music spilled out into the street, a sign that the evening was well underway. The soft glow of golden light from the Oak & Ivy’s windows flickered against the darkening sky, casting a warm, inviting hue over the cobblestone street. The familiar strains of a folk tune drifted through the chilly evening air, mingling with the earthy scent of wet leaves and pine from the trees lining the path. There was a particular magic in the air, the kind that whispered of stories to be shared and memories made.

The Oak & Ivy was already buzzing with the low hum of conversation when Lisa and Carla stepped inside. The pub’s warm glow wrapped around them like a cozy blanket, the scent of wood polish and something rich and hearty lingering in the air. Perhaps a stew simmering in the kitchen, or freshly cooked chips. It was the kind of scent that spoke of tradition, of home-cooked meals and simple pleasures, a place where time moved just a little slower, allowing everyone to savour the moment.

A fireplace crackled in the far corner, casting flickering light across the rustic wooden beams overhead. The flames seemed to dance with a life of their own, their orange and red glow reflecting off the weathered wood, making the space feel both intimate and timeless. Carla felt a flutter of excitement stir in her chest. A small, unexpected wave of contentment. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed moments like this, where the world outside seemed to fall away, leaving only warmth, good company, and the quiet hum of a place that knew its purpose.

Lisa barely had to look around before spotting an empty table near the window. “Over here,” she said, tilting her head toward it, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her voice, familiar and confident, carried the assurance of someone who belonged here, who was a part of this rhythm.

She guided them to a table near the back, tucked slightly away from the more crowded sections, where a group of regulars were already deep in conversation. Laughter rang out intermittently, mingling with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors. The sounds blended together in a way that felt alive, filling the air with a sense of community, of belonging.

Carla pulled off her coat and draped it over the back of her chair before settling into the seat opposite Lisa. She took a slow look around, allowing herself to fully take in the surroundings. “This place is cute,” she said, her voice a soft murmur as she glanced around at the mismatched tables and old-fashioned light fixtures. “Very… Willowbrook.”

Lisa chuckled as she slid into the seat across from her, the sound like a small melody in the midst of the pub’s hum. “And what exactly does ‘very Willowbrook’ mean?” she asked, her tone teasing, yet genuinely curious.

Carla smirked, leaning back slightly in her chair as she surveyed the room. “You know, charming. Cosy. A little bit like stepping into a different planet.” She gestured toward the fireplace, where the flames crackled and popped. “I mean, look at that. It’s like it was designed for people to sit around and exchange deep, meaningful stories.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “I hate to break it to you, but most of the time people are just gossiping about their neighbours or arguing about football scores.”

“Shame,” Carla said, sighing dramatically, though the corners of her lips twitched upward in amusement. “There goes my romanticized small-town fantasy.”

Lisa’s laugh rang out, unguarded and light, and for a brief moment, Carla felt her heart warm at the sound. It was one of those laughs that seemed to bubble up effortlessly, like it belonged there, in this space. Carla couldn’t help but notice how something about Lisa’s presence made the world seem just a little bit brighter, a little more comfortable. Maybe it was the way Lisa was so at ease in her own skin, or the way she made the ordinary moments feel special. Carla wasn’t sure, but there was definitely something magnetic about her.

“What’s this about a small-town fantasy?” Lisa asked once she finished laughing, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Carla said, shrugging lightly, as though she were just putting the thought into words for the first time. “You always hear these stories, right? About people who come to places like this and find themselves. Guess I wanted to give it a go.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I found myself,” Lisa said thoughtfully, her voice growing a little quieter, “but this town was definitely good for me. I’m sure it will be good for you too. You might not find the grand life-changing moment you’re expecting, but you might find something just as good. Something that sneaks up on you.”

Carla was quiet for a moment, the words hanging in the air between them. She looked into Lisa’s eyes, something in her chest stirring, a feeling of unexpected hope. “Yeah, well, even if I don’t figure everything out in my head,” she said softly, meeting Lisa’s gaze again, “I’m definitely going to enjoy my next three months here.”

The words felt like a promise to herself. A quiet surrender to the unknown, a decision to embrace what was right in front of her without overthinking it. There was something in Lisa’s eyes that made her want to stay. The very idea of staying here, of letting herself fall into this unexpected space with Lisa, felt right. It felt natural.

Lisa's smile softened at Carla’s words, her gaze unwavering. It was a smile that spoke of something deeper, something warm and genuine. Lisa leaned back in her seat with a quiet, contented sigh, her body relaxed but her eyes still shining with sincerity.

“I’m really glad you’re sticking around,” Lisa said, her voice low and steady, as if she was sharing something precious.

There was something in the way she said it, a tenderness in her tone that made Carla’s heart skip again. Willowbrook, this little town, had already begun to work its subtle magic on her in ways she hadn’t expected. But it wasn’t just the place. It was Lisa, too. The connection between them was undeniable. It was starting to feel like a constant thread weaving through everything. Every conversation, every quiet moment, every smile shared. It was all slowly pulling Carla in deeper, and she couldn’t quite tell if that scared her or excited her more.

Lisa spoke again causing Carla to refocus her attention back to the blonde “Willowbrook’s got a way of getting under your skin. It’s a little bit like an itch you can’t scratch… in the best way possible.”

Carla laughed, the sound light and genuine. She couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her chest when she was around Lisa. “Yeah, well, I guess the company isn’t that bad either.”

Lisa’s face broke into a grin, and she shook her head with mock indignation. “Oi! I’m definitely better company than ‘not bad’.”

“I suppose so,” Carla teased, her lips curving into a playful smile.

Lisa laughed again, her voice echoing in the cozy corner of the pub. She stood up, brushing a hand through her hair. “Right, let me get a round in. I was the one to suggest we celebrate after all. What are you drinking?”

“You’re the local. What’s good here?” Carla asked, raising an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

“Surely you should be the one trying stuff to figure out what you like,” Lisa said, giving her a cheeky grin, “but I’m partial to a lager or a cider. I like the red the best though.”

Carla smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’ll take a red wine.”

“Coming right up,” Lisa said with a wink, her confidence as natural as the steps she took toward the bar.

Carla watched Lisa walk toward the bar, her movements easy and fluid, like she knew the place as well as her own kitchen. There was something about the way Lisa carried herself: her confidence, the effortless way she fit into this world. It made Carla’s gaze linger longer than she intended. She quickly looked away, feeling a small flutter in her chest, something unfamiliar and a little too quick to place. She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It was probably just the excitement of making a new friend. Someone who genuinely enjoyed her company for who she was, not the persona the world often saw.

She glanced around the pub again, her senses absorbing every little detail. The flickering light from the fire cast soft, golden shadows that danced across the worn wooden floors, making the room feel alive. Each crackle of the flames added to the coziness, creating a soft crackling soundtrack to the conversations swirling around her. The hum of voices, the clink of glass on glass, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the space, wrapping it all in a comforting, almost nostalgic energy. It felt like the walls themselves were humming with the stories of the people who came here, day after day. And in that moment, Carla couldn’t help but feel like she belonged to something much bigger than herself.

Yeah, she was definitely content in her decision to extend her stay. The thought settled comfortably in her chest, and she let it linger. The decision wasn’t just about the town, but the life she was carving out for herself here. It felt like the right place, like maybe it wasn’t about finding the grand, life-changing moment she had expected, but something quieter, steadier, more fulfilling. She could breathe here. She could be herself here. And maybe in time she could learn to love her job again. She would learn to love writing again.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lisa returned with their drinks; two glasses of red wine filled to the brim.

She set the glass of deep red wine in front of Carla with a triumphant smile. “There you go. You’ll thank me later. The best wine in Willowbrook.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You sound pretty confident. I’m intrigued now.”

Lisa shrugged, sliding into her seat across from Carla. The way she moved, comfortable in her own skin, only added to her effortless charm. “I’ve had my fair share of terrible pub wine, so trust me when I say this one’s a gem.” She took a sip of her own wine, her eyes catching Carla’s for a fleeting moment, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. The air between them felt charged in that moment. “So, what’s the verdict?”

Carla took a tentative sip, her eyes closing for just a second as the rich, smooth flavour danced across her tongue. The wine was surprisingly good - velvety and balanced, with a hint of blackberries and vanilla, the taste lingering on her palate.

She set the glass down, the warmth of the wine spreading through her chest. She didn’t want to admit that Lisa had nailed it, but there was no denying it. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you this one. It’s good.”

Lisa’s eyes twinkled with mischief, her voice dropping to a playful tone as she leaned forward just a fraction. “Well, I do have a knack for picking out the good stuff,” she said with a smirk, her gaze holding Carla’s for a beat longer than necessary. There was something in the way she looked at her, something that made Carla’s heart flutter without her even realizing it.

“Oh yeah?” Carla teased, feeling her pulse quicken slightly.

“I’ve got excellent taste in alcohol, great taste in books, and the list goes on,” Lisa replied with a wink, her smile wide, as if she was delighting in every moment of their back-and-forth.

Carla chuckled. “You’ve got such a big ego.” She took another sip of her wine, the smooth liquid soothing her. “Besides, how do I know you didn’t just ask the bartender what’s nice?”

Lisa dramatically placed a hand on her chest, pretending to be wounded. “How dare you accuse me of lying?” she said, her voice dripping with mock offense. She took another sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling with playful defiance. “I mean, I’d be happy to prove you wrong. Whenever you’re ready for round two. I could show you around town.”

Carla leaned back in her chair, an amused smile curling her lips. “Hate to break your bubble, but I’ve already been on my own tour of the town. I wasn’t going to move here without checking it all out.”

Lisa’s fingers glided up and down the stem of her wine glass, a sly smirk playing at her lips. “Ah, but I bet you don’t know about all the secret spots.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “Secret spots, huh? Now you’ve got my attention.” She leaned forward slightly, the challenge in her voice obvious. “Do tell, what exactly makes them ‘secret’?”

Lisa’s smile deepened, her voice lowering as though she was sharing something precious. “Well, let’s just say they’re places that aren’t in any of the tourist brochures. The kind of spots only the real locals know about. Think hidden views, quiet corners. Maybe even a place that serves the best late-night snacks.”

Carla laughed, clearly amused by the idea. “Late-night snacks, huh? Sounds like you’re trying to tempt me.”

“I don’t need to try hard,” Lisa said with a casual shrug, her eyes twinkling with a playful challenge. “I’ve already got you intrigued.”

Carla’s smile softened, her heartwarming at the easy camaraderie between them. It felt natural, easy, like they had known each other for far longer than just a couple nights. I’ll admit, I’m curious.” She set her glass down, leaning in just a little more. “How about you take me to one of these places, and we see if it really lives up to the hype?”

Lisa paused, her gaze intense, holding Carla’s eyes with an almost unspoken promise. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, the noise of the pub fading into the background. “Deal,” Lisa said, her voice quieter now, almost intimate. “But be warned. These spots are only for those who can handle a little bit of... adventure.” Lisa teased.

Carla’s heart skipped a beat, her breath catching just slightly. She smiled, her voice dropping to match the intimacy in the air. “I think I can handle it.”

“Well then,” Lisa said, leaning back in her chair with a smile, her tone shifting back to teasing. “Looks like you’ve got a real tour guide for the next few months.” She gave Carla a wink, her voice returning to its light, playful cadence. “Hope you’re ready for some unexpected detours.”

Carla couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face, soft and genuine. It was a smile that felt different from any other she’d given in years. It was unburdened, free. She’d smiled more times in Lisa’s presence in the last few hours than she had in the last eight years.

“Well, I look forward to it,” she said softly, her voice full of a quiet anticipation that mirrored the excitement rising in her chest.

Noticing that their wine glasses were empty, Carla stood up, her movement fluid and deliberate. She let the moment stretch out for a second, feeling the gentle pull of the evening settle around her like a comfortable blanket. As she rose from the table, Lisa’s gaze shifted toward her, a raised eyebrow silently questioning where Carla was headed.

“My turn for a round. Same again?” Carla asked, her tone light but with an underlying sense of purpose.

“Yeah, ta,” Lisa replied, her voice warm and relaxed, as though she had already settled into the rhythm of the night and the ease of their ongoing banter. There was a quiet kind of trust in her tone, a confidence in the simplicity of the evening.

Carla turned toward the bar, her steps measured and unhurried. The sounds of the pub: a low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter seemed to surround her in a soft cocoon. She didn’t rush, didn’t feel the need to hurry; something told her that tonight, at least, would stretch on longer than usual. There was no urgency in the air, just the quiet comfort of a night unfolding at its own pace. She decided she didn’t want to make multiple trips to the bar, didn’t want to break the easy flow of conversation. Instead, she was determined to settle in, to savour the evening, to hold onto this pocket of contentment for just a little while longer. And so, she decided to buy a whole bottle of wine. If they didn’t finish it tonight, then they always could another day she reasoned.

When she returned to the table, the bottle of wine in her hand, Lisa’s eyes flickered up to meet hers, and that same knowing smile curved her lips. It was a smile that didn’t need to ask questions because it already knew the answer. Carla had made up her mind. The night wasn’t over yet, it wouldn’t be for a while. Neither was their time together.

“Look at you, all practical,” Lisa teased, her voice light but carrying a certain warmth. She took the bottle from Carla, her fingers brushing against hers for just a moment before she uncorked it with a practiced twist. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. I thought you’d be the type to have one glass and go”

Carla settled back into her chair, feeling the warmth of the wine bottle still in her hand. Her smirk deepened as she looked across the table, the playful edge to her voice unmistakable. “You’d be surprised what I can handle.” She paused for a beat, her expression softening as her voice dropped slightly, the words carrying a weight that seemed to hang between them. “Besides, we are celebrating. Who’s to say I don’t want to make the most of my time here?”

Lisa’s gaze softened at the shift in Carla’s tone. It was as if something unspoken passed between them in that brief silence - something gentle and meaningful. “I like that,” Lisa murmured, her voice quieter now. She topped up their glasses before setting the bottle down with deliberate care. It was as if she was afraid to make too much noise encase their moment was broken. “To making the most of things.”

“To making the most of things,” Carla echoed, her voice steady but filled with a quiet sense of possibility, a shared understanding that felt as though it was just beginning to take shape.

They clinked glasses, the sound ringing out, clear and true, like the affirmation of a promise. For a fleeting moment, the world outside the pub seemed to recede distant laughter, the crackling fire, the clatter of cutlery all faded into the background. Everything shrank down to just the two of them, the shared connection in this small, intimate space. It was effortless, this bond that had quietly formed, but in its simplicity, it felt deeply meaningful. Carla’s chest warmed, a soft, lingering sensation she couldn’t quite put into words but was more than willing to embrace. It was a feeling that, for the first time in a long while, felt like it might actually last.

Chapter Text

Carla stood at the front desk, her suitcase trailing behind her, the faint, steady clink of the wheels on the smooth tile floor breaking the otherwise still air of the lobby. The woman at the counter, who had greeted her warmly on her first day, now flashed a friendly smile as Carla handed over the room key, the little metal tag slipping easily from her hand into the woman's outstretched palm.

"Thanks for everything," Carla said, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of something deeper - a sense of relief she couldn’t quite hide. She nodded politely, but inside, she felt a lightness rising in her chest, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time. The temporary comfort of the hotel was behind her now, and it felt like stepping out of a cocoon, shedding something old and heavy.

The woman’s smile remained, sincere and bright. “No problem at all. Hope you had a great time in Willowbrook!” Her voice was unaffected, casually cheerful, as if there were nothing unusual about a guest leaving after only a short stay.

Carla’s own smile softened, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. Little does she know, Carla thought, the corner of her lips lifting with a knowing glint. She wasn’t leaving Willowbrook. No. For Carla, this was just the beginning, the start of something more permanent. A three-month chapter in a town she had unexpectedly grown fond of.

A quiet thrill bubbled up inside her, spreading warmth across her chest. The thought of spending more time in Willowbrook: the slower pace, the stillness, the unassuming charm of it all. It was enough to make her feel almost giddy. I’m really feeling better already, she thought, the realization sinking in. Here, the weight of expectations didn’t follow her. Here, she was free to be herself.

The cool morning air greeted her like an old friend as she stepped out of the hotel’s double doors, the crisp breeze brushing against her cheeks. For a moment, she paused, looking out at the sleepy streets. The town was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped around her like a soft blanket, so different from the constant hum and buzz of London. The streets were picturesque, almost too perfect in their simplicity. Everything was within walking distance here. The faint chirp of birds and the distant rustle of leaves in the trees were the only sounds that filled the space around her.

In Willowbrook, she wasn’t the celebrity with a thousand eyes on her. She was just Carla. Someone who could walk down the street without being recognized, who could enjoy the simple pleasures of a cup of coffee or a quiet morning without the shadow of expectations hanging over her. Here, I’m just like everyone else, she realized. And for Carla, that was the greatest gift of all. It was a freedom she hadn’t felt in years, and it was the freedom that kept her here.

With a quiet sigh, she turned and walked toward the back of the hotel, the soft crunch of gravel beneath her boots the only sound in the otherwise still morning. The rhythmic sound was oddly comforting, like the town itself was telling her to slow down, to breathe, to savour the moment. When she reached the car park, she paused, staring at her car. It had been parked there the entire time, untouched, as the town’s charming streets had called her to walk.

For the first time since she arrived, Carla was going to use the car. The simple act of driving felt symbolic somehow. She hadn’t needed it. Everything in Willowbrook was so close, so accessible on foot. The town was so picturesque that it made walking feel easy. This town that was once a temporary place. A place to just get away from the pressure but now, as she stood there, she realized she was about to leave behind the hotel, the temporary life she’d built for a new kind of permanence.

She slid her suitcase into the backseat, the familiar motion oddly grounding. I didn’t pack much, she thought, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She had packed for a couple of days - maybe a week max. She didn’t think she would be gone long and when she first arrived, she was convinced that a short break was all she needed. Not three months. She would need to shop, buy new clothes. The thought made her smile. She loved shopping. And she couldn’t help but wonder what the clothes shops were like here. Definitely not as big and glamorous as the shops in London. But that was the part of the charm’s town.

Sitting down behind the wheel, Carla took a deep breath. The air felt different here. Fresher, lighter and she relished the sensation as she clicked her seatbelt into place. The small town might not have the rush of the city, but it had a quiet strength, an understated rhythm. She turned the key in the ignition, the car humming to life as she pulled out of the hotel parking lot.

The drive was short, just a few minutes, but something about it felt monumental. It was as if the very act of driving toward her new home was a step into a new chapter of her life, one she had not expected, but one she was now embracing with a surprising sense of calm.

The house wasn’t far, tucked in a peaceful corner of the town. Carla had already seen it yesterday, but now that she was here, parked in the driveway, she could see it with fresh eyes. The small cottage felt like the perfect size: cozy, inviting, and not overwhelming. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was looking for when she’d chosen this place, but now that she was here, it felt like it had always been the right decision.

With a small sigh, she turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. There was no rush. No need to unpack immediately. The house could wait. I’ll do that later, she thought. She was in no hurry. The thought of breakfast at the café, the warm, familiar feeling of the place, called to her more than the idea of sorting through boxes. And besides, the bookshop was right across the street. She couldn’t resist the temptation of a new book. Or a conversation with the owner.

The quiet hum of the morning wrapped around her as she stood in the driveway, looking at the little house. It wasn’t much, but it was hers for the next few months. And for now, that was enough.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Carla stepped into the café, the warm, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloping her. The cozy, intimate space was just what she needed - quiet, comfortable, and brimming with the kind of warmth that made her feel like she could settle in and breathe. She had been coming here regularly since Lisa had mentioned the little café during one of their many conversations since her arrival in Willowbrook.

A friendly barista with a bright smile waved from behind the counter. “Morning, good to see you again. What’s it to be this morning”

Carla smiled, she was beginning to feel like she belonged in this town and not just like she was a visitor. The locals were so nice, and they were making Carla feel like she was welcome here in Willowbrook as long as she wanted to be there as well.

“I’ll have two bacon butties this morning please. Can I have extra ketchup on one though. Oh, and I’ll take two coffees to go as well please” Carla ordered.

“Having breakfast with someone this morning then. Unless your very hungry and thirsty” The barista smiled, joking around.

Carla laughed softly, her fingers tapping lightly against the counter. “Ha! Yeah, breakfast with someone today”

The barista begins preparing Carla’s order. Ensuring that she smoothers one butty in a lot of ketchup before placing the items into to go bags as well as handing over two coffees. “Here you go,” the woman said with a friendly smile. “Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” Carla replied, her fingers brushing against the warm cups as she picked them up. With the bag in one hand and her coffee in the other, Carla nodded to the barista and made her way toward the door, her footsteps light and easy.

The bookshop was just a short walk away, and the thought of it filled her with a quiet sense of anticipation. Carla had grown unexpectedly fond of the bookshop in the short time she'd been in Willowbrook. It wasn't just the endless rows of books, some old and some new, the scent of aged paper mingling with the faintest trace of coffee - it was something else. It was the feeling of walking into a space where no one expected anything from her. The place had become a haven, not just for its literature, but because of her. Because of Lisa. Lisa had a way of making Carla feel seen without the weight of being looked at – being stared at. It was a concept Carla wasn’t entirely used to, having spent so many years in the spotlight, where every glance had a hidden agenda.

Carla didn’t have to perform when she was with Lisa. She could just be.

She had only last seen Lisa last night but she for some reason she wanted to spend as much time with Lisa as possible. And Carla wasn’t going to fight that feeling. No. She came to Willowbrook to find inspiration, to find herself so she was going to go with the flow. She was going to do whatever felt right in the moment. And right now, spending time with Lisa feels right.

"Special delivery!" Carla called, stepping through the door of Lisa’s bookshop, holding the to-go bag and the coffees aloft as though presenting a small but significant offering. She grinned, despite the flutter in her chest, the nervous excitement that came every time she stepped inside. The moment her eyes found Lisa behind the counter, something in her chest loosened.

Lisa’s head lifted at the sound of her voice, and the moment their gazes met, her face broke into that smile. The kind of smile that could make Carla forget what she’d been thinking about for a split second, as if Lisa’s expression alone had the power to centre her.

"Well, well. Someone’s up early," Lisa said, amusement evident in her voice. There was a playful glint in her eyes as she watched Carla approach the counter. It made Carla feel like she was the only one in the room, like the world outside those bookshop walls had momentarily ceased to exist.

Carla made her way over, her pulse quickening for reasons she couldn’t quite place. It was just Lisa. Just a woman she’d met a few days ago. Yet there was something so easy, so effortless about their connection, it left Carla wondering if she’d stumbled into something she wasn’t entirely ready for.

She handed over the bag and coffee cups, trying not to be too self-conscious. “I got you coffee and food. Probably should’ve checked if you’d eaten first, but, well, I didn’t,” she blurted out, the words tumbling from her mouth in a nervous rush.

The awkwardness hit her immediately, and she cringed internally, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. She tried to brush it off, but she couldn’t help but overthink. Was she too eager? Too much? Like she was trying too hard to do something small and kind, and it might not have even been wanted.

Lisa raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she looked at Carla, clearly amused by her sudden fluster. It was almost as if Lisa knew exactly how Carla was feeling and was letting her work through it. She hadn’t let on that she noticed, but Carla felt it in the way Lisa watched her, with a gentle, unassuming patience.

"You’re a lifesaver," Lisa said, breaking the awkward silence with a laugh. "I woke up late and didn’t have time for breakfast."

Carla let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, the relief flooding her system instantly. "Oh, good. I’m not completely insane then," she said, laughing nervously, though the warmth in her chest felt surprisingly comforting.

Lisa pulled out her sandwich from the bag and immediately grimaced. "What is this?" she asked, holding it up as if it were a foreign object.

Carla froze, the nerves returning in full force. "What’s wrong?"

Lisa looked down at the butty in mock horror. "Too much ketchup."

Carla’s whole body relaxed. The tension that had built up dissolved as laughter bubbled up in her chest. "Oops! That’s mine!" she exclaimed, already reaching for the bag to swap them over. The moment she did, she felt lighter, as if the entire exchange had been some unspoken test that she had passed. Clumsily, but with a bit of humour to smooth over the rough edges.

Carla took a bite of her bacon butty as Lisa did the same. Lisa’s voice was warm and teasing when she next spoke. “You know I don’t normally let people eat in here”

Carla recognised the teasing tone in Lisa’s voice this time and didn’t immediately feel like she was doing something wrong. “Well, we could always go stand outside and you can just stop eating and come back inside like a weirdo whenever you have a customer”

Lisa laughed, shaking her head. “Nah you’re alright” Lisa looked at Carla, her eyes practically sparkling with amusement “I think I can make an exception for you”

Carla grinned, feeling a little more at ease. "Well, it must be my lucky day," she joked, half to herself.

Lisa took another bite of her breakfast, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction “So," she began, leaning back slightly, "what brings you back today? Besides the food, and the amazing company, of course."

Carla rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the smile tugging at her lips. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, though the words didn’t carry the usual edge of sarcasm. She was mostly here for the company and Carla wasn’t sure if she could hide that fact even if she tried. But she wasn’t going to verbally admit that any time soon. She didn’t want to scare Lisa off when they were still getting to know each other, still developing their friendship. "I’m here for a new book," she added, deflecting, though it wasn’t completely untrue.

Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Finished the last one already?"

Carla’s gaze fell to her coffee cup. "Yeah," she said, almost sheepishly. "You were right. I couldn't put it down." She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "And, uh..." she faltered. She wasn’t sure if she should continue her thought. his felt like an admission she wasn’t entirely ready to make, even though, in some ways, it felt important. "I don’t have much else to do."

The weight of the words hung in the air longer than she meant them to. She glanced at Lisa quickly, unsure of how her statement would land. But Lisa just looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing right through the casual words, as if sensing something deeper in the admission. It made Carla feel exposed in a way that was unsettling, but not in a bad way. In fact, there was something oddly reassuring in the look Lisa gave her, as though it was okay - more than okay - to be a little vulnerable.

Lisa smiled then, and her smile was everything. It was warm and soft, but there was something like understanding in it too. “You’re always welcome here. I like the company,” she said simply, the sincerity of her words wrapping around Carla like a blanket.

Carla wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She felt something stir inside her; something tender, something unfamiliar. Her fingers traced the edge of her coffee cup absentmindedly, grounding herself in the sensation of the smooth polystyrene cup. "Thanks," Carla said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the coffee, the warmth of the shop, or something else altogether. But the feeling lingered in her chest, almost too heavy to bear, and yet, somehow comforting in its weight.

Lisa waved a hand, as if brushing away Carla’s moment of silence. "Well, don’t let me stop you," she said, glancing over at the shelves. "Go find yourself a book. Make yourself at home. I’m taking a half-day, so you won’t have long."

Carla raised an eyebrow. "A half-day? Why?"

Lisa shrugged, a playful smirk creeping back to her lips. "There’s this annoying brunette who’s new to town. She just requires all my attention."

Carla froze. Was Lisa... joking? She wasn’t sure. There was an amused glint in Lisa’s eyes, but part of her, the ever-anxious part, wondered if she had inadvertently overstepped a boundary. If she was spending too much of her time bothering Lisa.

As if sensing Carla getting lost in her own head Lisa spoke again. “Carla I was joking”

"Don’t do that to me!" Carla said, her voice sharper than she intended, as her face flushed slightly with embarrassment. “I thought I’d been secretly annoying you all this time.”

Lisa nudged her playfully with her shoulder, a gentle touch that sent a little shock through Carla’s body. "You could never annoy me."

The words hit her unexpectedly. There was no teasing in Lisa’s voice, no sarcasm, just a simple statement of fact. And for some reason, Carla’s cheeks flushed even deeper, a flutter running through her stomach that was so much stronger than it should’ve been.

For the first time in a long while, Carla didn’t know how to take a compliment. She should be used to it. She’s been in the public eye for so long that she’s always being complimented. On her books, on her outfits, on her hair. Every little thing she does ends up in a compliment or a critique. Yet one simple remark from Lisa had left her flustered. It was barely even a compliment, and she still couldn’t help but feel all timid and shy.

She wasn’t sure what to do with the way Lisa made her feel. She felt both at ease and completely unsettled at once. She had never felt like this before.

“So, what are you going to do with your half-day?” Carla asked, trying to keep her voice casual, removing herself from her internal thoughts.

Lisa leaned in slightly, her gaze softening, as though considering the question before answering. “Probably take a walk, maybe go to the gym. Or I’ll treat myself to a takeaway.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “A takeaway? Wow, you’re really pushing the boat out.”

Lisa gave a little laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement. “What can I say, I know how to treat myself,” she replied with a grin, her voice light and easy, but there was something about the way she said it. Something in the way she looked at Carla that made Carla feel suddenly more aware of the space between them.

Carla felt her heart skip a beat when Lisa moved even closer to her. Lisa cleared her throat before speaking again as if she was trying to build up the courage to say something. “You know... if you’re not doing anything later, you could come over to my place. It’s just a cozy little cottage, but I meant it when I said I enjoy your company.”

The invitation caught Carla off guard. She wasn’t expecting this. Her instinct was to pull back, to remind herself of her boundaries, to worry about what this could mean. She’s used to someone doing something nice for her and then expecting something back. That’s just how the famous life worked. But this was Lisa. And Lisa didn’t know who she was. And Lisa made her feel comfortable, safe. She glanced into Lisa’s eyes – those kind, open eyes, full of warmth and sincerity and she felt that urge to retreat just disappear. It felt so natural. So easy. Not like the world she was used to, where everything came with strings attached, where her every move was scrutinized.

Carla blinked “Okay, yeah. I think I’d like that.”

It felt like the kind of thing friends did. Just hanging out. That’s what this was, right? Lisa was her friend now and she did really enjoy Lisa’s company. But as soon as the words left her mouth, Carla felt a flutter in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure whether it was excitement or nerves.

Lisa’s face lit up, her smile wide and warm. “Great! I’ll order a takeaway for two then. Any preferences?”

Carla chuckled softly, feeling a little lighter. “I’ll take whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

Lisa moved from where she was standing, tossing her empty cup and bag into the bin with a casual flick of her wrist.

There was a fleeting moment of peace as they stood there together, the quiet hum of the café surrounding them. Lisa started to walk toward the door, and Carla followed instinctively, the ease of the movement making her feel like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Lisa paused, turning toward her with that mischievous glint returning to her eyes. “Give me your phone,” she said, holding out her hand with a playful grin.

Carla blinked, surprised. “What?”

Lisa just raised an eyebrow, waiting, the corner of her mouth lifting in amusement. “I asked for your phone.”

Carla hesitated for just a moment, that familiar twinge of caution rising in her chest. She’d spent so long keeping herself isolated, protecting her privacy, and now she was handing over her phone so easily. Carla couldn’t help but feel nervous. What if Lisa went searching through her phone. What if Lisa saw all her notes with story plotlines. What if Lisa saw her contacts.

But when she looked at Lisa, her expression so genuinely open and unguarded, Carla couldn’t bring herself to decline. There was something comforting about the trust she felt here, something that made the walls she usually built around herself feel unnecessary.

“Okay,” Carla said, her voice quieter than she intended as she passed her phone over.

Lisa took the phone, her fingers briefly brushing against Carla’s as she grabbed the phone. The simple touch sent an unexpected jolt through Carla’s chest. She swallowed, trying to focus on the small, mundane task at hand.

But still, she couldn’t help the apprehension. “What are you doing with my phone?” Carla asked, her voice betraying a small edge of curiosity, but also a little nervousness.

“Putting my number in,” Lisa said, her eyes glancing up with a mischievous twinkle. “You’ll need it for tonight, won’t you?”

Carla’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of tonight. The idea of being invited over to Lisa’s, spending time with her in her space, felt both exciting and nerve-wracking. But she didn’t pull back. Not this time.

“Fair point,” Carla said the nervousness evaporating from her body.

Lisa handed Carla back her phone, smiling at her as she did so. “You don’t have to stay until I finish my shift, you know. I can just text you the address now.”

Carla smiled, feeling a strange warmth spread through her chest. She appreciated the offer, but she knew if she was going to be spending the evening with Lisa then she needed to actually go back to her new temporary home and unpack her belongings.

“I’d love to stay,” Carla said, the honesty almost surprising her as the words slipped out. “But I’ve got to do some unpacking.”

“Oh right, I forgot about that,” Lisa said, her voice taking on a soft, understanding tone. She nodded as if it made perfect sense. She wasn’t offended that Carla couldn’t stay. In fact, she didn’t want Carla to feel like she had to spend time with her. “If you can’t come over today, we can always reschedule.”

She shook her head. Her decision was made. It wasn’t a decision she had to question. It wasn’t about being impulsive. It was something deeper. The quiet pull of wanting to connect. To be seen, for once, without the weight of expectations pressing on her.

“No. I said yes, didn’t I? I want to come.” Her voice was steady, but there was an underlying vulnerability to it, a gentle admission that she wasn’t just agreeing out of obligation. It was simpler than that. It was something she really wanted, despite her instincts to hide away.

It was simple. Straightforward. And for the first time in what felt like ages, it felt like the right thing to do. Like she wasn’t forcing herself into a situation but rather stepping into something that was already unfolding around her, naturally.

Carla reached for the nearest book on the shelf, her fingers grazing the spine of the novel as if it could ground her. She handed it to Lisa with a little smile, the edges of her lips lifting as though the act of making a choice had somehow lifted the weight off her shoulders. “I’ll take this one.”

Lisa looked down at the book, then back up at Carla, her eyes soft and warm. “On the house,” she said, her voice low, with a hint of mischief, though there was a sincerity behind it. It was a small gesture, but somehow it felt like more. A little offering of kindness that made Carla feel like she was part of something, something simple but meaningful.

Carla opened her mouth to protest, her usual reflex kicking in, the one that wanted to make her decline every good gesture. But before she could get a word out, Lisa raised her hand in playful defeat, a half-smile still lingering on her lips. “Call it a housewarming gift,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Carla chuckled softly, the sound escaping before she could stop it. She shook her head, amused but touched. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?” she asked, the humour in her voice light, but beneath it, she could feel the gentle tug of connection growing between them. It wasn’t just the book, or the food, or the invitations. It was the way Lisa made her feel - like she wasn’t just another customer, or someone to be observed from a distance. She was seen, in a way that felt more intimate than words could explain.

Lisa laughed, the sound light and airy, and it wrapped around Carla like a warm blanket. “Nope,” Lisa replied, and Carla could hear the unspoken meaning in her tone. It wasn’t just about winning or losing. It was about sharing something unspoken, something that didn’t require explanations.

The moment held for a second, both of them standing there, the soft hum of the bookstore enveloping them, as if the world had momentarily faded away. Then Lisa’s voice broke the silence, softer now, with a warmth that made Carla’s heartbeat just a little faster.

“See you tonight?” she asked, her gaze fixed on Carla, no trace of uncertainty in her eyes. It was an invitation, but also a promise.

Carla felt her heart stir at the question, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, she wasn’t overthinking. She wasn’t wondering what it meant or if it was too soon. She was just there, feeling the quiet pull of something real and uncomplicated.

“See you tonight,” Carla echoed, her smile soft, genuine. She meant it, more than she realized. Her chest felt lighter than it had in a long time, and she realized, with a quiet sense of surprise, that she wasn’t worried anymore. She wasn’t thinking about what could go wrong. She wasn’t anticipating the walls she usually built to protect herself. She was just looking forward to something. Something simple, something true.

And for the first time, it felt like enough.

Chapter Text

Carla chose the long route back to her temporary home, even though it meant adding a bit of extra distance to her walk. It was a quiet afternoon, and the cool, crisp air of Willowbrook felt soothing. She could have taken a shortcut, but there was something about wandering the streets that felt peaceful. The town had a slow, gentle rhythm that calmed her nerves, and she wanted to let herself sink into it.

Being in Willowbrook, starting fresh, meeting someone like Lisa. It was a lot to take in. But it also felt like the first real opportunity in years to leave behind the self-consciousness that had been a constant companion. Lisa was different. She was friendly, warm, and she didn’t judge, not in the way that people had in Carla's past. But the doubts still lingered in the back of her mind. They were hard to shake off, especially after so many years of feeling like she never quite fit in.

She had to remind herself that this was different. Willowbrook was a new chapter; one she was writing from scratch. A chapter that didn’t have to be defined by past mistakes or failures. It was a chance to make her own decisions, live her own story. She just had to get a grip on her anxieties and stop letting them control how she reacted to everything. If she had to tell herself that every day, so be it. This was her time to reset. And she didn’t want to let those old insecurities ruin what she had with Lisa. Because, despite everything, she felt safe with Lisa. She felt happy. And that happiness was something Carla wasn’t going to let slip away.

By the time she reached her house, the thought of spending the evening with Lisa had already begun to settle in her chest like a quiet excitement. She unlocked the car, dragging her suitcase out with a small grunt, the weight of it grounding her in the reality of what she was about to begin. This house, her temporary home, felt like an unfamiliar yet exciting space. She was still getting used to the idea that it was hers, at least for the next few months.

The key turned easily in the lock, and when she stepped inside, the space felt different than it had the day before. Yesterday, it had been a place she had merely toured - everything still felt like it belonged to someone else. But now, walking through the front door with the weight of her suitcase in hand, it was clear: this was hers. For the first time, it felt real. Her home. For the next three months, anyway. It was a strange but comforting thought.

Carla rolled her suitcase down the hall and into the bedroom. On the bed was a simple note from the person she was subletting the house from, welcoming her and assuring her the sheets were freshly washed. The note was kind, but Carla didn’t entirely trust the comfort of someone else’s sheets. It wasn’t that she thought they were dirty, but the thought of curling up in them, knowing someone else had done so before, didn’t sit well with her. It was a small thing, but it mattered. She liked things to feel like hers, and right now, that meant she’d be buying new sheets as soon as she could. It wasn’t about being picky, just about carving out a little piece of herself in this place.

Unpacking didn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes at most. She was keeping it simple for now: clothes in the wardrobe, a few books in the drawer by the bed. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to start. She realized as she looked around that she would need more. More clothes, more things, more, well, more of everything that could make this place feel more like her home. A quick mental list formed in her mind: new bed sheets, a few more books, maybe a cozy blanket or two. Things to make her space reflect who she was, even for just a few months. She wanted to live in a space that felt like hers, even if it was temporary.

As she finished unpacking, she checked the time on her phone. It was probably a good idea to start getting ready for her visit to Lisa’s. At first, the idea of spending time with someone new had made her nervous. But now, after the kindness Lisa had shown her, Carla found herself genuinely looking forward to it.

She wanted to feel comfortable in the moment. Free from past fears, free from the worries that had shaped her for so long. She wanted to simply enjoy being with Lisa, to see where this connection could go.

Stepping into the bathroom, Carla turned the shower on, letting the warm water wash over her. She had always found solace in the ritual of it. The cool air hitting her skin as the water ran down her back, the quiet moments alone to collect her thoughts. When she stepped out, she stood before the mirror, tugging at the hem of her hoodie as she surveyed herself. She wasn’t aiming for perfection. In fact, she barely had any options in her suitcase. Her clothes were simple. A soft grey hoodie, black jeans, and her favourite worn-in trainers but they were comfortable. They made her feel like herself, and right now, that was all that mattered.

Her reflection stared back at her. The outfit was casual but deliberate. It wasn’t about impressing Lisa, she just wanted to look presentable. Or so she told herself, though a part of her wondered if she was lying.

The flutter in her stomach returned. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t the old nervousness, the kind that had made her feel self-conscious and unsure for years. No, this was something else, something softer and warmer. A feeling she couldn’t yet name, but one she wasn’t going to run from. It felt real, and for once, that didn’t scare her. She would figure it out, in time.

Grabbing her phone from the bed, she tucked it into her jean pocket and took one last look at her reflection. She wasn’t sure what the evening held, but she was ready for it. Ready to see Lisa. Ready to explore this new chapter.

The evening air had a slight chill to it as she stepped outside, but the breeze was refreshing, and she adjusted her hoodie, letting the soft fabric settle against her skin once more. She loved the quiet of Willowbrook. The soft clink of wind chimes in the distance, the hum of the breeze running through the trees, the scent of freshly mowed grass that seemed to hang in the air.

Her footsteps echoed gently on the sidewalk, the rhythmic sound of them grounding her. She glanced down at her phone just to make sure she was headed the right way. The map on Google was always reliable, but now, after a few days in the town, the streets were starting to feel a little more familiar. As she walked, she let herself be lost in the beauty of it all - the small houses with their neatly tended gardens, the colourful flowers bursting out of pots on windowsills. Nothing felt out of place here. It was the kind of town where everyone’s story was written on the walls, in the gardens, in the soft creak of a porch swing on a lazy evening.

She was almost there. The cottage came into view at the end of the street, its soft glow from the windows welcoming her, and the anticipation made her stomach flip again. This wasn’t the usual nervousness she was used to - the kind that made her self-conscious and unsure. This felt different, more like the gentle buzz of something promising, something new.

Carla shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t going to let her mind race, not tonight. She wasn’t going to overthink it like she had so many times before. Lisa had been nothing but kind from the start, and their connection felt real, authentic, grounded. That warmth between them was undeniable, and it was something she didn’t want to lose. There was no reason to sabotage it before it had even had a chance to grow.

With a steady breath, Carla pushed away the lingering doubts and focused on the moment ahead. She walked up the stone path toward Lisa’s cottage, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her feet grounding her.

Carla smiled as she looked up at Lisa’s cottage. There was something warm and inviting about it, like it was an extension of the town itself - a quiet, cozy haven tucked away in the landscape. The lights from the inside spilled out through the windows, casting a golden glow onto the stone pathway that led up to the front door. The soft light made the cottage look even more welcoming, and it felt as if the house itself was wrapping her in a hug, promising comfort and safety. Lisa was inside, waiting for her, and for some reason, that thought made Carla feel more at ease than she expected.

Her hand reached for the doorbell, and she hesitated, just for a second, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. The doorbell was a simple chime, but the sound echoed faintly inside the cottage, and the brief silence that followed made Carla’s heart skip a beat. She was here. This was happening.

“Just a second!” Lisa’s voice drifted through the door, light and welcoming. The sound of it, even from the other side, brought an unexpected calm over Carla.

She stood there on the stone path, hands clasped loosely in front of her, trying to keep her mind from wandering into the territory of doubt. She hadn’t been this nervous around Lisa before. Why now? What had changed? Was it the fact that she had given up a small part of her control earlier today when she gave Lisa her number? It wasn’t just a number anymore; it was a piece of her life, a life she’d been trying to forget. She shook the thought away, trying to focus on the present. Lisa’s kind, she wouldn’t judge Carla. This connection was real, and there was no reason to complicate it with the weight of the past.

Before she could spiral any further, the door creaked open, and Lisa stood there, her face lighting up in a warm smile that immediately eased Carla’s nerves. Her cheeks were flushed, as though she had been moving around quickly, but the smile was so genuine it made the little flutter in Carla’s stomach feel like something sweet, not something to be afraid of.

“Hey, you made it!” Lisa said, stepping aside to let Carla in. The warmth in her voice was comforting, and Carla couldn’t help but feel like she had found a place where she could finally breathe, where things felt right. She stepped inside, and the familiar comfort of the cottage wrapped around her like a soft blanket, her shoulders dropping in relief.

“With the help of Google,” Carla said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, for such a small town, the roads can be quite confusing.”

Lisa let out a light laugh, the sound rich and inviting. “You get used to it,” she said, flashing Carla a teasing smile. “Come in,” she added, gesturing toward the cozy living room beyond. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Carla stepped inside, taking in the warmth of the space. The soft golden light from the lamps and the fireplace filled the room, and everything felt so settled. So lived in. There was soft throw blankets scattered over the couch, and a small bookshelf in the corner was crammed with a mix of books, each spine telling a little story of Lisa’s personality. The walls were adorned with framed photos and artwork, making the space feel personal and intimate. It was exactly what Carla had imagined but even better.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” Lisa asked, moving toward the small kitchen nook that was tucked away just off the living room. The smell of something sweet lingered in the air, a trace of something freshly baked.

Carla hesitated, the offer feeling both kind and comforting, but she shook her head after a moment. “No, I’m good, ta. I’m just glad to be here,” she replied, feeling a little more at ease with each passing second.

Lisa smiled again, and for a brief moment, Carla wondered if it was the smile of someone who truly enjoyed having her there, too. The thought sent a small flutter through her chest, but she quickly pushed it aside. She didn’t want to overthink it. After all, what did she really know about Lisa? Was she just being kind because she was the new person in town?

But then, as Lisa busied herself in the kitchen, Carla found she couldn’t help herself smiling back. There was a warmth that settled deep within her, something that felt natural. She didn’t need to analyse it too much. She was happy here. Happy with Lisa. Whatever had brought her to Willowbrook, whatever had drawn her into Lisa’s orbit, maybe it didn’t need a grand explanation. Maybe she just needed to enjoy this moment for what it was - a simple, pleasant evening with someone she was quickly growing to appreciate.

“You said you weren’t fussy, so I ordered us some pizza, if that’s alright,” Lisa said, her voice cheerful as she moved toward the sofa, a playful glint in her eyes. She was holding herself with an easy confidence, clearly comfortable in her own home. “I ordered before you got here, so it should be here soon.”

“Pizza’s good,” Carla said, her grin widening as she walked over to the sofa and sat down next to Lisa. She leaned back slightly, glancing around the cozy living room once more, feeling completely at ease in the space. “Unless you ordered pineapple. Then we have an issue.”

Lisa’s eyebrows shot up, clearly taken off guard by the bold statement. “What’s wrong with pineapple?”

Carla let out a small, exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms in mock disbelief. “Pineapple on pizza is a crime”

“No way,” Lisa said, laughing lightly as she shook her head. “It’s like one of the best pizza toppings.” She leaned back, eyes sparkling as if she’d just made the most revolutionary claim in history, defending her controversial choice with all the enthusiasm she could muster.

Carla rolled her eyes dramatically, the teasing nature of the banter starting to ease her nerves even more. “I can’t believe you think that. Pineapple and cheese? It’s just wrong.”

Lisa smirked, not backing down. “Well, I can’t believe you think pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza,” she said, shifting slightly to get more comfortable on the sofa. “You’re disagreeing with most of the human population, you know? That’s a bold stance.”

Carla laughed, shaking her head in exaggerated disbelief. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said with a playful glint in her eye. “But you’re just wrong though. I can’t imagine a world where pineapple on pizza is considered acceptable. Most people would agree with me.”

Lisa crossed her arms over her chest, pouting dramatically. “Well, if you’re not willing to accept pineapple as a valid pizza topping, then we might need to reevaluate this friendship,” she said, her voice laced with feigned seriousness. Her lips twitched into a smile, showing she was clearly enjoying the playful back-and-forth.

Carla grinned, pretending to consider it with exaggerated deliberation. “Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree. But when it’s my turn to order, we’re sticking to classic toppings. None of this tropical nonsense,” she teased, trying to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble up.

Lisa gasped, putting her hand to her chest in mock shock. “Wow, okay. You’re really gonna limit my pizza freedom? This is a violation of my rights!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of humour and mock outrage. Her wide-eyed expression only made the moment more amusing.

Carla smirked, tapping her finger on her chin as if pondering a deeply philosophical question. “It’s not a violation; it’s a reformation of your taste buds,” she said, as though delivering the final word on the matter. She leaned slightly into Lisa, the warmth of their closeness making the moment feel oddly intimate despite the playful argument.

Lisa laughed, nudging Carla with her shoulder as she settled back into the cushions of the couch. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head with a wide grin. “And for the record, I ordered one pepperoni and one margarita. Thought we could share.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she added, “I guess I’m a little more reasonable than you thought.”

Carla raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief, her smile widening. “Two classic options. Maybe you are normal after all,” she said, teasing, but a part of her genuinely appreciated Lisa’s attempt to keep things balanced.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Lisa responded, still grinning. “Definitely ordering pineapple next time.”

Just as they were about to continue their bickering, the sudden, sharp knock at the door broke the moment, sending both of them into a brief pause.

“Food’s here!” Lisa said excitedly, jumping up from the couch with the same energy she’d shown when she greeted Carla at the door. “You stay here, I’ll go get it,” she added, already moving toward the front door with quick steps.

Carla, still caught in the light-hearted moment, leaned back into the cushions and called out as Lisa headed toward the door, “Do you want me to get plates or anything?”

“Oh, yeah, plates would be good. They’re in the kitchen, cupboard above the counter,” Lisa shouted over her shoulder as she reached for the door.

Carla nodded, her smile softening as she rose to grab the plates. A moment later, Lisa returned with the pizza boxes, setting them down on the coffee table. Carla grabbed two plates from the kitchen and placed one in front of Lisa before sitting back down.

They started eating, the conversation flowing easily. It felt so comfortable, so natural, like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. The light-hearted banter continued, and the evening slipped into an easy rhythm.

“So, how’s the new home?” Lisa asked, her voice light and casual as she reached for another slice of pizza. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, but there was an underlying warmth in her gaze as she looked over at Carla. She didn’t seem like she was just making conversation but genuinely interested in Carla’s experience.

Carla paused for a moment, taking a slow bite of her pizza, savouring the cheesy, tangy burst of flavour as it settled in her mouth. She swallowed, then leaned back into the couch, a comfortable sigh escaping her lips. "It’s okay," she replied, her voice thoughtful as she wiped her hands on the napkin. "I want to buy a few things, you know, really make it my own place. Get some personal touches in there." She gave Lisa a quick glance, half-smiling. "You’re going to have to show me the good shops around here. I’m still figuring out where to find anything."

Lisa’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, and she nodded eagerly, her lips curling into a small, excited grin. “There’s a really big shopping centre about a 30-minute drive out of town,” she said, her hands animated as she spoke, emphasizing how much she loved the place. "We should go one weekend. It’s definitely better than anything you'd find here. They’ve got everything. Home goods, furniture, local art, the works. You’ll find something unique, I bet."

“Sounds like a plan,” Carla agreed, her tone light but genuine. The thought of spending a Saturday afternoon with Lisa exploring new places was something she could look forward to.

For a moment, they simply enjoyed their pizza, the easy silence between them somehow comfortable, not awkward. Every bite seemed to deepen Carla’s appreciation for this quiet evening together. She didn’t feel rushed or pressured to say anything. It was just the kind of ease she hadn’t realized she missed until now.

Carla took another bite, savouring the combination of warm cheese, tomato sauce, and spices. The pizza was just as delicious as it had been in the beginning, and with each mouthful, she felt a pleasant warmth settling in her chest. A feeling of contentment that seemed to spread outwards, pushing away the tension from the past few days. It was amazing how quickly she had come to look forward to these moments with Lisa. Despite everything that had happened before, despite all the walls she’d built over the years, she couldn’t deny the simple pleasure of sharing a meal, sharing a laugh, and being around someone who seemed to understand her in ways that felt effortless. For the first time in a long time, Carla didn’t feel like she had to hide behind a mask. She felt seen, in the best way possible.

They continued eating in peaceful silence for a while, the occasional crunch of pizza crust and murmured sounds of approval the only things filling the quiet. As Carla chewed, her eyes drifted around the room, curious about Lisa’s space. It was her first time seeing the home and now that she had the chance to really take it all in, she appreciated how it reflected Lisa’s personality.

The walls were painted a soft, pale grey, a neutral shade that immediately created a calming, welcoming atmosphere. It wasn’t too bright or stark, but it was warm, the colour enveloping the space without being overpowering. Navy accents in the curtains and cushions on the sofa added a touch of sophistication, complementing the grey in a way that felt balanced and relaxed. The soft light from the lamps in the corners cast a warm glow that made the whole room feel cozy. It wasn’t just a house. It felt like a home. The bookshelf in the corner was overflowing with books, some stacked haphazardly, some neatly arranged. It gave the room a lived-in charm, and there was something so genuine about it. It made Carla feel comfortable.

Her gaze moved across the room to the soft throw blankets folded neatly on the arm of the couch. The shelves were filled with small trinkets: tiny pieces of pottery, a few framed photographs, and a hand-carved wooden bird statue that looked like it had a story behind it. Everything had a place. The room told a story of a life lived in comfort, with a little bit of soul peeking through every detail.

But it was one particular photo that caught her attention, drawing her gaze like a magnet. It was a framed photograph of Lisa and a young girl with blonde hair, sitting side by side on a park bench. The two were laughing, both of them clearly lost in the joy of the moment. The sunlight in the photo gave everything a golden glow, highlighting their bright smiles and happy faces. It was one of those rare, perfectly captured moments where time seemed to stand still, and you could feel the warmth of the memory just by looking at it.

Carla’s eyes lingered on the photo for a moment longer than she intended before glancing over at Lisa. She hesitated for just a second, unsure whether it was the right time to ask, but her curiosity eventually won out.

“Is that your daughter?” Carla asked gently, nodding toward the photo, her voice quiet, but carrying a note of respect.

Lisa followed Carla’s gaze, and a soft, affectionate smile curved her lips. There was a tenderness in the way she looked at the photo, and Carla could tell it held deep significance for her. “Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice quieter now, almost reverent. "That’s Betsy. She was about twelve when we moved here. That photo was taken a year or so after we moved to Willowbrook.” She paused, the smile widening a little as she spoke. "It’s one of my favourites. We both look so much happier in it. The move... it was good for us.”

Carla could hear the emotion in Lisa’s voice. There was more to the story, something that went beyond the simple move from one town to another. She could sense the weight in Lisa’s words, the kind of emotion that only came from deep, personal experiences. She could hear it in the way Lisa said we both look so much happier, like there was a long road before that moment, one that hadn’t been easy to walk. It made Carla’s chest tighten with empathy.

“That must have been such a big change for you both,” Carla said softly, her voice quiet as she chose her words carefully. She didn’t want to push too much, but she could hear the undercurrent of something deeper in Lisa’s tone.

Lisa nodded slowly, “It was,” she said, her voice taking on a reflective quality. “We were both a little lost before we came here. But since we’ve been in Willowbrook, Betsy and I... we’ve become a lot closer.” There was a subtle pause, and for a moment, Carla could see the vulnerability in Lisa’s eyes. The kind of openness that was rare and precious.

Her smile faltered just a little, the weight of her next words settling in. “I think we needed it,” Lisa continued, her voice growing softer. “We needed the space to rebuild, you know? After everything that happened.”

The unspoken part of her sentence was clear - there had been something that had broken them, something that needed healing. Carla had no idea what had happened, what kind of everything Lisa was referring to, but she could tell that there was more beneath the surface. And as much as Carla wanted to press for more, she could see that Lisa wasn’t ready to share the full story. She would be patient, and when Lisa was ready, Carla would be there, listening without judgment. For now, she stayed still, offering her presence in the quiet spaces between the words.

Lisa took a deep breath, the air seeming to carry a mix of thoughts and emotions she was still processing. “Now, with Betsy at uni...” She trailed off, her words faltering slightly, and Carla could hear the quiet ache in her voice. “I... I miss her a lot. Probably more than I thought I would. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard, but it’s been a bit lonely, to be honest.” There was a pause, and it was clear that Lisa was gathering her thoughts, trying to make sense of the emotions that were still raw.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a proper friend,” Lisa continued, her voice quieter still. She glanced down, as if considering whether to continue, but then she spoke, her words coming slowly. “Someone I wanted to talk to all the time, you know? It’s a bit embarrassing, really.”

The vulnerability in her words struck Carla harder than she expected. It was the kind of honesty that left no room for pretence, no room for hiding behind anything. And for a brief moment, Carla felt a deep sense of connection to Lisa.

Without thinking, Carla found herself responding in kind. The words flowed out before she could stop them. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said quietly, her voice surprisingly steady despite the emotions swirling inside her. She gave a quiet laugh, but it was laced with the same bittersweetness that Lisa’s confession had carried. “I’ve been alone a lot too. For years, actually. And it’s not just the distance from family or people you know. It’s the distance from everyone.” She swallowed, feeling a lump form in her throat. It was easy to get lost in the noise of life, but the realization of just how alone she had felt, how much she had needed connection, felt like a revelation. “It’s easy to let things slip by, to hide from it. But when you realize how much you miss the connection, it’s almost like you’re waking up again.”

Lisa’s eyes softened as she listened, and Carla could see the recognition in her gaze, like a silent understanding had passed between them. “Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice a little more assured now, as if something had shifted inside her. “I think... I think that’s why it’s been so nice having you around,” she continued, her words growing warmer. “You’re easy to talk to, Carla. I’ve missed this. Missed having someone I actually want to spend time with.”

Carla’s heart skipped a beat at Lisa’s words, and it was like the warmth that had been building between them suddenly burst outwards. The sincerity in Lisa’s voice, the way her eyes held a quiet intensity, made Carla’s breath catch in her throat. There was something in the way Lisa spoke, in the softness of her tone, that felt like more than just words. It was a connection; a bridge being built between them that neither of them could deny. It wasn’t just a compliment; it was a recognition. The kind of acknowledgment that felt personal, almost intimate, and it settled between them like something that had been hanging in the air for a while, waiting for the right moment to be realized.

For a moment, everything else in the room faded into the background. The pizza on her plate, the cozy living room, the quiet hum of the evening outside, they all disappeared. All Carla could focus on was Lisa, her gaze now locked with hers, both of them in a shared, quiet space that seemed to stretch and expand between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was palpable. Real. Like the world outside had paused, and for just this moment, there was no one else but the two of them in it.

Carla felt that familiar flutter in her chest again, that strange sensation she had tried to ignore when she first arrived. But this time, it felt different, stronger, more defined…more real. Something that felt like it was unfolding right in front of her, with every word, every look. And it left her unsure, torn between wanting to lean into it and the fear that she wasn’t ready for what it might mean. She wasn’t sure if she was prepared to face it, if she understood it, let alone embrace whatever it was that was blooming between them.

“Thanks, Lisa,” Carla said softly, her voice quieter than usual, like the words themselves were trying to hold onto the space between them, the lingering weight of Lisa’s confession. She shifted slightly on the couch, her body aware of the proximity between them now, of how close they were both sitting. She glanced down at her plate, trying to focus on something – anything - but her eyes couldn’t stay away from Lisa. When she looked back up, her gaze lingered just a moment longer than usual, as if the silence held something unspoken that both of them knew but weren’t yet ready to name.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” Carla added, the words coming out a little softer than she intended.

The room fell into another quiet silence, but this time, it was different. The silence felt heavier, more charged. The air between them was thick with something that neither of them had said outright, but both of them understood. Carla could feel her heart pounding now, faster, her chest tight with the strange mix of excitement and uncertainty.

What was this feeling? And why did it make her feel so alive, yet so unsure at the same time?

Chapter Text

Lisa turned the sign on the door of the bookshop to "closed" with a quiet click, the action signalling the end of another day. The soft glow of the shop lights dimmed around her, and the smell of old pages and polished wood filled the air, familiar and comforting.

It had become second nature: locking up, tidying the shelves, straightening the little displays. Some people never bothered to return books to their proper places, an irritation that had once grated on Lisa. She’d spent hours fixing misplaced volumes, reorganizing the clutter, fighting against the chaos of the day’s browsing. But now, it was just another part of her routine.

Stacking books, realigning them, carefully placing each one in its rightful spot. It had become almost therapeutic for her over the years. The tedious rhythm of it gave her time to unwind. Slowly and deliberately, she would stack and restack the shelves, letting her mind wander to whatever thoughts came and went, her fingers brushing the spines like an old friend. The slowness, the repetition; it was something she looked forward to, a small quiet that balanced the buzz of her day.

But today, today, something was different.

Lisa’s hands moved with speed, faster than usual, the soothing rhythm of the task slipping further from her grasp. Her heart beat a little faster, her mind running ahead of her actions. The familiar feeling that had once calmed her now seemed distant, as if the ritual had been overtaken by a restless energy that surged within her. She stacked books with quick, almost frantic movements, the orderly rows of titles growing like a wall around her.

The reason for the change was simple and undeniable. Carla. She had invited Carla over to her house, and the thought of it kept her moving quicker, almost as if the faster she worked, the sooner Carla would arrive.

Once the shelves were stacked as best she could manage, Lisa quickly made her way to the door. The familiar click of the lock echoed in the stillness of the shop as she ensured the door was secured behind her. The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly fallen leaves and the distant sound of laughter from a nearby café. Normally, Lisa would have enjoyed the walk home, taking her time as she strolled along the winding cobbled streets, letting her thoughts settle in the quiet. But this afternoon, she couldn’t help but walk faster, her feet almost flying over the uneven pavement, eager to reach her cottage. Her pace was a blur compared to her usual, slower steps.

When she arrived home, the door clicked shut behind her, and a strange feeling hit her as soon as she stepped inside. The silence was almost too loud, the hum of the refrigerator buzzing in the background, but it wasn’t enough to mask the sense of unease that had crept over her. The house should have felt comforting, should have felt like the safe little bubble it always was, but tonight it felt different. It felt off for lack of a better word.

The living room was just as she had left it. It was familiar and warm, with soft light spilling from the lamps that cast long, golden shadows over the walls. The throw blankets were neatly draped over the couch, and everything was in its usual place. Yet, for some reason, the imperfections, those little signs of life that she usually welcomed, seemed sharper tonight. The coffee table’s worn surface seemed to catch the light in a new way, the creases in the cushions more pronounced, the lines on the rug too stark. She blinked, trying to shake the feeling, but it lingered.

Lisa’s eyes darted around the room, searching for any flaw. Was there dust on the coffee table? She ran her fingers over the surface, but the table was spotless. Her mind, though, raced on. Had she vacuumed the rug properly? Was the dust under the couch visible now? Were the pillows fluffed enough? Were the kitchen counters still pristine in the dim light? She felt a twinge of anxiety as she thought about the small things she might have missed.

She could hear her inner voice, faint but persistent, telling her to calm down. Carla won’t care about any of this.

But that voice was drowned out by the nagging discomfort that pulled at her, urging her to adjust everything, fix every little imperfection. Her fingers hovered over a throw pillow, smoothing it out, then adjusting it again when it wasn’t perfectly squared. She couldn’t help herself. It felt as if the world might tilt off its axis if it wasn’t just right.

Her breath caught in her throat. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She repeated the words to herself, but they didn’t soothe her. The panic bubbled up, an undercurrent of tension she couldn’t shake.

Lisa paced from one room to the next, checking and re-checking, finding nothing but small flaws she already knew about. She touched the edge of a picture frame, then pulled her hand back, realizing she had just checked it moments before. In the hallway, she found herself gripping the doorframe, her fingers white-knuckled as though holding onto something tangible might stop the restlessness inside her from taking over.

She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply. She counted to five. It’s okay to be nervous. It’s okay to feel this way. You’re inviting someone into your space for the first time in a long time. That’s natural. It’s okay to be a little anxious.

Her breath slowed, but the anxiety didn’t disappear. She opened her eyes and surveyed the room once more, the one she had painstakingly checked over and over. It was fine. It was more than fine. It was hers, just as it always had been. A place she had built for herself, and tonight, it was simply a room meant to be lived in.

With a soft exhale, she pulled her work jumper closer around her shoulders, as though the fabric could shield her from the nerves that continued to ripple through her. She needed to change. She needed to ground herself. She’s learnt over the years what techniques work best to reduce her panic, bring her back to the present. Lisa always found that getting changed into comfort clothes helped.

And so, Lisa headed to her bedroom, knowing she could shift into something more comfortable, something that would help her feel more like herself. She picked out a pair of light blue jeans, worn in and soft, the kind that made her feel at ease and grabbed a white jumper from her wardrobe. It was simple, cozy, and soft enough to make her feel warm without being too heavy. It was the right amount of effort. Casual but still put together.

She slipped the jumper on, smoothing it down as she stood in front of the mirror. She checked her reflection, smiling faintly. It wasn’t anything fancy, but she felt comfortable. She felt like herself again.

With a deep breath, Lisa pulled on a pair of fuzzy socks - warm and comforting as they sank into the soft carpet. She walked back into the living room, her movements more fluid now, the weight of her anxiety starting to ease just slightly.

Lisa glanced at the clock on the wall, the time ticking away at a steady pace. Carla would be here soon. The thought made her heart flutter unexpectedly, but this time, it wasn’t from anxiety. It was excitement. A small smile curved her lips. Since using the grounding techniques she’d learned many years ago: slowing her breath, focusing on the sensation of the floor beneath her feet, the calming repetition of her own thoughts and changing into clothes that made her feel like herself again, Lisa felt more reasonable, more grounded. The nervousness that had clung to her all afternoon had loosened its grip. She felt in control, like she could handle whatever was coming next.

Then, just as she was letting out a steadying breath, there was a knock at the door.

The sound broke through her momentary peace, and her heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, her feet moved her toward the door, but as her gaze passed over the bookshelf, something froze her in place.

And that’s when she saw them. Three of Carla Connor’s books, sitting there in plain view on the shelf. Their covers were unmistakable. Bold, striking, and all too familiar. Each title seemed to loom over her like an unspoken truth, the large print of Carla’s name staring her down from the spines. The books were positioned neatly, as if they’d always belonged there, and yet now, with Carla about to enter her space, they felt like a betrayal.

Lisa’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at them, eyes wide, heart racing. How had I missed them earlier? The books had been sitting there all along, right under her nose, but in that moment, their presence seemed deafening, overwhelming. It was as if they had suddenly become more than just books. They were a statement, a reminder that Lisa had known exactly who Carla was all along. And not just that, she’d kept it from Carla. All this time, she’d known, and she hadn’t said a word.

A cold, tight knot formed in her stomach. The feeling was sharp, like a betrayal in reverse, and Lisa’s mind spiralled. She tried to breathe, but it felt like the air had thickened around her. Her eyes darted between the books and the door, where Carla was waiting. Why hadn’t I noticed sooner?

Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse thudding in her ears. Panic surged through her veins. What do I do now? The options seemed to roll out before her, each worse than the last. Should she leave them there, hoping Carla wouldn’t see them, or would Carla notice and ask about them? Would she lie, pretending she hadn’t known? Could she possibly play it cool and pretend there wasn’t this huge, glaring thing hanging between them? The weight of it felt too heavy to even consider.

Panic began to rise in her chest, tightening around her lungs, making it harder to breathe. None of the options felt right. What am I supposed to do?

She glanced back toward the door, feeling Carla’s presence just on the other side. She had to act, and fast. The books couldn’t stay out in the open. I can’t let this ruin everything, Lisa thought frantically. Not when things have been going so well.

“Just a second!” she called out, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound casual. She hoped Carla couldn’t hear the shake in her words. Hoped she wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary before she even stepped inside.

Lisa rushed toward the bookshelf; her hands shaky as she pulled the books from their places. She moved quickly, trying not to draw attention to her frantic actions. The soft rustle of paper against her fingers felt deafening in the stillness of the room. I can’t leave them here, she thought with a sense of dread, a sense of urgency. She needed to hide them.

She turned toward the hallway, her feet moved on autopilot as she hurried toward her daughter’s bedroom, barely feeling the floor beneath her. She was running on pure instinct now, shoving the books into the back of the wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind.

Breathing hard, Lisa stood still for a moment, the rush of adrenaline leaving her lightheaded. Her hand was still gripping the closet door as if it might somehow make the books disappear if she held on tight enough. She needed to calm down. She needed to compose herself.

Lisa glanced back toward the door; her face flushed with embarrassment. Her heart was still racing, her breath shallow and uneven. She couldn’t let Carla see her like this. Not when she was about to step into her home, into her private world. She steadied herself, taking a few deep breaths before reaching for the door handle and pulled it open.

A smile automatically found it’s way to her face once she made eye contact with Carla “Hey, you made it!” she said her voice still slightly out of breath. She just hoped that Carla didn’t notice.

Carla grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “With the help of Google,” she said, her voice warm and easy. “Honestly, for such a small town, the roads can be quite confusing.”

Lisa let out a soft laugh, more from relief than anything else. The tension in her chest eased just a little. “You get used to it,” she said, trying for a teasing smile. Everything was fine. Carla hadn’t noticed the panic that had been overtaking Lisa. It was still normal. Everything’s fine, Lisa reminded herself, willing the anxiety to settle.

“Come in,” she added, gesturing toward the cozy living room. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Carla stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. Lisa watched her as she took in the room. The soft glow of the lamps, the scattered throw blankets on the couch, the little bookshelf in the corner. It was all so familiar to Lisa. Yet, with Carla standing there, the space felt different, vulnerable. She could feel herself on edge, her eyes darting around as though searching for imperfections.

The anxiety stirred again, but Lisa quickly pushed it aside. This was Carla. They were friends. There was no need to worry.

Carla’s gaze lingered briefly on the bookshelf, and for a fleeting moment, Lisa held her breath. But then, Carla turned her attention to the rest of the room. Her smile remained soft, unbothered.

Lisa exhaled slowly, relieved. She managed to hide all the books. The familiar weight of overthinking crept back in, but Lisa focused on the warmth of the room instead. She knew she needed to ground herself again, to busy her hands, to do something before her mind spiralled once more.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” she asked, her voice a little quieter this time. She moved toward the kitchen nook, not because she thought Carla would judge her, but because it felt good to keep the rhythm of things, to keep everything normal and comfortable. She didn’t want to put on a show, or worse, try too hard.

Carla’s smile softened. “No, I’m good, ta. I’m just glad to be here,” she said, the sincerity in her voice clear.

Lisa’s heart fluttered unexpectedly, a strange warmth spreading through her chest. It wasn’t just politeness. Carla meant it. And that simple sentence - I’m just glad to be here - was more reassuring than Lisa could have expected. The relief washed over her in waves, softening the edges of the anxiety that had been gnawing at her.

Lisa smiled back, her shoulders relaxing just a little more. The tension was finally starting to dissipate, replaced with a quiet contentment. Everything was fine.

She moved toward the sofa, settling into the cushions with a sense of ease she hadn’t expected. The air between them was light, unburdened. Spending time with Carla felt easy, natural. In a way, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“You said you weren’t fussy, so I ordered us some pizza, if that’s alright,” Lisa said, her voice light and cheerful. There was a playful twinkle in her eye as she spoke, the kind that came from feeling at ease. “I ordered before you got here, so it should be here soon.”

“Pizza’s good.” Carla grinned, her eyes lighting up at the mention of food. Lisa couldn’t help but smile back. The way Carla's face brightened, her features softening with delight, made something inside Lisa flutter. Lisa’s chest loosened, and her stomach fluttered just a little. Maybe more than a little.

“Unless you ordered pineapple. Then we have an issue.” Carla’s voice was teasing, but there was a playful spark in her eyes that made Lisa’s heart skip a beat.

Lisa’s head shot up, her eyebrows raising in mock surprise. The sudden challenge took her off guard, but before she could stop herself, a laugh bubbled out, light and genuine. “What’s wrong with pineapple?” she asked, her voice louder than usual, clearly more defensive than she had intended. She hadn’t realized how passionate she felt about pineapple on pizza until the words were out of her mouth.

Carla let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms dramatically, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. The whole act was so over-the-top, and yet it made Lisa’s heart warm in a way she hadn’t expected. There was something so charming about how Carla fully committed to the playful argument.

“Pineapple on pizza is a crime,” Carla said, her tone deliberately stern, and Lisa almost choked on her laughter.

“No way,” Lisa said, leaning back a little, her voice coming more confidently than she had expected. It was almost like they were old friends, their banter as familiar as if they had been doing this for years. “It’s one of the best pizza toppings,” she added, half-defending her controversial opinion, half-teasing, half-serious.

Carla rolled her eyes in the most exaggerated fashion, and Lisa’s grin widened. The whole exchange was so absurd, so funny, but it felt so right. It wasn’t just the playful jabs at each other’s taste buds. It was the effortless connection that was forming between them, the way every little interaction made them feel closer. Lisa felt more at ease now than she had been in years.

“I can’t believe you think that. Pineapple and cheese? It’s just wrong,” Carla said, shaking her head as though she had just heard the most outrageous thing.

“Well, I can’t believe you think pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza,” Lisa said, shifting in her seat, now feeling more relaxed and playful. “You’re disagreeing with most of the human population, you know? That’s a bold stance.” She added the last bit with a teasing smile, her voice light and breezy.

Carla’s laughter rang out, bright and free, and Lisa couldn’t help but join in. The sound felt like music, as though the room was filled with warmth and happiness.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Carla said, clearly amused. Her voice was soft, and Lisa noticed how the light in her eyes seemed to soften as well. “But you’re just wrong. I can’t imagine a world where pineapple on pizza is considered acceptable. Most people would agree with me.” There was still that playful glint in Carla’s eye.

“Well, if you’re not willing to accept pineapple as a valid pizza topping,” Lisa said, her voice filled with mock seriousness, “then we might need to reevaluate this friendship.” She couldn’t stop smiling. It was impossible not to smile. The playful back-and-forth felt so effortless, and it made her realize just how rare it was to find someone with whom she could laugh so easily, without a single ounce of self-consciousness. This was fun. Simple. Refreshing.

Carla grinned. “Hmm, I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree. But when it’s my turn to order, we’re sticking to classic toppings. None of this tropical nonsense.” She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms as though the matter was settled, her grin never wavering.

Lisa gasped in mock shock, her hand going to her chest. “Wow, okay. You’re really gonna limit my pizza freedom? This is a violation of my rights!” Her voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in her chest, genuine happiness, a feeling she hadn’t realized she’d been craving. She had been so tense for so long, and now, with Carla here, everything felt lighter. She felt lighter.

Carla smirked, tapping her finger thoughtfully on her chin. “It’s not a violation; it’s a reformation of your taste buds,” she said, leaning in just a bit closer, her eyes twinkling mischievously. The proximity sent a tiny flutter through Lisa’s chest. For a second, everything felt more intimate than it had just a moment ago. The heat of Carla’s shoulder brushing against hers, the subtle tension between them, made her heart race in a way she hadn’t expected.

Lisa nudged her playfully, the gesture feeling completely natural. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing as she settled back into the cushions. The room seemed to settle around them in that instant, like they were in their own little world. “And for the record, I ordered one pepperoni and one margarita. Thought we could share.” She added with a wink, “I guess I’m a little more reasonable than you thought.”

Carla raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief, her smile widening. “Two classic options. Maybe you are normal after all,” she teased, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Lisa replied, grinning widely. The teasing was effortless. “Definitely ordering pineapple next time,” she added.

Before their playful back and forth could continue, a sharp knock on the door sliced through the moment, pulling her attention away. It was sudden, the sound cutting through the laughter like a quiet interruption, but it didn’t bother Lisa. In fact, it almost felt like a natural break, like the end of one moment, and the beginning of the next. The pizza was here.

"Food’s here!" Lisa called out excitedly, the same eagerness bubbling up as when she’d first greeted Carla at the door. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The growl of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and she was suddenly very ready for the pizza that was waiting just beyond the door.

“You stay here, I’ll go get it,” Lisa added, already moving toward the door before Carla could protest.

As she reached for the door handle, she heard Carla’s voice call out, light with the same easy warmth that had made Lisa smile earlier. “Do you want me to get plates or anything?”

“Oh, yeah, plates would be good. They’re in the kitchen, cupboard above the counter,” Lisa shouted over her shoulder, already imagining the smell of pizza, the warmth of the boxes, the sense of normalcy that this quiet evening seemed to offer. She could feel the simple joy of the moment in every step she took.

Lisa grinned to herself, the ease of everything filling her with a quiet sense of contentment. The way it felt so simple, so natural, to share this space. No pretences. No pressure. Just them, enjoying each other's company. Lisa knew now that it was silly to have felt so nervous about Carla coming round. Every time she was with Carla, it had just felt right. She should have known that tonight would have been the same. It was comfortable, real, and perfectly easy.

She returned to the living room with the pizza boxes in her hands, setting them down on the coffee table. As she did, Carla slid a plate in front of her, and Lisa’s heart swelled with something soft, something tender. These little moments, this quiet exchange, it meant more than she had realized.

The pizza box sat between them, now slightly askew as they dug in, each bite followed by an easy laugh or a moment of shared silence. The conversation flowed like a well-worn track, one that didn’t need to be mapped out in advance. There was something about the rhythm of it. The way the words came so naturally, like they were both simply picking up where they’d left off. Lisa had expected the evening to be pleasant, but she hadn’t anticipated how easy it would feel, how comfortable and familiar it all was.

She couldn’t help herself; the curiosity about Carla’s life kept creeping up, like an itch that had to be scratched. There were so many layers to her, so much more to uncover. Lisa found herself asking, genuinely interested, her voice light and casual, but the warmth behind her words was undeniable. “So, how’s the new home?”

Carla paused mid-bite, chewing thoughtfully. Lisa noticed the slight shift in her expression, the way she took her time, as if she were considering not just her answer, but how she felt about it. After a beat, Carla sighed, a sound that wasn’t quite frustration, but maybe a little weary. “It’s okay,” she said, but there was something in her tone that told Lisa more than the simple word could express. It was a subtle vulnerability, the kind that hinted at newness, uncertainty, or maybe just the process of settling into a place that was still finding its shape. “I want to buy a few things, you know, really make it my own. Get some personal touches in there.” “You’re going to have to show me the good shops around here,” Carla added, her eyes meeting Lisa’s with a quick, easy smile that tugged at Lisa’s chest in a way she hadn’t expected.

Lisa’s smile widened instantly, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest. She was more than ready to dive into that, to share parts of her world. She was eager to help. She wanted to help. It wasn’t just about the shopping trip; it was about being a part of Carla’s journey. Being someone Carla trusted.

“There’s a really big shopping centre about a 30-minute drive out of town,” Lisa said eagerly, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. “We should go one weekend. It’s definitely better than anything you’d find here. They’ve got everything. Home goods, furniture, local art, the works. You’ll find something unique, I bet.”

Carla’s grin widened at that, and the shared excitement between them felt right. It wasn’t just the idea of shopping; it was the way Carla seemed to genuinely want to spend time with her. How easily she’d slipped into this space, this rhythm. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. It was just… easy.

“Sounds perfect,” Carla said, her tone light and sincere.

Lisa felt a quiet flutter in her chest, a mixture of satisfaction and something deeper, maybe even a little hopeful. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t shake the sense that this was more than just another evening with a new friend. There was a connection here, something that felt different, something that made her want to lean in, just a little more.

For a few moments, they both ate in silence. It wasn’t awkward at all - just peaceful; comfortable. Lisa hadn’t realized how much she’d been craving this kind of quiet evening, one where she wasn’t alone. One where she could exchange stories and share space with someone else.

Lisa glanced over at Carla, who had leaned back into the couch, her eyes wandering lazily around the room. Lisa followed her gaze, a flicker of self-consciousness sparking inside her for a moment. Her apartment wasn’t perfect, wasn’t some showplace. But as she watched Carla, she realized something: Carla wasn’t judging her space. She was appreciating it.

Lisa noticed how Carla’s gaze lingered on the bookshelf, the small trinkets that decorated the space, the soft throw blankets folded neatly on the arm of the couch. She was seeing the details, the way the room had been thoughtfully arranged, not for show, but because it was home. It was the kind of room Lisa had worked hard to make comfortable, to make it hers. And now, with someone else in it, someone who seemed to truly see her space, Lisa realized just how much she liked it. She liked having someone else in it. Someone who fit. The soft light from the lamps in the corners of the room created a cozy glow, making the space feel even more inviting. Lisa had spent hours curating the little details that made the room feel warm and lived in.

When Carla’s gaze softened, taking in the little touches of the room, Lisa smiled without thinking. There was something in the way Carla’s eyes lingered, something in the quiet appreciation that made Lisa feel a flutter of something tender. Lisa tore her gaze away, trying to shake the feeling, and grabbed another slice of pizza, anything to distract herself from the quiet stirrings in her chest.

“Is that your daughter?” Carla’s voice was gentle, almost reverent, as she nodded toward a framed photo on the wall. Lisa’s eyes followed Carla’s gaze before her mind even caught up. Of course, it would be a photo of her and Betsy. They were the only photo’s she had up in the living room.

The photo Carla was looking at was of Lisa and Betsy sitting on a weathered park bench, their heads tilted back in shared laughter, the late afternoon sun casting a golden haze over everything. The sunlight hit them just right, bathing their faces in warm, honeyed light that made the whole world feel softer, more peaceful. The joy in the image almost leapt off the page, so tangible it felt like you could almost hear their laughter, feel the weight of the moment. The easy happiness between them that had been rare for a while.

“Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice dropping into a soft reverence, as if the memory still held its own magic. “That’s Betsy. She was about twelve when we moved here. That photo was taken a year or so after we moved to Willowbrook.” She paused, letting the memory wash over her, a small smile tugging at her lips as she gazed at the photo. “It’s one of my favourites. We both look so much happier in it. The move… it was good for us.”

Lisa’s smile softened as she lingered on the memory, her heart-warming with the recollection. The photo was more than just an image; it was a reminder of the day things started to shift, the day when everything between them began to feel lighter, less strained. It had been one of those rare days when Betsy had actually agreed to go on a walk after weeks of typical teenage resistance. But that day was different. It marked the beginning of something new, something that had started to heal them both. The photo captured a turning point, a quiet moment of reconnection. It was the kind of day when the world felt a little more forgiving, a little more open.

“That must have been such a big change for you both,” Carla said softly, her voice full of genuine empathy. Lisa could hear the weight of her words, the understanding, and it made her chest tighten, the vulnerability of the moment settling around her. For just a split second, she felt exposed, but not in an uncomfortable way. Carla’s presence, her quiet attention, was like a soft refuge, and Lisa allowed herself to lean into it, to feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“It was,” Lisa murmured, her voice softer now, tinged with a reflective quality. “We were both a little lost before we came here. But since we’ve been in Willowbrook, Betsy and I... we’ve become a lot closer.” She surprised herself with how much she said. How easily the words flowed, unbidden. It wasn’t something she talked about often. But this felt different. Something about Carla’s quiet understanding made Lisa want to say more. “I think we needed it,” she added, her voice a little heavier now, the weight of the words settling in. “We needed the space to rebuild, you know? After everything that happened.”

The air between them grew still, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like a shared understanding hung there, unspoken but clear. Carla didn’t ask, didn’t push for more, and for that, Lisa was grateful. Instead, she just sat there, listening, her presence a quiet strength that allowed Lisa to keep speaking, to keep sharing. For the first time in a long while, Lisa didn’t feel the need to hold everything in, to be the strong one. For just this moment, it felt okay to be vulnerable.

Lisa took a steadying breath before continuing, her voice quieter now, the words coming slower, more deliberate. “Now, with Betsy at uni…” Her voice trailed off, and the ache in her chest flared up again. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss her daughter, how much the silence in the house would weigh on her. “I miss her a lot. Probably more than I thought I would. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard, but it’s been a bit lonely, to be honest.”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them, the raw truth of it sinking in. The words were raw, honest, and it surprised her how quickly they came. She could feel the vulnerability in her chest, the tightness that followed when she admitted something she wasn’t used to speaking about. For years, it had been just her and Betsy through everything. But now, in the quiet of the evenings, without Betsy’s presence, the space felt emptier than she had anticipated. It wasn’t something she typically voiced. But tonight, with Carla, it felt like maybe it was okay to be open, to let her guard down.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a proper friend,” Lisa continued, her voice quieter still, the weight of her honesty pulling her deeper into the moment. She looked down at the pizza in her hands, not sure why she was sharing this with Carla, but it felt like the truth needed to be spoken. “Someone I wanted to talk to all the time, you know? It’s a bit embarrassing, really.”

She glanced up at Carla then, her face flushed with the unspoken vulnerability she hadn’t planned to reveal. She wasn’t sure what had made her open up so freely, but something in the air, something in Carla’s quiet attention, made it feel okay.

To her surprise, Carla’s voice came softly, yet steady, her words wrapped in the same understanding that Lisa had been craving for so long. “I know exactly what you mean,” Carla said, and Lisa could hear the quiet resonance in her voice, the bittersweet undertone that echoed her own feelings. There was something in Carla’s words that made Lisa feel understood in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

“I’ve been alone a lot too,” Carla continued, her voice dipping into a softer tone, the weight of the past heavy in the quiet between them. “For years, actually. And it’s not just the distance from family or people you know. It’s the distance from everyone.” Carla swallowed, her own emotion catching in her throat. “It’s easy to let things slip by, to hide from it. But when you realize how much you miss the connection, it’s almost like you’re waking up again.”

Lisa’s chest tightened as she listened, a deep, aching understanding blooming between them. There was no need for more words; the shared sentiment hung in the air, the quiet understanding between them grounding the moment in something real, something shared.

“Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice quiet but firmer now, the weight of the words shifting something inside her. “I think... I think that’s why it’s been so nice having you around.” She smiled, a little more assured now, her words warmer, softer. “You’re easy to talk to, Carla. I’ve missed this. Missed having someone I actually want to spend time with.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed Carla’s eyes soften, the gentleness in them making Lisa’s chest tighten in a way she wasn’t prepared for. There was something in the way Carla looked at her that made everything else feel insignificant. The room, the pizza on the plate, the evening air outside, all of it seemed to fade. The only thing left was the quiet space between them. The air seemed to hum with something unspoken, a quiet energy that neither of them had yet acknowledged.

And yet, there it was, an undeniable pull. Lisa felt it, deep, slow, steady and it was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

As her gaze lingered on Carla, something shifted inside her. The world seemed to blur, everything else fading to a soft background hum, while the moment between them grew in intensity. Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening just slightly. It was strange, but not uncomfortable. The connection between them felt as natural as breathing. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this until now. This simple, effortless closeness.

For a moment, she found herself leaning in just a fraction, as if the space between them was becoming too small to ignore. Carla’s eyes flickered to hers again, and the room felt like it held its breath. Everything seemed to pause. Carla shifted slightly on the couch, glancing down at her plate, but Lisa couldn’t look away. The air was charged now, an almost electric current that made her heart race faster with every breath.

“Thanks, Lisa,” Carla said softly, her voice quieter than usual, the words carrying more weight than she had intended. Lisa’s chest tightened, and she felt a flutter of something in her stomach. Something that felt a little like excitement, a little like fear, and a lot like desire.

She needed to get a grip, Lisa thought to herself. This wasn’t how she was supposed to feel. She was acting like a teenager with a crush, and that wasn’t her. But as she tried to push the sensation away, to focus on anything else, the fluttering in her stomach wouldn’t stop. The pull toward Carla only seemed to grow stronger.

And that’s when it hit her. Why she was feeling so restless when Carla came over. Why she wanted everything to be perfect when they spent time together. She was attracted to Carla. She wasn’t blind. She had always known that Carla was physically attractive. Over the years, she’d thought many people were physically attractive, but this...? This was different.

It wasn’t just about the way Carla looked. It wasn’t just the way her laughter filled the room or the warmth of her smile. It was about how everything between them felt easy. How the conversations flowed without effort, how time seemed to slow down when they were together. It was the way Carla made her feel alive again like something that had been dormant in her for so long was finally waking up. A part of her that Lisa thought she’d lost forever, buried beneath the weight of grief.

And yet, now, in the quiet of this moment, it was undeniable. The attraction was real. The connection between them was real. Carla was making her feel things that Lisa hadn’t allowed herself to feel in over six years. Things Lisa didn’t think she was capable of feeling again.

As Carla shifted again, her voice softer than before, she said, “I’m glad I’m here too.” The words slipped out, unexpected and full of warmth. And Lisa’s chest tightened once more, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in Carla’s voice.

Lisa didn’t know if she could ignore it anymore. The feelings, the pull, the warmth that spread through her every time she was near Carla. It was real. It was happening. And Lisa wasn’t sure if she wanted it to stop. Carla made her feel alive again. And Lisa wanted to lean into that feeling for as long as she could.

Chapter Text

Carla’s brain was working a hundred miles a minute after her evening with Lisa. She couldn’t help but replay the moments, each one vivid and intoxicating. The way her heart raced just a little bit faster when Lisa’s gaze met hers, those eyes, deep and knowing, as if they could peer straight into the heart of her. Every glance felt like a spark, igniting something inside her that she wasn’t ready to face. Or the way her stomach did a little flutter whenever Lisa laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to ripple through the air, filling the space between them. It wasn’t just the sound, it was the way Lisa’s entire face lit up, her lips curving into that smile that made Carla’s chest tighten in a way she wasn’t sure was normal. Or the way her heart hurt a little bit when Lisa opened up to her, the vulnerability in her voice, the quiet ache in her words that Carla hadn’t expected. It felt like an unspoken invitation, a trust given freely, and yet it made Carla’s chest feel tight, as if the weight of Lisa’s emotions had settled into her own heart.

Shaking her head, as if to try and clear her thoughts, Carla unlocked her front door with a soft click and stepped inside, her steps heavy and hesitant. She headed straight for the kitchen, the dim light above casting shadows on the walls, and the coolness of the tiles beneath her feet grounding her in the familiar. She needed a cup of tea. Something warm to hold onto, something to steady her frayed nerves and ease the pressure building inside her chest.

Carla filled the kettle, the soft hiss of the water as it began to heat up sounding louder than it should have, like a metronome ticking away the seconds of her restless mind. She watched the water ripple in the glass, her thoughts slowing for just a moment as she focused on the small details. The curve of the kettle’s spout, the way the light from the kitchen overhead flickered on the surface of the water as it began to warm. It was simple, routine, almost but it gave her a moment of peace, a brief pause from the swirl of emotions that had taken root in her. Yet, even as the water rippled, her mind remained tethered to the evening with Lisa, lingering in the corners of her thoughts like a song that wouldn't stop playing.

She tried not to overthink it. She couldn’t overthink it. But the more she tried to push the thoughts away, the stronger they came rushing back. It wasn’t just the warmth of their conversation, the way their words flowed so easily between them, as if they had known each other for years instead of mere weeks. It wasn’t just the laughter, that easy, unforced sound that made the whole evening feel light and effortless. It was something else. Something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name, like a quiet pull at the centre of her chest that made her restless. It was as if, in the space of a few hours, Lisa had opened a door inside her that Carla wasn’t sure she was ready to walk through.

The kettle clicked off, breaking the tension in her shoulders. Carla poured the hot water over the tea bag, watching as the liquid swirled and darkened, the steam rising in tendrils that filled the air with the calming scent of chamomile. She rested her hand on the counter, the coolness of the marble beneath her fingertips grounding her, but even as the tea settled into its steeping rhythm, her mind wouldn’t quiet. It was like a storm inside her, one that wouldn’t settle no matter how hard she tried to calm the waves.

Her gaze drifted absently to the stacks of books and papers on the counter next to her. They weren’t hers. The previous owner must have left them behind. As she kept her gaze on the books, something stirred inside her. She had a quiet urge to write. She hadn’t thought about writing at all since the little note she’d scribbled the other day, the one that barely contained a handful of words. It had been a fleeting impulse, a spark of creativity that had slipped away just as quickly as it had come. And even then, it was only a sentence or two. But now, standing in the quiet of her kitchen, the need to create, the itch to put pen to paper, was back, as sharp and clear as ever. It felt like a pulse she couldn’t ignore, a tug that pulled at her, urging her to give form to the swirling mess of emotions inside her. She needed to write, to capture something, anything, to make sense of what she couldn’t quite understand.

Before she could second-guess herself, Carla found her feet moving, almost as if they were guided by some unseen force. Her legs carried her upstairs, up the narrow staircase that creaked under her weight, to the quiet solitude of her bedroom. The stillness of the space wrapped around her like a blanket, offering a small sense of comfort as she moved toward the bedside table. It was there, on the corner of the table, where she had placed her notebook earlier in the day.

The journal sat there, small and worn, its leather cover scuffed and faded from years of use. It was a humble thing, hardly glamorous, but it had been her constant companion over the past few years. A mess of half-formed ideas filled its pages: mostly scribbles, crossed-out words, and broken sentences from times when she had tried and failed to capture a thought, a spark, something worth holding on to. The pages were littered with abandoned attempts, moments when she’d convinced herself nothing was good enough to commit to, no idea worth pursuing. It had become a graveyard for dreams she had been too scared to chase.

Carla reached out and picked up the journal, her fingers brushing over the worn edges of the cover. The weight of it in her hands, familiar yet oddly reassuring, somehow grounded her. She felt the cool, smooth texture against her skin, grounding her in the present moment. The small act of opening it, flipping through the pages, brought a sense of relief. For a moment, she was able to forget the noise in her mind, the self-doubt that always seemed to hover just behind her thoughts. She opened the book to the first clean page and paused, holding her breath for a moment.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the sight of the blank page didn’t feel overwhelming. It didn’t fill her with that familiar weight of pressure. There was no suffocating expectation to create something perfect, something that would live up to an idea she had never been able to fully articulate. The blank page didn’t scream at her to do something important, to make something out of nothing. No. Instead, the empty space seemed to offer a quiet invitation. An invitation to relax. An invitation to let go, to surrender to the process, to see where her mind would take her, without fear of failure or judgment.

Without thinking, her hand moved across the page, the tip of the pen grazing the surface. The ink began to flow effortlessly, an easy stream that matched the pace of her thoughts. Her mind raced to catch up with the speed of her hand, trying to keep track of the ideas tumbling out in rapid succession. It was like unlocking something that had been dormant for too long. Ideas flowed like water breaking through a dam. Sudden, unstoppable, and yet there was something wonderfully freeing about it. It felt natural. Like the most comfortable part of herself that had been buried beneath layers of doubt was finally being set free.

Her pen flew across the page, forming words, sketches of thoughts, and half-formed ideas that would eventually take shape. She started to outline her characters. One was easy to bring to life, like someone she’d known her whole life. A sharp-witted, confident woman, strong in her own way, yet secretly afraid to let anyone see her vulnerability. The other character was more complicated. Quieter, introspective, holding her emotions close, yet possessing an intensity that was magnetic when she allowed herself to truly be seen. Carla could already feel the tension between them, the dynamic that would push them forward. It was like she could hear their voices in her head, see the way they would move, the way they would look at each other.

Her pen never slowed as she added layer after layer: strengths, weaknesses, fears, flaws, desires. She fleshed out their quirks, the little things that would make them real to the reader. One liked to tap her fingers when she was nervous; the other always found herself scribbling in notebooks, as though she couldn’t leave her thoughts alone. She breathed life into them, filling the page with the richness of their personalities. Each stroke of the pen was a small act of discovery, a deepening of something she hadn’t known was there.

She was lost in the rhythm of it, the steady movement of her hand and the flow of creativity filling the space around her. Time seemed to stretch and bend as she continued to write, lost in the world she was creating. The ideas came faster now, so fast that she could hardly keep up. As her characters came into sharper focus, Carla found herself imagining how they might meet. Would it be a casual introduction, something innocent and fleeting? Or would there be immediate conflict? Tension? Would there be a slow build, where they’d discover each other’s walls before finding ways to break them down?

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Carla’s lips as she let the idea settle into her mind. The tension between them felt almost electric, building with every thought. There was something magnetic about the way their personalities would clash, something undeniable that would pull them together in ways neither of them could predict. She could already picture it: the sharp words, the silences that stretched too long, the small moments of vulnerability that neither woman would let the other see but they would, somehow. Carla imagined it with a sense of excitement, the potential for their relationship crackling in the air like an open flame. It felt thrilling, dangerous, and alive.

But something about it didn’t sit quite right. As she read through her notes, something gnawed at her. The connection between the two characters felt... stronger than it should. Their banter was sharp and witty, yes, but there was something else beneath it all - a layer of depth she hadn’t anticipated. Something tender. Something intimate.

Carla’s eyes narrowed, a slight frown creasing her forehead as she looked down at her notes. Her finger traced the words she had written - best friends growing together. The line had seemed right when she wrote it, natural even. She had envisioned their friendship as the foundation of the story - two women who would be close, who would share adventures and struggles. But now, the words didn’t sit well with her. The connection between them felt electric, like a charge running through the air whenever she thought of them together. It wasn’t just friendship anymore. It wasn’t just anything.

Without even thinking about it, Carla’s pen moved, striking through best friends with a sharp, deliberate motion. Her mind was already ahead of her hand, rewriting the connection in a way that felt truer. She scrawled love interests across the page, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the words. It felt right. More than right. It felt like the missing piece falling into place.

She sat back in her chair, her heart thumping a little harder as she let the words sink in. She reread everything she had written. Their meeting, their growing closeness, the way they complemented each other so perfectly. The dynamic between them was undeniable. It was electric, charged with an energy she couldn’t ignore. And as she read through her notes, a creeping realization began to settle in, heavy and undeniable. The more she thought about it, the harder it became to ignore the truth that was unfolding right in front of her.

This connection between her characters…it wasn’t just fiction anymore. It was too real, too raw. The lines between the two women on the page and herself were blurring, slowly but surely. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She hadn’t meant to let her emotions bleed into the story, hadn’t meant to pour her own hopes, longings, and desires into their every interaction. But somehow, without even realizing it, she had. Her characters weren’t just figments of her imagination. They had become mirrors of herself, reflections of her feelings.

Her hand hovered over the notebook, and she found herself staring at the words she'd written: Romantic Interests. Those words were like a stark, flashing signal in the quiet of the room, and the more she looked at them, the more they felt like they were staring back at her, mocking her, daring her to confront something she wasn’t ready to face. She had written them so casually, without a second thought, as if it was nothing. But now, in the stillness of the moment, with the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her, the words felt heavier. Real.

She swallowed hard, the weight in her chest growing heavier with each passing second. It was like a rock had settled there, pressing down on her heart, and no matter how deeply she tried to breathe, it refused to lift. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the pen, almost as if to hold herself together, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. For a moment, she just sat there, paralyzed by the intensity of the realization that was slowly sinking in.

She thought back to Lisa. How her laughter, that soft, melodic sound that had filled the space between them, warm and unguarded. She remembered the softness in Lisa’s voice when they talked, the way it had wrapped around her like a gentle embrace. She could still hear it echo in her mind.  And then there were the moments between words, the glances, the silences, that seemed to carry more weight than words ever could. The way their gazes had lingered just a moment longer than they should have, the electricity in the air when their eyes met. They had exchanged those looks, the unspoken connection that neither of them had acknowledged, but that hung there like an invisible thread between them, pulling tighter with each second. She could still feel it now, like an imprint on her skin. The flutter in her chest when Lisa had opened up to her, revealing a vulnerability she hadn’t expected, the way that moment had felt like something shifting inside her, irrevocably. There was something between them, something undeniable, something she couldn’t quite put into words.

The memory swirled in her mind, a cyclone of emotion, leaving her breathless, unsure of what to do with the feelings that had risen to the surface. What was she supposed to do with that? The question echoed in her mind, a hollow ache that seemed to resonate in her bones. How could she pretend everything was normal, how could she ignore the fact that her story, the characters she had created, was starting to feel too personal? The lines between what she had written and what was happening to her were blurring in a way that made her feel exposed, raw, and uncertain.

Carla closed her eyes, the weight of everything pressing in on her as she tried to steady herself. She exhaled slowly, but the breath felt like it wasn’t enough, like it couldn’t clear the tension that had suddenly gripped her. The truth, the quiet, undeniable truth, crept into her awareness, slow but insistent, like a tide rising around her. There was no outrunning it, no pretending she hadn’t noticed what had happened. She had started writing her own feelings into these characters, unknowingly or not. They weren’t just two women she had invented. They were mirrors of her own longings, her own emotions. Her mind screamed at her to separate the two, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that these characters were becoming something more than just a plotline. They were becoming real in a way that made her heart ache with understanding. And now it was only a matter of time before she had to confront that truth.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell back onto the page. The words she had written (Romantic Interests) now felt like a cruel reminder of what she had been trying to avoid. She had scrawled them without thinking, the phrase coming so naturally, but now, staring at it, she could feel a heaviness in her chest that wasn’t there before. She hadn’t meant for this. She hadn’t meant to blur the lines between her story and herself, hadn’t meant to let her own emotions infiltrate the fictional world she had created. But there they were, staring back at her, undeniable. This wasn’t just a story anymore.

Carla sank back into her chair, suddenly exhausted, her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. The room around her felt too still, too quiet, like it was holding its breath with her. The connection between her characters, two women drawn to each other, something deeper blossoming between them, was so strong now that it felt like a part of her. The electric pull between them, the way they complemented each other, had become a reflection of the very thing she had been trying to avoid: the undeniable connection she was feeling with Lisa.

And as the quiet of the room enveloped her, Carla couldn’t deny it any longer. The connection between her characters was too real, too raw, to be just a friendship. There was something more. Something undeniable. And as the truth settled deeper into her chest, she felt a spark of recognition. Maybe her connection with Lisa wasn’t meant to be just platonic either.

Carla closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to push away the weight that had settled in her chest. She didn’t want to feel this. She didn’t want to admit what was happening inside her. She had spent years perfecting the art of building walls, of hiding behind them, guarding herself from anything that might make her feel exposed, vulnerable. It was easier that way, safer. But now, in the quiet of her room, those walls felt paper-thin, crumbling under the force of something she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t prepared for. The realization that she was feeling something she couldn’t control; something she didn’t know how to deal with left her breathless.

The notebook in her hands now feeling too heavy, too significant, like it was carrying the weight of every unspoken thought in her mind. She turned it over, her fingers grazing the pages, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at it again.

What was she supposed to do with it? What was she supposed to do with herself? Her thoughts spun in chaotic circles. The idea of seeing Lisa again stirred a mixture of excitement and fear that made her stomach churn. The uncertainty of it all, the possibility that something had shifted between them was almost too much to bear. Would it be awkward now? Would she be awkward around Lisa? The thought of facing her again suddenly felt like navigating uncharted territory. Every step forward felt thrilling, yet terrifying. The connection between them was undeniable, but it came with a heavy weight. One that Carla wasn’t sure she could carry.

Carla took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort to regain some sense of control. She needed to get some sleep, she told herself. She needed clarity. She needed to stop overthinking everything. But the truth was, the more she tried to quiet her mind, the louder the thoughts became. The pull toward Lisa, the emotions that she had tried to dismiss, were there, sitting like a knot in her stomach. Every time she tried to push them away, they seemed to resurface, stronger and more insistent.

Her mind raced through the possibilities. What now? What does this mean? She could try to bury her feelings, keep pretending she wasn’t drawn to Lisa, just like she had buried her own creativity for so long. She had spent the past two years pushing everything that felt too real, too vulnerable, into a deep, dark corner of her heart. She had run away from it all. From her writing. From her emotions. But that had only led her here, to Willowbrook, to Lisa. And Lisa... Lisa had managed to slip past all of her defences. She had gotten through in a single conversation, effortlessly dismantling the walls Carla had worked so hard to build. Carla didn’t even know how it had happened. One minute, she was keeping everyone at arm's length, and the next, she was sitting with Lisa, feeling like the most natural thing in the world was to open up, to just be seen.

This thing with Lisa? It wasn’t something she could control. Carla couldn’t pretend she hadn’t felt it: the pull, the connection, the chemistry that sparked between them like electricity. It was deeper than anything she had ever experienced before, and the intensity of it unsettled her. There was no denying it. No matter how hard she tried to push it away. But maybe that was the problem. Carla had never allowed herself to feel anything this real, this raw. She didn’t know how to navigate something so powerful, so overwhelming. It was easier to build walls, to shut people out, but now those walls felt unnecessary - an illusion she was only holding onto because she didn’t know how to exist without them. She had spent so long hiding behind the walls, but standing here now, with all those defences crumbling away, Carla realized how hollow they were.

She sighed into the pillow, her body sinking deeper into the softness of the bed as she stared up at the ceiling. The darkness around her pressed in, thick and heavy, swallowing the room. It felt suffocating, but also strangely comforting, like the world outside had faded away and left her with nothing but her own swirling thoughts. Why fight it? she thought. She didn’t have a reason to. Not really.

She could try to overthink it, try to analyse every moment she had spent with Lisa, dissecting each look, each word, until she twisted it into something unrecognizable. But what good would that do? She’d done enough overthinking in her life to last a lifetime. The reality was, Lisa seemed so calm, so at ease around her, unaffected by the tension Carla couldn’t shake. She had an effortless confidence that Carla both admired and envied. Maybe this was just a natural connection, something simple, nothing to make such a big deal out of. Maybe she was overcomplicating everything, as she often did. She couldn’t help it; it was how she had been trained to think. But Lisa didn’t seem to carry that same weight, and it made Carla wonder if she had the power to simply… let go.

Maybe she could just go with the flow. Maybe she didn’t need to wrestle with every feeling, every uncertain thought, until it suffocated her. She didn’t need to figure it all out right now. She didn’t need to place labels on whatever this was between them. What if this connection was just a fleeting moment. A simple, beautiful thing that was meant to exist here and now, in Willowbrook, while she was finding herself again? What if it wasn’t meant to be anything more? And if it did turn into something more, something bigger… well then Carla would figure that out when it came to it.

Her thoughts were so tangled, but there was a flicker of clarity in them now. She didn’t have to make a decision tonight; didn’t have to decide what it meant. She could let it be. Let it unfold, without the weight of expectation pressing down on her. The pressure she had always placed on herself to have all the answers, to control everything, suddenly seemed less important. It was a strange feeling, like a small light shining through the fog.

Carla wasn’t going to chase after Lisa. That wasn’t her style – not anymore. She was too old for that. She wasn’t the type to actively pursue anything or anyone, especially not when she wasn’t sure what she even wanted. But maybe, just maybe, if something was meant to develop between them, if the connection they shared continued to grow naturally, then she wouldn’t fight it. She wouldn’t stand in its way. For once, she might actually let herself experience it. Let herself feel whatever this was without the usual fear of what it could become, or whether it would disappoint her.

Her mind slowly quieted as she drifted closer to sleep, the weight of the night settling around her like a soft blanket. But there was something unexpected that came with it. An unexpected sense of calm. It was a quiet peace, a quiet surrender. The future felt uncertain, and she had no idea what would happen next. There were no guarantees, no promises. But for the first time in a long while, that didn’t scare her. The uncertainty, the not-knowing, felt like freedom, like she didn’t have to have everything figured out. She could simply… exist. Be present in the moment. She didn’t have to rush into anything. She just had to let it all unfold, one step at a time.

And as sleep finally claimed her, Carla allowed herself to embrace that feeling. The future might be unclear, but in that moment, she was content to let the unknown wash over her without fear.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Carla woke up to the soft buzz of her phone on the nightstand. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she reached for it, her fingers brushing over the cool surface of her screen. As her eyes focused, she saw the message from Lisa: “Hey, want to meet at the café for breakfast?”

A smile found its way to Carla’s face, soft and warm, spreading across her lips without her even realizing it. Carla’s heart fluttered in that familiar way that had become so tied to thoughts of Lisa. Something light, almost giddy, but also with a certain warmth, like the first rays of the sun breaking through the window on a chilly morning. Just the thought of Lisa, of spending time with her, made something stir deep inside Carla, a quiet anticipation that she hadn’t quite learned how to navigate yet. The idea of seeing her again, of being in her company, felt both exhilarating and comforting in a way that took her breath away.

Without a second thought, her fingers were already moving across the screen, typing out a response before she could second-guess herself. Yes, I’d love to. The words felt light, easy, like a natural answer. It was a simple message, but as she stared at her phone for a moment longer, it felt like everything else in her life, all the other little worries, all the little details of the day ahead, had somehow slipped away. The only thing that mattered was the idea of meeting Lisa, of walking into that café and seeing her face.

When Carla arrived at the café, the morning light was still soft and golden, spilling through the windows in gentle beams. The windows fogged slightly at the edges from the warmth inside meeting the cool spring air outside, creating that cozy, closed-in feeling that made it easy to forget the world existed beyond the glass. The café buzzed with a low, comforting murmur, conversations being shared in hushed voices over steaming mugs, the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine punctuated by the occasional clink of ceramic, the shuffle of baristas moving behind the counter.

As Carla began to look around the café, her gaze found Lisa immediately. There was no searching, no scanning the room. It was like her eyes were simply drawn to her, as if Lisa had quietly altered the gravity of the café without even trying.

She sat by the front window, her silhouette haloed by the golden wash of morning light pouring in behind her. The light softened everything it touched, but it seemed to glow for Lisa, illuminating the lines of her face and catching in her hair until it shimmered like strands of honey. She had one leg tucked casually beneath her on the bench seat, her body angled just slightly toward the café entrance.

A coffee mug was nestled between both hands, fingers wrapped around it like it was something precious, not just warm ceramic. Her thumbs moved slowly over her phone screen, her brows drawn in the faintest furrow of focus, the kind that said she was reading something rather than just scrolling; present but detached. There was no hurry in her movements, no sense of performance. She looked utterly at ease, like she had all the time in the world.

Carla froze.

Just for a second, she didn’t move.

She stood there in the doorway, the soft chime of the entry bell still ringing in the air behind her like an echo, the cool spring breeze she’d carried in brushing past her ankles and just let herself look at Lisa.

Her breath caught; a hitch so subtle she almost didn’t notice it. But her chest tightened, just slightly, and the sensation rooted her there. The sounds of the café dulled around her. The gentle murmur of conversation, the hiss of steamed milk, the clink of teaspoons on saucers: they were all distant now, softened under the weight of this one perfect image.

There was something magnetic about Lisa’s stillness. She wasn’t trying to command attention. In fact, she looked like she barely noticed the room at all. And somehow, that only made her more captivating. She existed in the space so effortlessly, so fully, that it felt like the café had been built around her. As if she belonged here more than the chairs or the walls or the scent of fresh coffee in the air.

Carla couldn’t look away.

The sunlight hit her in that fleeting, golden way it sometimes does like it had made a deal with the moment to arrive just when it needed to. It poured through the tall windows and spilled over Lisa’s shoulders, warming her skin and catching in the soft, tousled strands of her hair. It turned each subtle movement of her head into something cinematic, glinting when she tilted slightly, making her look more like a daydream than a real person. And yet, she was real. She was right there.

Carla felt it in her chest, a sudden, unsteady thump. Not sharp or alarming, but deep and full, like her heart was reminding her she was alive. That she was here, in this exact moment, watching Lisa in a beam of morning light, and somehow the world had slowed down around them.

Lisa looked effortlessly perfect. Not the kind of perfect that begged to be noticed, but the kind that settled quietly into your bones. The kind that didn’t need polish or performance. She belonged in that moment the way a candle belongs in the dark - natural, essential, a source of warmth. The steam rising from her coffee curled lazily in the light, and the soft shadows on her face made her look like a painting come to life.

Her feet started moving before she could think, like her body had made the decision without asking permission from her mind. Each step felt both impossibly light and heavy, as though she were floating toward something inevitable and carrying the full weight of what it meant at the same time. She wasn’t aware of weaving past tables or brushing against the side of someone’s chair - if she did, she didn’t feel it. She was only aware of the magnetic pull ahead of her, the way Lisa anchored her attention like a thread tied tight between them.

Her awareness tunnelled. The edges of the world blurred. Thoughts that had been swirling (what to say, how to act, whether her hair looked okay) slipped away like smoke. All of her senses sharpened and narrowed to one single point: Lisa.

The warmth in her chest bloomed into something closer to heat, spreading outward in slow, steady pulses. She felt it in her throat, her fingertips, her ears. Her heartbeat grew louder, steadier, until it was almost rhythmic in her ears, an echoing drumbeat beneath her skin. She barely registered the café anymore. The muted conversations, the clatter of plates, the hiss of the espresso machine. They all faded into a distant hush.

And then Lisa looked up.

Their eyes met.

It was like being seen and known all at once. Lisa’s expression softened instantly, her lips curling into that smile. That specific one that always undid something in Carla. It started with the faint widening of her eyes, the way they sparkled with recognition, and then that slow, radiant curve of her mouth, full of light and something unspoken.

“Hey, you made it,” she said, and the sound of her voice, familiar and warm, reached right through Carla’s chest like sunlight through a windowpane.

Carla’s breath caught in her throat once more. Afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak, Carla nodded quickly, her lips parting in a smile she couldn’t contain even if she’d wanted to. “Yeah… wouldn’t miss it.” Her voice wobbled just slightly; the words soft with emotion she couldn’t quite tame. It wasn’t nerves, exactly, it was something closer to awe. She tried to steady herself, to breathe, to push the rising warmth in her cheeks down, but there was a tremor hiding underneath it.

And still, she couldn’t look away. Not from Lisa. Not from that smile. Not from the way the light seemed to catch between them and hold there, suspended like a secret only they knew. It was like something sacred had settled in the space between them: fragile, glowing, unspoken.

Every time Lisa looked at her like that, Carla’s world tilted just a little. And every time, she let it.

Lisa motioned to the seat across from her, the smile never fading. “So, what are you having today?” she asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. She leaned forward, her forearms resting on the table, posture open and casual but somehow entirely focused. There was a softness in her eyes, a quiet curiosity behind her tone. That quiet confidence, that was what undid Carla every time. Lisa didn’t even have to try.

Carla hesitated, her hand fluttering toward the menu before pausing mid-air. The way Lisa was looking at her - not in a way that demanded anything, but in a way that saw her - made her heart hiccup. Her brain scrambled. “Uh… I’ve only ever ordered the bacon butty,” she said, trying to sound breezy as she flipped open the menu. “What else is good here? You’re the expert, after all.”

She meant it as a joke, a simple conversation starter. But there was something in the way Lisa’s gaze lingered, soft and steady, that made her skin feel too warm. Her thoughts went fuzzy, and she struggled to keep her tone light, casual. It was hard to concentrate on anything with Lisa looking at her like that.

She sat down quickly, hoping the rush of heat to her cheeks wasn’t too obvious. Hoping the little flustered tremble in her fingers wasn’t visible. Pull it together, Carla, she thought.

Lisa let out a soft huff of laughter, her eyes sparkling with something playful. “I’m not sure me living here longer than you makes me an expert.”

“It literally does” Carla said, without missing a beat. Her lips curved into a sly half-smile as she raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her seat with an exaggerated air of authority. “You’ve got like a 6-year lead on me when it comes to this place. That qualifies you for expert status. It’s basic maths.”

Lisa’s eyes lit up with amusement, her lips twitching as if holding back a laugh. “Basic maths, huh?”

Carla nodded solemnly, but there was a spark in her eyes too. She was enjoying the rhythm of this, the back-and-forth, the ease of it. “Undeniable. Scientific, even.”

Lisa’s gaze softened, the playful edge shifting into something gentler. She leaned in slightly, the space between them shrinking as her voice dropped just a touch, low and warm, almost conspiratorial. The kind of tone that made something flutter under Carla’s ribs. “Right, okay then. In that case… they do a really good full English here. And their avocado toast? It’s to die for”

Carla raised a sceptical brow, trying to mask the way her breath caught for a beat. God, that voice. She blinked once, then tilted her head. “Avocado toast?”

Lisa grinned, wide and knowing, like she could read Carla’s thoughts and was choosing to play with them anyway. “Oh, trust me. It will change your life.”

Carla laughed, the sound soft but real. She shook her head slowly, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back, her expression playful but sharp. “I’ll be the judge of that. I’ve got standards, you know.”

Lisa leaned in even closer, closing what little space remained between them. The edge of her sleeve brushed Carla’s arm, sending a faint spark of awareness skittering across her skin. Her voice dipped again, just shy of a whisper, her eyes locked on Carla’s with that same mischievous glint. “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

And that was it.

Carla’s mind went blank for half a second - her breath catching, heart skipping like a scratched record. For a moment, all she could do was look at Lisa. Everything else, every sound, every smell, every flicker of movement in the room, blurred into a soft haze. The café faded away around them, until it was just this: Lisa’s nearness, the warmth radiating off her, the way her eyes held hers with quiet confidence and just a hint of a dare.

The soft curve of Lisa’s smile. The way she hovered close, like she wasn’t in any rush to pull back. The gentle tension that hummed between them, electric but unspoken.

Carla could feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck again, only this time, she didn’t look away. Lisa looked so at ease, like this little moment, this space between them, was completely natural. Like it was theirs.

Then Lisa stood, her chair scraping gently against the tile floor. The spell broke, but softly.

“I’ll go order,” she said, her voice light again. She brushed her fingers along the edge of the table as she passed, the barest whisper of contact that still managed to leave Carla hyperaware of every point of sensation. “Be right back.”

Carla didn’t answer. She just watched her go, every inch of her still quietly humming from the contact, the closeness, the smile.

Carla sat back, trying to collect her thoughts, but her brain was a swirl of fragments, her pulse still quickened from the closeness. God, so much for ‘going with the flow’ and ‘seeing where things go naturally,’ she thought to herself, a frustrated sigh escaping as she ran a hand through her hair.

She was supposed to be playing it cool, letting whatever this was unfold naturally. That had been the plan, anyway. But her body was betraying her in ways she couldn’t hide. Her heart was hammering, each beat loud enough that she could almost hear it, a frantic rhythm that seemed to pulse in her ears. It wasn’t just the physical reactions, though that was enough to leave her feeling like she’d just stepped off a rollercoaster and hadn’t yet regained her footing, but it was also the way Lisa made her feel. Alive. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way; this awake like everything else faded into the background when Lisa was near.

Her pulse quickened each time Lisa smiled, each time their eyes met. It was as if Lisa was the centre of the universe, and Carla, for all her attempts to appear composed, was simply drawn into her orbit.

She was putty. Literal, ridiculous putty.

Who knew someone could get her so flustered? She was used to being in control. To being the one in the spotlight, speaking carefully, choosing her words with precision, aware of every gesture, every movement. The public eye demanded that. It was the act she’d perfected over the years: always poised, always aware, always prepared. But with Lisa? All of that practice, all of the careful masks she’d worn, seemed utterly useless. In the space between them, Carla was vulnerable in a way she hadn’t known was possible. Her usual self-assurance had crumbled away, leaving her raw and uncertain. She was a stuttering mess

She wanted to laugh at herself, at how completely undone she felt in this moment. But instead, she just sat there, caught somewhere between awe and embarrassment, wishing she could wrap her brain around the feelings swirling inside her. She wanted to be calm, to be in control, to be the same version of herself that everyone else saw - polished, composed, untouchable. But Lisa wasn’t just anyone. And that was the problem. Or maybe the gift. Carla couldn’t decide which.

Carla was brought out of her thoughts when Lisa returned, sliding back into her seat. Her presence felt like an electric current, sparking to life again, her gaze immediately finding Carla’s.

“A waitress will bring our food over in a bit. You okay? You’re looking a little distracted,” Lisa asked, her voice soft but carrying an edge of concern.

“Huh?” Carla blinked, her mind catching up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little tired, I suppose. First night in a new bed and all that.”

The waitress arrived with their food, setting the plates down gently on the wooden table with a practiced smile and a quiet, “Enjoy.” The rich, earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee curled upward in soft, inviting tendrils, mingling with the savoury scent of eggs fried just right, the salty crisp of bacon, and the warm, toasted crunch of bread. The avocado glistened slightly under a drizzle of olive oil, peppered delicately with chili flakes and a hint of lemon.

It smelled like comfort. Like something familiar, grounding. But Carla wasn’t sure her body could respond to it properly. Her stomach gave a low, almost impatient grumble because this would be the first thing she’s eating since she woke up, but she felt like she was sitting in a moment that was just too delicate, too electric to focus on something as simple as eating. Like chewing might shatter the fragile balance of whatever this thing between them was becoming.

Still, she reached for her fork, if only to give her hands something to do. She cut off a neat corner of the avocado toast, lifted it to her lips, and took a bite.

Lisa’s eyes didn’t leave her.

She wasn’t being subtle about it either. Her gaze was fixed, steady, a quiet intensity behind it that made Carla feel completely and utterly seen. Like Lisa was studying not just her reaction, but her every breath, every flicker of expression. She chewed, swallowed carefully, took a second to compose herself before speaking, keeping her tone deliberately casual even as her nerves skittered beneath the surface.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” she said, setting the fork down with a soft clink. “It’s good. It’s not life-changing or anything, but it’s nice.” She paused, giving Lisa a small, half-smile, trying to sound teasing. “Guess I was right after all. You are the expert around here. This place is great.”

Lisa’s lips curved into that familiar, irresistible smirk. The one that looked like she was both pleased and amused, like she already knew the answer before Carla had even spoken. Her eyes sparkled, bright. “I guess so,” she said, leaning forward just enough for her voice to dip in volume, not needing to be loud to be heard. “Although sometimes it’s not just the food that makes a place great.”

Carla blinked, head tilting, curious despite herself. “What do you mean?”

Lisa gave a shrug, one shoulder rising in that effortless, casual way of hers. “Like, I could recommend you hundreds of places.”

Carla gave her a look, eyebrow raised, deadpan. “Hundreds? In Willowbrook?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I don’t even know if there are a hundred places here.”

Lisa laughed, the sound low and warm and somehow personal, like it was just for Carla. She shook her head, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I can recommend you a lot of places. Capping it at about twenty,” she added with a grin, like she knew just how ridiculous her earlier claim had sounded. She leaned back slightly now, more thoughtful as she continued. “And yeah, sure, some of them will be better than others. But I’ve always found that the company makes a world of difference. Good company can make a bad place great.”

The words landed with more weight than Carla expected. For a second, she forgot how to breathe normally. Her chest tightened with that familiar rush, half anticipation, half panic and she had to reach for her coffee just to do something with her hands. She took a quick sip, though her mouth was already dry, the heat of the coffee no match for the warmth currently blooming across her cheeks.

Did Lisa mean her? Was that what she was saying? That Carla was good company? That being here, with her, made this little café special?

She wanted to believe that. God, she wanted to believe it so badly. But the doubt crept in, sharp and familiar. What if she was reading too much into it? What if this was just Lisa being friendly? Kind? And Carla, in her ridiculous state of emotional confusion, was twisting it into something more?

Still... the way Lisa looked at her steady, warm, interested. The way her voice had softened just slightly, as if she were letting Carla in on something quiet and real, it felt like more than just friendliness.

Carla cleared her throat gently, needing to break through the rising tide of emotion before it carried her away completely. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, hoping her hands didn’t look as shaky as they felt.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt, “I guess I can’t argue with you there. Good company definitely does make a difference.”

And when she looked up and saw Lisa’s smile soft and a little shy around the edges but lingering like it meant something. Carla couldn’t help but smile back.

Even if her heart was doing somersaults.

They continued eating in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not even close. It was the kind of silence that felt earned, almost sacred. The type that hung lightly between two people who didn’t need to perform or fill every second with sound to feel connected. Words felt optional, not necessary. It was easy, warm, companionable. Every so often, Carla would glance up from her plate to find Lisa already looking at her, eyes thoughtful, lingering for just a moment too long before flicking back down to her coffee.

It was almost too much. And somehow not enough.

Carla leaned forward slightly, elbows brushing the edge of the table. Her fingers toyed absently with the rim of her mug, voice quieter than before, uncertain. “So, what’s your favourite part of Willowbrook? I mean, since you’re the expert and all.”

Lisa’s gaze lifted to hers slowly. Her expression softened at the question. Not just in the curve of her mouth, but in her whole posture, like the memory it stirred in her was something gentle. She inhaled, not in a rush, as if she were searching for the exact shape of the feeling before answering. Her fingertips traced the curve of her cup, slow and rhythmic.

“There’s this spot by the lake,” she said eventually, her voice mellow and calm, almost like she was already there in her mind. “Early in the morning, before anyone’s out. When there’s still a mist rolling off the water. It’s quiet, peaceful. You can’t hear anything but the birds and the wind moving through the trees. Feels like the whole world’s still asleep, and for a little while, you’re the only one who’s awake to see it.”

“Sounds nice,” she murmured, her voice tinged with something wistful. A part of her wanted to ask, Would you take me there sometime? But the words stayed tucked inside, too fragile to say out loud. Instead, she settled on, “You ever go there when you need to think?”

Lisa nodded, slowly, eyes drifting just past Carla as if seeing something far away. “Yeah,” she said, her tone dropping slightly. “I think there’s a lot to figure out in a place like that. It’s easy to be honest with yourself when no one else is around.”

The words hit Carla harder than she expected. A swell of something heavy rose in her throat, pressing behind her ribs. Because yes. God, yes. She knew exactly what that felt like craving the kind of stillness where the noise fell away and you were forced to sit with yourself, with the truth. Even the parts you weren’t ready to say aloud.

Her chest tightened, a quiet kind of ache threading through her. That simple honesty, so gently offered, somehow made her feel exposed.

Before she could figure out what to do with all that emotion, Lisa looked back at her and smiled again. Something lighter this time, though not any less sincere. She must’ve sensed the shift between them, the sudden quiet stretching longer than it should have.

“I don’t know though,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her smile curving gently at the edges. “I like it here too. In the café. With the people. There’s something nice about being in a place that’s so... alive.”

Carla nodded, almost automatically, but her breath hitched a little. The world was alive but, in this moment, the only thing she could really feel was the connection humming between her and Lisa. It was in the small glances, the way their knees nearly brushed under the table, the unspoken gravity drawing them closer in ways they hadn’t quite named yet.

The café was full of quiet clatter and low voices and warm smells. But none of that seemed to matter. Not really. Because all Carla could focus on was this - the way Lisa made the world feel quieter and louder all at once. And somehow, more vivid than it had in a long, long time.

They continued eating, but Carla found herself more focused on Lisa than the food. Her fork moved mechanically, half-heartedly, as her eyes kept drifting back across the table. She couldn’t help it. Not when Lisa was sitting there like that, so effortlessly herself. There was something hypnotic in the way Lisa’s fingers curled around her cup, her thumb absently tracing the rim while she listened. The way she leaned in ever so slightly when she spoke, her voice warm and low, like every word was a secret meant only for Carla.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was presence. Lisa had this way of being in the moment that made everything around her seem more vivid, more immediate. The chatter in the café faded into soft static, the clink of dishes and distant laughter muffled beneath the weight of that quiet, charged space between them. It felt like the world had narrowed, sharpened, somehow richer just because Lisa was in it, sharing it with her. And Carla couldn’t ignore the way that made her feel like she was waking up after a long sleep.

When the waitress came by to clear their plates, Carla barely registered the movement. The soft clink of cutlery, the murmur of thanks from Lisa - it all blurred into the background. Her mind was still tangled in the feel of the conversation, in the space between them that seemed to hum with some quiet current she didn’t know how to name.

But then Lisa looked at her again. Her gaze lingered, warm, steady, unafraid.

“You want to walk around after?” Lisa asked, her voice low, unhurried, like she wasn’t just offering a plan but gently offering a piece of herself too. “There’s a park nearby. It’s not much, but I don’t know, I like it.”

Carla’s heart jumped, a sudden and inexplicable flutter rising just behind her ribs. Her breath caught, small and tight. The question was simple, innocent, even. It wasn’t phrased like a date. It wasn’t dressed up in expectation. But the way Lisa said it, soft, like it was just between the two of them, made it feel like something else. Not a grand gesture, but something quieter. More intimate. A window cracked open into something tender.

Carla hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to, but because her chest was suddenly too full. With want. With nerves. With the impossible urge to hold onto this moment and not let it slip away. Her brain scrambled, wanting to reach for logic, for control, but nothing came. Just the fluttering pulse in her neck and the echo of Lisa’s words looping in her head.

Go with the flow, she reminded herself. That was the plan. No pressure. No expectations. Just seeing where this would go. Letting it unfold, moment by moment.

Besides, it wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

And truthfully, there was no place she wanted to be more.

“Yeah,” she said at last, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded softer. Breathier. Like she was letting her guard down, just a little. She offered a smile, small but honest and tried not to show how much the moment had shaken her. “I’d like that.”

Lisa’s grin bloomed slow and sure, her whole face lighting up with it. And God, it was unfair how beautiful that smile was, how easily it could turn Carla inside out. There was no teasing in it now, no coyness or performance. Just warmth. Just Lisa.

“Great,” she said, rising from her chair with a fluid ease, slinging her jacket over one arm like she’d done this a hundred times before. Her eyes never left Carla’s. “Let’s go then.”

And just like that, Carla stood too, her legs a little shaky, her heart louder than it had any right to be. She followed, caught in the gravity of something that felt quiet but important, as if every step forward was drawing her closer to a truth that was waiting to come out.

Chapter Text

The park was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled in your bones. Not just the absence of noise, but the kind of silence that made you feel like the world had slowed its spinning just for a moment. Early autumn leaves stirred gently in the trees, whispering secrets only the wind could hear. The air was cool but not biting, and the earthy scent of damp soil and fading greenery clung to the breeze.

Trees rustled softly overhead, and the gravel beneath their feet crunched in a slow, unhurried rhythm. Birds flitted between branches, calling out in bursts of song that echoed through the stillness, their notes rising and falling like a melody meant only for those who knew how to listen. The scent of wildflowers was faint but present, lingering in the cool breeze that swept through the park, teasing the edges of the senses with the promise of summer to come.

Carla walked beside Lisa, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill. Beneath their feet, the gravel crunched in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each step sounding muffled by the stillness around them. The sound wasn’t jarring or intrusive; it was simply part of the landscape, like a soft reminder that they were moving through something timeless. Each footfall seemed to blend with the next, like the park was somehow absorbing their presence, allowing them to pass through its stillness without disturbing it too much.

Lisa didn’t speak right away. She just walked, calm and unbothered, each step deliberate and unhurried. Her movements were fluid, like she was part of the park itself, a natural extension of the landscape. She was clearly at ease in the silence, her posture relaxed, her gaze soft as it wandered over the surrounding beauty of the park. Her eyes flicked upward now and then, tracking the birds flitting between branches, their wings catching the sunlight in brief flashes, tiny flares of motion in an otherwise still canopy.

Lisa looked like someone who belonged here, not just in the park, but in this moment. There was an ease about her, as though the quiet didn’t unnerve her. In fact, it seemed to nourish her, wrap around her like a comforting blanket, giving her the space to simply be. The world’s noise, the chatter, the chaos, the rush of life; it didn’t reach her here.

Carla, walking beside her, felt her gaze linger on Lisa, drawn to her quiet strength, but quickly looked away, a grin tugging at her lips as she caught herself staring. She wasn’t shy about it; in fact, the more she watched Lisa, the more intrigued she became. But she couldn’t let it get too obvious. She turned her attention back to the path ahead, her steps deliberately louder as her shoes crunched against the gravel, hoping to break the silence with a bit of playful noise.

"So, you always this quiet on walks, or am I just really bad company?" Carla asked, her voice carrying a teasing edge, the words a bit louder than necessary, like she was daring Lisa to break her calm demeanour.

Lisa’s lips curled into a small smirk, the corner of her mouth lifting. I like quiet. Especially with people who don’t need to fill it," Lisa replied, her voice warm and smooth, carrying just the right amount of mystery.

Carla’s eyes sparkled, a mischievous twinkle appearing in her gaze. "Oh, so you’re saying I’m good company?" she teased, nudging Lisa lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Lisa let out a soft laugh, one that seemed to carry just as much meaning as her words, and it sent a ripple of warmth through Carla. “It was meant to be a compliment”

They shared a smile, quick, but warm. It wasn’t a grin, not a burst of laughter, but a simple acknowledgment that passed between them. It didn’t last long, but it was enough. That brief exchange of warmth hung in the air, like the afterglow of a fire that had just gone out - soft but still holding its presence.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t a void, but something richer. A shared space where words weren’t needed, only understanding. Both of them seemed to retreat into their own thoughts, as though the quiet was a canvas, each of them turning over something in their minds. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not at all. It was a mutual space of reflection, a moment suspended in time where nothing needed to be said, but everything was felt.

“So,” Carla began, her voice quieter this time, as though she didn’t want to disrupt the moment, “have you always liked quiet, or is that something you develop after living here for so long?”

Lisa let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine as she turned her head to glance at Carla. “What are you saying, this place sucks the personality out of people?”

Carla snorted, her lips curving into a grin. “No, not at all. I quite like it here, if you haven’t noticed already,” she said, nudging Lisa gently with her shoulder. “Just want to know if you’re secretly a loud social butterfly.”

Lisa snickered at the image. “Definitely not a social butterfly. Never have been.” She paused, eyes sweeping the tree-lined path ahead before continuing. “To answer your question, yeah, I’ve always loved the quiet. Even when I was a kid, I’d sneak off to sit by the river or hide in the attic just to be alone. The world’s noisy, you know? Always demanding something. Always pushing and pulling you in a hundred different directions. But when it’s quiet…” She drew in a deep breath, slow and steady. “When it’s quiet, I can finally hear myself. My thoughts, my feelings, the stuff that gets drowned out the rest of the time. It’s like everything comes into focus. Like clarity, but not the forced kind. The kind that just happens, if you give it space.”

Carla nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth tugging downward, not in sadness exactly, but in reflection. “I get that,” she murmured. “I used to be a right extrovert when I was younger. You could hear me from a mile away. Always the loudest laugh in the room, always the one dragging people out for drinks or karaoke or whatever nonsense we could think up.”

She chuckled, but it was tinged with something quieter beneath the sound. “Just got more introverted as I got older, I guess. Turning into an old granny, me,” she added, the smile returning briefly. “Need the peace and quiet of the countryside or something.”

But deep down, she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t age. It was fame. The kind of fame that crawled under your skin, that made you second-guess everything you did or said. She hadn’t meant to change, hadn’t even noticed at first, but slowly, piece by piece, she’d started shrinking. She stopped going to crowded cafés. She stopped dancing in public. She stopped saying exactly what she thought. Everything became curated, filtered, perfectly poised. Because someone was always watching - no matter what the situation was. And even now, out here, far away from flashing cameras and online commentary, she couldn’t quite bring herself to shed that shell.

But she was getting there. And that was down to Lisa. Even if Lisa didn’t know that yet.

“Everyone could do with a bit of peace and quiet every now and then. Time to reset,” Lisa said, her voice gentle. She glanced at Carla, and there was something so soft and full of understanding in her expression that it made Carla’s throat feel tight.

“Yeah,” Carla whispered, almost more to herself than to Lisa. The word barely left her lips, but it carried with it a sense of agreement, of unspoken truth. She let the moment linger, letting her shoulders drop, releasing some of the tension that had followed her for days, maybe even longer.

The path ahead twisted gently, narrowing into a tunnel of tall pines, their towering trunks stretching into the sky like silent sentinels. The branches swayed above them, brushing against each other in a soft, rhythmic rustling, like the trees were whispering secrets that only the wind and the birds could understand. The air was fresh, tinged with the smell of pine and damp earth, a mix of growing things and the remnants of rain from the night before.

Carla slowed her pace, her eyes lingering on Lisa for a moment longer than she had intended. “So, little miss bookshop. Tell me something no one knows about you” the question tumbled out of Carla’s mouth before she had even thought things through, something which had become uncharacteristic for Carla in recent years despite being told many times during her youth that she should ‘think before she speaks’.

Lisa’s lips quirked up at the nickname, amusement dancing in her eyes. She raised an eyebrow and glanced at Carla. “Little miss bookshop?” she echoed, her tone teasing, clearly intrigued by the playful jab.

Carla shrugged nonchalantly, her grin wide and mischievous. “What? I think it suits you.” She bumped Lisa lightly with her shoulder, a playful nudge. “You’re little, and you own a bookshop. I mean, come on, it practically screams ‘little miss bookshop.’”

Lisa rolled her eyes with a smile tugging at her lips. “You think you’re so funny,” she said, clearly amused by Carla’s teasing but not the least bit put off.

“Oh, I know I’m funny,” Carla replied with a wink, her voice laced with confidence, not just in her joke but in the easy connection between them. There was no tension, no worry in her voice. Just pure fun, a shared moment of light-heartedness.

“Your insufferable,” Lisa muttered, but the edge was playful, not accusing. She couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced sideways at Carla.

Carla raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter. “Stop stalling. Answer my question.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity, wanting to know more about this woman who seemed so effortlessly poised, so composed.

Lisa smirked, looking down at the path for a moment as if trying to pick a good answer. “Something nobody knows about me?” She dragged the words out in a thoughtful hum. “Hmm... I don’t know. I’m an open book, me.” She said it with a shrug, like it was no big deal.

Carla scoffed dramatically, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay,” she teased, her voice dripping with mock disbelief. “An open book? Please. You’ve got secrets. Everyone has something they don’t tell people.”

Lisa stopped walking abruptly, turning to face Carla, her arms crossed with an amused challenge on her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her tone playful but with a hint of mock offense.

Carla stopped too, catching the shift in Lisa’s energy. She turned around to face her fully, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Oh, come on. There’s surely something you haven’t told anyone. Like, for example…” She paused, letting the tension build for a moment before dropping her bombshell. “I once got stuck in a hammock for three hours.”

Lisa blinked, completely taken aback, her mouth falling open. “You’re kidding?”

“No, genuinely. It was so embarrassing,” Carla admitted, the memory still making her laugh at herself. “I thought I was going to have to call the fire department to rescue me. They’d have to send the whole crew just to untangle me.” She couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it, but the story had become a kind of joke she couldn’t ever escape.

Lisa chuckled, clearly amused by Carla's embarrassing story. The sound was light and genuine, a soft laugh that filled the space between them, making Carla smile despite herself. "What were you even doing in a hammock in the first place?" Lisa asked, still grinning, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Carla sighed dramatically, her lips curling into a sheepish smile. “I was doing this thing for work," Carla said, her tone shifting slightly as she kept it brief. She didn’t want to go into the specifics, not that she minded sharing the ridiculous story, but she didn’t want to share everything with Lisa just yet. She was enjoying her anonymity. She wanted to keep it as long as she could.

"I needed a place to chill for a little bit, y'know? So, I saw this hammock and thought, Perfect. I’ll just stay here for a little while, relax, maybe read a little.’"

She paused, remembering just how innocent her intentions had been, how she had underestimated the hammock’s ability to entrap her. "Well, that little while turned into a long while," she continued, her voice trailing off as if the memory still embarrassed her. "I got stuck, and I refused to get help." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone. "I just pretended to be asleep when somebody tried to find me."

Lisa let out a surprised laugh, her whole body shaking with amusement. Her eyes sparkled with genuine mirth, her shoulders quivering as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You stuck in a hammock?" she gasped, as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "Now that’s something I’d pay to see," she said, still chuckling, her laughter echoing in the peacefulness around them.

Carla rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hold back her own laughter, even as she pretended to be offended. "Alright, alright," she teased, shaking her head with mock indignation. "Stop laughing at my misfortune, will you?" Her tone was light, but the warmth in her voice made it clear she didn’t mind the laughter. If anything, it felt good to share something so silly and personal, to feel like she could laugh at herself without being judged. "Besides," she added with a sly grin, "It’s your turn to share something now."

Lisa’s eyes softened at that. The way Carla looked at her, bright-eyed, expectant, but never pushy, made it harder to hide behind her usual calm exterior. “Okay, okay,” she murmured, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Let me think of something.”

“There’s no pressure to this, you know,” Carla said, her voice low in the quiet hush of the park. “You can share something random, something personal. It’s up to you. That’s the beauty of getting to know people.”

Lisa felt a warmth settle in her chest at that. Something about Carla’s words lingered in the air like sunlight breaking through clouds. There was no demand, no expectation. Just permission. And that meant more than Carla probably realized.

They began walking again, their footsteps falling back into rhythm, gravel crunching softly beneath their boots. Around them, spring thrived. The world smelled of fresh rain and green things. Tiny buds were bursting open in the undergrowth, and birds flitted between branches, their songs delicate and melodic above the hush. The pine trees swayed gently in the breeze, tall and unwavering.

Lisa kept her gaze forward as she thought. Truth was, she’d never been someone who opened up easily. Guarded was the word most people used, and it wasn’t wrong. She’d built walls for herself early on, sturdy ones. When she was younger, it was about safety. About hiding who she was. Knowing she was a lesbian from a young age meant she had to be careful, cautious, especially in school where a secret could become a weapon in the wrong hands. So, she’d learned to keep her truth tucked behind polite smiles and good grades.

Later, it was her job that kept her closed off. Being a police officer meant being composed, professional. She had to stay in control, especially when everything around her wasn’t. People relied on her to be steady, unshakable. You couldn’t afford to crack. You couldn’t afford to let people see when you were hurting or overwhelmed or just plain tired. Because once someone knew what was beneath the surface, they might start to question your judgment, your ability to do the job. Vulnerability, in her line of work, wasn’t strength. It was a risk.

So, she built walls. Quiet ones. Invisible to most, but impenetrable just the same. And over time, they started to feel less like protection and more like home. Letting people in, letting them see her, that just wasn’t part of the uniform.

And then there was grief.

Losing Becky hadn’t just hurt, it had shattered something fundamental inside her. Becky had been her person. The one who saw through the walls, who understood the silences. The one who knew how to make her laugh when everything felt heavy, who made ordinary moments feel like sacred ones. Lisa had never believed in soulmates until Becky.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The grief was sharp at first, raw and consuming. But as time passed, it settled into something quieter. A dull ache that never quite left. A constant awareness of absence. Lisa had grieved in silence, the way she’d done everything else. Alone. At first, it was because she couldn’t stomach the pity in people’s eyes, the way it made everything feel more real, more final. But mostly, it was because of their daughter. Twelve years old and already drowning in her own loss. Lisa couldn’t afford to fall apart, not where she could be seen. So, she saved her grief for the late hours, behind a closed bedroom door. She cried into her pillow in the dark, then woke up and made breakfast like the world hadn’t ended. She didn’t speak about it; didn’t let her hurt show. She just… carried it. Like a stone in her pocket, always there, even when no one could see it.

That loss had taught her something cruel but true: letting someone in meant giving them the power to break you. And when they were gone, when life decided to be unthinkably unfair, there was no un-breaking. There was just the aftermath.

So, Lisa learned to guard her heart even more fiercely. Not because she didn’t want love, but because she knew what it could cost.

But then Carla came along: bright, warm, persistent in a way that didn’t feel invasive. She didn’t demand anything. Carla had this way of getting in, without even trying. Her laughter, her charm, the way she never filled silence just to fill it. It all chipped at those barriers without force. Just kindness. Just ease.

“I can play the piano,” Lisa said finally, her voice soft but steady, like she was offering up a small piece of herself, carefully unwrapped.

Carla blinked, surprised. “You can?”

Lisa nodded, casting her a sideways glance and offering a small, almost shy smile. “Well, I haven’t played in years. But I think I still could, if I tried.” She gave a little shrug. “I assume it’s like riding a bike. Once you know how to do it, it stays with you forever.”

Carla gave her a long, curious look, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “You did not strike me as someone who could play an instrument.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, feigning an exaggerated gasp of offense. “What? Do I not scream musically gifted?”

Carla laughed and gave her a once-over, letting her gaze linger with theatrical judgment. “You know what, on second thought... I bet you’re one of those people who are just frustratingly good at everything.”

Lisa smirked, clearly enjoying the back and forth. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, the kind that said she was fully aware of how charming she could be. “I have been told that before.”

“Course you have,” Carla muttered with a good-natured eyeroll, her laugh warm and real. “Of course you have.” She repeated.

Lisa bit her bottom lip, trying and failing to hide the grin blooming across her face. It spread slowly, like sunlight creeping across a room in the morning, soft and golden. “Maybe if we come across a piano,” she said, voice tipping into something playful, “we can see if I’ve still got it.”

Then she tilted her head slightly, her eyes locking onto Carla’s with an expression that was equal parts teasing and gentle. “Maybe you could play me something as well.”

Carla’s reaction was immediate. She raised both hands like she was warding off a curse, her expression one of mock-horror. “Oh no. You do not want that.”

Lisa chuckled, already knowing she was going to enjoy whatever excuse came next. “Why not?”

“I’ve got no rhythm at all,” Carla said solemnly, pressing a hand to her chest as if confessing a great shame. “Honestly, I think I’d make your ears bleed. It’d be an actual crime against music.”

Lisa burst out laughing, nudging her gently with her shoulder. “You can’t be that bad.”

“Trust me. I am,” Carla said, her grin stretching wide now, eyes gleaming with mischief. “My music teacher at school once unplugged my keyboard during a concert just to save the rest of the audience. I’m that bad.”

Lisa laughed harder at that, tipping her head back slightly, her voice carrying through the crisp spring air. The trees around them seemed to sway with it, the moment suspended in that golden, quiet kind of magic that only happens in early April afternoons.

“Well, in that case…” Lisa said between laughs, still grinning, “I will just have to teach you then.”

Carla turned toward her slightly, walking a little slower now. Their hands brushed, just barely but Carla didn’t pull away. Neither did Lisa.

“Okay,” she said, her voice quieter now but full of warmth. Her grin matched Lisa’s easily. “Sounds like a plan.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter if they ever found a piano. It didn’t matter if Carla ever learned a single note. What mattered was this, two people walking through a quiet park, surrounded by the gentle hum of spring, letting laughter soften the edges of past problems.

The path eventually widened, unfurling into a small clearing where the trees grew sparse and the sunlight, unfiltered at last, spilled across the grass in lazy, golden puddles. The air felt warmer here, softer. A wooden bench sat off to one side, weathered but sturdy, its paint faded and chipped from years of sun and rain. Moss clung to one leg like a secret.

Lisa motioned toward it with a small tilt of her head. “Want to sit for a bit?”

Carla hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yeah,” she said, quieter than before, as if raising her voice might disturb the fragile peace of the moment.

They sat side by side, not quite touching, not far apart. A hush settled between them, not awkward but full like the air just before rain. The wind stirred the pine branches overhead with a soft, creaking sigh, and somewhere nearby, a bird called out once, then again, its song clear and solitary.

Carla leaned back slowly, her spine easing into the worn slats of the bench, her head tipping toward the sky. The dappled light traced gentle patterns across her face, shadowing the curve of her cheek, catching in her lashes. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deep.

“This was nice,” she said eventually, and it wasn’t just idle conversation. The words dropped between them with quiet gravity. “I didn’t realize how much I needed… this.”

Lisa didn’t respond right away. Carla turned, drawn by the silence, and found Lisa already watching her. Her gaze was steady, thoughtful like she was trying to memorize something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep. Her lips curved, just slightly, in a smile that didn’t reach too far but still felt full of meaning.

“Me neither,” she said.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment too long. Not long enough to be reckless, but long enough that it felt deliberate. Like a held breath, or a hand hovering over another, just shy of touching.

Carla’s pulse fluttered in her throat, but she didn’t look away. Not this time.

Eventually, Lisa leaned back against the bench, stretching her legs out in front of her with a quiet sigh. “I should get going,” she said, voice low. “I’ve got stock to sort tomorrow.”

Carla smiled, warmth blooming quietly in her chest. “Of course you do. Little Miss Bookshop.”

Lisa groaned, but the sound was light, filled with amusement. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

They stood together, slowly, like neither of them wanted to break the spell just yet. Carla dug her hands into the pockets of her jacket, rocking slightly on her heels, grounding herself.

“Well… thanks. For today,” she said, and meant it with more layers than she could untangle just then.

Lisa looked at her for a beat, unreadable for a moment, then nodded. “Anytime.”

Carla turned, ready to walk away, but something in her stalled. She glanced back and Lisa was still standing there, still watching her, still that same magnetic stillness. Like the world hadn’t quite caught up with her yet.

There were things Carla wanted to say. Words that pressed at the back of her throat, urgent and soft and unformed. Something to mark the moment. To keep it.

But the words stayed where they were.

So instead, she smiled. Soft. Sure. And walked away. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. She didn’t know how much longer she would just see where this connection with Lisa ended up.

But something had shifted. Subtle, like the turn of the season. A quiet, growing sense that maybe, maybe, this was worth following, not just stumbling into.

She wouldn’t call it a plan. Not yet.

But she knew she’d be thinking of Lisa when she woke up.

And she knew exactly where she’d want to be.

Chapter Text

Carla woke slowly, blinking into the soft, hazy light that slipped between the cracks in the curtains. Outside, the sky was painted a delicate blue-grey, the kind that hinted at a crisp morning and maybe, if she was lucky, a day that would stay quiet. For a long moment, she didn’t move. She just lay there in the stillness, letting her body soak into the warmth of the duvet and the rare feeling of peace that clung to her skin like a second blanket.

She thought about the day before. Yesterday’s walk with Lisa still clung to her like the scent of rain on warm pavement. It had settled into her skin, calmed something restless inside of her. She hadn’t realised how tightly wound she’d been until that tension began to unwind. Their conversation flowing easily, full of things that mattered and things that didn’t. The kind of chat you only have when you trust the silences, too. It had felt like something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Something comforting and real.

She let out a slow breath and turned onto her side, eyes falling on the worn leather cover of her notebook. It sat where she always left it, on her bedside table. Even back in London, her notebook would always live there. But this morning, after being in Willowbrook for over a week, it didn’t feel like a chore waiting to be faced. It felt like a door swinging open.

She sat up and reached for it, flipping it open to a fresh page. The pen slid easily into her hand, and without overthinking it, she began to write. Just little notes at first. Stuff that had come across her mind during her walk with Lisa, stuff that was coming to her mind now. She drew an image of a garden bench that reminded her of the one in Willowbrook Park. It was messy and unfiltered but for the first time in years, that didn’t bother her.

A quiet laugh escaped her lips, and she caught herself smiling.

She was enjoying it again.

God, she’d missed this feeling. That spark of creativity, of possibility. She didn’t realise how much she’d buried it under stress and deadlines and the looming pressure to create something worthwhile. But here, in Willowbrook, the rules felt different. Here, there was time. Space. Permission.

When she finally got up, she did so with intention. She showered, dressed in her softest jumper and jeans (she still really needed to go shopping), and brewed a cup of coffee that she drank slowly by the window.

Before she left the house, she slipped the notebook into her bag. It was official now: she wasn’t going anywhere in Willowbrook without it. This town had a way of catching her off guard—sending inspiration fluttering past like a bird she had to chase. She wasn’t going to risk missing it.

As Carla stepped outside into the cool morning, she tucked her hands into her coat pockets and inhaled deeply. The streets were quiet, just a few early risers bustling about. She wandered slowly, letting her feet guide her. At least, that’s what she told herself. She told herself she was just going for a walk. Just a casual morning stroll to clear her head. No plan. No destination. But even as she stepped onto the cobbled path and pulled her coat tighter around her, she knew exactly where she was headed. And she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips.

God, she was acting like a teenager.

Like one of those school kids who changed their whole route to class just for the chance to pass their crush in the hallway. The ones who loitered outside the music room or took an unnecessary trip to the water fountain just for a glimpse.

But she didn’t care. She really didn’t.

For the first time in what felt like years, she was happy. Truly happy. And she wasn’t going to question it, or sabotage it, or try to dissect it into something smaller. She was going to bask in it. Let it wrap around her like sunshine. Let herself feel everything: the nerves, the hope, the excitement.

Because sometimes happiness wasn’t loud or overwhelming. Sometimes it was quiet and steady and came with the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the knowledge that you were walking toward something that felt right.

And that was exactly what Carla was doing.

The bell above the door chimed as Carla stepped inside, the familiar sound wrapping around her like an old song she hadn’t heard in years. It was gentle, delicate like wind chimes caught in a soft spring breeze and it stirred something quiet inside her. The warmth of the shop embraced her immediately. There was something about this place that always felt like stepping into someone’s memory. The soft amber lighting pooled across the wooden floorboards, casting gentle shadows across the spines of well-loved books. The scent was the same as it had been the first time she walked in: the musk of paper aged by time, a whisper of old wood, and the faintest trace of chamomile tea that always seemed to cling to the air. It reminded her of rainy days and slow mornings, of silence filled with pages turning and thoughts unfolding.

“Morning, Lisa,” Carla called out, the words slipping out before she’d fully taken in the room. It was like second nature to her now, like she always said it the same way, every time she came through the door.

“Not Lisa, I’m afraid,” a voice called out, light and melodic, laced with a friendliness that made Carla’s skin prickle in surprise.

That’s very strange, Carla thought, frowning slightly. Lisa told me she works by herself. She’d mentioned it more than once, in passing, the way people do when they’re proud of their independence. The shop was hers. She ran it alone. No help. No assistants. Just her. Carla moved to face the counter now, wondering who has taken their place at the counter - Lisa’s counter.

The girl behind the counter turned to face her fully, and for a moment Carla forgot how to speak. The blonde hair caught the light in the same way Lisa’s did when she turned toward the window. The same uneven, crooked smile tugged at her lips, like she was amused by the world in a way no one else had quite figured out. Carla’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she could almost convince herself that this was a younger version of Lisa. The resemblance was uncanny, like looking into the past through a slightly fogged-up mirror.

And that’s when it hit her.

This was a younger version of Lisa.

Not actually younger, of course but the girl in front of her shared Lisa’s features down to the slight arch in her brow, the way her eyes sparkled just a little mischievously even when she wasn’t saying anything particularly clever.

That’s why this person looked so familiar. Carla had seen her before though not in person. She had seen her in the photo in Lisa’s home. The little girl smiling next to her mum on the bench. The girl in the photo had grown, but the features were all the same.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked, her voice lilting with genuine kindness. “I promise I know this shop just as well.”

Carla tilted her head, her words slow, almost hesitant. “Lisa’s daughter?”

“That obvious?” the girl asked, a grin breaking over her face like sunlight.

Carla smiled, feeling something inside her ease. “You look just like her.”

The girl, Betsy, if Carla remembered the name right, laughed softly, the sound bright and easy. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Carla said, meaning it. She let her gaze wander again, drifting from the towers of new arrivals on the centre table to the reading chairs tucked into the back corners. Everything looked the same, but it felt slightly different like the energy had shifted just a little. She couldn’t help but glance around the shop, half expecting Lisa to just pop out of nowhere with that familiar smirk and shining eyes.

“Mum is in the back checking stock,” Betsy said, her tone knowing, as if she'd already clocked Carla’s searching gaze. “She’ll be back out again in a bit.”

“Oh yeah… she mentioned something about stock yesterday,” Carla murmured, slightly embarrassed to have been caught looking.

“So, are you a regular then?” Betsy asked, leaning on the counter now, folding her arms loosely, like someone who’d grown up surrounded by shelves and spines.

“Something like that,” Carla said, pausing, then adding with a small shrug, “I’ve only just moved here. Temporarily.”

Betsy raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Temporarily?”

“Yeah,” Carla nodded, brushing a hand down the sleeve of her coat. “Just here for a little while.”

“Well,” Betsy said with a warm nod, not wanting to press any further “If you need anything, just let me know. I meant it when I said I know this place just as well. Spent my teens slaving away in here”

“I don’t doubt that” Carla said with a soft laugh. “Although I think I know my way around by now. Been here pretty much every day.”

Betsy raised an eyebrow again, a slow smile creeping across her face. The corner of her mouth twitched into something close to a smirk. “Bit of a book addict?”

“Suppose you could say that.” Carla shrugged, trying to make it sound casual, but her smile tugged at one corner, betraying her. Maybe addicted to the personality of the owner a bit more, she thought, her mind flicking instantly to Lisa: her voice, her warmth, the way she always made the space feel more alive just by being in it. But Carla didn’t dare say that out loud.

 Before Betsy could respond, the door at the back of the shop creaked open. Lisa stepped through, a few strands of blonde hair falling loose from her bun. She was balancing a small stack of journals in her arms, the corners of the covers peeking out - florals, linen bindings, some hand-stitched. Carla made a mental note to buy a journal from here before she had to leave even if her notebook still had space to write.

“Oh!” Lisa’s voice was bright with surprise and something warmer, something unmistakably fond, as her gaze landed on Carla. Her entire face lit up, eyes crinkling at the corners in that soft way that always made Carla’s chest tighten. “There you are.”

There you are.

The words hit her like a warm wind. Unexpected, gentle, but disarming. They curled around her, stirring something low in her chest, something that fluttered softly and refused to settle. Carla blinked, caught off guard by how much weight those simple words carried. How Lisa said them like she’d been looking for her.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come by today,” Lisa continued, walking toward the counter with a soft smile as she set the journals down in a neat stack. “Didn’t know if yesterday’s walk wore you out.”

Carla watched the way Lisa’s fingers lingered on the journals, her touch gentle and familiar with each item, like she knew the stories they hadn’t yet told. “I wasn’t sure either,” Carla said after a pause, her voice a bit lower, careful. “But then I was in the mood for a walk... and this seemed like a good destination.”

Lisa’s smile deepened, slow and certain. That same intuitive spark lit her eyes, the one that always made Carla feel both completely exposed and entirely safe. “Always happy to be your excuse for a walk.”

For a moment, the two of them simply looked at each other. Their eyes held. Neither looked away. The shop fell quiet, save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the lazy ticking of the antique clock above the nonfiction shelves. It wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt too comfortable. Intimate. Like the world outside the shop had folded in around them and left just this quiet space where glances lasted a beat too long and nothing had to be said out loud.

Betsy, still behind the counter, looked between them with an arched brow and the unmistakable look of someone witnessing something they weren’t meant to but absolutely intended to ask about later. She shifted her stance, one hip cocked against the shelves, arms crossed in quiet amusement.

“I was just telling - sorry, what was your name?” Betsy asked suddenly, aware that she has no idea who her mum is talking to or looking at like that.

“Carla,” Lisa answered smoothly, not even missing a beat.

“I was just asking Carla here if I could help her with anything,” Betsy said, her tone light but her smirk sharpened with playful intent.

“Oh, I’m alright, thank you,” Carla replied, waving a hand gently as she took a step back from the counter. “I was just going to ask your mum if I could stay here for a few hours.”

Lisa didn’t hesitate. “You know you’re always welcome,” she said, warmth blooming in her voice. “Make yourself at home.”

“I will,” Carla said, already feeling her shoulders ease. Then she tilted her head with a half-smile. “You busy at work, or will you be joining me?”

Lisa raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at her daughter. “I’ll see how much I can force this one to work.”

“I am still here, you know,” Betsy called out, rolling her eyes in exaggerated disbelief.

“Oh really?” Lisa replied, mock surprised. “Didn’t notice.”

Betsy scoffed, placing a hand over her heart in mock injury. “I was going to be nice and let you slack off with Carla, but now I’m not sure I wanna.”

“Yeah, well, I need to sort out some more stuff out back,” Lisa said with a grin, clearly enjoying herself. “So you have a little while before you actually have to start working.”

“I’ll go on strike in a minute,” Betsy muttered dramatically, grabbing a stack of books from behind the counter and walking toward the front shelves. But despite her words, she moved with practiced ease, fitting each book into place with the familiarity of someone who’d been doing it most of her life.

Carla watched the scene unfold with a soft smile, her heart giving a quiet, content thud. There was something deeply endearing about the casual rhythm between them, this gentle, lived-in kind of love that filled the shop more than the books ever could.

“I’ll leave you guys to your little family tiff,” Carla laughed “Don’t want to get dragged into this.” Both Lisa and Betsy looked up, Lisa with a half-smirk, Betsy with a theatrical eyeroll. Carla grinned and backed away slowly, turning toward the armchairs located in the little reading corner.

She’d been in the bookshop enough times now to know which armchairs were purely decorative and which ones held you just right like a sigh in chair form. The one she always claimed was tucked near the bay window, its upholstery slightly faded, cushions sun-warmed by midday light. The Carla who first arrived in Willowbrook would’ve scoffed at the idea of ranking chairs for comfort. She would’ve called it indulgent. Lonely. Pathetic, even.

But this Carla… this Carla knew better.

She’d found something rare in this shop. Something still and steady. A space that asked nothing of her except to be. Why shouldn’t she come as often as possible?

She lowered herself into her favourite chair with the familiarity of ritual. The fabric was worn soft by years of readers before her. She tucked one leg under the other, propping her notebook on her knee. There was a little table nearby if she needed more room, but for now, she liked this closeness. This balance between her and the page.

It was easy. Easier than anything else had been in months. To fall into the rhythm of the shop. The muted creak of floorboards. The gentle thuds of books being shifted, stacked, shelved. The soft rustling of pages turned by someone browsing in the corner. The occasional murmur from behind the counter. Mother and daughter slipping between casual banter and the practical language of inventory.

Everything in the shop seemed hushed, not from silence but from peace. Like the place knew it was sacred and behaved accordingly.

Carla sat back into the chair, exhaled deeply, and let her pen begin to move.

She wasn’t writing a story, not exactly. Not yet. But she was adding details. Tiny building blocks of something that could become one. Bits of character voice, descriptions pulled from memory or observation. A man she passed on her morning walk with a pigeon on each shoulder. The way the postmistress said “love” like she meant it. The particular mossy scent that rose from the garden path after last night’s rain.

She wrote down snippets of dialogue that came to her like overheard conversations. She sketched setting ideas. Some borrowed from Willowbrook’s cobbled streets, some purely imagined. For once, she wasn’t hesitating. Wasn’t self-editing every word. The critical voice that usually loomed over her shoulder was quiet today.

She was just writing. Judgment-free. Letting it flow.

She didn’t notice when Lisa returned to the shop floor. Didn’t hear the soft patter of her footsteps or the way she flopped down into the chair next to Carla. She was too far gone in her world, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration, lips parted ever so slightly as if tasting the rhythm of a sentence before it hit the page.

She didn’t notice anything until Lisa’s voice broke the quiet.

“What you writing?”

Carla jumped, her pen jerking across the paper in a startled streak of ink. Her head snapped up, heart thudding in her chest. She blinked up at Lisa, momentarily dazed, as if waking from a dream.

Lisa was leaning towards her now, a fresh cup of tea in her hand, steam curling toward the ceiling like a question left hanging. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t intrusive. Her voice was warm, curious. Her smile was soft, but her eyes. Her eyes were watching closely. Gently. Like she was paying attention in the quietest, most careful way.

“Oh, you know…” Carla said quickly, too quickly, flipping the notebook shut with a quiet slap of paper. “Just… stuff.”

Lisa tilted her head, her lips curling into something a little wider. A little knowing. “And is this stuff any good?”

Carla hesitated. The words felt caught in her throat, her cheeks warming without permission. She fumbled for a casual shrug but didn’t quite pull it off. “Not sure yet.”

Lisa didn’t press. Didn’t lean in, didn’t push for answers. She just gave a small, thoughtful nod, as if Carla’s honesty, as simple and vague as it was, had meant something. Like the amount of information Carla had given her was enough. They fell into silence after that. It was that kind of silence again, the comfortable kind. The kind that filled the shop like sunlight.

Carla let out a quiet breath, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed. On one hand, she was glad Lisa hadn’t asked to see the pages. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to share them yet. This part of herself she usually kept tucked away like something breakable. But on the other hand… if Lisa had asked, maybe she would’ve handed the notebook over without thinking. Maybe she would have explained everything. How she’s an author. How she’s gaining inspiration every second while in Willowbrook.

Maybe she wanted to tell Lisa. Because what she was writing wasn’t just stuff. It wasn’t just thoughts or feelings. It was her life. It was what she had worked so hard to achieve. For now, though, the words stayed where they were, tucked behind her ribs, waiting.

Carla’s gaze wandered toward the front counter, letting her eyes settle on the familiar curve of the wood, the worn patches on its surface that spoke of years of stories exchanged and books sold. Betsy had reappeared there, back behind the register. She had a pair of chunky, over-the-ear headphones resting on her head, the cord trailing lazily toward the computer but the subtle tilt of her head, the way her fingers hovered absently over the keyboard, made it clear she wasn’t actually listening to anything.

A small stack of books sat in front of her, slightly askew, titles waiting to be logged into the shop’s cataloguing system. She made a half-hearted attempt at flipping one open, but her eyes kept flicking upward. Over the edge of the screen. Past the spines. Right at them.

She wasn’t fooling anyone. Not that either of them seemed to notice.

“You didn’t mention your daughter was visiting,” Carla said, turning back toward Lisa with what she hoped was a light tone. But the question curled at the edges of her voice, not accusatory but interested, layered with quiet curiosity she couldn’t quite conceal.

Lisa let out a soft laugh in response. It was the kind of laugh that settled somewhere deep in Carla’s chest. The kind she could already imagine missing once she was gone. There was a warmth to it, something intimate, something earned.

“That’s because I didn’t know,” Lisa replied, eyes crinkling at the corners. “She surprised me last night. Just turned up at the door with a bag and demanded feeding.”

Carla couldn’t help but grin. The mental image unfolded easily: a knock at the door, Betsy standing there with her backpack and an unapologetic smirk, the confidence of someone who knew they were loved. That kind of relationship was rare. Familiar in its closeness. Enviable.

“She looks a lot like you,” Carla said, her voice dipping with sincerity.

“You think?”

Carla nodded, shifting slightly in her seat to face Lisa more directly. “Yeah. Thought I’d travelled back in time at one point,” she said with a chuckle. “Saw a younger version of you behind the counter.”

Lisa’s laugh was unguarded, open and full, the kind that lit up her whole face. It danced in her eyes. “Oh, I definitely didn’t look like that at her age,” she said, her grin lopsided and affectionate. “I was a mess. Always second-guessing myself. Trying to figure out who I was and where I fit in.”

Carla watched her carefully, noting the subtle shift in tone. Lisa’s voice carried a hint of nostalgia now. Fond, yes, but tinged with something more vulnerable. Carla tilted her head, her own expression softening.

“Well,” she said gently, “it looks like you figured it out to me.”

For a moment, Lisa didn’t speak. Her smile wavered - not gone, just quieter. Something flickered in her eyes, like the sudden passing of a memory behind glass. She looked down at her tea for a second, then back at Carla. The air between them stilled, like even the bookshop itself was pausing to listen.

“Yeah,” she said, almost to herself. “I guess I did.”

Then she shook her head, the seriousness slipping away like steam from her mug. She looked back at Carla with a grin that was brighter, playful. “I’ll have to dig out some old pictures. I had this ridiculous haircut at one point.”

“I’m sure you still looked good,” Carla said without thinking, without permission. The words left her lips too easily, her tone landing somewhere between flirty and intimate. Immediately, she felt her stomach do a little backflip, her heart lurching like a deer startled in a clearing.

Lisa blinked. There was a beat. Not awkward but charged. Her smile faltered. Not in discomfort, but in surprise. A different kind of warmth lit up her face now, one she tried to mask but couldn’t quite hide. Her gaze lingered. Soft. Steady. Too long.

It wrapped around Carla like the heat from a fire that burned just close enough to touch. For a second, neither of them spoke. The space between them thickened, like syrup, like the weight of all the things they weren’t saying had suddenly gathered into something palpable.

Carla didn’t breathe. She couldn’t. The air was too full of possibility.

She wasn’t sure if it was the way Lisa was looking at her, or the fact that she hadn’t looked away. There was no brushing it off, no quick subject change, no nervous laughter. Just stillness. And that impossible-to-ignore pull between them. The air around them had shifted. It had gained weight, like it was thick with something unsaid.

Then Lisa moved. Subtle, but deliberate. She shifted her mug slightly, glanced down at the swirling tea inside as if it might anchor her. Her shoulders straightened, and her voice, when she spoke again, was just a little too bright.

“How long are you staying today?”

It was a deflection. A clean pivot. Her tone was casual, almost too casual, but Carla recognized the tactic for what it was. Lisa was trying to steady the moment, to push them gently back from the edge of whatever-that-was.

Carla leaned back into the armchair, recovering quickly. Her expression shifted into something playful, a slow smirk curving her lips as she matched the new tempo of their conversation.

“Not sure,” she said, drawing the words out with mock consideration. “Depends when I run out of things to write.” She paused, eyes dancing. “Or if I get bored of the company.”

The smirk widened.

Lisa raised an eyebrow, her grin returning with full force, playful again. Grateful, maybe, for the lifeline. “Well then,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offence. “I guess I’d better up my game. Wouldn’t want you to leave so soon.”

The moment softened again, light but still charged, as if everything beneath the surface was still there. Just tucked neatly away for now.

From behind the counter, Betsy peeked over the edge of a paperback she was supposed to be scanning into the system. Except, yeah… she absolutely wasn’t. She hadn’t done anything productive for at least five minutes.

Because honestly? It was getting ridiculous.

Her mum and Carla sat far too close for “just friends.” And sure, maybe Betsy didn’t know everything about her mum’s personal life, but she knew enough to spot flirting when it practically sparkled in the air like bookshop fairy dust.

They leaned in when they talked, heads tilted in that way people did when they were more interested in each other than whatever else was happening around them. Their voices dipped at the same time. They lingered. Their eye contact could start its own fire hazard. Betsy was pretty sure they could discuss municipal recycling schedules and still make it sound like foreplay.

She rolled her eyes. Not out of judgment, but sheer second-hand embarrassment. Her mum was so not subtle. Neither was Carla, come to think of it. Betsy dragged her attention back to the book in front of her, fingers finally tapping something onto the keyboard. She pretended to focus on the screen while mentally tallying every stolen glance, every not-so-casual brush of hands, every shared look that hung just a second too long.

She was definitely going to bring this up later. No way she was heading back to uni without the full story. Not a chance in hell.

Chapter Text

The smell of garlic and tomatoes hung thick in the air, the kind of scent that wrapped around the walls and made the kitchen feel like the heart of the house. It wasn’t just a smell. It was memory, comfort, the echo of a thousand dinners past. The sauce simmered gently on the stove, its surface shifting in lazy bubbles as steam curled up and clouded the kitchen windows. Lisa gave it one last stir, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pot with a sound she found oddly satisfying. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing flour-dusted forearms. The edges of her apron were smudged with dough and sauce, a quiet testament to an afternoon spent coaxing warmth back into a house that had felt too quiet for too long.

Behind her, Betsy hovered with all the grace of someone pretending not to hover. She moved around the kitchen in loose, distracted circles, peeking at nothing in particular, her fingertips grazing countertop edges like she was reacquainting herself with the space.

“How long’s dinner?” she asked, casually leaning against the counter and peeking into the pot like she might wither away at any second. Her stomach growled audibly, earning a glance from Lisa.

Lisa didn’t look up. “Five minutes ago, if you'd set the table like I asked.”

“Ugh,” Betsy groaned, pushing away from the counter with dramatic flair. “You never just feed me when I come home. Always have to do some manual labour.”

Lisa arched a brow, finally turning to her with a spoon in one hand and mock offense on her face. “So sorry I’ve asked you to set the table while I’m slaving away in the kitchen to give you a home cooked meal. I’ll let you sit around and do nothing next time.”

“Glad we are on the same page,” Betsy replied, grinning as she grabbed glasses from the cupboard and began tossing cutlery onto the table in something that vaguely resembled a setting. Forks were askew, knives clinked into place without any particular care, but it didn’t matter. The table was being set. The kitchen was alive again.

Lisa smiled despite herself; her hands steady as she ladled steaming pasta into deep ceramic bowls. She topped each with a generous spoonful of her sauce, followed by a snowdrift of freshly grated parmesan. Her motions were fluid, practiced - the muscle memory of someone who’d done this hundreds of times, but hadn’t realized until now how much she missed it. The clink of dishes, the sound of footsteps behind her, the warmth of someone else’s presence moving through the room without needing instructions. It all came back like breathing.

“Dinner is served,” she announced, placing the bowls on the table, their surfaces shimmering with heat.

“Finally,” Betsy said, practically collapsing into her seat, the chair creaking under the force of her landing. “I was 2 minutes away from passing out.”

Lisa set the basket of warm, crusty garlic bread in front of her. “Then I guess it’s good you’re surrounded by carbs.”

“God bless carbs,” Betsy muttered, already twirling a forkful of pasta. “And garlic. And cheese. And you, obviously.”

Lisa laughed, finally sliding into her own seat across the table. “Nice to know I rank behind garlic.”

“Only slightly,” Betsy teased, mouth half-full. Her eyes flicked around the room, lingering on the old clock, the chipped tile near the sink, the stack of unopened mail on the sideboard. “It’s good to be home. Didn’t know how much I would miss it.”

Lisa watched her for a second, a quiet kind of fondness blooming in her chest. “It’s good to have you home. Even if it’s only for a little bit.”

The two fell into an easy silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Forks scraped gently against plates, and now and then, the clink of a glass or a hum from the radio broke through the quiet. Outside, rain tapped in steady rhythm against the windows, painting droplets across the glass. The glow from the kitchen’s hanging lights cast golden halos over their plates, warming the corners of the room and softening everything in sight. It was the kind of evening that made the world feel smaller in the best way. Just two people, a warm meal, and nowhere else they needed to be.

“So,” Lisa said eventually, reaching for her wine and swirling it absently, the deep red catching the light. “How’s uni going. Like actually?”

“It’s alright,” Betsy shrugged, her tone casual, eyes fixed on her plate.

Lisa set her glass down with a little more weight than necessary. “Is that all I get? You’ve been gone for months and all I get is two words?”

That pulled a snort of laughter out of Betsy. “Sorry. I’ll be sure to answer any future questions with a 2000-word essay.”

Lisa nodded solemnly, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

Betsy tore off a corner of garlic bread and dunked it into the sauce left pooling at the edge of her bowl. She took an exaggerated bite, chewing like a cartoon villain. “Well, if you really want the extended version: my lectures are boring, I much prefer the practical sessions. My flatmate’s still dating a walking red flag, and I’ve officially given up on finding decent coffee within a three-mile radius.”

Lisa gave her a sympathetic wince. “The uni life sounds great.”

“No but overall, it’s not that bad,” Betsy said, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out beneath the table, heels nudging Lisa’s gently.

Then Lisa tilted her head slightly, one eyebrow raised, her voice light but deliberate. “What about boys?”

Betsy blinked, caught off guard mid-sip of water. “What about them?”

Lisa looked at her knowingly over the rim of her glass. “You know what I mean.”

“Still like them,” Betsy replied with a smirk, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Still unsure they were ever a good idea.”

Lisa chuckled, soft and amused. “That’s the spirit.”

They lapsed into another quiet moment, the kind that felt like slipping under a warm blanket. Lisa reached for another slice of bread, while Betsy absentmindedly pushed pasta around her plate, her posture subtly changing, shoulders curling inward, fork moving more slowly.

“There was someone,” she said, eyes still fixed on her plate, her voice softer now, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it aloud.

Lisa’s gaze shifted instantly, but she didn’t interrupt. She just reached for her glass again, giving Betsy the space to unravel the thread in her own time.

“He was a friend of someone I knew. We started talking after a seminar one day. Coffee turned into walks, then drinks, and for a bit I thought… maybe.”

Her voice trailed, lips twitching in a small, self-conscious smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“But it fizzled fast. He was charming on paper. Said all the right things. But I don’t know… he never really saw me. Not properly. I’d talk and feel like I was being background noise. Like he was waiting for me to finish so he could talk about himself.”

Lisa made a small, understanding sound. “That’s a special kind of exhausting.”

“Right?” Betsy laughed quietly, with a bitterness that hadn’t been there earlier. “And the worst part is, I caught myself trying to shrink. Like, maybe if I was a little less much, I’d fit whatever he wanted.”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than anything either of them had said all evening. Lisa didn’t speak right away. Instead, she watched Betsy’s face: the flicker in her eyes, the way she was no longer really looking at anything, just staring through the half-eaten meal in front of her, shoulders drawn in like she was trying to disappear into herself.

Lisa reached across the table, slowly, deliberately, and gently nudged Betsy’s wrist with her fingertips. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just the soft brush of her touch, warm and steady. Feather-light, but grounding. A quiet reassurance that asked for nothing in return.

“You’re not too much. You never were.”

Betsy let out a shaky exhale, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Her lips curved into a half-smile, tired and a little crooked, the kind that came after holding too much in for too long. “Try telling him that.”

“Oh, if I had known at the time, or if it happened around here, I definitely would.” Lisa’s voice carried that familiar thread of protectiveness, laced with dry humour, but her eyes were soft, her expression unflinching. She meant it.

“On second thought, maybe I don’t want you to say anything,” Betsy said, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch Lisa’s before dropping again. There was a wryness in her voice, but also something more fragile, more uncertain, just beneath the surface.

“I’ll just settle for telling you how amazing you are every time you need.”

That landed gently like a hand resting between Betsy’s shoulder blades, comforting her. Her smile lingered longer this time, more real. It started in the corners of her mouth but reached her eyes too, softening them. Her shoulders dropped just a little more.

“It’s alright,” she said eventually. “I figured it out. And I’d rather be on my own than next to someone who makes me feel alone.”

Lisa nodded slowly. “That’s wise.”

“Oh, I know I’m wise. Don’t need to tell me twice.”

Lisa chuckled, reaching for her wine again, shaking her head. “Alright, alright, I’ll try not to inflate your ego any further.”

Betsy leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest with a satisfied grin that was half cheeky, half defiant. “Good. Because I’ve already got a pretty healthy ego.”

“From the girl who just said she was willing to shrink for a guy?” Lisa raised an eyebrow, pointed and teasing.

Betsy laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, well, I guess I had a moment of weakness.”

Lisa’s gaze dropped slightly, her voice thinning to something fragile, more vulnerable. “You deserve someone who sees you. All of you. The good, the complicated, and the messy.”

Betsy met her eyes then, really met them, the light from the overhead lamp catching the faint sheen in her lashes. Her smile was faint but sincere, a flicker of something steady. “I know. And I’m not going to settle for anything less.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was filled with everything unspoken, everything that didn’t need to be said out loud. The clink of cutlery against ceramic became the only sound in the room again, along with the gentle patter of rain threading itself through the quiet. Then Betsy leaned back in her chair again, this time with more ease. She raised one eyebrow, lips curling into something smug, as if daring Lisa to pretend she was off the hook.

“Anyway. That’s my romantic drama for the term.” Her voice lightened, teasing. “What about you?”

Lisa blinked, caught mid-sip of wine. Her fingers tensed slightly around the stem of the glass. “What about me?”

“Don’t play innocent,” Betsy said with a knowing smile. She set her fork down, tapping it once against her plate for emphasis. “When were you going to tell me there’s someone new in town?”

Lisa froze. Not in an obvious, dramatic way, but enough that someone who knew her well, like Betsy, would see the shift. Her hand hovered near her glass, and her gaze dropped to the table.

“Huh?”

“Carla,” Betsy said, casually now, like the name had no weight but the way she said it was purposeful. She picked up the last piece of garlic bread and stabbed it with her fork, dragging it through the leftover sauce. “When were you going to mention her?”

“I wasn’t.”

The words dropped like a stone in water, soft, but with ripples that reached across the table. Lisa didn’t lift her head. Her gaze remained fixed on the glass in front of her, half-full, the red wine catching the candlelight like a quiet warning. Her voice was flat, almost rehearsed, like she’d been through this scene before (if only in her head) and decided long ago that silence was safer.

“And why not?”

The question was gentle, but persistent. Betsy wasn’t letting it go, and Lisa knew it.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her thumb began tracing the rim of her wine glass, slowly, with the kind of rhythm that suggested she was trying to keep herself anchored. Her fingers moved with habitual precision, like muscle memory, like distraction.

Her expression had shifted - no longer relaxed, no longer teasing. The smile she’d worn minutes before had vanished, folded away and replaced by something smaller. Guarded. Suspicious of its own right to feel joy.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said eventually, her tone overly careful, each word laid down like a stone path through uncertain ground. “I don’t need to tell you every time someone new comes to town, do I?”

“Only when you stare deeply into their eyes.”

“Betsy,” Lisa warned, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air between them. But there was no heat behind it, only discomfort.

“What?” Betsy said, raising her hands in mock surrender, though her grin had returned, slow and knowing. “I was there today. I literally saw how you guys looked at each other.”

Lisa’s eyes flicked upward. The look she gave wasn’t annoyed or exasperated. It was unreadable. Her expression closed in on itself, like shutters pulled down in a sudden storm. She knew how to do that. How to keep people from seeing too much. It was the face she wore when grief threatened to rise too high, when memories pressed too hard against her chest.

“It’s not like that,” she said. Her voice was steadier now, but too even, too practiced. “We’re just… we talk. We walk. She comes by the shop.”

“And you light up every time she does.”

That stopped Lisa. The motion of her hands stilled, as if they’d forgotten what they were doing. Her shoulders dipped just slightly. Not enough for someone who didn’t know her to notice, but Betsy would. It was the kind of movement that said don’t poke there. Like something inside her had just sighed, uninvited.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled.

“I do not.”

“Come off it, Mum.”

“Look,” Lisa said, her voice rising just enough to break the softness in the room, “it’s weird talking about my love life, okay?”

There was a tension in the words. Not quite defensive but fraying at the edges. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk about it. It was that she didn’t know how. Not yet. Not without stepping on old ghosts or brushing up against wounds she hadn’t figured out how to name.

Betsy tilted her head, sensing the shift but not backing down. She didn’t press harder, but she didn’t let go either. She let the quiet stretch between them like thread pulled taut. When she finally spoke again, her tone was softer but still playful.

“So, you admit there’s a love life?”

Lisa’s head snapped up.

“No!” she said quickly, far too quickly.

The word shot across the table like a spark, sharp and instinctive. An answer thrown up like a shield before the question had fully landed. Her voice had an edge now, sharp enough to slice through the warm, steady air between them. It wasn’t anger that sharpened it, though. It was fear. That brittle, crackling kind of fear that lived just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to press too close.

“I’m just saying it’s weird, alright? Talking about this stuff with you. With my daughter.” She looked away as she spoke, like the words tasted wrong in her mouth. “And especially talking about anyone other than Becky.”

The shift in the room was instant.

The teasing vanished like steam from a cooling pot. One second, the air between them was filled with warmth and sarcasm and lightness, the easy rhythm of familiar love, and then it was gone. Not in a way that was cold. Not bitter. Just weighty. Honest.

Betsy’s voice dropped, soft and low, like it did when she used to crawl into Lisa’s bed during thunderstorms, a little girl trying not to cry. “Mum. It’s been six years.”

“I know,” Lisa said immediately. Her response was too fast. Too forceful.

The words burst out like a reflex, something practiced. Something she'd told herself in the mirror, perhaps. A fact that was supposed to make the ache more manageable. As if time alone could soften loss, as if years were some kind of antidote to grief.

“You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I know,” Lisa repeated, quieter this time. She didn’t sound convinced. Her shoulders tensed again, drawing up as if bracing for a blow that hadn’t come. Like her body couldn’t decide whether to lean into this moment or retreat from it.

Betsy paused. She didn’t push. She didn’t prod. She just watched, really watched her mum, the way she always had. The way you do when you've lived through someone else’s sadness long enough to know where it hides. Her gaze softened, but her words were careful, purposeful. She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering, as if afraid of scaring the truth away. “Then what are you so afraid of?”

Lisa didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped, and her hands drifted down into her lap. She hadn’t even noticed them moving, hadn’t realized she’d started fidgeting again. Her fingers had curled loosely into the hem of her jumper, picking at a stray thread, small motions like a whisper of everything she wasn’t saying aloud. She ran her thumb across the knuckles of her other hand - back and forth, slow and rhythmic. It was a nothing gesture, on the surface. But in that moment, it was everything.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. Her voice was hushed, barely a breath. “Everything.”

The word hovered in the space between them like a confession. It was quiet and unadorned, stripped of all pretence. And yet, it rang louder than anything that had come before it.

“Mum, come on,” Betsy said gently, her voice threading through the stillness like a lifeline. “I’m not a kid anymore. Talk to me.”

Lisa’s jaw tightened. Her whole posture shifted. Her shoulders drawing in, spine stiffening like she was bracing for impact. Her lips pressed together so tightly the skin around them went pale, as if the act of holding something in had become muscle memory.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said. The words came slowly, like they were being pulled through treacle. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Betsy’s voice softened, barely above a whisper now. “How will you hurt me, Mum?”

Lisa looked up. Her eyes were glassy now, blurred with unshed tears. But it was more than that. Her expression had changed completely. The usual layers she wore strength, composure, practicality, were gone. In their place was something raw and real. Softer, yes, but stripped bare. There was no performance here, no careful parenting mask. Just her. Just a woman in mourning, trying to find the language for something that had no neat edges.

“Because we’ve fought so hard to get here. You and me.” Her voice wobbled, but she pressed forward, holding Betsy’s gaze even though it trembled. “After Becky… we lost each other for a while. We were both grieving in different directions. And it took everything we had just to find our way back.”

She drew in a breath, deep and shaking. “I mean, I quit my job. We left Manchester to come here.” She paused, swallowing hard against the emotion that surged in her throat. Her eyes shone, but she didn’t look away. She wasn’t hiding anymore. “And now, I’m scared that if I let something else in, if I choose someone again, it might take me further from you. Or worse. Make you feel like I’m leaving her behind.”

“Mum,” Betsy said quietly, her own voice catching.

“I don’t want you to think I’m replacing her or forgetting her.” Lisa’s voice dropped lower, and the words came slow and careful, like stepping through broken glass. “Becky was my best friend. My wife. Your mum. She meant so much to me.” Her voice cracked, and a tear finally slipped free down her cheek. “Still means so much to me.”

“I know she does, Mum,” Betsy said, and her own tears had risen now, her eyes shimmering in the candlelight. “I could never ever think otherwise.”

Lisa gave a broken little laugh. Not from amusement, but from the fragile relief that came with being heard. She drew a trembling breath, then went on. “It’s not just about you,” she said. “It’s her, too. It’s what we had. What we were building. What she missed out on” Her hand curled into a fist for a second on the table before she slowly uncurled her fingers. She breathed out shakily, the words shaky and splintering. “It’s not like I think Carla is replacing her. I know she’s not. But the guilt is still there. Like if I laugh too easily, if I start looking forward to things again... I’m doing something wrong.”

And then, wordlessly, Betsy reached across the table. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand found Lisa’s and covered it: firm, warm, and steady. Her fingers didn’t just rest there; they held. Anchored. As if to remind her that she wasn’t alone. That she wasn’t drifting. “Mum,” she said, voice clear and certain, “you’re not doing anything wrong. You loved her. And she loved you. That doesn’t vanish because you smiled at someone new.”

Lisa’s eyes fluttered closed. She didn’t speak. She just sat there, holding her daughter’s hand, her breathing uneven, her chest rising and falling like waves against a shore she wasn’t sure she’d ever reach. She let the words hang between them. Just letting them be. Letting them live in the space they’d made together.

They stayed like that for a while. Hands still. Elbows leaning in. Heads bowed slightly. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full - thick with grief and love and memory. The kind of silence that doesn’t avoid but holds.

“I just miss her,” Lisa whispered at last, the words clinging to her breath. “Some days it still hits me like it’s new. Like I’m back in that hospital corridor, hearing it for the first time. The world just stopped turning.”

“I know,” Betsy said, her own voice thick now, knotted with her own memories. “Me too.”

Lisa opened her eyes again, blinking rapidly, but the tears still welled. She didn’t wipe them away this time.

“I thought the hardest part would be losing her. But it wasn’t,” she said, her voice low and cracked around the edges. “It was still being here afterwards without her.”

That made Betsy blink hard. Her throat tightened, and she squeezed Lisa’s hand a little tighter, like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Still having to make dinner,” Lisa continued, a hollow laugh escaping her lips, “do laundry, feed the cat, pay the bloody electric bill. All while pretending I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.” She paused, breath catching. “And the guilt of even getting through a day without her? It nearly swallowed me whole.”

There was a beat. Then she turned her head to face Betsy fully. No more hiding, no more protecting. Just truth, laid bare.

“And I couldn’t talk to you about it,” she said, her voice gentler now, like she was trying not to scare the moment away, “because you were grieving too. You were just a kid. My kid. I didn’t want to dump my sadness on top of yours. You already had too much to carry.”

“I wish you had,” Betsy said softly. “I was scared and angry and hurting, and I didn’t know how to let you in. But I would’ve listened. I would’ve tried.”

Lisa’s face crumpled. Something raw and vulnerable flickering behind her eyes. “I know that now,” she whispered. “I do. But back then, I didn’t know how to let anyone in. I barely knew how to breathe.” She shook her head slowly, her voice trembling, but lighter somehow. “But Carla she makes things feel lighter. Just for a bit. Like maybe… it’s okay to breathe again.”

Betsy’s eyes glistened with tears, but she smiled through them. A small, certain smile. A real one. “That sounds like a good thing.”

“It is,” Lisa said, her voice barely a breath. “And I’m not ashamed of how I feel. I just, God, I needed to know you were okay with it.”

Betsy leaned in across the table, closing the last bit of distance between them. Not just physically, but emotionally. The gap that had once yawned between them now felt like a bridge they’d built, brick by brick, in quiet, painful conversations just like this one.

“Mum,” she said, steady and sure, “I want you to find something good again. I want you to have someone who makes you smile when I’m not around. I want you to be happy.” She paused there, not for effect, but to make sure Lisa was looking at her. Really looking. And when their eyes locked, her voice came clear. Unshakable. Honest. “And Mum… you looked so happy today. I’ve not seen you look that light in years. And if that is testament to Carla, then why don’t you go for it?”

Lisa let out a quiet laugh. One of those half-surprised, half-wounded sounds that slips out before you've had the chance to decide what you actually feel. It wasn’t dismissive, not even close. If anything, it sounded like disbelief cracking through old armour. She shook her head gently, almost to herself. “It’s not that simple,” she said, the smile still faint on her lips but already fading.

“Why not?” Betsy asked, brows knitting just slightly. Not judging, just trying to understand.

Lisa’s gaze dropped again, retreating. Her eyes found their way back to their still-joined hands, and she focused on them like they were the only thing anchoring her. She brushed her thumb in slow, small circles over Betsy’s. Back and forth, back and forth. That tiny motion was steadying, reassuring in a way she didn’t have words for. It reminded her that this was safe. That Betsy was safe. And that she was still here, still listening.

“Because I’m not even sure she’s into women,” Lisa said at last, the words spoken so quietly they barely made it across the table.

Betsy blinked, thrown off for a second. “Really?”

“I mean…” Lisa gave a small shrug that felt almost too tired to lift her shoulders all the way. “She’s private. Quiet. Gentle. Flirty, maybe but who knows anymore? It’s not like there’s a sign above her head. And honestly, sometimes I think I’m just imagining it. That I’ve been alone so long I’ve started projecting things I wish were there. Like my brain’s playing tricks just to give me something warm to hold onto.”

Betsy tilted her head slightly, and her mouth curved into a look that was equal parts affection, exasperation, and the kind of fondness you only earn from watching someone doubt themselves one too many times. “Mum.”

“What?” Lisa said defensively, her voice rising half a note. She pulled her hand back an inch before catching herself and resting it down again.

“I saw how she was looking at you today,” Betsy said simply. “In fact, I saw how she was when she was looking for you.”

Lisa blinked, her face tightening with a mix of confusion and reluctant curiosity.

“While you were in the back,” Betsy continued, her voice calm and certain now, like she was laying out a simple truth, “she kept glancing at the door like she was counting the seconds. Like she couldn’t wait for you to come back. And when you did. God, Mum, you should’ve seen her face. It was like someone switched the lights back on inside her. She didn’t just smile. She lit up.”

Lisa opened her mouth, ready with something, maybe a deflection, maybe denial, but whatever words she’d been holding onto slipped out of reach. Her lips parted and closed again, her brows drawn in.

“And when you two were sitting together?” Betsy added, leaning back slightly with a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth. “You were in your own little world. You both leaned in at the same time, like magnets. Your voices dropped into that soft space people use when they think no one’s listening. And the flirting was so obvious I’m honestly surprised the books didn’t rearrange themselves into a heart shape.”

Lisa laughed. A startled sound that burst from her with all the weight of someone who hadn’t expected joy and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. It was soft, a little breathy, tinged with mortified delight. She lifted a hand to her mouth as though trying to catch the sound and press it back in. “You’re making that up,” she said, cheeks flushing with the kind of warmth that hadn’t touched her skin in years.

“Swear down,” Betsy said, eyes sparkling with sincerity and not a hint of teasing. “If she doesn’t like you, she deserves an Oscar.”

Lisa’s smile lingered, genuine, vulnerable, and touched with something that looked suspiciously like hope. But the nerves were still there. They hadn’t left; they’d just stepped back a bit. You could still see them, curled at the edges of her mouth, hiding behind the softened lines of her eyes.

“I just don’t want to get it wrong,” she murmured, almost like a secret she wasn’t ready to say too loud.

Betsy’s face gentled, the playfulness fading into something deeper. She reached out again, her fingers settling over her mum’s wrist with easy, natural familiarity. Her thumb moved in small, reassuring strokes, echoing the ones Lisa had done earlier.

“Then don’t overthink it,” she said. Her voice was low, solid. Loving. “Don’t let fear get in the way of something that feels good. You deserve to feel good, Mum.”

Lisa looked at her then, her gaze steady but quiet, her eyes holding something unspoken. It lingered in the air between them. A fleeting mixture of hope, hesitation, and something deeper that Lisa couldn’t quite name yet. She held her daughter’s gaze for a moment longer than usual, as if weighing her words, or perhaps herself. Finally, with a soft sigh, she spoke again, her voice softer, more hesitant this time. It felt almost like a confession, like she was revealing a truth she wasn’t sure was hers to share.

“There’s something else that complicates things,” she said, her words almost fragile, as if she feared them breaking before they even left her lips.

“The fact that she’s only here temporarily? That’s fine. We can figure something out,” Betsy suggested, her voice still light but holding an undercurrent of concern. It was the kind of thing she knew they could handle together.

“Not that,” Lisa replied, shaking her head slightly, a soft dismissive gesture that only seemed to deepen the mystery. “Well, yes, that but that wasn’t what I was going to say.” She seemed to hesitate again, like the truth she was about to reveal was something she hadn’t fully allowed herself to face until now.

Betsy leaned back in her chair; her interest piqued further. The curiosity was practically written across her face, her eyes wide as she waited for Lisa to say what she clearly wasn’t ready to say. “Okay, now you’ve really got my attention. What is it?” Her voice had an edge to it now, a mixture of impatience and intrigue.

Lisa glanced around the room, a subtle movement, as though she was making sure no one else was listening, even though it was just the two of them in the kitchen. It was a small gesture, but it revealed the weight of the secret she was about to share. She exhaled a long, heavy breath, her shoulders slumping slightly as though the act of sharing this part of the story made it more real.

“She might be sorta famous,” Lisa finally said, the words slipping out almost shyly, as if the very mention of it made everything feel suddenly complicated and out of her control.

Betsy blinked, completely caught off guard. For a moment, she just stared at her mother, unsure if she’d heard her correctly. “Sorry, what? I don’t think I heard you right.” Her tone was more confused than anything else, as if her mind was scrambling to process the information.

“I said she’s famous,” Lisa repeated, her voice a little steadier now that the words were out, but still heavy with the weight of what that meant.

The words hung there for a long moment, suspended in the air between them. For a heartbeat, everything around them seemed to still, as if the world was waiting for Betsy to catch up. Lisa watched her daughter’s face as the realization began to settle.

And then everything exploded in Betsy’s mind.

“She’s what???” Betsy’s voice rose with a mix of disbelief and excitement, her eyes widening so dramatically that it looked like they might pop right out of her head. Her mouth dropped open, and she sat up straighter, hands flying to her face in genuine shock. “OH MY GOD. She’s Carla Connor?” Her mind was working at full speed now, pieces clicking together with a jolt of recognition. “I thought she looked vaguely familiar!” Her voice trailed off for a moment as she processed it all. And then, as if a lightbulb had gone off above her head, she leaned forward, her excitement palpable. “Could you get her to sign one of my books?”

Betsy glanced quickly around the room, her eyes scanning the bookshelf. “Where are my books?” she muttered, already preparing for an autograph session that was still nothing more than a daydream.

“Ha, funny story that,” Lisa let out a breath, scratching the back of her neck, a sheepish gesture. “The thing is, Bets, she doesn’t know.” she said, her voice quieter now, more unsure.

“Doesn’t know what?”

“That I know she’s famous. She hasn’t told me.”

Betsy’s brain was still trying to process the fact that her mother was casually talking about Carla Connor, one of the most famous authors in the world. It took her a moment to catch up to the second part of the revelation. “So, she’s just walking around Willowbrook incognito?”

Lisa gave a small nod, her expression serious now, but tinged with a hint of empathy. “Something like that. She’s not flaunting anything. She’s been private. Careful. And I get it. I really do. She came here to breathe, not to be recognized. I know that look. We know that look. We’ve worn that look.”

Betsy stared at her mother, wide-eyed, her thoughts still reeling from the twist in the story. “Wait, so let me get this straight,” she said, her voice suddenly a little more disbelieving. “You recognized Carla bloody Connor, one of the most well-known women in the country, and just what? Pretended she was some lovely stranger with good hair and nice boots?”

Lisa gave her a flat look, eyebrows raised in amusement, but with just a hint of defensive humour in her eyes. “I didn’t pretend. I just didn’t mention it.”

“Mum,” Betsy groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “That’s mental.”

Lisa took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation with herself. “She hadn’t told me. I figured there was a reason for that,” she said, her voice soft, but with a quiet resolve that held steady. “She wanted to be anonymous, and I wanted to respect that.” Her words held weight, as though this was an ethical dilemma she had wrestled with.

Betsy raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and curiosity in her expression. “So what? You’re just never going to tell her?” The question hung in the air, a challenge. She couldn’t quite understand how her mother could hold back something so significant, especially when everything else seemed to be pointing toward moving forward.

Lisa groaned, her shoulders slumping as she leaned back in her chair, the weight of the question sinking in. “That’s what makes it complicated,” she said, her tone low, the frustration and uncertainty creeping back into her voice.

Betsy tilted her head, her expression softening as she watched her mum. A slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips, one that seemed to come from a place of both understanding and affection. “I do get it, though, Mum,” she said, her voice gentler now.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Betsy said, nodding slowly, her eyes filled with a quiet kind of empathy. “You’ve been quietly protecting her this whole time, even while falling for her. That’s romantic.” She paused, her eyes flicking to the side as she found the words. “In a tragic, slightly ridiculous kind of way.” There was a fondness in her tone, like she understood the complexities of love. The way it never came neatly wrapped, always messy and tangled up in contradictions.

Lisa let out a soft exhale, her laugh dry and slightly disbelieving, but with a hint of warmth that came with the familiarity of her daughter’s teasing. It was the kind of laugh that was both an acknowledgment and a release of tension. “Thanks.”

“But you’re gonna have to tell her eventually,” Betsy said, her voice firm, the lightness fading as she spoke with the quiet certainty of someone who had seen how these things play out before.

Lisa fell silent, her gaze drifting down to her hands, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass. The thought of telling Carla felt like a mountain too steep to climb, and Lisa was afraid she might slip and tumble back down before she reached the summit. Her expression tightened, a mix of dread and determination on her face.

“Mum. You can’t keep it a secret forever,” Betsy pressed, her voice softening slightly, but still direct. “If this turns into something, which, if you ask for my professional opinion, then it will, then she’s bound to find out eventually.”

Lisa nodded slowly, her shoulders sagging slightly as the reality of it settled in. “I know.” The admission was quiet, but there was an understanding in her voice now, as though she was coming to terms with something that had been gnawing at her for so long.

Betsy sat up a little straighter, her gaze sharp and focused now. “So, you’ve got two options,” she said, raising her fingers, the air of mock-analytical seriousness creeping back into her voice. “One: tell her soon and hope it doesn’t blow up in your face. Two: wait until you’re already in too deep, and it blows up in your face.” She smiled slightly, as if she were enjoying the way her mother was squirming under the pressure of these choices.

“Wow. Such encouraging choices,” Lisa said dryly, her tone laced with sarcasm, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

“I’m just saying,” Betsy grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re not great at playing dumb. You get that guilty face.” She leaned forward slightly, her grin widening as she watched her mother’s reaction.

Lisa laughed again, this time more freely, a real laugh that didn’t feel like it was trying to cover up any discomfort. It was a sound of release, of something unburdened. She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head at her daughter in a mixture of exasperation and admiration. “You’re way too smart for nineteen,” she said, her voice fond, even as she tried to push the thought of the situation back to the back of her mind.

“I know,” Betsy replied smugly, her posture relaxed as she leaned back in her own chair. “Comes from being raised by two legends.” There was pride in her voice now, a touch of humour, but also a deep affection for the way her family had shaped her.

Lisa’s expression warmed, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. That one hit right in the heart. She couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for her daughter. Despite everything, despite the heaviness of the conversation, this was one of those rare moments where everything felt right. It was a moment of connection, of being seen, understood, and loved in ways that went beyond words.

A quiet pause settled between them. It was as though the words that had been exchanged had done their job, leaving behind an unspoken understanding. Lisa sat back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, and then, with a slow exhale, she spoke again, her voice lower, a little more subdued than before.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, her gaze shifting towards the window as if seeking clarity from the quiet night outside. “About what to say and when.”

Betsy nodded, watching her mother with a knowing expression. “Good,” she replied, lifting her glass to her lips, the faintest glint of mischief returning to her eyes. “And in the meantime, if you happen to accidentally kiss her while I’m still here. Purely out of politeness, of course. I’ll look the other way.” Her grin was wide, teasing, but there was something else beneath the humour. A kind of genuine hope for her mother that made the words land with a soft warmth.

Lisa couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her, though her eyes rolled at the same time. “Go to bed,” she said, though the corners of her mouth twitched with a reluctant smile, her tone affectionate.

“I’m just saying!” Betsy said, her voice playful as she moved toward the kitchen counter, her grin wide and unapologetic.

Lisa rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the way her lips curled upward, the affection for her daughter flooding back. The teasing, the humour. It was all so familiar, so much a part of their relationship. It grounded her.

“Betsy?” Lisa’s voice cut through the casual noise as she stood from her chair, a soft question hanging in the air.

“Yeah?” Betsy responded, her back turned as she reached for something on the kitchen counter, the grin still playing on her lips.

“When are you going back to uni?” Lisa’s voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something else, a quiet curiosity about her daughter’s plans, about the time they’d have together before the next chapter of her life began.

“Two days’ time. Why?” Betsy’s response was quick.

“Think you can handle the shop on your own tomorrow?” Lisa asked.

“Of course.” Betsy answered without hesitation, her voice steady. She was confident now, her grin widening as she met her mum’s gaze. “I’ve got this.”

Lisa nodded, her heart swelling with pride. “Good. Think I’m going to take Carla somewhere tomorrow.”

Betsy raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in her eyes. “On a date?” she asked, her tone teasing, but with genuine curiosity.

“If she wants it to be.” Lisa’s words were carefully chosen, but there was something undeniably soft in them, a tenderness that spoke to the vulnerability she was starting to embrace.

Betsy’s smile softened, the playful edges of her grin giving way to something more genuine, more affectionate. Her eyes flickered with real warmth as she looked at her mother, understanding the weight of what she was about to step into. “She will definitely want it to be,” Betsy said, her tone filled with certainty.

Lisa met her daughter’s gaze, holding it for a beat longer than usual. “Are you sure you’ll be alright with the shop?” she asked, a slight edge of concern in her voice. She wasn’t worried about the shop itself. It was more the idea of letting go for a little while, of stepping away from the routines that had kept them both grounded for so long.

“I’m sure.” Betsy smiled, her gaze softening as she watched her mum, the weight of the conversation sinking in. “I learned from the best.”

Lisa’s eyes softened as she looked at her daughter, her smile quiet and full of love. The small, fond smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her heart swelled at the thought of how far they’d both come. “Thanks, Bets.”

Betsy shrugged casually, trying to downplay the emotion that swelled inside her, but failing miserably. “Anytime,” she said, her voice quiet now, full of sincerity.

“I love you,” Lisa said, the words simple but laced with layers of meaning, gratefulness, pride, and a deep, unconditional love. It was the kind of sentiment that carried weight because it had been hard-earned, the product of years spent navigating life’s challenges side by side.

Betsy looked over at her, her smile smaller now but real, softening with the genuine affection that had always been there between them. “I love you too.”

The air between them felt a little lighter now, as though the conversations that had been building in the past few minutes had untangled something deep inside them both. And yet, even as that tenderness lingered, there was the familiar playfulness that defined their relationship.

With a dramatic sigh, Betsy grabbed her empty glass and gave her mum one last glance. “Alright,” she said, her grin widening once more. “Enough with the soppy stuff. Go get ready for bed.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, a feigned look of offense. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Betsy replied with an exaggerated grin, her voice teasing. “You’re gonna need your beauty sleep for Carla tomorrow.”

Lisa groaned, but there was an undeniable warmth in her voice as she watched Betsy head toward the living room her daughter’s smug grin trailing after her. “I liked it better when you were pretending to be cool,” Lisa called out, the words full of affection.

“Too bad,” came the reply from the living room. “I’m your wing woman now. Deal with it.”

Left alone, Lisa stood there for a moment, staring at the quiet kitchen, the soft hum of the house surrounding her. The conversation, the teasing, the shift in her heart. It all felt so new, and yet so right. She exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the evening settle into her chest. And then, she allowed herself to smile. It wasn’t the forced, tight-lipped smile she had worn for so long. It was genuine, light, and filled with a kind of quiet anticipation for what tomorrow might bring.

Tomorrow, with Carla.

Chapter Text

Carla was already regretting saying yes when she stepped outside and immediately met the cold slap of dawn air. It hit her like a wall: sharp, damp, and unrelenting, curling under her jacket collar and settling in her bones. She zipped her coat up to her chin, her fingers fumbling against the stiff metal. Her breath puffed out in front of her in soft white clouds, each exhale catching the pale light from the streetlamps still blinking overhead. Muttering to herself, she tucked her hands into her pockets and trudged down the silent street, every step echoing in the quiet toward the bookshop.

Lisa had told her to meet outside at half five. 5:30am. Who even meets someone that early in the morning? Carla had briefly wondered if Lisa was playing some sort of twisted inconvenient joke on her. Yet she had still found herself setting an alarm for 5 o’clock and leaving her house. Whatever Lisa was planning, Carla just hoped it was worth it because she would much rather be in bed, asleep right now.

Carla turned the corner, her boots crunching softly over a patch of gravel, and saw Lisa already waiting for her. Lisa stood in the alcove of the shop’s entrance, framed by the faded green trim of the old door. She leaned casually against the frame, her silhouette outlined by the yellowish light from the overhead lamp. Two thermoses were nestled in her hands, steam trailing lazily from their lids. A thick knitted beanie was pulled low over her ears, stray strands of her blonde hair curling out from beneath it. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, her nose red-tipped. And she was smiling. Carla had no idea how she was that happy this time in the morning. It was unnatural.

“You know,” she said, approaching and accepting the offered thermos with both hands, “some people consider this hour a war crime.”

Lisa grinned, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Sacrifices must be made for the best experiences.”

“Is that what this is?” Carla asked, arching a brow as she twisted the thermos lid. Steam wafted up, carrying with it the rich, dark scent of black coffee. “An experience?”

Lisa only shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

They started walking without another word, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. The streets were still, the whole village wrapped in that strange, suspended hush that only came before sunrise - not quite night, not quite morning. Everything looked softer, gentler. Shadows stretched long and faded at the edges, and the familiar corners of Willowbrook wore an unfamiliar coat of silvery quiet. Streetlights flickered off, one by one, surrendering the town to the slow advance of natural light.

As they reached the edge of town, the pavement gave way to crunching gravel, and then to a narrow dirt path that wound between trees. The woods stood like sentinels, tall and dark, their branches bare but beginning to bud; tiny signs of spring fighting to break through the stubborn hold of winter. The cold hung on in patches, curling low around the trunks, seeping into the ground. But above, in the higher branches, there was movement. The first signs of stirring life.

Carla stole glances at Lisa as they walked. She moved with quiet confidence, like she’d made this walk a hundred times and knew each root and bend in the path. Her footing never faltered, not even where the frost still clung to the stones. She didn’t seem to notice how beautiful everything was or maybe she did, but she didn’t need to say it. The mist had begun to roll in, curling low to the ground and rising slowly like breath from the earth, weaving between tree trunks like something sentient, like a secret being passed between the branches.

Carla, meanwhile, was already flagging. She hadn’t noticed how far they’d gone until her legs began to ache and her breath caught in her chest. She tightened her coat around her, pulling the collar up higher. Her thermos was warm in her hands, the last sips of coffee sloshing at the bottom.

“Is there at least a bench involved where we are going?” she asked, her voice breaking the morning’s spell with a note of dry sarcasm.

Lisa shot her a sideways glance, amused. “Are you always this dramatic, or is it just mornings?”

“Mornings,” Carla said without hesitation. “And when women don’t tell me where we are going.”

“That happen often to you, does it?” Lisa snickered, her eyes flicking back to the path ahead.

“More than you’d think,” Carla replied. A small smirk curled her lips as she added, “I’ve been lured into many situations by women with good jackets and mystery plans.”

Lisa glanced down at herself with mock scrutiny. “Well, I do have a great jacket. Bit muddy, bit vintage outdoorsy chic.”

Carla let out a laugh. It was unguarded, unexpected. It escaped before she could catch it, bubbling out into the hush around them. It rang softly through the woods, briefly echoing before being swallowed by the mist. Something in her chest loosened.

“Do you always do this?” Carla asked eventually. Her voice had softened, shaded now with something more introspective, as if the hush of the woods had seeped into her lungs and settled there. “Wake up before the world starts turning?”

They were walking through a part of the trail where the trees opened up just enough to let a silver-grey light filter through the branches. The mist drifted lazily around their ankles, stirred by their movement but never quite clearing. The air felt suspended, heavy with quiet, like the earth was holding its breath.

Lisa didn’t answer right away. Her boots crunched steadily on the gravel path, rhythm steady and sure. Her breath came out in soft white puffs, measured, slow, like she was thinking carefully or simply letting the silence have its place.

“Sometimes,” she said at last, her voice barely above the sound of the wind in the branches. “Depends on the day.”

Carla tilted her head slightly, watching her from the corner of her eye. The early light had begun to etch soft outlines around everything. The curve of Lisa’s cheek, the slope of her nose, the strands of hair escaping from beneath her beanie. It gave her an almost ethereal look, like she belonged to this morning in a way Carla didn’t yet understand.

“Is today special?” Carla asked.

This time, Lisa did look over. And the shift in her gaze was subtle, but undeniable. For a heartbeat, maybe two, they held eye contact. It wasn’t a stare, exactly. It was more like a question met with an answer; unspoken but unmistakably clear. The light had changed again, just enough to catch in Lisa’s eyes. Lisa didn’t smile, not fully. But her lips curved slightly. There was a softness to her then that hadn’t been there a moment ago, something unguarded.

“Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice low and certain. “I think it is.”

Carla’s steps faltered. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone would notice unless they were watching her closely. But her foot caught just slightly on the edge of a stone, her body stuttering forward half a beat. Her breath caught. That look… Lisa hadn’t been talking about the trees or the sunrise or the serenity of the woods.

She had looked at her. And something in Carla, something quiet and cautious, cracked open a little. Just a hairline fracture, just enough to let the warmth in. Did she mean that today was special because of her? She didn’t know and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to ask. Not yet. Not when they had only just started their day.

Lisa had already turned back toward the path, walking like nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t just unsettled the ground beneath Carla’s feet with a single look and a few simple words. Lisa kept walking giving Carla no choice but to follow.

And then, as if the woods had been holding their breath this entire time, the trees finally gave way to open space. The dense curtain of branches thinned, the path widened beneath their feet, and the ground sloped gently downward, unfurling into a quiet, open clearing. Carla slowed, her steps instinctively careful, reverent, as if walking into a cathedral made of air and sky.

Below them lay a lake, perfectly still and impossibly smooth. A stretch of water so untouched it didn’t seem real, like glass laid flat against the earth. The surface shimmered dark and rich, like poured ink, and where the ink gave way, the sky had begun to stain it with colour. The glow on the horizon was subtle at first. A soft golden warmth bleeding outward in a slow, expanding breath but already it was catching on the tips of the low mist curling along the lake’s edges. Light flickered across the water’s skin like fire catching on oil.

At the very edges, just where the light began to stretch thin, the sky was tinged in the palest pink; delicate, hesitant, like a secret blooming in slow motion. The colours bled into one another like watercolours left out in the rain, edges softened by the blur of moisture in the air. Mist hovered in long, drifting ribbons over the lake’s surface, twining through reeds and brushing against the ankles of the trees that circled it. Every branch was etched in frost-laced silver, as if even the trees had paused to admire the view.

Carla stopped walking. Something in her chest shifted, caught between breath and stillness. Lisa had gone ahead a few more paces, her figure framed by the open sky and the soft rise of morning. She turned now, slowly, her cheeks still pink from the cold and the climb, her breath misting in the air between them. She opened her arms, not dramatically but gently, palms turned up like she was offering something fragile and treasured. “You asked me about my favourite spots in Willowbrook,” she said, her voice carrying through the air with a kind of ease that hadn’t been there earlier. It was lighter, unguarded, like she’d let something inside her go. “I wanted to share this one with you.”

Carla took another step forward, drawn in despite herself. Her breath caught. Not in surprise, but like her lungs had forgotten how to work in the face of something so quietly stunning. It wasn’t until her chest ached slightly that she realised she’d stopped breathing at all.

The lake was breathtaking in the kind of way that didn’t demand attention but earned it. The surface remained undisturbed, a near-perfect mirror of the awakening sky above, now streaked with soft peaches, warm lilacs, and the kind of blue that barely existed during daylight. Mist clung low to the water, drifting like pale silk scarves over glass, trailing slowly as if reluctant to leave. The trees circling the lake stood tall and solemn, their bare branches kissed silver by the rising light.

Lisa turned back toward the lake, her profile framed by the soft, blooming light. The gold of the sunrise traced the edges of her cheekbones, touched the bridge of her nose, lit up the curve of her eyelashes like the light had chosen her. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her coat now, shoulders no longer hunched against the cold, but loose. At ease. Grounded. There was something settled about her stance, as if the weight of the world had slipped from her shoulders the moment she stepped into this space.

She looked like she belonged there; like she had been shaped by this place, or maybe like the place had been shaped by her. There was a quiet harmony between her and the stillness, as if the silence wrapped around her like a thread pulled taut, connecting her to the trees, the water, the pale light creeping across the lake.

Carla moved forward; drawn by something she couldn’t quite explain. She came to stand beside Lisa, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Close enough that if Lisa shifted even slightly, they’d touch. She didn’t, but the nearness hummed between them.

A soft gust of wind moved through the clearing, just enough to ruffle Carla’s hair and stir the surface of the lake. Ripples skated outward across the water like breath exhaled, breaking the perfect mirror for only a moment before stillness returned. Mist clung stubbornly to the far shore, threading itself through the roots of the trees like ribbon. When Carla spoke, it was barely more than a whisper, her voice gentle, reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

Lisa’s smile was quiet, touched not just by agreement, but by something deeper. Memory, maybe. Or gratitude. “It always is,” she said, her gaze still on the lake. “But there’s something about the mornings. The way the sunrise reflects on the water…” She glanced over at Carla, her expression soft, almost wistful. “One of my favourite places in the world.”

Carla turned her head just enough to watch her. To really see her. The way the light touched Lisa’s features. The way she seemed a little more open here, less guarded. And something in Carla’s chest tightened, not in a painful way, but in a way that said this matters. She said softly, “Thank you for showing me.”

Lisa tilted her head, amusement flickering at the edge of her mouth. “Well, I promised you a tour of all the best spots, didn’t I?”

They held eye contact for a moment that stretched just past comfort and into something intimate; a stillness between them that didn’t need filling. There was no teasing, no sarcasm, no masks. Just two people standing at the edge of something quiet and real. The smile they shared wasn’t big, wasn’t loud but it held something sacred. A thread pulled tight between them.

They didn’t speak after that. Not for a while. There was no need. Birdsong slowly returned to the air, hesitant and gentle. The tentative notes of robins and blackbirds threading through the trees, soft like questions asked into the dawn. The sky had shifted again, the sun stretching golden fingers across the lake, touching the water and turning it to honey. That light spilled around them, warm against their faces, and the cold that had settled in Carla’s bones earlier was slowly replaced by a spreading warmth. Not just from the sun, but from Lisa’s presence beside her.

Then, without a word, Lisa moved. She bent her knees and sank slowly to the ground, settling on a patch of worn grass that had been kissed by frost. The grass gave a quiet crunch beneath her, but she didn’t seem to mind. She tugged her beanie lower over her ears, the movement casual, familiar, and squinted out at the horizon as if trying to commit the moment to memory.

Carla stood for just a breath longer, watching her, before lowering herself beside her with a soft exhale. The cold nipped at her through her jeans as she sat, and she brushed her palms quickly along her thighs to chase it off, her breath still clouding faintly in front of her.

But she didn’t move further away. Didn’t shift to keep distance. She stayed close. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Lisa’s arm, close enough to notice the little things: the way Lisa’s fingers flexed inside her coat pockets, the soft rise and fall of her breath, the way her eyes never stopped moving as they took in the view.

“How did you figure out you could see the most beautiful sunrise from here?” Carla asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, like even that might shatter the peace holding the world so delicately together. It was like the world had hit pause for them and she didn’t want to be the one who pressed play too soon.

Lisa didn’t answer right away. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon, watching as a ribbon of pale orange slowly unfurled itself above the tree line. “I told you in the café that I come here when I need to think.” Her voice came soft, almost distracted, like her mind was halfway between now and some long-ago morning. She wrapped her arms loosely around her knees, drawing them closer to her chest. The motion felt instinctive, like she’d done it a hundred times before in this very spot. “One morning I just couldn’t sleep,” she continued, her words laced with the weight of remembered restlessness. “There was too much going on in my head. I just went on a walk. Tried to ground myself.”

Lisa glanced down at her boots, her fingers absently brushing a blade of grass. “I didn’t have a destination. I just needed to move. To get away from everything swirling in my chest. I ended up following the path along the back of the town, behind the old hardware store, and just kept walking. I didn’t even notice how far I’d gone until I found myself here, right at the edge of the lake.” She paused, drawing in a long breath through her nose and exhaling slowly. “I stayed for ages. I didn’t mean to. I had planned to be home before the sunrise but… well, I didn’t.” Her lips twitched into a crooked, bittersweet smile. “And now this place holds meaning to me. I still come here when I need to think or when I don’t want to think at all. When I just want to feel something real.”

Carla turned slightly, careful not to make too much noise as she shifted in the grass. “I can see why,” Carla said softly. Her voice was almost lost in the breeze, but Lisa heard it. “This place… it feels like it knows how to listen.”

Lisa let out a breath of laughter, quiet and warm, the kind that comes when someone finally feels understood. “Exactly.” She turned just enough to meet Carla’s eyes, the corners of her lips lifting. “You get it.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Are you just going to keep saying thank you?” Lisa teased, elbowing her gently with the familiar comfort of someone who wasn’t afraid to tease in soft moments.

“Fine, I’ll stop showing my appreciation,” Carla replied, rolling her eyes with exaggerated fondness. She nudged Lisa back, the contact light but deliberate.

Lisa grinned wide now, the kind of grin that pulled dimples into her cheeks and crinkled the corners of her eyes. She leaned in and bumped Carla’s shoulder again, more playful this time. “You better not. I’m getting used to the compliments.”

Carla let out a quiet hum, feigning annoyance. “You’re becoming insufferable already.”

“You don’t really think that.”

Carla looked at her - really looked. The light framed Lisa’s face like it was trying to memorize her. The soft wind lifted the edges of her coat, and her breath came in faint, visible puffs between words. And somehow, in the midst of all that peace, all that golden quiet, Carla felt something settle inside her too.

“No. I don’t.”

The silence settled again, this time more companionable than sacred. No longer fragile, it felt like something shared. Something held gently between them rather than tiptoed around. Carla leaned back on her hands, her palms pressing into the cool grass, and stretched her legs out in front of her. She tilted her face toward the sun, now peeking properly over the horizon. Its rays were warmer now, no longer shy, and they painted everything in a soft golden blush. The light spilled across the lake, setting ripples aglow where the breeze skimmed the surface, little flashes of silver and amber catching her eye like sequins on water.

They sat for a while longer, sipping their coffee in companionable silence, the morning unfurling around them in soft gold and gentle breeze. Then Lisa stood, brushing off her coat with brisk sweeps of her hands. “Come on. I’m not done showing off yet.”

Carla looked up at her, raising an eyebrow, a little wary. “There’s more?”

Lisa extended a hand down to her, fingers flexing in invitation. “I’m full of surprises.”

Carla took the offered hand, letting herself be tugged to her feet. Her fingers curled around Lisa’s for a breath longer than necessary, the warmth lingering before she reluctantly let go. “Just so we’re clear, if this next spot isn’t as impressive, I’m docking points.”

Lisa chuckled, already turning toward the path. “Noted.”

They followed a different route this time, one that peeled away from the well-trodden trail and dipped into a more secret part of the woods. It twisted like a hidden story, disappearing into dense undergrowth that suggested it had been forgotten by all but a few. The path was narrower, less defined, with leaves and moss muffling their footsteps. Trees leaned in closer, their bare winter branches weaving together like fingers overhead. The air grew cooler again, but not sharp or harsh. It was the kind of crisp that kissed the skin awake and filled the lungs with clarity. It braced rather than bit.

Carla narrowed her eyes at the trail ahead. It was overgrown in places, wild and untamed. She reached out to push a branch aside as it tried to snag the sleeve of her coat, the twigs catching like curious fingers. “You’re not going to murder me, are you?” she said, tone casual but teasing, eyes darting playfully toward Lisa’s back.

Lisa snorted without turning around, her voice amused. “That depends. Are you always this dramatic on scenic walks? Because if so, I might have to consider it.”

“I’m not that dramatic. I’m simply letting my thoughts be known,” Carla replied breezily, her voice light with mischief. “But if this ends with me in a ditch, I hope you know I’ll haunt the hell out of you.”

Lisa glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair warning, if you haunt me, I’m putting you to work in the bookshop. Don’t have to pay a ghost.”

Carla burst out laughing, the sound bright and unguarded, breaking into the quiet woods like sunlight breaking through branches. The trees seemed to echo it softly, leaves rustling in gentle agreement.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe a little,” Lisa admitted with a grin, laughter still dancing in her voice as she slowed her pace enough to walk beside Carla, shoulder brushing close for just a second.

They climbed a little higher, the trail sloping gently upward now, winding through the trees like a path made by memory rather than maps. It wasn’t steep, but it asked something of the body - the kind of quiet effort that made Carla’s legs ache just enough to remind her she was alive and moving. Her breath came a little deeper, a little sharper, but not uncomfortably so. It was the kind of pace that let her notice things she wouldn’t have at a sprint.

She let her fingers trail along the trunks of trees as they passed: thick, timeworn things with bark mottled and rough, slick with morning damp. The texture caught under her fingertips like ridges of a thumbprint, every groove and crack a history written in wood. Low branches reached into the path, brushing against her sleeves and hair like the forest itself was gently, absentmindedly touching her. Vines curled through the underbrush, tangled and slick with dew, their tendrils catching at her boots.

Eventually, Lisa slowed her pace, her boots crunching lightly against the earth. She stopped just ahead, at the edge of a thicket, and turned slightly, holding aside a curtain of brush with one arm. Her voice dropped a little, quiet and close.

“Careful,” she said, her voice lower now, more intimate. “The ground’s uneven.”

Carla ducked through after her and froze.

The clearing revealed itself like a held breath being exhaled. One moment they were wrapped in the close-knit woods, the next they had stepped into something wide and bright and almost holy. The trees peeled away into a wide-open space, their trunks arching at the edges like pillars holding up the sky. The earth levelled out into a high overlook, the ground beneath their feet soft with moss and old leaves, untouched.

Beyond them, Willowbrook unfurled in miniature, nestled in the valley like a secret tucked into a storybook. From this height, the rooftops looked like scattered puzzle pieces, some catching the sunlight, others shaded beneath long stretches of pine. Smoke curled lazily from a handful of chimneys, thin and silvery against the backdrop of morning sky. The lake shimmered on the horizon, its surface catching the light in wide swaths, as if it were made of glass gently cracked by ripples. It looked both eternal and fleeting, as though it might vanish if you blinked.

Above them, the sky stretched open, soft and vast, brushed with pale blue and streaks of early gold. It felt like standing on the edge of the world.

Carla’s breath caught in her chest, sharp and quiet.

“I didn’t think anything could get better than the lake,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, like anything louder might disrupt the spell around them.

Lisa stood beside her, hands tucked back into her coat pockets, but her gaze wasn’t on the view. It was on Carla, watching the shift in her expression, the slow, stunned wonder that spread across her face like sunlight through clouds. Lisa didn’t need to look at the landscape to know its beauty. She’d already memorized it. What mattered now was seeing it reflected in someone else’s eyes.

“Yeah, well you once told me I was the expert of Willowbrook. Had to live up to expectations.”

Carla turned toward her then, and the beginnings of a smile started to curl at the edges of her mouth. It was soft and sure, like it had been waiting all morning to surface. “You really are proving me right.”

Lisa returned the smile, small but genuine, the kind that didn’t flash across her face but unfolded, slowly and honestly. Then she finally looked away, turning her gaze toward the horizon. Something in her posture shifted, her shoulders dropped just slightly, and her eyes lost their playfulness, replaced with something quieter. Thoughtful. A little guarded, even.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to show you this,” she said, the words careful, like each one had to be weighed before it left her mouth. “I knew for sure that day in the café I’d show you the lake. But this…” She trailed off, her voice catching mid-thought, like something snagged between her chest and throat. She blinked once, slowly. “Not many people know about this clearing. Part of me thought I should keep it to myself. Selfish, I know.”

The admission hung there, suspended in the cool morning air.

Carla turned her gaze back to the view, but it wasn’t with the same wide-eyed awe as before. Her smile shifted, becoming something softer, gentler, more understanding than impressed. “I can see why you wanted to keep it to yourself. It’s amazing.”

And it was. But more than that, it felt sacred. A place soaked in memory, in silence, in solitude. Carla could feel the years Lisa must have spent up here with only her thoughts for company. She could feel the trust it took to share that.

A stillness fell between them again, but it was a different kind now. Not the stillness of a place untouched, but of something delicate between them, not yet spoken. The air held it like a breath waiting to be released. Something suspended, not yet solid but no longer invisible either. Carla felt it like a thread stretched between them, invisible but undeniably real.

Then, breaking the quiet with a flicker of mischief that glinted in her eyes, Carla glanced sideways. “Take many people to the lake, then?” she teased, voice light but curious beneath the humour. “Am I one of the lucky few that gets the full experience and gets to see the clearing too?”

“Oh yeah, I regularly bring people to the lake,” Lisa replied with dry sarcasm, her voice deadpan until a laugh burst free, soft and genuine, misting in the cold air like a warm secret let go. She turned then, fully, to face Carla, her body angling in a way that felt deliberate. There was a new openness in her gaze now. Warm, yes, but steady too. Sure of what she was saying. “I’ve kept this place to myself mostly. No one else has seen this view with me.”

Carla’s teasing slipped away as quickly as it had come, replaced by something gentler, more tentative. “Not even Betsy?” she asked, the name barely more than a breath. It was the kind of question that asked more than it seemed to. Carla didn’t know what answer she expected, but she knew that whatever it was would matter. The idea that Lisa had never shared this intimate, special space with her daughter tugged at something deep inside Carla - an understanding of how precious this was.

Lisa didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even blink. Her gaze held Carla’s, steady and open, her voice calm and true. “Not even Betsy.”

That hit different. Carla didn’t say anything. The words sat heavy in her chest, though not from hurt but from the understanding that this space was Lisa’s. Something that had been hers. Something she hadn’t even shared with her daughter. And yet still, Lisa had still chosen to share this place with her. The quiet reverence in that realization made everything else around them feel even more meaningful.

It was Lisa who broke the stillness, her voice lower now, grounding and steady, as if she had found a space in her mind to settle into. "Come on," she said, tilting her head toward a small knoll that rose gently from the clearing. "There’s a better view from up there."

Carla didn’t respond with words. She simply followed, her steps fluid and automatic, as if guided more by something unspoken in Lisa’s voice than by the promise of a better view. It wasn’t the scenery that drew her now. It was the closeness, the way everything seemed to feel more intimate between them in this shared silence. Without Lisa’s presence so near, her hands suddenly felt colder, the absence of warmth more pronounced than the coolness of the breeze.

At the top, the village below them stretched out further, sprawling beneath the morning light like a canvas washed in gold and soft pastels. The sky above seemed bigger here, wider, more open. The entire world unfolded around them, inviting and vast. It was as though they had climbed to the very edge of it, standing just out of reach of something infinite, like the universe itself was watching them from above.

Lisa dropped into the grass without hesitation, her movements effortless, like she’d sat there a hundred times before. There was no need to brush the blades away; she was already at home in this space, grounded and at peace. Carla stood still for a moment, watching her, then followed, lowering herself carefully onto the grass beside her. She did it slowly, deliberate, like every movement had weight, like the moment was too fragile to rush, too precious to disturb.

Their shoulders brushed as she sat down, and the contact was electric in its simplicity. Neither of them pulled away, and it felt as though the world had just shifted into focus, the weight of the air growing heavier around them. The stillness had deepened now, like the quiet itself had taken on a physical form.

The breeze was stronger here, tugging gently at Carla’s hair, lifting it from her neck and sending stray strands across her face. She didn’t reach up to fix it. She let the wind do as it pleased, the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the breeze pulling her in two directions at once. Lisa didn’t look away from her. She didn’t even flinch, her eyes steady, focused on something in the distance but always returning to Carla.

Lisa exhaled slowly, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken things. “It’s strange,” she murmured, the words barely more than a whisper, “being up here with someone.”

Carla turned her head just slightly, her brow furrowing in quiet curiosity. A small pang of uncertainty twisted in her chest. Was Lisa regretting it? Regretting bringing her here? She tried to keep the humour light in her voice, but it couldn’t quite mask the vulnerability that seeped into her words. “Regretting bringing me here already?”

“No,” Lisa replied quickly, her voice reassuring, firm in its certainty. “It’s a good strange.” She paused, as if considering the weight of what she was about to say next. “Normally, I come here to think, to breathe, to clear my head. But it doesn’t feel like I have to do that alone anymore. I’m not sure if I want to do that alone anymore.”

The words hit Carla softly, but powerfully. She turned to look at Lisa, her gaze lingering, soft and searching, like she was trying to read between the lines of the confession. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice barely above the breeze. “I get that.”

For a moment, there was a quiet stillness between them. Not awkward, not uncomfortable but full. It felt like something was shifting in the air between them, slow and careful. A thread of something unspoken seemed to stretch between them, taut but not yet frayed.

Carla shifted slightly, turning more toward Lisa. She was suddenly aware of how close they were, of the small things. The way the wind danced through the leaves, the scent of pine in the air, the softness of the grass beneath them. She was acutely aware of Lisa’s presence, of her warmth, of the way the world seemed to be centred around the two of them in this moment.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” Carla said, her voice low and honest. She meant it lightly, but there was something deeper in the words, something that suggested a need to understand. To know.

Lisa’s lips quirked, the corners lifting into a small, playful smile. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the same about you.” She turned her head, meeting Carla’s gaze fully now, her eyes warm but tinged with something else, something more serious, more open than before.

Carla’s smile widened, a flicker of laughter behind it. The sound was soft but real, a hint of ease returning. “We’re a mess,” she said, her voice carrying the lightness of the moment.

“Probably,” Lisa agreed, her voice low, the warmth of it curling like smoke in the air. “But at least it’s scenic.”

The teasing felt natural, easy, even as if they had both found a comfortable rhythm. The world around them might have been quiet, but in this space, between them, it felt full. Alive with whatever it was that was unfolding between them.

The wind moved gently over the hilltop, brushing across their coats and the strands of hair that had fallen loose. It felt like the world itself was holding its breath with them. A bird wheeled far above, its shadow stretching briefly across the grass, a fleeting, quiet reminder of how vast everything was. Time passed, but neither of them marked it. There was no need to rush, no expectation to keep track of it. The only time that mattered was the moment they were in, right here, side by side on the hill, with nothing between them but the soft glow of the morning and the space between their shoulders.

Every so often, Carla would glance sideways, and without fail, she’d find Lisa already looking at her. Not the view, not the sunrise, but her. And every time, her heart would stutter in that annoying, inconvenient way it had started doing whenever Lisa got too close. It wasn’t loud, just a soft flutter, something Carla had been trying to ignore, but it had a way of making her feel like she was standing just a little too close to the edge of something. Something undefined but undeniable.

They stayed on the hill longer than they meant to. Longer than they should have, maybe, but neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. Not talking. Not needing to. Just existing in that space where the world was soft and full of possibilities. Watching as the sun climbed higher in the sky, painting the rooftops of Willowbrook in soft, golden tones, like it was draping the town in a kind of quiet magic.

Eventually, the air began to shift. The quiet warmth of dawn faded slowly, the cool morning breeze nudging them toward the day ahead. It wasn’t a harsh shift, just a soft reminder that the world wasn’t going to wait for them forever.

Lisa stood first, brushing the grass from the back of her coat, a subtle motion that made Carla feel like the moment was slipping away, like she wasn’t ready for it to end. “Come on,” Lisa said, her voice still soft, but with a hint of humour, offering her hand. “Before we get frostbite and ruin the whole aesthetic.” Carla smiled, her fingers brushing Lisa’s as she let herself be pulled up. Her hand lingered in Lisa’s just a moment too long.

 They didn’t rush on the walk back. Their steps were slower now, quieter, almost reluctant to let go of the peaceful silence they’d built between them. Their shoulders bumped every so often in that accidental-not-accidental way, like gravity itself was nudging them closer. The path back felt different. It seemed shorter somehow, as if the world had stretched it out for them earlier, just so they could have this moment, and now it was winding them back toward the ordinary world, before either of them were ready for it.

By the time they reached the edge of town again, the world had woken up. It wasn’t loud, not yet, but there was a distinct hum of life resuming. Lights blinked on in windows. The faint clatter of bins being dragged to the curb echoed down a nearby lane. Somewhere, someone was already mowing their lawn. The spell of earlier hadn’t exactly broken, but it had shifted. Muted into something quieter, something more tender. Like the world had softened just a little, just for them.

Lisa hesitated just outside her front door, her hands stuffed deep in her coat pockets, her stance slightly more grounded now, like she was letting the world catch up with them. “Wanna come in?” Lisa asked, her voice lighter than before, but there was something else behind it. Something that lingered in the warmth of her words, like an invitation wrapped in a layer of unspoken meaning. “Could have some food. Watch a movie. Talk.”

Carla didn’t hesitate long, but there was a teasing glimmer in her voice when she responded, “Careful, Lisa. Sounds like you want to spend more time with me.”

Lisa’s lips curled into a small smile, and her eyes flickered with amusement, but the softness that had settled between them didn’t waver. “And what if I did?” she asked, the words hanging in the air, heavier than they seemed, yet playful. There was a quiet challenge in her tone, as if daring Carla to acknowledge the unspoken truth of the moment - something that stretched just beyond the surface of the casual invitation.

Carla’s breath caught for just a moment, a flutter in her chest that wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still caught her off guard. She glanced at Lisa, her gaze lingering longer than usual. “Well, then how could I say no?” she said, the words slipping out more easily than she expected, like they had been waiting to be said.

Chapter Text

Lisa pushed open the door, stepping aside to let Carla in first. The house was quiet and warm, the kind of warm that settled into your bones as soon as you stepped through the door, like a quiet embrace. The scent of something comforting lingered in the air and it made everything feel rather intimate, like they were the only two people who mattered in this space.

They stood in Lisa’s hallway, shrugging off coats and shoes in a quiet rhythm that felt far too domestic for something so undefined. There was no rush, no awkwardness. Just the familiarity of two people finding their place in a shared space. Carla’s fingers brushed against the fabric of her coat as she hung it on the hook, a small, insignificant gesture that somehow felt meaningful.

Lisa moved with easy familiarity, flicking on a lamp that bathed the room in a soft amber glow. The light softened everything, making the house feel even warmer, more inviting. “Tea, coffee, something stronger?” she asked, her tone casual but somehow carrying an undertone of something more.

Carla smirked, her voice a little rough from the cold. “You offering me alcohol at 11am?”

Lisa glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow, her smile never wavering. “I said something stronger. That could be hot chocolate.”

Carla chuckled, shaking her head. “Pretty sure coffee is stronger than hot chocolate.”

“Fair point,” Lisa laughed. “So, what’s it to be?”

“I’ll take a tea, please.”

Lisa flicked the kettle on, and the quiet hum of it filled the space, a comforting sound that seemed to stretch time just a little. She reached for the mugs without even looking, her fingers brushing the edges as if she was born to be in this moment. The simple rhythm of her actions, the soft clink of the mugs against the counter, everything seemed so natural. It seemed natural that Carla was in Lisa’s house. It seemed natural that Lisa was making a cup of tea. It seemed natural that Carla was starting to feel like she belonged. She belonged here, in this small part of the world, in this shared space with Lisa.

Carla watched, her gaze softening as Lisa handed her the mug of tea. Their fingers brushed, just for a moment, but it lingered, the touch warm and familiar, almost intentional in the way their hands met. The warmth of the mug seemed to radiate through her palm, but it was the heat of the touch that stayed with her - small, almost insignificant, yet carrying something more than just the casual brush of skin. There was a spark in it, something undeniable, a quiet hum that thrummed low in her chest.

"Careful," Lisa murmured, her voice soft like a secret, eyes meeting Carla's with an unspoken understanding. “It’s hot.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she lifted the mug to her lips, her breath lightly grazing the surface. “I figured, what with it being tea n’all.” She couldn’t help but feel the flutter in her chest at the way Lisa was looking at her: soft, attentive, as though she cared about something more than just the cup of tea between them.

Lisa laughed, a light, genuine sound that seemed to fill the room with something warm. She shook her head, the playful edge of her smile never leaving her face as she leaned against the counter, taking a sip of her own tea. “I’ll just let you burn yourself next time,” she said, her tone teasing but without malice.

Carla’s heart skipped a beat, not from the teasing or the light banter, but from the ease between them. There was something about the way they stood in that kitchen, the simple exchange of tea and jokes, that made everything feel… right. The soft clink of the mugs, the quiet laugh that echoed in the space, the warmth that wrapped around them. Everything felt like the beginning of something more, something real. And for the first time, Carla let herself entertain the thought that maybe she wanted this moment to stretch on, wanted more mornings like this. More tea, more laughter, more of Lisa’s company, wrapped in the quiet ease of shared space.

They stood like that for a few moments. Neither of them moving, yet not quite still. Standing too close for friends. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; instead, it hummed with possibility, like the air around them was holding its breath, waiting for something to shift. Neither of them spoke, yet in that space, there was more said than words could carry. It was subtle, soft, like the pull of something unspoken but there, lingering, weaving them together.

Finally, Lisa nudged her chin toward the living room. “Come on. You’ve earned a sit-down.”

Carla slipped past Lisa and headed towards the sofa. She settled in with a soft sigh, the weight of the moment still pressing gently on her chest. She didn’t need to say anything. It was all so simple, so easy. Lisa stayed behind, the sound of her footsteps disappearing into the kitchen as she grabbed something, leaving Carla alone with her thoughts for a moment. But the quiet didn’t feel heavy. No, it felt comforting, like a familiar blanket she didn’t want to pull away from.

A moment later, Lisa came back, her presence filling the room. She sat beside Carla, the couch dipping under her weight with a soft thud. She placed a pack of biscuits on the coffee table in front of her, the gesture casual, but it carried a warmth with it.

“Tea and biscuits??? Well, this was almost worth waking up at an ungodly hour for,” Carla remarked, her voice light, a playful edge to her words.

Lisa grinned, her eyes lighting up with a teasing sparkle. “Don’t say I never treat you.”

Carla smirked, her lips curling with a familiar, comfortable humour. “You know, you’re weirdly nurturing for someone who threatened to murder me in the woods.”

“Only the best for my victims,” Lisa shot back, her voice light but warm, her teasing tone matching Carla’s. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it was you insinuating I was going to murder you, not the other way around.”

Carla waved a hand dismissively, her smile widening as she leaned back into the cushions. “Minor details,”

As the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm, Carla felt a slight chill run through her, the warmth from the tea doing little to ward off the coolness of the air. Lisa’s gaze flicked over to her, perceptive as always, her sharp eyes catching the subtle shift in Carla’s body language. She noticed the way Carla huddled deeper into the couch, the way her breath hitched slightly as the cold wrapped around her. Without a second thought, Lisa’s brow furrowed slightly. “You cold?” she asked, her voice low and filled with that familiar, soft concern.

Carla hesitated for a beat, but then she shrugged it off, not wanting to make a bigger deal of it than it was. “A little,” she admitted, though the smile that played at the corners of her lips was light and casual. “I’m fine though. This tea will warm me up in no time.” But even as she spoke, she could feel the edges of the chill lingering, stubborn and persistent.

Lisa didn’t hesitate. There was no judgment, no questioning. Just a quiet understanding in the way she looked at Carla (like she was already considering what to do) before rising with a fluid motion. She grabbed a soft throw blanket from the arm of the couch, its fabric warm from where it had been draped over the back. She moved gracefully, effortlessly and before Carla had a chance to process it, Lisa was back at her side.

Without a word, Lisa draped the blanket over both of them, the warmth of the fabric a soft, tangible comfort. It was simple, the kind of gesture that might have seemed insignificant in any other context. But with Lisa, it felt like a quiet act of care, one that reached past the physical warmth of the blanket, straight into something deeper. Carla could feel the fabric settle across their legs, the softness brushing against her skin, but it was the gesture that made her heart stutter. It was like Lisa was offering more than just warmth. It was the kind of thing you did for someone you wanted to be close to, without needing to say it out loud.

Carla’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to make light of the moment, her voice laced with that same teasing edge she always used to mask something more vulnerable. “Are you always this prepared?” she asked, her tone light. The question hovered between them, tinged with a curiosity that she wasn’t sure she wanted to voice fully. “Surprise lake views. Secret clearings. Warm beverages with biscuits and now a blanket?”

Lisa’s gaze softened in a way Carla hadn’t expected. The playful energy that usually flickered between them was gone, replaced by something quieter, something more grounded. It was as though the weight of her words had drawn them both closer to something real. Lisa’s eyes held Carla’s, steady and unflinching, and for a heartbeat, the space between them seemed to stretch and contract all at once. There was a flicker of something in the air - tangible, electric, irrefutable.

"Only when I’m trying to impress someone," Lisa said, her voice low, and for a split second, Carla felt the weight of the honesty in the words more than she expected. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t flippant. It was an admission, simple and direct, and it left Carla a little breathless.

Carla blinked, the unexpected sincerity of Lisa’s words settling like a weight in her chest. The blanket, the tea, the quiet conversations. They weren’t just fleeting moments. They were intentions. And as much as Carla tried to push the thought away, she couldn’t ignore the way her chest tightened in response. There was a shift here, something that felt too fragile to touch but too significant to ignore. The space between them had grown smaller, somehow, and it wasn’t just physical.

Lisa reached for her own mug, the movement smooth, natural, as if nothing had shifted at all. She took a sip, her eyes briefly meeting Carla’s before she allowed herself a quiet smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. There was no rush, no pressure in the way they moved around each other. Carla, still feeling the subtle weight of Lisa’s honesty, took another sip of her tea, letting the warmth seep through her fingers. The cup felt almost too small, as if it couldn’t contain the strange, warm tension between them.

“Well, consider me impressed,” Carla said, her words a little softer now, but still holding that lightness, that playful deflection she always leaned on.

The words hung in the air between them for a beat longer than they should have. And for just a moment, it felt like the space between them wasn’t enough. Like there was more to say but neither of them said it. Not yet. Carla leaned back, easing into the sofa more, one leg tucked beneath her. Her shoulders angled toward Lisa like her body had already decided what her words hadn’t yet admitted. A beat later, Lisa shifted too, mirroring the posture. Not consciously, but naturally. Like they were syncing without trying. Their knees brushed again under the shared blanket. Neither of them moved.

Lisa reached forward, her fingers brushing softly against the crinkled edge of the biscuit packet. She nudged it toward Carla with an easy flick, the cellophane rustling quietly in the stillness between them. Her hand lingered a moment, close enough that the heat of her skin seemed to radiate under the blanket. Her voice, when it came, was playful and light, but with that familiar undercurrent of something warmer, steadier. “Alright then,” she said, eyebrows raised like a challenge, “Choose wisely.”

Carla glanced down at the biscuits and then back at her, arching a single brow in mock scrutiny. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, as if she were trying hard not to let it grow too wide. “Feels like a test,” she said, letting the words stretch out a little, deliberately dry.

“Oh, it is,” Lisa replied immediately, her eyes glinting with amusement. She leaned back slightly, one elbow resting along the back of the sofa. “What you pick says everything about you.”

Carla gave a theatrical sigh and leaned forward slowly, her hand hovering above the packet like she was considering a high-stakes decision. Her fingertips skimmed the top row before she plucked one free with exaggerated care, holding it up between two fingers like it was a rare gemstone. “And this one says…?”

Lisa tilted her head, her gaze settling on the biscuit with surprising seriousness, as if she were actually reading something in it. Then she leaned in just slightly, her knee pressing a bit more firmly against Carla’s under the blanket. When she spoke, her voice had changed again. It was lower now, warmer. It wrapped around Carla like a shawl.

“Reliable,” Lisa said, her tone slow and deliberate. “Surprising. Comforting.”

Carla didn’t mean to react, but she did. She couldn’t help it. Her breath hitched, just the faintest catch in her throat, but it was enough. There was a pause, brief and charged. Then she laughed. It wasn’t loud. It was quiet, breathy, like it slipped out before she could stop it. She bumped her shoulder gently into Lisa’s, letting their bodies press a little closer beneath the blanket. “You flirt like it’s second nature,” she murmured.

Lisa grinned, no shame in it, no apology. “I only play to my audience,” she said, and her smile spread, genuine and easy, but not careless. There was something in her eyes, too, something that said she wasn’t just saying it for the sake of the moment.

Carla’s smile shifted, softened. Not because she was pulling back, but because she felt something new settle inside her. That answer… it hadn’t felt rehearsed. It hadn’t even felt like an answer. It had felt like a truth; one Lisa had no intention of hiding. She lifted her mug again, hands steady now, and brought it to her lips. The steam brushed across her cheeks, warm and gentle. She sipped slowly, eyes flicking up from the mug’s rim, finding Lisa’s gaze already waiting there. And it lingered. It wasn’t a challenge or a stare-down. It was just quiet and curious and steady enough to make Carla feel like she was being seen from the inside out. Something tilted in her chest. Something unspoken, rising to the surface before she could push it down.

“You always like this?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost cautious. Like she wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear the answer.

Lisa’s lips quirked. “What, charming?”

Carla rolled her eyes, but the movement was gentle, fond. “No,” she said with a smile that tugged but didn’t quite bloom. “I mean this.” She gestured between them with her hand. “Whatever this is.”

Lisa’s expression shifted at that. She didn’t deflect. She didn’t tease. She paused, her brow knitting ever so slightly as she considered the question. “Flirting over caffeine and sunrise hikes?”

Carla didn’t respond right away. Her smile dipped into something deeper, something more introspective. She looked at Lisa like she was reading something behind her words, and maybe she was. When she did speak, her voice was quieter, a note lower. It didn’t carry as far. “Just… making someone feel like they’re the only one in the room.”

Lisa’s eyes didn’t waver. “Well since it is only me and you in the room…”

But Carla cut in quietly. Not harsh, just firm. “Lisa I’m being serious.”

And that did it. The levity dissolved completely. Not in a way that broke the moment, but in a way that cleared the path for it to become something else. Something more honest. Lisa went still - not tense, but fully present. Her back straightened just a little. Her shoulders eased like she was letting something real slip into the space between them.

She looked at Carla for a long, quiet second. Not just glancing but searching. Studying the way Carla was watching her, the tightness in her fingers around the mug, the steady pull in her eyes. And then she nodded. Not a big gesture. Just a soft dip of her head, a quiet agreement to step into the truth of it. “No,” she said, and there was no hesitation in it. No performance. Just honesty. “Not always.”

Carla looked down again, gaze dropping to the mug in her hands as though it might offer something stable to hold on to. Her fingers tightened around it instinctively, her knuckles paling against the ceramic, like she was trying to anchor herself before the weight of it all tipped her too far in any direction. “I thought not,” she murmured, her voice little more than a breath. She didn’t look up when she said it. The words just floated into the space between them, delicate and barely audible, as if she didn’t need Lisa to answer anymore.

Lisa didn’t rush to respond. She moved with that same measured calm she always seemed to carry, like her very presence operated on a slightly slower, steadier frequency than everyone else’s. She brought her mug to her lips again, the soft clink of ceramic just audible in the hush around them. The steam had thinned now, curling up in faint wisps, catching the light between them.

She sipped, unhurried, and her eyes, still, focused, impossibly gentle. They never left Carla. There was no urgency in them. No pressure. Just a quiet patience, like she was offering Carla all the time she needed. And Carla was grateful as her thoughts were anything but still.

They spun, looping and looping again, the morning playing on repeat inside her head. Not even Betsy, Lisa had said. So soft and sure, and still Carla hadn’t fully known what to do with it. But now the weight of it settled somewhere deep, somewhere undeniable.

She felt it all crowding in at once. The warmth of the tea Lisa had brewed without asking how she liked it but somehow getting it just right. The gentle surprise of the view at the clearing, the blanket draped carefully across their legs. The way Lisa’s hand had brushed hers on the trail, fingers grazing like they were asking a question Carla hadn’t known how to answer at the time. It came back in fragments, flickers of light and touch and tone; the steam rising from the mugs as the sun cut through the trees; the softness in Lisa’s voice; the way their knees still touched under the blanket, not by accident, not anymore.

None of it had felt random. Not one second.

Carla’s mind tried to make sense of it, but her heart was already there. Had already pieced it together like a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving until the picture was suddenly clear.

Lisa hadn’t just stumbled into this morning. She hadn’t pulled out the tea, the blanket, the biscuits, like it was routine. No. Every gesture, every word, every glance that lingered too long, it all felt chosen. Considered. Intentional. Not orchestrated in some manipulative way. Not performative. But deliberate.

And Carla had known, deep down. Maybe not from the very beginning, but somewhere along the walk, somewhere in the quiet between words, she’d started to feel it. The way Lisa looked at her, the way Lisa continued to look at her. It wasn’t like a friend passing time. It wasn’t even like someone testing the waters.

Carla had tried not to name it. She’d told herself to just go with the flow, see where things went. It was new, it was early, it was delicate. But sitting here, Lisa beside her, not pulling away, not hiding. She couldn’t keep pretending it was just friendship.

She didn’t want to.

If Carla was being honest with herself she wanted more.

Carla swallowed, her throat tight, and looked over again, really looked this time. Lisa was half-turned toward her, tea cradled in both hands, the porcelain of her cup warm against her palms. She was gazing at Carla with a quiet intensity, her eyes locked onto hers like there was nowhere else she’d rather be. No glance toward the clock, no absent glance to the door. Just Lisa, present and still, fully in this moment with her.

It was more than just the lack of distraction. It was the way Lisa’s posture was open, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly, like she was hanging onto Carla’s every movement, every word. And the silence between them felt easy, unforced. It was the kind of stillness that invited something deeper, a connection that both held weight and was as light as the air between them.

That look, open, quiet, and unguarded, was what finally did it.

Carla’s fingers, unsteady for just a fraction of a second, brushed over the edge of her mug, and she set it down gently on the coffee table, the slight clink of ceramic against wood more audible than it should have been. She lingered there for a moment, her fingers curling around the cool surface like it was the last solid thing she could hold onto. Her heart seemed to thunder louder in her chest, beating out of sync with the calm she was trying to summon. It was almost as if it had jumped ahead, forcing her forward into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for, but couldn’t resist anymore.

Her breath came in uneven patterns, but she managed to speak, her voice soft, yet carrying an edge of hesitation. “Lisa?”

Lisa’s gaze snapped to hers immediately, no hesitation, no distance. Like she had been waiting for Carla to say her name. “Yeah?”

Carla hesitated.

For just a moment, but it was long enough.

Long enough for Lisa’s breath to catch, almost imperceptible, but Carla noticed. Long enough for something to shift in Lisa’s expression. A brief flash of uncertainty or maybe something even more fragile, like hope. It was there, just for an instant, before Lisa steadied herself.

And Carla…well, she tried to steady herself too. Her thoughts were swirling, everything that had led up to this moment crashing in on her. The morning, the conversation, the pull she felt. She steadied her breath, drawing the courage from somewhere deep inside, her fingers still pressed lightly against the smooth surface of the table.

Then, her voice, steady only in the way that it sounded, though it carried the weight of everything beneath it, broke the quiet. “Was this a date?”

The question hung in the air for a heartbeat, the weight of it suddenly expansive.

Lisa blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. She had been mid-reach for another biscuit, her fingers grazing the edge of the packet, but now her hand stilled. She froze. The pause stretched between them, thickening, as if the world itself held its breath. Slowly, carefully, she lowered her hand back to the table, her fingers curling loosely around her mug, but her eyes never left Carla.

Her posture shifted, just slightly. She didn’t look defensive. She didn’t look like she was backing away. No, she looked… thoughtful. Her brow lifted ever so slightly, a question in her eyes, soft, gentle, but still waiting for Carla. “Do you want it to be?”

The question was slow, deliberate, and it hung between them like a fragile thread, making everything else in the room fade just a little. Even the distant hum of traffic or the faint rustling of the wind outside was muffled, like the whole world had quieted down, just waiting.

Carla didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze drifted over Lisa’s face, searching for something, anything, that would tell her this was a joke, that this moment was just a trick. She looked for the smirk, the tell, the getaway. But there wasn’t one. There was only Lisa, looking back at her with a steady calm, her expression as open and patient as it had been all morning. She wasn’t rushing to fill the silence. She was waiting, waiting for Carla to decide.

And so, Carla did. Her heart was beating too fast, her mind was running circles, but her voice broke through it all, quieter than she expected, and far more vulnerable. “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper, but it carried everything. “I do.”

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Lisa’s mouth curved in response. Not into the teasing grin Carla had half-expected, but into something slower, softer. It wasn’t a grin; it was a smile. One that felt warm and real and safe, like it had been waiting for this moment just as long as Carla had. There was no flash of triumph, no teasing or playful edge. It was simply tender. Like Lisa was sharing a secret with her, one that only the two of them could understand. A quiet joy, glimmering beneath the surface.

“Then it was,” Lisa said, her voice almost reverent. Like she knew, knew exactly how much it had taken for Carla to say it. Knew this was one of those moments that would root itself deep and not let go.

Lisa’s words hung in the air between them, soft but certain.

Then it was.

Carla didn’t breathe at first. She just looked at her - really, truly looked - and something in her chest pulled tight and released all at once. She was on a date with Lisa. An actual proper date. The thought made her stomach flutter, something delicate and powerful, as if everything inside her had shifted.

Lisa hadn’t moved much. She was still half-turned toward her, her body angled in a way that felt open, almost inviting. Her legs curled beneath her, close and relaxed. One arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, as if claiming this space between them, making it hers too. Her tea sat forgotten on the table now, untouched, cooling in the cup.

The quiet weight of her presence was like a calm breath, but it was the way she looked at Carla, steady, unwavering, that made everything else fade away. Lisa’s smile was soft and tender as she looked at Carla. The kind of look that said: You matter to me. You’re worth holding carefully. And in that moment, Carla felt like she was being held. Held in the gentlest way, as if she were something fragile, something precious. It felt like standing on the edge of something, something wild and full of light. And Carla didn’t want to walk away from it, not now, not when the pull between them was so raw, so real.

So, she leaned in first.

Not much. Just enough to cross the small distance between them. Just enough to test the space, to see if Lisa would meet her there.

And Lisa did.

Slowly. Gently. It was almost like a dance, the way they moved toward each other, matching each other’s pace, mirroring the other’s hesitations. It was careful, as if they both knew the significance of this first touch, this first kiss. Lisa was giving her space, giving her time to pull back if she needed to, like she wasn’t rushing Carla into anything she wasn’t ready for.

But Carla didn’t pull back. She didn’t hesitate.

Her hand found Lisa’s knee, the touch grounding her. It wasn’t calculated; it wasn’t planned. It was instinct. A touch that felt like it belonged there, as natural as breathing. Carla’s fingers curled around the fabric of Lisa’s jeans, pressing lightly against the soft denim. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. It was like her body already knew how to connect.

And then, finally, there was no more space left to close.

When their mouths met, it wasn’t a collision, but a meeting. A union. Carla felt a rush of warmth, of connection, of something that had been waiting for so long to take shape. The world didn’t exist beyond the two of them, the kiss, the quiet, the softness. It was an exhale. It was the breath they had both been holding in, the one they hadn’t realized they needed to release.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hurried or anxious. It wasn’t hesitant, either. It was certain. It was the kind of kiss that felt like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Long anticipated, long yearned for. Like they had both been turning this moment over in their minds, rehearsing it in their own silent ways, and now that it was here, it felt inevitable.

Lisa’s hand came up, moving so gently, like a whisper, to cup Carla’s jaw. Her fingers were feather-light against the delicate curve of Carla’s cheek, and her thumb brushed along the edge of her cheekbone, slow and reverent. The simple touch sent a shiver through Carla, a quiet thrill that made her heart race just a little more. She leaned into the contact, her body responding before her mind could catch up. Her other hand found the soft fabric of Lisa’s jumper, clutching the material without realizing it, gripping, but not out of desperation. It was a quiet need, a subtle plea to stay in this moment, to not let it slip away.

The kiss was warm. It was open. It was so much more than either of them had expected, so much more than just lips meeting. It was the beginning of something that felt like it could last forever, if they let it.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t because they wanted to but because they had to. They needed to breathe. But still, they didn’t move far apart. Their foreheads rested together, just an inch apart, sharing the same breath, still tangled in the aftermath. Stillness wrapped around them like the blanket they had been sharing earlier, warm and comforting, but now it felt like the weight of something more. A kind of quiet intimacy that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t forced.

Lisa opened her eyes first, her gaze searching, careful, almost like she was afraid to break the fragile connection they had just formed. She looked at Carla, eyes soft and searching for any sign of regret. She wanted to be sure. Was this okay? Was it still okay?

But when she searched Carla’s face, she didn’t find any regret.

Only longing.

Only want.

And the corner of her mouth quirked again, this time, with something that felt even more sincere than before. It was slow, but it glowed with the warmth of everything they had just shared. Without a word, she leaned back in.

But just before Lisa’s lips brushed against Carla’s, she felt it. Hands on her chest, gentle but unyielding, stopping her.

Lisa froze. The air between them fractured like thin glass, the stillness splintering under the sudden shift. Every muscle in her body tensed, her breath catching mid-inhale. The distance, as small as it was, felt like a chasm. And beneath the initial confusion, something colder began to take root: fear.

Had she misread it? Had she crossed a line? Had Carla changed her mind?

The certainty she’d felt only seconds ago dissolved, slipping through her fingers like water. Her chest tightened with something sharp and nauseating. The moment had been fragile. She’d known that but she hadn’t expected it to break like this.

“What is it?” she asked, barely above a whisper, her voice laced with worry. “Are you okay?”

Carla’s eyes were wide, her pupils blown with more than just the heat of the moment. Her expression wasn’t panicked, but it was pulled taut, like she was holding something inside, barely keeping it back. She took a breath, sharp and shallow, and let it out too fast.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, automatically. But her voice cracked on the word, the false confidence unravelling just as fast as the space between them grew. “Yes. I just…” Carla’s hands were still on Lisa, but now she was using them to create distance. Not aggressively. Just enough to make it clear. “I can’t do this, Lisa. Not like this.”

Lisa blinked, her heart stumbling over itself. Confusion surged first, then the ache. A dull, slow ache that bloomed in her chest as she sat motionless, trying to understand what was happening. The shift in Carla’s voice, the sudden space between them. It all made the warmth of seconds ago feel impossibly far away.

“I can’t let this keep going,” Carla said, her voice quieter now, but with an edge that made Lisa’s stomach twist. “Knowing I’ve kept something from you.” She paused for a brief moment, collecting her thoughts. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” Carla said, each word dragged from somewhere deep. Her voice wavered, cracked open at the edges. “Something important. And it’s not fair for us to continue anything. Whatever this is. Without you knowing this part of me. For me to drag you into my life when you had no idea what that life even is.”

“Carla…” Lisa finally said, soft and steady, though her throat was tight with something far more complicated than surprise.

Carla’s hands tightened in her lap, and Lisa saw the tension in her face, the strain of something unspoken. Her heart pounded louder, louder still as Carla forced the words out. “I’m not just some random woman who needed a break, a bit of quiet,” Carla said, her voice thick with emotion, every word drawn up from somewhere deep and raw. “I mean, that parts true. Nothing I’ve told you is a lie. But I…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, her fingers twisting in her lap like they were trying to wring the truth free. Her eyes flickered up to meet Lisa’s and then away again, searching the space for something solid to hold on to.

“I write books. Big ones. The kind people recognise. The kind people pick apart like they know me just because they’ve read my words.” Her throat bobbed as she tried to breathe through the weight of it. “And I needed to get away from that life. From the noise. From being watched. Judged. Praised for things that don’t feel like mine anymore.”

She paused again; voice unsteady but insistent. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be that version of myself here. I wanted to be just Carla. Just someone you met in a bookshop. Not a name. Not a brand. Just me.” Her eyes lifted again, glassy now, shimmering with unshed tears. “I didn’t want you to see me differently. I didn’t want to risk this. But I can’t keep pretending, not if this means something. And it does mean something to me. I’m Carla Connor,” she finished, the name falling like a weight between them. “The author.”

The words echoed in the silence that followed, sharp-edged and irreversible.

Carla shut her eyes tight, bracing herself, as if the fallout might come in the form of something physical. And when it didn’t, when no gasp, no angry question, no shocked expression arrived, she forced herself to open her eyes again.

What she saw was not what she expected.

Lisa didn’t look stunned. She didn’t even look surprised. No slack jaw. No wide-eyed stare. If anything, she looked… sheepish.

Carla blinked, confusion rippling through her. Her heartbeat surged, disoriented now, unsure which way to go. “Lisa, say something,” she said, her voice trembling, threadbare with rising panic. “If it’s the fame you have a problem with, that’s okay. You can tell me. I’d rather you tell me.”

Lisa’s chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like she was bracing for something too. Her heart thudded once, hard, behind her ribs. She hadn’t expected this. Not like this. In her head, she had always been the one to confess first. She had imagined it so many times. How she’d explain herself, gently, clearly, with just the right mix of apology and earnestness. She thought she’d have time. She thought she’d control the moment. She thought she’d be able to plan everything.

But here Carla was, unravelling in front of her, carrying the weight of a secret Lisa had known all along. And suddenly, the lie felt enormous.

It hadn’t felt like a lie when it began. It just felt like a delay. A necessary buffer. A kindness. But now, in the wake of Carla’s vulnerability, it was undeniable. The truth was overdue. And if Lisa didn’t say it now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to look Carla in the eye ever again. Lisa knew she couldn’t keep pretending. She couldn’t lie anymore. The foundation they were building, whatever this was between them, it couldn’t survive a lie.

So, she said it.

“I knew,” Lisa said quietly, her voice steady, but there was a weight to the words that made them land like stones.

Carla blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“I knew,” Lisa repeated, each syllable like a stone laid down with care but no comfort. “Carla, I’ve known since the beginning”

And the room went still. Not the warm kind of stillness they’d shared a dozen times before, wrapped in sunrise and soft smiles. This was cold. A silence that chilled. It stretched between them, wide and bottomless.

Carla drew back the rest of the way, shoulders stiff, arms now folded across her chest like armour hastily thrown up. The distance wasn’t just physical now. It was absolute. And the look in her eyes cut deeper than any words ever could. Hurt. Stunned. Betrayed. The kind of look that said you were the last person I expected this from.

It sliced straight through Lisa. No warning, no buffer. Just pain, raw and sharp.

Lisa’s mouth opened, a reflex, something reaching for explanation, for reassurance but nothing came out. She shut it again, jaw tense, heart pounding in her ears. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t sound like a justification, or worse, a manipulation. Nothing that would make the truth sting any less. Every breath she took felt louder than it should’ve, like it was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart entirely.

And still, Carla said nothing.

She sat there, angled away now, her body rigid, her face a mask of composure that didn’t fool Lisa for a second. It was the silence that hurt the most. That thunderous, hollow silence.

Lisa could see it happening. The light retreating behind Carla’s eyes, the shutters being pulled down. All the softness she’d earned, all the trust she’d been so careful with. It was slipping away.

And something inside Lisa splintered.

In that moment, watching Carla shut down, watching the doors close between them one by one, Lisa wanted to disappear.

She wished she had never said a word. She wished she’d lied. Kept the secret buried, at least until she had found the right words, the right time. Or better. She wished she had told the truth from the very start.

Before the walks. Before the lake. Before the clearing.

Before she tricked herself into thinking this could have been something real.

Chapter Text

Carla didn’t move at first.

She sat frozen, as if rooted to the spot by the weight of Lisa’s words. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her teacup, unmoving, eyes distant like she was staring straight through the living room wall and into some memory she hadn’t known was real until now. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was like her brain had short-circuited, scrambling to process what she’d just heard, like her entire sense of balance had shifted and she was waiting for the floor to tilt under her feet.

But when she did move, it was sudden, sharp. Violent in its clarity. Like something had cracked inside her, split down the middle. She shot to her feet with enough force to make the cup on the table rattle. The room seemed to shrink as she straightened, her posture rigid, trembling with energy she didn’t know what to do with.

“You’re telling me you knew? The whole time?” Her voice sliced through the air: loud, raw, shaking with disbelief. The words echoed off the pale walls of the cottage, too sharp and angry to belong to this quiet room, this place that had, just minutes ago, held only the soft clink of spoons in mugs and the murmur of their laughter.

Lisa stood too, almost reflexively, like the room itself had told her to. Her hands went out in front of her; not quite touching Carla but hovering like she was trying to hold back a tide with nothing but her open palms. “Carla, I…”

Carla took a step back. Away from the couch. Away from Lisa. It wasn’t just distance. It was recoil. Like Lisa’s presence had become something too sharp, too bright to bear. Her feet moved on their own, silent against the worn rug beneath them, but her body was tense, rigid. She folded her arms across her chest in a tight, almost desperate knot, fingers clutching at the sleeves of her jumper like she might unravel completely if she let go.

“Don’t,” she said. Her voice shook, barely holding itself steady. “Just don’t. You knew who I was, and you didn’t say a thing? Not one fucking word?”

Lisa flinched, as though the words struck her like stones. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Not this tone, not this timing. Not this cold distance between them. This wasn’t the version she’d played out in her head, over and over again, where she found the right time, the right words, and Carla understood.

“Carla, please, just hear me out”

“Hear you out, Lisa?” Carla’s laugh tore through the room, bitter and sharp. It rang out too loud in the small space, bouncing off the bookshelves and the worn furniture like a weapon. “Why? So I can hear all about how you’ve lied to me? This whole time?”

“I wasn’t trying to lie to you.” Lisa’s voice came tight, pleading, but Carla wasn’t listening. At least not in a way that could be reached.

Carla’s eyes flashed, wide with fury and disbelief. Her nostrils flared, her whole expression a mask of betrayal that barely concealed the heartbreak underneath. “Then what the hell were you doing?” she spat, each word shivering on a thread of fury. “Playing dumb? Making me feel safe, making me feel seen, heard, all while holding this over me like some kind of, some kind of secret prize?”

“No! No, Carla, it wasn’t like that.” Lisa’s voice cracked down the middle, splintering with desperation. Her body leaned forward, like she could still reach Carla, still fix this if she just got close enough. Like if she could bridge the space between them, she could press the pieces of them back together.

“Wasn’t it?” Carla’s voice split with emotion. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you were sitting there smiling, acting like this brand-new person in my life, when really, really, you already knew everything about me.”

Lisa’s heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break free. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight like it had closed off completely. “I didn’t know you, Carla. Not really. I just... I’d read your work. That’s not the same.”

“But then you did get to know me, Lisa.” Carla’s voice dropped low, guttural, aching. She didn’t shout now. The quietness of it somehow cut even deeper. “You let me open up to you. Let me share things I don’t talk about. I’ve told you things I swore I was going to take to my grave and you just sat there, knowing the whole time.”

Her hands dropped to her sides, clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. “So, tell me, Lisa. What was the plan?” she asked, voice trembling. “Wait until I revealed something useful to you? Something you could hold over my head? So, you could use me?”

“Carla, please.” Lisa’s voice had gone small, tight with emotion. Her chest ached with the helplessness of it. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.” She was near tears now, the words fighting their way out through a throat that felt like it was lined with glass. “Just let me try and explain. Carla, please.”

She reached toward her. Just a small motion, instinctive, aching, fingertips trembling, eyes wide, desperate. But Carla stepped back again. Like Lisa’s touch would burn her. Like even the idea of closeness was unbearable now.

And it was in that second that something shifted.

The space between them, once a soft kind of intimacy filled with morning coffee and shared silences, now felt like a wall. A chasm. It pulsed between them, thick with everything unsaid, everything ruined. It wasn’t just distance anymore. It was something alive, growing by the second, swallowing the memory of warmth and replacing it with something cold and hollow.

“How do I know you wouldn’t do that to me, Lisa?” Carla spat, her voice hoarse and tight. Her eyes blazed with betrayal, and she looked at Lisa like she didn’t recognize her anymore. “You’ve been lying to me ever since we met.” She took another shaky step back, her face twisting as if the words tasted bitter in her mouth. “Hey, what else was a lie, huh? The lake? The clearing?” She let out a sharp, broken laugh. Too loud, too sudden, like it had torn its way out of her. “Hell! Is the bookshop even yours?”

Lisa’s breath caught in her throat. It felt like it lodged there, stuck between apology and panic. Her mouth opened, but for a second, nothing came out. She stepped forward again, but even that felt impossible now, as if every inch toward Carla was being fought by the weight of her own guilt.

“I was trying to respect you,” she said, her voice thinned down to raw emotion. “I knew you left for a reason. I knew you wanted a break from the noise. I wasn’t trying to lie.” Lisa’s voice softened, pleading, cracking around the edges. Her eyes were locked on Carla’s like she was trying to will her to understand. “Nothing I’ve told you has been a lie. I told you I understood what that feeling was like. That need to disappear. I meant that. And I didn’t want to be the one to take that peace away from you.”

Her hands had lifted halfway again, as if reaching might still make a difference, but they faltered and fell back to her sides like leaves falling from a tree in a gust of wind. Useless. Defeated. “Carla, please. I wasn’t trying to trick you. I wasn’t trying to use you.” Her voice dropped now to something near a whisper like her throat couldn’t manage anything louder. “I was trying to let you breathe. You wanted a fresh start. I wanted to give it to you.”

Carla shook her head, slow and trembling. Her face was pale, mouth slightly parted as if struggling to draw breath under the weight of everything pressing in on her. Her eyes shimmered with the threat of tears she refused to let fall. “You don’t get it, do you?” she whispered, every syllable brittle. “I trusted you.”

Lisa recoiled. She physically flinched. The word struck like a physical blow. A single, searing syllable that knocked the air from her lungs. Her lips parted to respond, but nothing came. She couldn’t find the words. Couldn't even find the place inside herself to begin to speak.

Carla’s voice wavered, splintering with the force of what she’d held back until now. “I told you as soon as it started to mean something to me,” she said, voice trembling like a cracked bell. “As soon as I thought we could be something serious. I respected you enough to do that.” Her voice caught on the next part, and she had to force it out past the lump in her throat. “And you” She blinked, hard, swallowing. “You didn’t even give me the chance to know what was real.”

Lisa stepped forward again, not thinking, only feeling, reaching across the void with her body even when her words kept falling short. “It was real,” she said, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “Every second.”

Carla’s body tensed again, her back straightening like she was trying to brace against a storm. Her voice lashed out, trembling with righteous fury. “When were you going to tell me, huh? After the next kiss?” She threw an arm through the space between them like it could slice away the lies. “After we slept together? Or were you just never planning to say it at all?”

“That’s not fair,” Lisa breathed, her voice crumbling, tears welling now in the corners of her eyes. “You have no idea how hard it’s been. How many times I wanted to tell you. Trying to find the right moment. It felt impossible.”

Carla laughed again, but there was no joy in it. Just hollowness. Just pain. “Oh, well, I’m very sorry you’ve found it so hard to tell the truth, Lisa.”

Lisa’s shoulders stiffened, her voice rising now, trembling with frustrated helplessness. “You’re not even trying to listen!” she cried. “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth. Everything that’s happened between us has been real! All I did was hold back a little bit of information for your benefit!”

Carla’s head snapped up, eyes wild and stunned, as though Lisa had just slapped her. Her mouth opened in disbelief before the fury came rushing back in. “A bit of information?” she repeated, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you being for real right now?” She took a step forward, jabbing a finger toward Lisa, shaking with rage. “Can you even hear yourself, Lisa? You chose to keep this from me. That wasn’t an accident. That wasn’t mercy. That was your decision. Your intention.”

Lisa’s jaw clenched. Something inside her chest coiled tight, hot and unforgiving. It was the edge she’d been biting back this whole time. The exhaustion, the shame, the fight she hadn’t wanted to have. But it rose now, uninvited and sharp. “You didn’t tell me who you were either,” she snapped, her voice low and fast, like it had broken free of her before she could stop it. “You came into my life with secrets too.”

Carla blinked. The rage in her expression faltered, just for a second, confusion flickering in behind her eyes. “What?”

The words were tumbling out of Lisa now like a dam that had burst. Her voice turned cold, flat, but brittle with emotion just beneath the surface. “You didn’t tell me,” she said again, firmer now. “You let me believe you were just a woman who loved books, who wandered into my shop by accident. You knew who you were, and you didn’t say a damn thing.” She held Carla’s gaze, daring her to look away. “You waited. You waited until it was convenient. So don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who trusted something real and had it thrown back at you.”

Carla opened her mouth to speak but nothing came. She stood frozen, lips parted, eyes shining with disbelief. Because some part of her, some small, quiet, buried part, knew Lisa wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t soften the blow. It didn’t make the betrayal feel any less sharp.

“That’s different,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. It cracked like ice beneath weight. “I didn’t know you. You weren’t…” Her voice broke again. She looked away, blinking fast, like she could keep the tears at bay if she just didn’t meet Lisa’s eyes. Her hands clenched at her sides, as if trying to physically hold the emotion in. “You weren’t you yet.”

Lisa let out a laugh but there was no humour in it. It was hollow and bitter and cracked around the edges, like it hurt to force out. “Because that makes it so much better.”

Carla whipped her head back toward her, face flushed, eyes swimming with angry tears. “You don’t get to twist this back on me!” she yelled, her voice rising high, thin, shaking with rage and devastation. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty for trusting you.”

Lisa’s hands balled into fists, her arms trembling now at her sides. Her voice shot back, loud and raw. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty!” she shouted. “I’m trying to get you to see that I never, never, wanted to hurt you! That was never what this was!”

But Carla was already shaking her head, hard and fast, like she could physically push the words out of her ears. Her face twisted, lips trembling. “Well congratulations, Lisa,” she said, her voice raw and ruined. “You did.”

And then the silence dropped. Brutal and absolute. It pressed into the room like a lead weight. Not a breath moved.

Lisa felt it like drowning. The silence. The absence of Carla’s voice. Of her trust. It wrapped around her chest and squeezed. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Every inhale scraped like glass down her throat. When she finally spoke again, her voice was nearly gone. It was soft and desperate and small in the thick, suffocating quiet. “I didn’t want to lose you,” she whispered. “I still don’t want to lose you, Carla. You mean so much to me.”

Carla’s response was barely audible, but it landed like a blade. “Just not enough to tell me the truth as soon as you started feeling something for me. As soon as you wanted something from me.”

The words knocked Lisa back a step – physically and emotionally. She staggered, blinking, stunned by how much they hurt. She felt gutted.

“Carla”

“I need space,” Carla said.

And this time her voice didn’t shake. It was cold. Final. Like a door slamming shut. It cut clean through everything Lisa was about to say. She turned. Her movements were brisk, mechanical, like if she slowed down for even a second, she might collapse. She reached for her coat with clipped precision, yanking it from the hook as though even that motion was too much to bear. Tears had finally started to fall but only after her back was turned. Only when Lisa couldn’t see her face anymore.

“Carla, please don’t leave like this,” Lisa begged, her voice nearly breaking apart. She stepped forward, arms half-raised like she might still catch her, hold her, stop her from going. “We can figure something out. Please”

“Don’t.” Carla cut her off sharply, her voice slicing the air like ice. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t even glance back. “Just don’t.”

The door creaked open, and the cold wind poured in. It rushed into the room like judgment. It was unforgiving, sharp, immediate. It hit Lisa’s bear arms and face like punishment, slicing through the warmth that still clung to the house, ripping through the fragile remnants of everything that had been good between them.

Carla paused, just for a second, standing on the threshold like she might turn back. Her silhouette was framed in the doorway, breath clouding the air, eyes unreadable. Like she might say something, anything, to ease the blow. Like she might take the whole awful moment and soften its edges with a single word. But the word never came.

Lisa held her breath, heart in her throat, every cell in her body willing her to stay. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to reach out, to close the distance, to fix what had been broken with touch alone.

But Carla didn’t look back.

She stepped out into the cold.

And then the door shut behind Carla with a deafening thud. Like a full stop on the end of something Lisa hadn’t even realized was already over.

Lisa flinched like she’d been struck, the sound echoing in the empty hallway, leaving a silence that roared in her ears. It was the kind of silence that didn’t just fill a room, it devoured it. The room, once filled with soft light and quiet laughter and the safety of shared secrets, now felt like a stranger. Stark. Echoing. Hollow.

Abandoned.

For a few long, agonizing moments, she just stood there, staring at the closed door, her hands trembling uselessly at her sides. It was like her body didn’t know what to do, like her mind was still trying to pretend this hadn’t happened. That maybe Carla was still in the room. That maybe this was just another moment to weather.

But the ache hollowing out her chest wouldn’t let her.

Slowly, numbly, Lisa turned back toward the sofa. She stumbled forward, legs clumsy, like they barely remembered how to hold her up. She didn’t make it more than a few steps before her knees buckled under the weight of it all. The weight of what she’d done. What she hadn’t said. What she hadn’t stopped, and she collapsed into the cushions. The softness of the couch hit her all at once familiar and useless. It offered no comfort. Just a place to fall apart.

Her face dropped into her hands, fingers digging into her cheeks like she could physically hold herself together. The first sob tore out of her throat. It was raw and broken, too big for her body, too sharp to keep in. It punched through the silence of the room, echoing off the walls like a scream. And then another. And another. The kind of crying that didn’t have language, just sound. Just pain. Just this desperate, guttural need to empty something from inside her before it consumed her completely.

Lisa cried like she hadn’t cried in years. Not since Becky. Not since she’d stood in the doorway of a hospital room and watched a heartbeat disappear from a screen. Loud, wracking sobs that shook her whole body like a storm passing through her. Her shoulders curled in; spine bowed as if grief alone could crack her open. Her ribs ached with every shudder; her throat burned like she’d swallowed broken glass.

She didn’t try to stop them. She couldn’t.

She cried for the connection she had wrecked. Delicate and rare and already slipping through her fingers like smoke. For the trust she had shattered. Carefully built, gently offered, now ground into dust. And worst of all, for the terrifying, sickening thought that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be able to fix this.

Maybe she had lost something good in her life again. Something real. Something rare.

And this time, she had no one to blame but herself.

The cold bit at Carla’s skin the second she stepped outside, but she barely felt it. The wind caught the ends of her scarf and sent it whipping behind her like a loose tether. It gnawed at her fingertips, clawed under her clothes, but it was nothing compared to the storm tearing her apart from the inside. That was where the real cold lived.

Her boots hit the pavement hard, fast, reckless. One foot slamming down after the other with a fury she couldn’t name, couldn’t contain. Like if she just kept moving, if she kept pounding forward, she could outpace the mess clawing at her chest. The pain. The betrayal. The stupid hope. Her breath came in sharp, jagged gasps, clouds of it puffing out like smoke from a fire she couldn’t put out.

She didn’t have a destination. She didn’t even care where she was going. She just walked, faster and faster, the wind scraping at her cheeks and burning her throat with every inhale. Her fists jammed deep into her coat pockets, shoulders hunched, chin tucked like she could hide from the world. Her nails dug into her palms so hard she could feel skin give way beneath them. She welcomed the sting. Clung to it. At least it was real. At least it wasn’t this. This rising, choking pressure in her chest that made her feel like she was about to split open right there on the street.

Her mind spiralled, messy and frantic, thoughts crashing into one another like cars on a slick road. No traction, no mercy.

Betrayed. Lied to. Used. Played for a fool.

She had trusted Lisa. She had chosen to trust Lisa. And now? Now it felt like every fragile, private part of herself she had handed over was a weapon Lisa had been holding behind her back, waiting for the right moment to use.

Stupid. So stupid.

She had believed in the warmth of Lisa’s smile. The one that crinkled at the corners like she meant it. In the softness of her voice when she said Carla’s name like it was something delicate. In the way her laugh had wrapped around Carla like a blanket, like sunlight through trees, like safety. For once, Carla hadn’t felt like she had to perform. For once, she hadn’t been Carla Connor the author, or Carla Connor the interview subject. She had just been Carla. Just a woman. Just a girl in a bookstore, tracing her fingers along spines. Just someone laughing in the woods with another soul who made the world quieter.

God, she had fallen for her.

Hard.

Fast.

 Hopelessly.

And it had been too good to be true. Of course it had… Of course it had.

Carla squeezed her eyes shut mid-step, her foot catching on the curb as the sidewalk dipped. She nearly lost her balance, her body jerking with the sudden lurch, and for a second it felt like the ground might swallow her whole. She forced herself upright, breath heaving, legs unsteady but she kept going. She had to keep going. Because standing still meant letting the thoughts catch her. Meant feeling the full weight of the truth sink in.

But the thought still sank its claws in anyway, rooting itself somewhere low and dark in her chest, a sickness she couldn’t throw up.

How could she have been so naive?

She was supposed to be careful. That was the whole point of how she’d lived her life. She knew better than this. She had to know better. She was supposed to keep her circle small. Supposed to lock her heart behind thick, deliberate walls. Walls she’d built brick by painful brick, designed to keep people out. Safe. Untouched. She had spent years perfecting the balance of smiles that didn’t invite follow-up questions and answers that revealed nothing. She had built her life on caution. A fortress of guarded glances and controlled silences. No one could hurt what they couldn’t reach.

She was supposed to spot the cracks before they split her open. She was supposed to feel the shift in the air before the walls gave way. But this time? This time, she hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Until Lisa was already in.

One stupid smile, one stupid laugh, one stupid spark in Lisa’s eyes when she talked about her battered old bookshop and Carla had crumbled like it was nothing. Like none of the walls had ever meant anything at all. She’d let herself believe in the way Lisa’s hands fluttered when she was excited, like she couldn’t contain her joy. In the way Lisa noticed the smallest things without ever making a show of it. How Lisa always remembered that Carla needed her coffee before she could speak in full sentences. How she always made sure Carla’s tea was the exact right temperature, or that she left space for her to breathe when the world felt too loud. How Lisa’s whole face would shift when she looked at her like she saw her. Really saw her. Or at least… Carla had thought so.

She had believed it. Believed her. Believed in something soft, and real, and quietly hopeful. And now, that belief was unravelling inside her, thread by bitter thread.

Carla bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, so hard that the taste of copper burst onto her tongue - sharp, bitter, real, like the sting of a wound too deep to ignore. She clenched her jaw, the pressure almost enough to make her feel like the world could collapse and she'd still hold it together. But inside, everything was splitting open, jagged and unforgiving.

Her breath stuttered, then quickened, sharp and burning in the back of her throat. The kind of breath that felt too big for her chest, like it didn’t fit anymore. Too jagged to ever settle, too ragged to ever calm. It tore through her, but it didn’t clear the heaviness. It only deepened it. Every inhale felt like swallowing glass, every exhale like trying to release something that had been lodged in her chest too long. And yet, yet, through the fog of rage crashing against her ribs, through the white-hot pulse of betrayal rattling inside her like broken glass, there was something else.

A thin, frayed thread of doubt, winding itself through her, whispering in the spaces between the chaos. A flicker of something that wasn’t just anger, or betrayal, or pain. Something far more dangerous. Because it wasn’t the heat of fury that kept her moving forward, but this creeping sense of guilt, this gnawing uncertainty curling around her spine like a snake.

Because Lisa had never, not once, made her feel like she was something to be used. Never looked at her like she was a prize to be won, or a headline to be claimed, or a footnote in some larger story. She had never made Carla feel like she was just a name to be marketed, to be sold as a part of a perfect narrative. Lisa had never treated her like anything other than herself. Just Carla. Just a woman who had spent years protecting her bruised heart and guarding the corners of her life. Just a woman with a battered heart and a battered notebook, trying to find a little peace in a loud, overwhelming world. And in that peace, Lisa had just... been there.

Never judging. Never pushing. Never demanding more. She had just sat with Carla in the quiet, listening like each word mattered, like Carla’s thoughts and fears were worth the time to hear. Like Carla mattered, not for who she could become or what story she could tell, but just for being. For just existing in the same space, in the same messy, imperfect skin. And that, that was something Carla hadn’t let herself have in so long. Someone who saw her without needing her to be anyone but herself.

And wasn’t she just as guilty?

Hadn’t she hidden things too? Hadn’t she walked into Lisa’s life wearing a mask, the same way she always had? A smile that never reached her eyes, a guarded glance that kept the world out. Hadn’t she lied too. By omission, if not by words? She had painted herself as nothing more than a shadow, a transient, someone who didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything. Just someone who had slipped into Lisa’s orbit, waiting for the moment when it all felt safe enough to slip away again. Letting Lisa believe she was just some woman looking for a quiet corner of the world, just a soul trying to disappear into the noise of life.

And hadn’t she waited too? Waited until it was convenient? Until she was ready? Until she had decided it was safe enough to pull back the curtain and expose just a little of what was hidden beneath? The real truth. The fear, the pain, the things she hadn’t even let herself see yet. She had waited until the risk felt small enough, until the price was one she could justify, until it felt like it wouldn’t destroy her. Hadn’t she built this whole thing on a secret too?

The hypocrisy of it sliced at her, sharp and undeniable, like a blade of ice driven deep into her chest. She gasped, the breath escaping her in a jagged cough, but the pain didn’t leave. Instead, it knotted deeper. She had let herself believe that Lisa had been the one to lie, the one to break the unspoken rule. But the truth was, she had been just as dishonest.

Carla stumbled to a stop near the end of the street, her boots skidding slightly on the slick pavement as the cold wind cut through the air like a sharp blade. She pressed a trembling hand against the nearest wall, grounding herself against the sting of the rough, unforgiving brick. It was cold, too cold, but the harshness of it was grounding, a small comfort in the midst of the storm raging inside her chest. The icy brick, the unrelenting chill, were real, and in that moment, real was the only thing that seemed to matter.

Her mind was a mess of jagged, broken thoughts, each one crashing into the next, sharp and painful.

Lisa had kept a secret. But so had she. The words felt like acid on her tongue, burning as they passed through her mind. Lisa had waited too long. But so had she. But still even after everything, Lisa had cared. But God, so had she. The thought tangled with the others, a knot of guilt and anger, and she couldn’t untangle it, couldn’t make sense of it all.

Carla squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the noise in her head, trying to silence the voice that whispered a truth she didn’t want to hear: Maybe it wasn’t betrayal. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it wasn’t malice. Maybe it was just messy, human, terrifying fear.

Because she knew that fear. She had lived it every single day for as long as she could remember. The fear of wanting something so badly that it left you paralyzed, unsure whether reaching for it would be a blessing or a curse. The fear of being seen, of letting someone in, only to have it all ripped away. The fear that if you said the wrong thing, took the wrong risk, everything good might slip through your fingers like sand, leaving you with nothing regret.

Wasn’t that exactly what she had run from when she left her old life behind? The truth was, she hadn’t just left a career, a reputation, she had left a part of herself that couldn’t trust anymore. The part of her that had been burned too many times, that had learned to keep everyone at arm’s length. The part that told her to keep things small, to play it safe, to never let anyone close enough to see the cracks. To never make herself vulnerable again.

Maybe Lisa had made a mistake, a small mistake but maybe she had too. Maybe they both had, tangled in the same web of fear and hesitation. The thought gutted her, leaving her raw and exposed. Was she being a hypocrite? She didn’t want to think it. God, she didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to feel it.

Carla pulled her hand away from the wall, wiping at the sting of it with shaking fingers, and kept walking. But it was slower now, as though the weight of it all, the guilt, the confusion, the tangled mess inside her, was finally catching up with her. Each step felt heavier, dragging her down, making her feel like she was walking through mud, like she was stuck in quicksand. Her breath still came too fast, her throat too tight, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a release she couldn’t control.

She wanted to stay angry. She wanted the fire, the rage because they were easy. They were simple, a direct line from point A to point B. Anger was something she understood; it didn’t require vulnerability, didn’t require softening the edges. Anger was a shield. She wanted to cling to the hurt, because it was easier, because it was safer than admitting that she had a part in this too, that she wasn’t blameless. That she had contributed to the mess. But the thought, that damn thought, sank its teeth into her anyway. Sank deep into her, like a weight in her chest that she couldn’t dig out. There was no escape from it.

She didn’t know how long she walked.

Minutes. Hours. Time had no meaning now, just the rhythm of her steps, one after another, the cold air burning her lungs, the world a blur around her. Everything bled together into one cold, foggy moment, where the distance between her thoughts and her actions seemed to grow wider with every passing second.

Somewhere along the way, the anger bled out of her, leaving only exhaustion in its place. A bone-deep, aching kind of tired that made her limbs feel heavy, like she was carrying the weight of the world with every step. Her chest felt hollow, and each breath felt emptier than the last. The rage, once so all-consuming, had evaporated like smoke in the wind, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of fatigue, the throb of her heart pulsing through her veins.

Her feet carried her without thinking. She was moving on autopilot now, just trying to put one foot in front of the other, as if the simple act of walking might keep her from falling apart. Eventually, though, she found herself in the park. The one she and Lisa had walked through. The one they’d passed through so many times without a care, without knowing what would come. The park where they had talked about everything and nothing, where they had laughed at the crooked benches and the peeling paint on the swings, laughing like they had forever ahead of them.

Carla sank down onto the nearest bench, her body folding like a puppet with its strings cut. She felt weightless, but not in a freeing way. It was more like the air had been sucked out of her, leaving her empty and brittle.

The wood of the bench was damp and cold beneath her, soaking through the back of her coat, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have the energy to care. Her body, her mind, her soul, everything felt too heavy. Too tired to move, too tired to fight. She just sat there, staring out at the park as it slowly shook off the last shreds of winter, trying to blossom in the spring chill.

The grass was patchy and thin in places, stubborn shoots of green fighting their way back to life like everything else around her, like she was supposed to. But it was a slow, painful process. She watched the swing set rock lazily in the breeze, its chains groaning a soft, metallic sound that seemed to echo in the heavy, humid air. It smelled like rain - wet earth, new leaves, and things trying to grow again. Things trying to find a way to live, even when the world was against them.

Carla shut her eyes trying to find some peace in the moment. God, she was so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of running. Tired of guarding every soft, fragile part of herself so carefully that when it broke anyway, there was no one there to help her pick up the pieces.

She hugged her arms tighter around herself, feeling small, breakable, like if the wind blew any harder, she might just scatter into pieces. A part of her, a small, bruised part, wanted to go back. Wanted to go back to Lisa’s house and hear her out, to talk. Talk until every ugly, tangled, hurting thing between them was laid out bare. To see if there was a chance they could fix things.

But another part of her, the part still shaking inside her ribcage, wanted to run. Wanted to disappear again. To find some quiet place where she could forget all of this, where she could pretend none of it had happened. That she hadn’t trusted. That she hadn’t cared.

But she had. God help her, she had.

And she didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to carry it. Didn’t know how to heal from it.

So, she just sat there, caught between the pull of anger and the weight of everything that had happened today, while the park around her tried, stubborn and slow and aching, to come back to life.

Chapter Text

The world outside kept turning, stubborn and slow and aching.

Clouds drifted across the pale afternoon sky like bruises smeared over a fading canvas, and the wind curled through the naked trees with a kind of cruel indifference. Cars passed on the far end of the street, distant and detached, their tires humming a rhythm that didn’t belong to her world anymore. Somewhere, someone was laughing. A dog barked twice. Life moved on. Unbothered. Blind.

Inside Lisa's house, it felt like time had shattered.

Not stopped. No, it wasn’t kind enough for that. It had fractured into jagged pieces, sharp with echoes and moments she couldn’t rewind, couldn’t fix. The clock on the wall ticked, but the sound was too loud, too slow, like it mocked her. The space felt wrong now. Not empty, but gutted, like something vital had been ripped out and the air hadn’t figured out how to settle yet.

She sat there, staring at the door Carla had closed behind her, the silence pressing in until it was almost a living thing. She hadn’t moved. She couldn’t.

The memory of the slam still rang in her ears. It hadn’t even been that loud. It wasn’t a dramatic, echoing bang like in the movies. It was something smaller. Sharper. Deliberate. It was the kind of sound that didn’t fade, not really. It seemed to echo in the bones of the house, caught between the walls, replaying in the silence like a needle skipping over the same part of a record.

It was the finality of it. That quiet, cold click of departure.

The way Carla hadn’t looked back was what gutted Lisa the most. No hesitation. No glance over her shoulder. Just the stiff line of her back as she walked away, shoulders drawn tight with betrayal. Lisa had watched it all, unable to move, too wrecked to beg her to stop. Too stunned by the damage she’d caused to even speak.

Lisa’s hands rested uselessly in her lap, fingers twitching sometimes like they were trying to grasp for something invisible. They curled and uncurled against the fabric of her jeans, as though muscle memory alone might summon Carla back, might undo something. She kept glancing at the door, heart jerking every time the wood creaked, or the floor settled, or a car passed too slowly outside. She kept expecting the knob to turn again. For Carla to reappear, cheeks flushed with anger but ready to talk, voice trembling but open.

Lisa’s chest ached, a deep, hollow throb that no amount of breathing seemed to ease. She had no idea how long she sat there. The world could have ended outside, and she wouldn’t have noticed. Time didn’t move normally anymore. Every second dragged, slow and jagged, grinding past like stones in her throat, catching and tearing and leaving nothing smooth behind.

Her heart pounded, uneven and tired, like it was protesting the strain of keeping her alive in the wake of everything. Every breath dragged like sandpaper through her lungs, rough and insufficient. It wasn’t enough air. It would never be enough. The house felt too quiet and too loud at once. Every tick of the wall clock, every groan of the pipes, every creak of the floorboards pressed against her like static.

She tried to count the lines in the wallpaper above the mantle, the specks of dust floating in the late afternoon light, the knots in the wood of the floor that Carla used to trace with her toes when they sat here side by side. Anything to keep from spiralling. Anything to keep the pain from swallowing her whole.

But it didn’t help.

The ache lived beneath her ribs, curled in like a parasite. A pulse of guilt so physical she kept curling forward without realizing it. A kind of quiet surrender, like folding herself small enough might stop the hurt from spreading. Like if she just made herself tiny enough, she could hide from the truth that was already inside her.

The sobs slowed eventually, from heaving, broken cries to a shuddering, aching silence.
Her voice had given out before her sorrow had. Her chest still shook, but it was empty now. Exhaustion had begun to take over. The kind hat settled into the spaces behind her eyes and between her bones. She sat slumped, mouth slightly open in silent gasps, like her body hadn’t realized it was allowed to stop yet. Her throat was raw and burning, lips swollen and trembling. Her eyes, rimmed red and swollen, stung with a gritty ache, the way skin does after too much saltwater.

Her face felt puffy and unfamiliar. Her jaw ached from how hard she’d clenched it. Her hands lay limp now, no longer twitching, just there, useless as the words she hadn’t said. Every breath hiccupped, shallow, involuntary, the echo of sobs that had stolen her voice.
And the silence that followed was almost worse than the crying. It wasn’t just quiet. It was dead. It was the sound of something vital going out. The absence of Carla’s voice, of her breath in the hallway, her keys on the table, her trainers by the door - it all turned to void. A quiet so profound it rang in her ears.

It felt final.

And Lisa sat there, in the ruins of it all, realizing too late that she'd cried something out of her. Some last fragile hope, some piece of herself she didn’t know she’d been holding onto. And she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back. She had emptied herself trying to hold on to Carla, and now all that was left was the echo.

Lisa sat hunched on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she could hold all the jagged, splintered pieces together if she just squeezed hard enough. Her spine curved in, her shoulders trembling, each muscle pulled tight with the desperate instinct to contain. She held herself like someone who had fallen from a great height and hadn’t yet checked for broken bones. The instinct to self-soothe kicked in, arms clutched around her ribs, pressing into herself like pressure might stop the pain. Or at least make her feel something else. It didn’t.

Her sweater, oversized, stretched out at the sleeves, familiar in every way, clung to her like a second skin. Suffocating, almost, but she couldn’t take it off. She needed it wrapped around her. Needed the weight of it, the hold. She curled deeper into it like she might disappear there, vanish into its threads and memories – into the comfort.

Her knees were pulled up, tucked against her chest, toes tingling with numbness now. But she didn’t uncurl. Couldn’t. Movement felt impossible, like any shift might unravel what little control she had left. The world felt like it was cracking under her skin, like there was no clear boundary between inside and outside anymore. And all she could do was hold on. Cling to herself. Anchor.

But she couldn’t. Not really. She could feel herself breaking apart. Slow and steady, like pressure behind glass. It wasn’t one clean fracture. It was thousands of hairline cracks spidering out from her chest, splitting along memories, guilt, and the unbearable weight of what if. She was leaking out through the cracks she hadn’t even realized were there.

Every breath felt like a failure. Like the simple act of staying alive was a betrayal of the pain she felt. Her thoughts were uncontained, spilling over into each other: looping, repeating, shifting into new shapes that all ended in Carla’s absence. Her hands trembled when she reached up to wipe her face, but they didn’t help. The wetness might’ve been gone, but the ache wasn’t. The touch of her own fingers only reminded her she was real, and this was real, and she had to keep existing in this space where Carla no longer was.

Carla was gone. The thing between them, that fragile, miraculous thing that had bloomed against all odds, had ruptured. And it was her fault. All her fault.

God, what had she done?

The question wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a force. It clawed through her chest, her throat, her skull, ripping up anything soft that remained. It asked itself over and over, a silent scream with no beginning and no end. Her mouth opened, forming soundless shapes: regret, disbelief, horror. But no words came. She had destroyed something beautiful by trying to protect it.

She had hurt the one person she had sworn never to hurt. And she hadn’t just hurt her. She had betrayed her. Quietly. Subtly. In that soft, careful way that pretends it isn’t doing harm until it’s too late. By omission. By cowardice. By standing still when she should have stepped forward. By believing she had time to be honest later. Always later.

She buried her face in her hands, shaking her head side to side like she could force the memory away. But it stayed. Branded there. Carla’s voice, raw, furious, devastated, echoed through her head, as vivid and sharp as if she were still in the room, screaming. Or whispering. Or breaking. It played on a loop she couldn’t shut off.

The argument replayed in jagged, out-of-order flashes: Carla’s wide eyes, wet with betrayal. Her mouth trembling, her voice cracking open like a fault line. “I trusted you,” she had said, the words shaking, as if even saying them hurt.

Lisa’s own replies - clumsy, panicked, late - had spilled out uselessly. Pleas that didn’t come fast enough. Apologies that sounded like excuses. Every word she’d spoken felt like the wrong one. Every silence felt like a nail in the coffin.

She pressed her hands harder against her eyes, as if she could force the images out of her skull. As if pressure alone could erase the damage. But the memory clung to her. It lived in her now. In her blood, her breath, her bones.

"I trusted you."

The words sliced through her, sharper than any scream would have been. Softer, but far more lethal. They rang out in the silence of the house, again and again. A verdict. A punishment. A truth.

They didn’t just linger. They took up space. They sat in the corners, stretched across the ceiling, lived in the air between breaths. They had weight. They had teeth. They gnawed at her. Tore at her resolve. They didn’t leave room for denial. Or repair. They were brutal. Simple. Final.

Lisa had tried. God, she had tried to do the right thing. To tread carefully. To be gentle. To never push, never pry. She had adored Carla with quiet reverence like something holy and fragile. She had tiptoed, hadn’t she? Let Carla set the pace, the boundaries. She had swallowed her own wants in favour of not overwhelming her. Hadn’t she done everything right?

She had buried her recognition, ignored the headlines, the familiar face on the covers of old magazines. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t said. She thought silence was kindness. That not asking was respect.

But in the end, that silence became a lie.

She hadn't wanted to be another person who expected something from her. Another person who wanted a piece. Who saw Carla only as a story or a scandal or an escape. Lisa had wanted to be different. She thought she was different.

But she had still hurt her. She had hurt her in the exact way she'd sworn she never would.

Because no matter how softly you break someone’s trust, it’s still broken.

Lisa scrubbed a sleeve across her damp face, a fresh wave of regret surging up in her chest. The fabric was rough against her skin. The motion was automatic, desperate. Her breath hitched again, and her eyes blurred anew. She had been so certain she was doing the right thing. So sure that silence was the safer path. That if she waited, if she held off just a little longer, everything would settle into place on its own. But now, that certainty had turned to ash in her mouth: dry, bitter, and choking. It tasted like cowardice. It was cowardice.

She kept replaying it all. Every word, every tear, every beat of silence that stretched too long, each one a splinter in her mind. Every moment when, maybe, just maybe, if she’d said something different, done something different, Carla might still be here.

Might still be hers.

The rewind button in her brain was worn thin. She hit it again and again, reliving moments until they lost their shape. Smoothed down to painful outlines. And God, the things she wished she could take back. Not just what she said but what she didn't. All the moments she let pass without honesty. All the space where truth could have bloomed, and she chose comfort instead.

She wished she’d told her sooner. She wished she had been braver. She wished she hadn’t been so scared of ruining something that she managed to ruin anyway. Because the fear didn’t save her. The caution didn’t protect them. She had lost her anyway, and now all she had were regrets.

She wished she could go back to that very first day in the bookshop, when she first saw Carla, and chose differently. Wished that during their conversation Lisa told her that she knew who she was. And yeah, maybe Carla would have walked out right then. Maybe she would have left Willowbrook before they ever shared a single laugh, a single look. Maybe she would have vanished into the wind and Lisa would have never gotten to know the strange, beautiful, complicated woman beneath the name.

Maybe they never would have had the lake. Or the clearing. Or the stolen moments in kitchens or their glances across the bookshop. Maybe they never would have had anything.

But at least it wouldn’t have hurt like this.

At least then Carla’s eyes wouldn’t have looked at her like that. Like something sacred had been broken. At least then Lisa wouldn’t be curled on a sofa that still smelled like her, haunted by a silence she caused.

And still, thinking back, she could have tried. Could have reassured Carla that she saw her. She could have walked right up to her and said I know who you are. Not as a threat. Not as leverage.
But as understanding. She wised she would have said "I know who you are. I get the feeling of wanting to run away and hide, so I’m going to respect that. You don’t owe me anything. And if you really want, we can pretend this conversation never happened."

In her mind, her voice was steady. Gentle. Brave. Carla’s eyes were wide, cautious, uncertain. But maybe she would have seen the truth in it. Seen that Lisa saw her. Not the headlines, not the past, but her. And maybe, just maybe, it would have changed everything.

Yeah. It would have freaked Carla out. Probably. But at least it would have been her choice.

And that was the part that mattered. That was the truth Lisa hadn’t faced until now. Carla hadn’t just walked away because she was angry. She had walked away because she had been robbed of something essential: her choice. Her say in the story they were writing.

And that wasn’t respect. That was fear, dressed up as kindness.

But she hadn’t said it. She hadn’t done any of that.

And now she was here.

Alone.

Lisa scrubbed a hand across her face, but it didn’t stop the sting behind her eyes, didn’t stop the feeling like her chest might cave in under the weight of everything she hadn’t said.
Her skin felt raw beneath her fingertips, the way skin does after too much crying, too much wiping, too much trying to erase evidence of pain. But it was still there, in the redness around her eyes, in the way her breath came in uneven little gulps. Her hand trembled slightly as she dragged it down her face, fingertips catching on the edge of her jaw. The ache in her chest pulsed deeper, heavier. The words she hadn’t spoken curled in her gut like smoke, bitter and thick. They pressed against her ribs like they were begging to be released, even now, too late.

Even when she tried to do the right thing, she ended up doing the wrong thing.
She had told herself silence was mercy. That not confronting Carla with the truth (that she knew, had always known) was a way of giving her space, of letting her exist without expectation. But now that excuse felt like paper - thin, weak, and easily torn. She hadn’t been kind. She hadn’t been selfless. She had been afraid. Afraid that honesty would shatter whatever fragile thing they’d been building. Afraid that if she spoke too soon, she’d scare Carla away. But the silence had been its own kind of betrayal.

Lisa pressed the heel of her hand hard into her sternum, like she could physically stop her heart from breaking wider. She leaned forward slightly, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut, forcing pressure into the place that hurt the most. The centre of her chest throbbed like something living was tearing loose. She pushed harder. The ache didn’t retreat. It didn’t even flinch.
It didn’t work.

The quiet of the house was suffocating now, loud with all the things missing. Carla’s voice, Carla’s laughter, Carla’s quiet glances over the rim of a mug. It was the kind of silence that had an edge. It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t calm. It was the echo of something just lost like the house itself hadn’t figured out yet that she was gone. Every creak of the floorboard, every hum of the fridge, every whisper of wind through the window felt like a ghost trying to fill the spaces Carla had occupied. The quiet used to be comfortable. Now it was punishment.

Lisa dropped her head back against the sofa, staring blindly at the ceiling, trying to squeeze back that feeling of grief creeping back in her. She let her head thud softly against the cushion. Her eyes locked on the plaster above: the hairline cracks, the faint discoloration near the light fixture. She tried to focus on those tiny details, hoping they might anchor her. But the grief kept rising, slow and relentless, like floodwater finding every unguarded corner of her. It didn’t crash. It seeped. And it was everywhere.

Different grief, different kind of loss, different girl but the same aching hole opening up in her chest.

She had lost good things before, God, had she lost, but this was different. This was losing something she had believed in. Losing something that had taken root in her when she wasn’t looking. Something that had unfurled inside her like spring, slow and delicate, after years of winter. She had let herself hope. Let herself trust again. And for a moment, a brief, golden flicker, she had imagined a future. Not some perfect fairytale, but something real. Something honest.

And now that hope lay shattered at her feet.

And the worst part was, she had no one to blame but herself. No one had stopped her from speaking. No one had silenced her but her. She had done this. She had looked at something good and chosen fear instead of truth. She had convinced herself she was protecting Carla but really, she’d just been protecting herself. From rejection. From vulnerability. From the terrifying reality that she had found something she didn’t want to lose.

Lisa blinked up at the ceiling and whispered hoarsely to no one "Please come back." The words were dry, like old leaves. Her voice cracked around them. They weren’t loud. They weren’t pleading. They were barely even sound. More breath than speech, more ache than ask.

The words fell like stones into the silence. Heavy. Pointless. They didn’t change anything. The air didn’t stir. The door didn’t open. The world outside didn’t pause or reverse or rewind. But they landed in the room all the same, like pebbles hitting the bottom of a well.

But she said them again anyway. And again. "Please come back. Please come back." Because maybe, just maybe, if she said them enough times, the universe might hear her. Might tilt in her favour. Might give her one more try. She wasn’t asking for everything. Just a moment. One more minute. One more chance to say what she should have said before it was too late.

But the door stayed closed.

The hallway beyond it was dark and still. No footsteps. No return. No sound of hesitation or forgiveness. Just that final, echoing absence. And the shape of Carla’s leaving, burned into the silence.

Lisa wrapped her arms around herself, curling into the hollow spaces she couldn't fill anymore.
She pulled her knees up and let her body collapse inward, folding herself into the emptiness. Her sweater smelled faintly of cedarwood and old pages. Carla had once told her it made her feel safe. Now it was just fabric, stretched too loose around arms that shook with grief. She held herself like a child, like someone bracing for a storm already inside them.

She didn’t know how to fix this. She only knew she wanted the chance to try. And that was the most unbearable part of all. She wanted to make it right. She just didn’t know how to reach Carla from here. From the aching silence of too late.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, minutes, hours, maybe longer, the weight of it all pressing down on her.

Time had warped into something shapeless. Lisa sat slumped on the edge of the sofa, her back curved like it had forgotten how to hold itself upright, her fingers slack in her lap. The room was dim, the curtains only half-drawn, letting in slivers of muted light that painted pale streaks across the carpet. A half-finished cup of tea sat cold on the side table, untouched for hours. The silence was oppressive, the kind that thudded in her ears and seemed to press into her chest like a stone.

Then, faint through the quiet, came the scrape of a key turning in the lock.

The sound cut clean through the stillness, sharp and immediate. Lisa's breath caught in her throat, her whole body jolting like a spring had snapped inside her. Her eyes snapped toward the door, her heart leaping into her throat before she could stop it. Stupid, desperate hope rising even though she knew. She knew it wouldn't be Carla. Carla didn’t have a key.

The door creaked open, and Betsy stepped inside. A canvas tote bag hung from one shoulder and was braced on her opposite hip with one hand. Her cheeks were pink from the cold wind outside, her face flush from the walk back from the bookshop.

“Mum?” Betsy called, her voice light, familiar.

Lisa hurriedly scrubbed at her face again, her palms rough against skin that was already raw from the earlier tears. She pressed harder than she needed to, as if she could rub away the evidence completely - the salt tracks along her cheeks, the damp corners of her eyes, the swollen puffiness around her lids. She blinked hard, twice, fast, trying to clear the sting that had settled behind her eyes like smoke. Then she sat up straighter, spine protesting as she forced it into something resembling posture and tried to arrange her face into something passably calm.

But it was too late.

Betsy’s eyes found her immediately. They flicked once to the room, the quiet, the dimness, the untouched mug on the table and then zeroed in on Lisa’s face. The red-rimmed stare. The tear-streaked skin. The hollowness behind her eyes she hadn’t masked fast enough. And Lisa saw the way her daughter’s whole expression faltered, crumpled, really, like a sheet of paper folding in on itself.

“Mum,” Betsy said again, but it was softer now, almost hesitant. There was no lightness in it this time, only concern wrapped in the barest edge of panic.

She crossed the room in a few quick strides, her boots thudding dully against the rug. She set the tote down beside the armchair without looking away, her fingers letting it drop like it was suddenly too heavy to carry. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Lisa tried to smile, but it was a clumsy, misshapen thing, barely more than a twitch at the corners of her mouth. It tugged at her face like a rusty hinge, unfamiliar and painful to summon. “It blew up in my face,” she said, her voice breaking in the middle, the words spilling out in a kind of breathless, broken laugh. The sound was brittle. Empty. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t but speaking it aloud gave it shape, and in that shape, there was at least a scrap of control.

Betsy's brow furrowed, her whole expression tightening like a drawstring pulled too fast. Concern flickered across her face. Not just the kind you felt when someone was upset, but the kind that was rooted deep, that made your stomach knot, and your throat tighten. Lisa could see it in her eyes: the helpless wanting to do something, to fix it, to be enough. She looked like she wanted to throw herself into her mum’s arms and squeeze every bit of sadness out of her, like she still believed love was a cure-all.

Her expression had shifted into something fierce and tender all at once, a quiet storm. Lisa could see the reflex building in her: that instinct to fix, to comfort, to care. It was the same impulse she’d had as a little girl when she tried to mend a broken vase with glitter glue and stickers. Only now, she was older. And she could tell this kind of break didn’t have an easy fix.

Lisa shook her head gently, more to stop the potential of tears than to respond and forced her voice to find level ground. “But I’m okay, love,” she said softly, reaching out to catch Betsy’s hand in hers. Her grip was cool but steady, the pads of her fingers pressing into the warmth of her daughter’s skin. She gave it a soft squeeze, a tether, a reassurance, a lie told with love. “I promise. I’m okay.”

It was half a truth; the half she needed Betsy to hear. The half that meant, I’m still here. I haven’t gone under. That even when everything splintered and cracked around the edges, even when her heart felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon, she was still here. Still sitting upright. Still breathing. Still trying. The other half, the messy, broken, aching part, could wait.

Betsy didn’t look convinced, not for a second. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, not in suspicion, but in that quiet, perceptive way she’d had since she was a child, always seeing more than people assumed she could. She studied Lisa’s face again, as if memorising it, searching for the pieces that weren’t said aloud. But she didn’t push. Instead, she sat down beside her with a kind of gentle finality. She sank into the sofa close enough that their knees brushed, the fabric of her jeans cool against Lisa’s skin. She didn’t let go of her hand.

Lisa squeezed her hand again, not hard, but with quiet insistence, needing to push them both forward, needing something solid to hold onto in a moment where everything else felt like it might collapse under the weight of what had happened.

"Come here," she said, her voice lower now, almost coaxing. "Tell me what it was like. Running the shop on your own for the first time."

Betsy hesitated. Her gaze lingered on her mum’s face, clearly still reading her, still deciding whether to ask more or to let it be. There was a crease between her brows that hadn’t been there this morning. She looked so grown in that moment, so entirely not the teenage girl who used to spin behind the till pretending to be the manager. But after a few seconds, she nodded, small, almost imperceptible and shifted closer, curling one foot underneath her, settling into the story like easing into warm water.

Her voice was tentative at first, quiet, the words coming slowly, like she wasn’t sure this was the right thing to be doing but then they came.

“Well, it was chaos,” she began with a huff of laughter. “The minute I flipped the sign to ‘Open,’ Mr. Allsop came in looking for a book he swore he saw on TikTok, but couldn’t remember the title, author, or even what it was about. Just that it had a ‘blue cover and maybe a wolf on it?’ I spent twenty minutes showing him every blue book we had.”

Lisa chuckled softly, tilting her head. “Did he find it?”

Betsy rolled her eyes, amused. “Nope. He left with a puzzle book and a packet of jellybeans.”

Lisa let out a soft snort, and Betsy smiled, a little surer of herself now.

“And someone tried to reorganise the entire crime fiction section,” Betsy said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Like, deliberately. I caught this man, probably mid-sixties, big coat, smelled like pipe tobacco, actually moving books around like he worked there.”

Lisa raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Said he was ‘improving the layout for future readers.’ He’d put Agatha Christie next to a survival guide and shoved The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo under Self-Help. When I asked him what he was doing, he said, ‘Well, it’s all about survival, isn’t it?’ Like that explained anything.”

Lisa pressed a hand to her mouth, laughter threatening to escape. “Please tell me you stopped him.”

“I tried. He told me I was ‘young and didn’t understand genre fluidity’ and then offered to come back tomorrow to ‘fix the fantasy section.’ I told him very politely that he was welcome to leave his CV if he wanted a job, but he couldn’t organise stuff without my permission”

Lisa gave a small, conspiratorial grin “That’s my girl”

“That’s not even everything that happened today Mum” Betsy continued, gesturing now as the rhythm of the story picked up. “Just after lunch this little boy came in with his mum and made a beeline for the kids’ corner. Wouldn’t look at a single book. Just grabbed a crayon from his pocket and drew a very blue, very wobbly cat on the front counter.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Said it was you. ‘This is Lisa,’ he said. I didn’t even know how to respond to that. I mean… I cleaned it off, eventually, but I think there’s still a faint blue outline. It’s kind of sweet, though.”

Lisa pressed a hand to her chest, mock offended. “A cat?”

“A wonky cat,” Betsy said, giggling now.

Lisa smiled and laughed in all the right places. Her laughter was still quiet, still cautious, but it came easier now. Drawn out by the simple, ridiculous charm of the story, and by the warmth in Betsy’s voice. Each silly detail, each small frustration or joy, became a thread weaving Lisa back into the world outside her grief.

And for a little while, she could almost believe she was okay.

Because being with Betsy, listening to her talk about the bookshop, about cranky customers and chaotic shelf restacking and counter drawings, was her favourite thing in the world. These little windows into Betsy's life were precious. They reminded her that joy could still live inside ordinary moments, even the messy, inconvenient ones.

She wanted to stay there forever, soaking in this quiet normalcy before Betsy had to leave again. Back to university, back to lectures and essays and housemates who didn’t understand the importance of cleanliness.

Because in this space with warm light catching in Betsy’s curls, the soft hum of her voice wrapping around the quiet, Lisa found something like peace. Not healing, not yet. But a thread to hold onto.

The evening settled soft and quiet around them, wrapping the little house in a kind of fragile, borrowed peace. Outside, the air had gone still, the kind of stillness that only came after rain. The pavements dark and glistening, streetlights casting reflections like silver threads through puddles. The windows fogged slightly at the corners, the warmth inside the house cocooning them from the chill beyond the glass.

In the living room, a soft amber glow spilled from a floor lamp in the corner, catching on bookshelves and the worn arms of the old sofa. The only sounds were the low murmur of the television and the occasional creak of the house settling around them. Lisa and Betsy sat curled up close, a blanket tossed haphazardly over their laps. The same fleecy one they’d had for years, navy blue with stars and moons that had long since faded to an almost grey colour. Betsy had her legs tucked beneath her, one socked foot peeking out, and a half-drunk mug of hot chocolate sat forgotten on the coffee table, steam long since gone.

Lisa wasn’t really following the plot, but she didn’t mind. Betsy was beside her, and that was what mattered. Her daughter’s laughter bubbled up now and then, light and unguarded, her body leaning against Lisa’s shoulder in the way she hadn’t done since she was a little girl. Lisa felt the warmth of her there: solid, real, breathing and for the first time since Carla had walked out that front door, something in her chest began to ease.

The grief was still there. The guilt. The hollow, gnawing ache of absence that sat behind her ribs like a stone. But just for now, she could shift it aside, like setting down a heavy bag she’d been carrying too long. Just to soak this in. Just to be present with Betsy. Her girl, her baby, grown now but still somehow just as full of light. She was heading back to university soon, and Lisa knew from experience that time slipped through your fingers if you weren’t careful. There had been years, hard ones, when she and Betsy couldn’t go ten minutes without a row. The shouting, the slammed doors, the silent meals. When silence felt safer than trying to talk. Back then, this kind of closeness would have felt impossible. But now? Now every shared second felt like a gift she didn’t want to waste.

She didn’t say any of it aloud. She didn’t want to break the quiet, didn’t want to weigh the air down again. Instead, she let herself sit in it, heart full and aching all at once, letting the film roll on and the moment stretch.

At one point, when Lisa didn’t laugh fast enough at a joke in the film, a line they’d both usually snorted at, word-perfect from years of watching, Betsy turned toward her with exaggerated offence, eyebrows raised high.

“Mum,” she said, drawing the word out, nudging her gently in the ribs with her elbow. “You’re so out of it.” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was a note of concern under the playfulness, hidden just enough to pass without pause, unless you were a mother who knew how to hear it. “You need more sleep,” Betsy added, softening, her voice dipping into something closer to fondness. “You look like you’re about to drift off with your eyes open.”

Lisa blinked once, then smiled. A real one. Not forced, not polite, but one that tugged at the corners of her mouth and warmed the tight, tired lines of her face. It touched her eyes, made her look less worn for a heartbeat. She reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind Betsy’s ear. A quiet, familiar gesture, muscle memory from a hundred school mornings and sleepy goodnights.

“Maybe I just need you to get better taste in films,” she replied dryly, voice low and deadpan; the same way she used to when Betsy was little and insisted on rewatching cartoons for the twelfth time in a row.

Betsy let out a scandalised gasp, placing a hand on her chest in mock injury. “Wow. Rude,” she said, before giving Lisa a dramatic shove on the shoulder. “I’ll have you know this film is a classic. Cinematic gold.”

Lisa chuckled, her laugh quiet but steady, and it was quickly swallowed up in Betsy’s giggles. They both leaned into the moment, dissolving into laughter that was soft and full of ease. Not loud or showy, but natural. Familiar. The kind of laughter that settled deep in the bones.

For a brief, precious second, the weight on Lisa’s chest lightened. Not gone but not so suffocating either. Just... bearable.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet like a pin dropping in a still room: sudden, sharp, and somehow wrong. Lisa’s hand froze halfway to the remote, fingers hovering just above the button as the noise echoed once through the house.

Just one knock. Three knuckles. Firm. Purposeful. Too certain to be a mistake. Too quiet to be urgent.

Both of them went still.

Lisa’s eyes flicked toward the hallway. Her voice, when it came, was casual. “Did you order a takeaway, misses?”

Betsy turned, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “No? Although that’s a great idea, I’m starving.”

Lisa gave a low chuckle, her eyes never leaving the shadowed hallway beyond the living room. “That’s weird then,” she said slowly. “You’re definitely not expecting anyone?”

“No, Mum,” Betsy said, sitting up a little straighter now. “Probably just a delivery driver with the wrong address.”

Lisa pressed her lips together, nodded once. Then she stood, the blanket falling from her lap with a soft rustle, pooling at her feet. Her joints creaked slightly as she straightened, every movement slower, more deliberate. Her voice changed. It was still calm but edged now with a kind of quiet authority that only came from being someone’s mother. “Okay. Stay there. I’ll answer the door.”

 She was already in mum mode - protective, practical. It was nearly nine-thirty. Far too late for casual visits, and something about the knock, too slow, too certain, had her on edge. She crossed the hallway, her slippers soft against the wooden floor, and paused at the front door.

Her fingers hovered above the handle. Just for a second.

She didn’t know why she hesitated. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a confused delivery driver, a neighbour, a simple mix-up. But her gut was telling her something else. Something she couldn’t quite name.

Then, pushing the doubt aside, Lisa pulled the door open just a crack, enough to speak through but not enough to invite anything in.

“Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong address,” she said automatically, not even looking up. Her voice was firm, polite. The kind of tone you used when you just wanted to get back to your evening. She was already halfway through closing the door again when…

“I haven’t got a takeaway, I’m afraid.”

The voice was soft. Tentative. Hesitant. And so achingly familiar that Lisa’s breath caught mid-motion.

 Lisa froze. Time slowed to a heartbeat. The sound of blood rushing in her ears. The way her hand went cold on the handle.

She opened the door wider.

And there, under the faint flickering porch light, stood Carla.

Shoulders hunched, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be seen. Jacket zipped to her chin. Hands buried deep in her pockets like they didn’t trust themselves to be still. Her hair was scraped back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face, and her eyes, tired, uncertain, too familiar, they met Lisa’s.

Lisa’s heart slammed once against her ribs.

Carla’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Hi,” she said.

Just that.

Then a pause, a breath and something close to hope trying to break through.

“Can we talk?”

Chapter Text

Lisa just stared.

Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t come. It was as though someone had frozen her in place, like a photograph trapped in time, caught mid-motion, unable to make sense of what she was seeing. Her hand still rested on the edge of the door, and her mind scrambled to catch up with what her body was already reacting to.

She wasn’t sure if what she was seeing, what she had heard, was real.

Because it couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. Not after everything. Not after the way things had been left between them. With silence, with hurt, with Lisa sitting in the middle of her living room crumbling inward, trying to hold onto something that was already gone. And yet, here Carla was. On her doorstep. Like a memory that hadn’t faded properly. Like a ghost with a pulse.

Carla was here. At her doorstep. Wanting to talk.

Lisa’s brain kept circling that fact, trying to find an edge to grip. She wasn’t hallucinating. Carla had walked through the cold and the dark and the shame and whatever else had been keeping her away, and she was here. She didn’t run. She didn’t leave without a word, without closure. She had come back, which must mean, surely it meant, there was still some thread connecting them. Some loose end that could be pulled gently, slowly, carefully toward something whole again. A small, fragile possibility that Lisa could fix things. Right?

“Lisa,” Carla spoke again, voice cracking slightly. Her shoulders hunched, almost recoiling into her coat. Her hands were shoved so deep into her pockets it looked like she was trying to disappear inside herself. She wasn’t meeting Lisa’s eyes. Not even close. Her gaze flicked from the doorframe to the porch light to the pavement beneath her, never landing anywhere for more than a breath.

The small sound of her name was enough to snap Lisa back into focus. She hadn’t realised she’d been standing there in complete silence, not even breathing properly. She hadn’t said a single word since she’d opened the door and found Carla on the other side of it.

Lisa’s fingers tightened on the doorframe, grounding herself in the rough texture of the wood. “Yeah,” she said, breathless. The word barely scraped past her throat. “Yeah, of course.” Her voice caught mid-sentence, a falter she couldn’t quite hide. She stepped aside, heart beating so fast it almost hurt. “Come in.”

Carla hesitated. Just for a second. Her boots stayed planted on the front step as though she was waiting for the earth to give her a reason to turn back. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing here. She hadn’t rehearsed this. She had no speech, no script, no plan. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to have this conversation in Lisa’s house, with the reminders of everything that had gone wrong just a few hours earlier. But surfacing above the storm of emotions was the need to see Lisa. The need to understand why. Even if it broke her. 

But she took a shaky breath and stepped over the threshold anyway. And followed Lisa into the house. Her boots crossed into the hallway with a soft scuff, hesitant, like even the floorboards might recoil from her presence. The door clicked shut behind her. The sound echoed a little too loudly in the hallway. It was the only sound between them.

 For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Lisa stood half-turned, just ahead, one hand still resting lightly on the wall as though she needed it to stay upright. Her eyes never left Carla. She looked at her like a mirage. Like if she blinked, Carla would disappear back into the night. Like she didn’t trust what was in front of her. Like somehow Carla was just a figment of her imagination.

Carla kept her head down, shoulders slightly curled inward. Her arms were tight to her sides, her posture closed. Defensive. Her hands stayed buried deep in her coat pockets, but Lisa could see the subtle movement. The way her fingers curled and uncurled over and over, like a nervous rhythm she couldn’t stop. She looked like someone already regretting a choice they hadn’t fully made. Like someone who had taken a single step toward the edge and wasn’t sure whether to jump or run.

The house held its breath with them. The air grew dense, thick with tension, like it, too, was waiting for someone to speak, to cry, to forgive. Or maybe just to breathe first.

Then: footsteps. Light but quick, unmistakably familiar. The soft thump of socked feet moving down the hall. A small burst of life that broke the frozen moment.

“Who was at the door, Mum?” Betsy called out, her voice still holding the sing-song tone of someone expecting nothing more than a missed package or a delivery driver with the wrong address.

She rounded the corner into the hallway, her curls bouncing with the movement, and stopped dead. Her body halted mid-step, posture stiffening as her eyes landed on Carla. It was like watching a record scratch in real time.

“Oh,” Betsy breathed out. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it landed in the silence like a pin dropping in an empty church.

Her eyes flicked rapidly, back and forth between her mum and Carla, trying to make sense of what she was seeing like she’d walked into a room mid-conversation and knew instinctively it was about something no one wanted to speak out loud.

Carla looked up, startled, clearly caught off guard by Betsy’s presence. Her mouth parted slightly as though words were coming but they never made it past her lips. Her jaw tensed and released again. She blinked twice, then dropped her gaze once more. It was the kind of shock that came not from surprise exactly, but from being seen when you hadn’t planned for it.

Realistically, she should have known Betsy might be here. It was the most obvious possibility. Where else would Lisa’s daughter be on a quiet Saturday evening? But she hadn’t thought that far ahead. Hadn’t imagined the layout of the evening, the occupants of the house, the consequence of returning to the doorstep of someone whose life didn’t pause just because she left. She hadn’t pictured this half-lit hallway, the three of them standing within inches of one another, breathing in a shared past that suddenly felt far too present.

Carla didn’t know how much Betsy knew; if Lisa had confided in her or left it all behind closed lips. She didn’t know if Betsy would be angry, hurt, protective. She didn’t want to step where she wasn’t welcome. And the last thing she wanted was to make it worse. She didn’t want to deepen the cracks already splitting across Lisa’s world.

Betsy stared back, lips slightly parted, eyes searching both of their faces like she was trying to read a page that had been half-torn away. There was no accusation in her gaze, but there was weight, expectation. Maybe hesitation. Like she was waiting for one of them to speak, to explain, to name whatever this was. But the silence just stretched. Long. Heavy. Awkward. And full of all the things neither of them had the courage to say aloud.

Lisa still hadn’t found her voice again. Her tongue felt thick, dry against the roof of her mouth, her lips slightly parted but useless, like the words she needed had abandoned her somewhere between shock and disbelief. Her brain lagged two steps behind the moment, caught in the space where everything felt both surreal and piercingly real. This was all wrong. Not Carla’s presence, but the setting. The three of them wedged awkwardly in a narrow hallway, like actors who hadn’t yet taken their places on the stage. The air was tight with things unsaid. It was too small for everything hanging between them.

Lisa couldn’t move. She didn’t know how.

But Betsy, sharp as ever, seemed to feel the weight shift. To read the silence like a language. The tension. The emotional static humming in the space between her mother and Carla. She saw it for what it was: a moment that needed room to unfold and she wasn’t going to be the one who held it back.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Betsy said, her voice quieter now, threaded with understanding. She was already turning toward the coat rack, her hand reaching with practiced ease, as if her body knew what to do before her heart fully caught up.

Lisa blinked, startled out of her paralysis. “Betsy, where are you going?” Her voice cracked, too loud in the narrow space. Fear punched through the fog. Not because she didn’t trust her daughter, but because the idea of Betsy walking out into the night, alone, while everything inside Lisa was unravelling, hit a raw nerve she didn’t expect. “It’s late.”

“I’ll just be at the pub down the road,” Betsy replied without missing a beat. Calm. Steady. Already pulling her coat over her shoulders with a confidence that felt both adult and familiar. “Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I get there.”

She stepped in close before Lisa could argue again, closing the gap between them in two quick strides and wrapped her arms around Lisa. The hug was firm, steady. It lasted only a few seconds, but it spoke volumes. The way she pressed her cheek to her mum’s shoulder. The way her arms tightened just before she let go.

“You have your chance,” she whispered, low enough that only Lisa could hear. “Just be honest.”

The words sank deep, lodging somewhere beneath Lisa’s ribs, between guilt and hope.

Then Betsy turned to Carla and though her face stayed mostly unreadable, she offered her a small, respectful nod. A quiet acknowledgment that didn’t hold judgment, only the weight of someone watching carefully, someone who hoped, perhaps foolishly, that something good might come from this mess.

She so hoped things would go well for her mum. She hoped Carla had come back for the right reasons. To actually listen to her mum. To let her mum explain. To try to understand.  She hoped this night wouldn’t break what little had managed to hold on.

Then the door clicked shut behind her.

Only this time, it wasn’t a sound that marked an ending.

It didn’t feel like finality, like someone walking away.

It felt like breath. Like the smallest loosening of a tightly wound knot.

It was the sound of something slowly, tentatively starting to heal.

Carla stayed by the door, her hands were still buried deep in her coat pockets, clenched into fists that her sleeves hid. Her shoulders were drawn inwards. She looked smaller than usual, like she was trying to fold herself in on instinct, protect herself. She glanced around the hallway but didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if she was welcome to move further, wasn’t sure what space she was allowed to occupy in Lisa’s life anymore. Even something as small as a few steps forward felt like too much too soon.

Across from her, Lisa stood a few paces away, as still as a statue, as if frozen mid-breath. Her posture was taut, wound tight with nerves, but her expression was soft, tentative, aching. It looked like she was bracing for impact or holding herself in place so as not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of this impossible moment. Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides, fingers twitching slightly, like they ached to reach out, just once, just enough to close the space, but didn’t dare.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” Lisa said finally, voice nearly lost in the quiet. It was barely more than a whisper, but it carried everything: the longing, the guilt, the disbelief that Carla was really here. She spoke like anything louder might startle Carla, might cause this delicate thing between them to unravel.

Carla gave the ghost of a shrug, her shoulders shifting slightly, her lips twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was more of a resignation, a sigh turned into a gesture. “I wasn’t sure either,” she said. Her voice held the same quiet honesty. She didn’t say it to punish Lisa, didn’t say it to test her. Just the truth.

And then, silence. Again. Another pause, another breath, and neither of them knew how to fill it. It wasn’t just a gap in conversation; it was a thing unto itself. The kind of silence that had shape and texture, like stone walls closing in. A silence that knew them both too well. It pressed into the cracks between them and made them ache.

“I’ve been” Lisa started, then faltered. The words snagged in her throat like thread on a splinter. She shook her head and gave a soft, frustrated breath through her nose. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Me neither,” Carla replied. The words came out quickly, quietly. Not defensive, just honest. She finally lifted her head, letting her eyes meet Lisa’s for the first time properly.

And for a single heartbeat, everything was there. Unspoken but undeniable. The pain that had carved them apart, the betrayal that had drawn a line through what they were building. The sorrow of it. But also – and maybe it was foolish, maybe it was nothing – there was something else. A flicker of hope. Small, but impossible to miss.

Carla didn’t look away.

And Lisa, breath caught in her chest, didn’t dare blink.

Because that flicker, that tentative, delicate something, told her that Carla hadn’t come to burn the last of it down. She hadn’t come to walk away properly. She had come to see if there was anything left to rebuild. It was the smallest sign of something not broken beyond repair, and she tucked it away carefully, holding it close like a fragile thing she didn’t dare crush with clumsy hands.

“Do you erm” Lisa began, her voice catching in her throat as her hand reached up to rub the back of her neck, a nervous habit that had never quite left her. Her throat felt tight, like the words had to squeeze past something lodged just behind her ribs. “Do you want to go somewhere more comfortable?” Her eyes darted quickly around the narrow hallway, then back to Carla. “I mean, we can have this conversation here if you’d prefer, but I don’t know about you, I’d quite like to sit down.”

The attempt at humour wavered in the air between them. A brittle attempt to break the tension that still clung to the walls like damp.

The awful attempt at a joke earned a small, dry laugh from Carla. A sound barely more than a breath, but it cracked through the quiet like a pebble skipping across water. Her arms were still crossed, shoulders still guarded, but her mouth twitched at the corners. Not a smile. But maybe the memory of one.

“Table?” she asked, nodding toward the kitchen. There was caution in her voice, deliberate space. She didn’t want to sit too close. Didn’t want to send the wrong message; that she’d forgiven Lisa already. Because she hadn’t. Not yet. She needed Lisa to understand that an apology wouldn’t erase what had happened.

Lisa nodded, already turning to lead the way. Her steps were slow but steady. Carla followed. They didn’t speak as they walked, the only sound their footfalls brushing against the old floorboards. The silence stretched between them – not heavy, exactly, but delicate. Like thin glass neither of them dared press too hard against.

Lisa hovered near the kitchen counter, her hand grazing a chipped ceramic mug. “Can I get you a drink?” she offered, voice tentative. “Tea? Water? Fizzy? Something stronger?”

“No, ta,” Carla said quickly, shaking her head. Her words were clipped, not unkind, just focused. “I’d rather just talk.”

Lisa gave a tight nod, her mouth drawing tight. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

They both sat at the kitchen table. The wood was worn, smoothed by years of use and quiet mornings. There were faint scratches near the edge from where Betsy used to press too hard with pencils on her homework. Now, it stood like a buffer between them. Not far, but not close either. Just enough space for both of them to breathe. Enough distance to say this wasn’t fixed. Not yet.

The silence followed them into the room and settled between them like fog. Dense. Heavy. Alive with ghosts. It curled into the corners, stretched across the ceiling, filled every inch of space with what hadn’t been said. It was thick with meaning, weighted with hurt, and it pressed at their lungs in different ways. It wasn’t like the ones they used to share ever since Carla moved to Willowbrook. It wasn’t the comfortable, familiar stillness that settled after long afternoons working in the shop, or slow walks where they didn’t need to fill every moment with words. This silence had teeth. It bit.

Lisa sat rigid, her shoulders tense, her spine too straight like she didn’t quite belong in her own chair. Her hands were knotted tightly in her lap, thumbs rubbing anxious circles against each other, over and over and over. A loop she couldn’t seem to break. Her throat burned with unsaid words. Too many of them. All stacked up and pressing to be let out, but she didn’t trust any of them. She was afraid they’d come out wrong. That she’d miss the mark again. That she'd break whatever thread was still holding Carla in this room.

But if she didn’t speak, if she let the silence win, she knew she’d lose Carla for good.

So eventually, Lisa broke.

“I’m sorry,” she said. The words barely crossed the distance between them, thin and trembling, almost swallowed by the space. Then again, louder, firmer this time, desperate and raw, pulled from the centre of her chest: “I’m so, so sorry.”

Carla didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But her jaw tightened. Her eyes stayed fixed on the grain of the table. The swirls and grooves of the wood, like maybe they held the answers. She stayed like that for a long beat before finally lifting her gaze to meet Lisa’s.

“Just why, Lisa.” Her voice cracked around the words, small and sharp, like she was holding herself together by the edges. “That’s all I need to know. Why did you lie?”

The air shifted. The question hung between them, heavy and unmoving, like a stone dropped in water that didn’t ripple.

Lisa’s breath hitched. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The beginning of a dozen explanations that died before they reached her tongue. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. Could feel the weight of Carla’s gaze, even though it wasn’t harsh. It was expectant. Earnest. Needing. “Carla, I” she started, but the words buckled. Her throat tightened, her voice faltering.

“Lisa, I want the truth,” Carla said, firm but not harsh. “I feel like I deserve that.”

And she did. She absolutely did. Lisa knew that in her bones. Carla deserved every ounce of truth Lisa could muster. She deserved the full, unvarnished story. Not a softened version. Not a tidy apology. Not a distraction. She had come not to be consoled, but to understand.

Lisa nodded, slowly, the weight of it settling on her shoulders. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I’m going to explain the best I can,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “Just… be patient with me, yeah?”

Carla didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But her expression shifted, the smallest flicker of openness returning to her eyes.  “Okay.” she said at last.

Lisa nodded, more to herself than to Carla, and reached out to grip the edge of the table, her fingers curling around the smooth, worn wood as if it might somehow hold her together. Her knuckles whitened with the force of it, the strain of holding back everything that had sat heavy on her chest for weeks. She drew in another breath, this one shakier than the last, and forced her voice to come out low, tentative.

“When I first saw you... when you walked into the bookshop, I was debating whether I should mention that I knew who you were,” she began. Her gaze flicked across the table, not quite meeting Carla’s. “Maybe get a picture for the shop, to show that a famous author had been here. You know get new people into the bookshop as they would want to shop in the same place Carla Connor had” Lisa glanced up at Carla.

There was no emotion on Carla’s face. She was just listening intently, waiting for Lisa to stop talking.

“But then you started talking, and the things you were saying, Carla,” Lisa continued, “It was clear that you didn’t want people to know who you were. And so, I didn’t mention it. I wanted you to feel comfortable, to feel safe. Not that I was expecting to see you again.”

“But you did see me again,” Carla stated, her voice cool, quiet. “And you kept up the lie.”

Lisa felt heat crawl up her neck, shame flooding her like a tide she couldn’t stop. The air felt thick now, harder to pull into her lungs. She swallowed, trying to clear the knot forming in her throat. “Do you remember me telling you that I understood the feeling of needing to run away?” she asked quietly. “To start again somewhere new?”

Carla gave a single, slow nod, unsure where Lisa was taking this conversation.

“Well, that wasn’t a lie, Carla. I understand that feeling more than most people.” Lisa’s gaze dropped to her hands again. Her fingers twisted together, knotted with restless movement. A gesture that betrayed the storm stirring beneath her calm tone. “I ran away from my old life back in Manchester. Things got too much for me there. Too many people knew about my life. Too many reminders of things I had lost.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, long enough to steel herself. Her next breath came through her nose, steady but laboured, like she was forcing herself to stay upright. When she opened her eyes again, they were glassy, shining with unshed tears she refused to let fall.

“My wife, Betsy’s other mother, she died.”

A small sound escaped Carla. Not quite a gasp, more like a sharp inhale that seemed to catch in her chest. Her shoulders softened, her arms slowly unfolding from across her chest as she leaned forward, concern flickering across her features.

“Lisa, I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you for your sympathy, Carla,” Lisa said quickly, though not unkindly. She gave a small, tired smile. The kind people wore when they were too exhausted to cry anymore. “Or to excuse why I lied. I’m just trying to help you understand.”

She paused for a beat, letting the silence settle between them before pressing forward. “Becky was a police officer. So was I. I’d just gotten promoted to detective sergeant. We were so happy. The hours were more flexible; I was going to be home more for Betsy. Finally.”

Her voice faltered as her eyes darted upward, searching the air for composure like it was something she might catch if she just breathed the right way. But it didn’t come. Instead, she blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay, her jaw tightening.

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” Carla said softly, her voice stripped of all pretence. The wall between them had cracked, and the truth was seeping through.

Lisa hesitated for a moment, then let the words come.

“Becky died on duty. I tried to keep working, tried to carry on for Betsy, but it was too much of a trigger for her. Every time I walked out the door, she thought I wouldn’t come back either. She’d cry, cling to my leg, beg me not to go. And I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep making her live in that fear.”

Lisa’s breath hitched, the emotion in her voice no longer subtle. Her hands fell into her lap, trembling slightly.

“But we didn’t just leave for Betsy. I was drowning as well. I don’t know if you know this, but when a police officer dies, it’s a big deal.” She let out a bitter breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. Her fingers traced slow circles on the tabletop, her touch gentle, like she was afraid the memory might splinter if she pressed too hard.

“Everyone in the precinct knew. All the locals did too. The corner shop, the post office, the school gate, every place we went, we were those people. The ones with the dead officer. The ones with the dead wife. The dead mum. I couldn’t do a food shop without someone looking at me like I might break in the middle of the frozen food aisle. And the ones who didn’t look sad looked smug, like they had something to say and were waiting for the right moment to stick the knife in.”

Her jaw tensed as she stared down at the table. Her voice dropped, quieter now. Worn thin, almost brittle. “And some... some people weren’t kind. Some shouted at me in the street. Said Becky got what she deserved. Called us names. People aren’t big fans of the police”

She blinked slowly, the shadows under her eyes deepening as if the weight of those years was pressing back down on her now. Her next words were nearly a whisper. “It was too much. And so, we moved. We needed a fresh start. Somewhere where no one knew us. Where no one knew what happened.”

Carla looked down, blinking hard, her throat tightening with something unspoken. Not quite sorrow, not quite guilt, but something heavy and aching all the same. Her voice, when it came, was soft, nearly reverent. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I... I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been. For both of you.”

Lisa nodded once, her lips pressing tightly together as she worked to hold her composure. The grief was still there, coiled deep in her chest like a bruise that never faded, only stopped throbbing long enough to forget it was there. “It was,” she said quietly. “It still is, sometimes.”

Lisa’s fingers returned to her hands, fiddling absently. A nervous habit, maybe, but it kept her grounded. Allowed her to keep her emotions in line. “So yeah,” she said after a beat, “the point is, I understood what you were feeling. I know our circumstances were different, are different. But I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t feel like you could breathe freely here.”

Carla blinked, her gaze slipping away toward the window for a moment, unfocused. When she looked back, her expression had softened, though her eyes still held a glint of something unsettled.

“But I didn’t ask you to protect me from that,” she said, voice steady. “I didn’t ask you to carry the truth on your own.”

“I know,” Lisa whispered, her voice close to breaking. “But I wanted to. I thought I was doing the kind thing. Giving you space to just be. Not the author. Not the face on book jackets or interviews. Just... you. And I was scared that if I told you what I knew, I’d ruin that. That I’d ruin us.”

Carla looked down at her hands, her fingers curling loosely together in her lap. Her nails dug faint crescents into the skin of her palm, but she barely felt it. Her mind was a storm of memories and questions, all colliding in the silence Lisa had left behind.

“You still should’ve trusted me enough to decide that for myself.”

“I should have,” Lisa agreed, the words falling heavily, like stones into water. “I just... I panicked. I liked you so much. And I didn’t want to lose the little moments. The ones where we were just two people in a bookshop, or walking by the lake, or arguing about biscuits.”

That last part, small and almost tender, coaxed the faintest tug of a smile from Carla. It was involuntary, brief. But the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Not yet.

Lisa took a steadying breath, her chest tight as she prepared to peel back one more layer, one that she wasn’t sure she could bear to expose. The vulnerability of it felt raw, and the weight of her next words hung heavy on her tongue. She had carried this truth long enough, but now that it was time to say it, it felt like stepping into an abyss. "You know… after a while, I didn’t even see you as her anymore,” she said softly, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.

Carla’s brow furrowed slightly, a quiet confusion furrowing her forehead. “Her?” she repeated, her voice a delicate blend of curiosity and hesitation, unsure of what Lisa meant. The shift in Carla’s demeanour, the guarded uncertainty in her question, made Lisa’s pulse quicken.

“The author,” Lisa said quietly, her voice trembling just a little, like the confession of a secret she had long buried. "Carla Connor. The name. The public figure. That wasn’t who I saw when I looked at you." She took another deep breath, her eyes misting again, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. "I just saw you. The woman who came into my shop and made herself at home on the old, worn-down leather chairs. The woman who left her tea to go cold because she got lost talking about her favourite sad movies. The one who made me laugh on days I didn’t even realize I needed to. You weren't just the face on the cover of books. You were the woman who became real to me.”

Carla’s breath caught in her throat. There was something so tender in the way Lisa described her. Something that chipped away at the shell she had spent so long building. She didn’t know how to respond, so she simply kept her eyes down, letting the words wash over her in silence.

Lisa’s voice dropped even lower, thick with the weight of everything she had kept buried. “I didn’t keep it from you because I thought you were a trophy, or a secret prize, or that I could use you for my gain.” she continued, her hands trembling slightly on the table, as if touching it might keep her grounded. “I kept it because I was scared of losing the version of you that sat across from me. You made me feel like I could start again. Like, after everything, maybe I still had it in me to feel something real.” She stopped, swallowing hard as a lump rose in her throat. Her next words came out on a shaky exhale, so full of feeling it was almost too much. “You. You got under my skin, Carla. Before I knew what was happening, you were all I could think about. Not the author. Not the name. Just… you. My Carla.”

The words hit Carla like a punch to the gut. She turned her head away, blinking rapidly as she tried to fight back the rising tide of emotion. Her chest tightened painfully as she stared at the floor, her mind whirling. It was too much, too much honesty, too much vulnerability. Carla didn’t know what to do with it, how to handle it.

“You made me feel safe, Lisa,” Carla said, her voice quiet and fragile, breaking in places. "Like I could let my guard down. And when I found out. When I realized, you’d known all along. It made me feel stupid. Exposed." Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the table, like she was trying to hold herself together.

Lisa’s heart twisted in her chest. Every word Carla spoke felt like a knife to her soul, but she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. “I hate that I made you feel that way,” Lisa said, her voice barely above a whisper, full of raw regret. “It’s the last thing I ever wanted.”

The silence between them settled, dense and heavy with everything they had just shared. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not anymore, but it was undeniably loaded.

Carla exhaled slowly, the sound escaping her lips like the deflation of a balloon. Her fingers traced a pattern in the grain of the table, the repetitive motion offering her a small sense of control. "I think part of me was terrified," she said softly, her voice cracking as she went on. "That if you did know, you’d look at me differently. Like everyone else always does." The words tumbled out slowly, as if Carla was speaking them aloud for the first time, as if she had never fully acknowledged how afraid she was.

Lisa didn’t interrupt. She just listened, letting the silence between them speak as much as the words. She was learning now, not just to speak, but to listen. And for the first time since she came back, Carla’s walls felt like they were crumbling.

“I wanted a version of my life where I wasn’t watched. Or expected to be a certain way. Where I didn’t have to think five steps ahead or filter everything I said in case it got twisted into something I never meant.” Carla’s voice wavered slightly as she tried to hold it together, the weight of all the things she had never said threatening to undo her. She paused, her fingers stilling on the table as her eyes found Lisa’s again. “You made that possible. And I didn’t want to lose it.”

Her eyes were glassy, the unspoken emotions bubbling just beneath the surface, but she didn’t break. Not yet. “But I think I lost something anyway. I was never completely myself with you. Because I didn’t trust you with the truth. Even when you never gave me a reason not to.”

Lisa’s expression softened. There was no pity in it, just a quiet understanding, and something that looked almost like sadness. She reached a hand out, but stopped just short of touching Carla’s. "You don’t have to explain," she said softly. "I get it. Why you didn’t tell me. I didn’t mean what I said earlier. I was just frustrated. And annoyed at myself for hurting you. I was lashing out. I understand you were protecting yourself." Her voice was steady now, calm. "I will never hate you for protecting yourself, Carla."

Carla let out a shaky breath, the tension in her chest easing ever so slightly. She was surprised at how much those simple words meant to her. "You were right though," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I did lie to you too, Lisa. And for that… I’m sorry." Her words were tentative, as if saying them aloud made it all the more real. "I was so used to hiding, to being careful. And for once I didn’t want to be seen. I just wanted to be. It’s not that I didn’t trust you Lisa because I did. I want you to understand that”

“I know,” Lisa whispered, her words soft and full of understanding. “I really do.”

They sat there for a long moment, neither of them speaking, but the silence felt different now. It wasn’t brittle or strained. It didn’t ache in the same way. This silence felt like breath. Like a pause. Like maybe, just maybe, the worst of it had passed.

Carla looked across the table at her, really looked. And this time, she didn’t look away. The weight of her gaze softened the edges of everything. She was still uncertain, but the layers of distrust that had built up between them seemed to be unravelling.

Carla’s shoulders dropped slightly, as if she was letting go of the weight she had been carrying for so long. “I’m not sure where we go from here,” she said, the vulnerability in her voice a quiet acceptance of everything they had just shared.

Lisa let out a soft, shaky breath, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know either.” Her smile widened just a fraction. “But I know I want to find out. If you’re willing.”

Carla nodded slowly, her expression unreadable yet somehow open. She didn’t rush her words, letting the silence hang between them for a moment, as though she was searching for the right way to frame what she needed to say. “I didn’t come back for closure, Lisa.” The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of so many things unspoken. “I didn’t want... I don’t know. I didn’t want the door to close completely.”

Lisa’s lips parted, her eyes shining with a soft intensity, as if the weight of Carla’s words was sinking in. “So, what you’re saying is that the door’s still open?”

Carla’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. It was small and hesitant, like a promise made in the quietest, most tentative way. “Barely,” she said teasing “There’s like a little crack.”

Lisa chuckled softly, a gentle sound that seemed to break the tension between them. “I can work with that.”

Carla let out a small, breathy laugh, the first real laughter between them since this morning. Before everything had got complicated. Her eyes twinkled as she looked at Lisa, the heaviness of everything still there, but somehow lighter.

“I’m not saying this fixes everything,” Carla said, her voice steadying, becoming a little firmer now, though there was still an undertone of uncertainty beneath the words. “But... I’d like to try. To see if we can find our way back.” There was a quiet vulnerability in her admission. She was offering Lisa something raw, something that came with the risk of getting hurt again, but she was willing to take that step. For herself. For them. She wasn’t promising anything, but she was opening herself to the possibility. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

Lisa’s voice was steady now, a quiet but firm promise. “You have me,” she said, the words simple yet profound. “For as long as you want me.”

Those words settled deep within Carla, like the promise of something solid and unshakable, a foundation to stand on after everything had crumbled. It wasn’t just about the future, but about what was here, right now, between them. Lisa wasn’t asking for answers, for certainty. She was just offering her presence, her commitment, and her willingness to try. It was enough.

Carla’s gaze dropped to the space between them, the silence between them stretching in the most disorienting way. The wooden surface of the table felt both impossibly far away and painfully close, like the distance between them was being measured in both miles and inches. Every inch of her wanted to move closer, to bridge that gap, but there was a hesitation in her, a fear of pushing too hard, too fast.

For a moment, her fingers twitched at her side, unsure whether to reach for Lisa or hold back, unsure whether to test the waters of something fragile that might break under the weight of it all. But then, slowly, deliberately, her hand slid across the table, her fingers curling slightly. The gesture was small, tentative, but it was an invitation, a quiet offering, not an expectation. She wasn’t sure if Lisa would take it, but she needed to offer it. She needed to let Lisa know that she wasn’t shutting her out, that she was willing to see where this crack between them could lead.

Without hesitation, Lisa reached out. Her hand was steady, her fingers brushing against Carla’s with an unmistakable tenderness. And then, without thinking, without second-guessing, her fingers intertwined with Carla’s, as if they had always belonged there. The contact was gentle, warm, not rushed or frantic. It was steady, a quiet certainty that was more meaningful than any words could express.

The promise between them wasn’t loud or grand, but soft, unspoken. It was in the way their hands fit together, in the warmth of their touch, in the simple act of reaching out. There was no need for fanfare or dramatic gestures. It was just them, together. Two people trying, in the quietest way, to find their way back to something they had lost.

Not everything was fixed.

But something had begun to mend.

Chapter Text

The room was still. Not the kind of stillness that came with silence alone, but the sort that followed something long and heavy finally settling. A shift. A soft thud of resolution. It clung to the air like dust after a storm, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Not in fear, but in cautious relief. A truce, tentative, but real.

Lisa’s hand was still laced with Carla’s across the old wooden table. Their fingers intertwined in the centre, palms warm and slightly damp, not from nerves exactly, but from the sheer weight of the evening. They hadn’t let go. Not since that first uncertain reach, that first moment of tentative contact. It had taken so long to get here.

The space between them, once strained and brittle with pain, now hummed with something softer. Not joy. Not yet. But something quieter. Familiarity. A memory of closeness stirring beneath the grief. Slowly, like warmth seeping back into frozen limbs, comfort had begun to spread between them, curling into the silence, rising in gentle, steady waves.

And then the front door clicked.

The sound was sharp in the stillness, a metal latch catching and releasing with a finality that sliced through the calm. Carla’s body tensed instinctively: a small shift, shoulders lifting half an inch, her thumb twitching against Lisa’s. Her spine straightened. The loud thud of the door closing reverberated in her bones, made her jump just slightly, like someone waking from a dream they weren’t ready to leave.

“It’s just Bets,” Lisa murmured, her voice a low, steady hush. She rubbed her thumb gently against Carla’s hand. A slow, soothing motion, grounding her.

Footsteps padded across the hallway. Familiar. Confident. The soft, whispering scuff of socked feet against the hardwood, a sound stitched into the fabric of the house itself. It was the sound of someone who belonged here, someone who didn’t need to think about where to step or worry how her presence might land.

And then, quietly, Betsy rounded the corner into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway.

Her eyes fell on their joined hands first. They were still clasped in the centre of the table, unmoving. Still holding. Her gaze didn’t linger there out of shock, but something quieter. Measured. A flicker of calculation passed behind her eyes, not judgmental, just aware. She scanned upward. Lisa first, then Carla and back again to their hands. And then her expression shifted.

No gasp. No furrowed brow. No dramatic intake of breath. Just the smallest lift of her chin, a soft exhale through her nose. A realization passed over her face like a ripple, subtle and slow. It moved through her without force. A quiet knowing. Like light filling a dim room.

“You sorted things out, then?” she said, her voice casual, almost offhand. But there was something tucked just under the surface. A subtle, searching thread of curiosity. And maybe, if you were listening closely enough, a thread of relief braided in, gentle but unmistakable.

“We’re getting there,” Lisa said, her voice carrying something hopeful, but tempered like she didn’t want to jinx it by sounding too sure.

Betsy gave a small, thoughtful nod. It wasn’t indifferent. It was the kind of nod that held layers; understanding that didn’t ask for more. A quiet recognition that healing took time. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “I did text to say I was on my way back.”

Lisa waved a hand in the air gently, a gesture that was both forgiving and habitual. “It’s okay, love.”

Betsy glanced between them again, her brow ticking upward in something almost like amusement, then softened. A small, private smile touched her lips, not mocking, not curious anymore. Just quiet understanding. “I’m just gonna grab some water and head up. You two carry on.”

She stepped into the kitchen, her presence like a breeze through a warm room – there and gone. The faint clink of glass against the counter reached them, followed by the soft hum of the tap running. Carla listened to the sound, the domesticity of it. How simple and ordinary it was. It struck her as strange how comforting it felt.

When Betsy returned, she was cradling the glass in both hands like a child might hold something warm. She crossed the room without fanfare, leaned down, and gave Lisa a quick, familiar hug. One arm slung around her mum’s shoulders, a touch of forehead to cheek. She didn’t say anything in that moment. Just the hug.

Then she turned to Carla and offered a faint, genuine smile. One that didn’t ask anything from her. Just acknowledgment.

Then she padded toward the stairs. At the bottom step, Betsy paused, her socked feet sinking quietly into the carpeted stair. The banister creaked gently under her hand as she leaned back just slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

“Night, Mum. Night, Carla.”

Lisa’s voice was soft, a little thick with emotion. “Night, sweetheart.”

Carla looked over, her voice quieter but clear. “’Night, Betsy.”

Betsy held their eyes for just a second longer, her gaze lingering, then gave a small, satisfied nod. Then she turned and continued up the stairs. The muffled patter of her footsteps grew fainter with each step, until they disappeared completely behind the soft hush of a bedroom door clicking closed.

And just like that, the house settled again. Not with the same brittle stillness as before, but with a warmth folded into its corners. A hush returned, but it was no longer laced with hesitation. It had changed. It had shape now. It wrapped around them like a blanket pulled over tired shoulders, comforting, unspoken, full.

They sat in that softened quiet for a beat longer, neither one in a rush to break it.

Carla’s eyes drifted up to the clock on the wall. The minute hand ticked forward with a soft, mechanical click. It was nearly midnight. Her gaze held there for a moment, expression unreadable. Caught between thoughtfulness and something held back. A small crease formed between her brows. She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then cleared her throat softly.

“It’s getting late. I should probably head home.”

Lisa followed her gaze, eyes flicking to the same clock, then back to Carla’s face. She nodded slightly. “Yeah, probably,” she said, but didn’t move. Her fingers remained wrapped around Carla’s, thumbs still resting in that familiar groove between their hands. She didn’t let go.

Another silence slipped in, but this one was heavier. Not uncomfortable but filled. Like a pause between verses, waiting for the next note to land. It hummed gently in the background, low and steady, as if the house itself was listening.

Carla looked down at their hands. Still joined. Still warm. Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle against the side of Lisa’s finger, and she exhaled through her nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.

“You could, erm…” Lisa began, her voice softer now. Tentative. “You could always stay.”

Carla blinked, startled by the suggestion. It had come so gently, almost like a thought spoken aloud by accident. She hadn’t considered the possibility. Hadn’t allowed herself to. Staying felt like stepping over a line neither of them had dared draw.

Lisa shifted in her seat, eyes flicking up briefly before she continued, words catching slightly as they left her mouth. “You can stay in the spare room,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. But the offer’s there. No pressure or anything.”

The words came out in a rush. A bit tangled, a bit uneven but the intent behind them was clear. Carla could hear it in the way Lisa kept her eyes low, in the way she gripped her hand just a little tighter at the end. Nervous, maybe. Vulnerable, definitely. But also, open. The idea landed between them like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward, quiet and deep.

Carla sat with it. Let it settle. She wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. Not with the air so softened. Not with Lisa’s hand still in hers.

“If you’re sure,” Carla said, the words barely above a whisper, as if speaking them too loudly might make them disappear.

Lisa nodded slowly. Her eyes, warm and steady now, met Carla’s. The corner of her mouth lifted. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure.”

Carla gave a small nod in return, something flickering in her eyes. Something quiet and grateful. Her thumb brushed lightly against Lisa’s hand, a small movement full of meaning. “Thank you.”

Lisa’s fingers tightened slightly in response, her touch warm and grounding. Then she nodded toward the other room, her voice soft. “Come on. Let’s at least get off these uncomfortable kitchen chairs.”

They released each other’s hands gently, the way you might set down something fragile. The loss of contact was immediate like the absence of a song that had been playing quietly in the background. Lisa flexed her fingers as if trying to chase the contact of Carla’s hand and then rose from her chair. She moved slowly, her joints stiff with the weight of the long day, and Carla followed close behind, her footsteps almost silent on the tiled floor.

The living room was dimly lit, the kind of soft, low glow that made everything feel a little slower, a little quieter. A single lamp on the side table cast a warm amber hue across the room, blurring the edges of furniture in gold. Shadows stretched lazily across the carpet, flickering faintly with every movement.

Lisa entered first, her steps unhurried, a hand grazing the back of the sofa for balance. She sat down with a soft exhale, curling one leg beneath her and leaning back into the cushions. Her shoulders sagged as she sank in, like tension she'd been holding in her body all day was finally allowed to melt away. Her head tilted back for a second, just resting there, eyes closing briefly. It was a quiet surrender, not to exhaustion, but to presence. To the here and now.

Carla crossed the room slowly, deliberately, her footsteps silent on the rug. When she lowered herself onto the sofa, she did it with a quiet caution. Not too close. But not far either. A deliberate middle ground. Close enough to feel Lisa’s warmth, far enough to respect the space between past hurt and present healing.

The silence stretched between them. But it wasn’t awkward or brittle. It was soft. Quietly sacred. The kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken, that let them both simply be together, and still.

Carla shifted slightly, the fabric of the sofa rustling beneath her, her shoulder brushing the edge of the cushion. She angled her body, just enough to see Lisa better. “I don’t know if I said this earlier,” she said, voice steady but low, “but I wanted to say thank you for being honest with me. It couldn’t have been easy for you.”

Lisa opened her eyes fully now, turning toward Carla. The lamplight caught in her irises, warming the soft brown into honey. Their knees were almost touching, a breath apart. “You don’t need to thank me,” she replied, voice calm, unflinching. “You deserved to know the truth.” She paused, eyes holding Carla’s. “I meant what I said, Carla. I really like you. Which means I want to share things with you. No matter how difficult they are.”

There was no rush to her words. Each one felt chosen, placed carefully in the space between them like stones across a stream, an invitation to cross without fear. Carla felt it. The sincerity, the quiet risk in that kind of openness. Her chest tightened, not painfully, but sharply. Like breath catching on something beautiful.

“Good,” she said softly, the word laced with something between relief and release. “Because I really like you too.”

A smile spread across both of their faces almost simultaneously, as if the words had unlocked something between them. It wasn’t wide or showy, but it was real. Honest. A quiet joy that settled in the room like dust in the sun.

“Come here,” Lisa said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She opened her arms gently, like an unlocked home.

Carla didn’t hesitate. She moved instantly, her body shifting as though it had been waiting for this invitation all along, drawn to the warmth of it. There was no second guessing, no more mental barriers or calculated steps – just the unspoken pull between them, irresistible and right. Her movements were unhurried but certain, the kind that came from knowing exactly what she needed in this moment.

She closed the distance between them, not awkwardly or tentatively, but with a quiet, assured grace. Her shoulder brushed against Lisa’s arm as she lowered herself to the couch, and the moment her body touched the soft cushions, she instinctively angled her body toward Lisa. Her shoulder tucked gently beneath Lisa’s arm, the subtle curve of her frame fitting naturally into the space that was left there. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like her body had been carved to fill that space, like it had always been meant to be there.

Lisa’s arm came around her without hesitation, the motion fluid and immediate. There was no second thought, no moment of doubt. Her arm wrapped around Carla, pulling her in with a gentle yet steady pressure that felt both grounding and protective. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t demanding or urgent. It was just a quiet anchor. Something to steady them both in the middle of the chaos that had been their evening.

The weight of her arm was calming, not just physically but emotionally, as if she were reassuring Carla, saying, It’s okay. You’re safe here. With me.

And then, there was silence. The kind of silence that invited them to settle into each other, to breathe into the space they shared. The kind that didn’t demand anything. No pressure to fill the space with words or gestures. It was the kind of quiet that simply allowed them to be, side by side, their bodies gradually relaxing into the comfort of one another’s presence.

The silence wrapped around them like the soft fall of dusk over a field, settling gently, enveloping them in warmth. There were no more questions, no more struggles or expectations. Just the simple, unspoken understanding that in this moment, they didn’t have to be anything other than who they were right now, together.

Carla closed her eyes for a beat, letting the rhythm of Lisa’s breathing soothe her. The air felt warmer in the small living room, the dim light from the lamp casting a golden haze over them. The quiet was complete, soft, thick, and filled with everything they had shared in the last few hours.

As much as Carla had told herself she would keep some distance, as much as she had believed she needed time and space to process everything that had been said and done, she realized, with a quiet breath, that she was already falling into the pull of Lisa.

She had told herself to stay distant, to guard herself against the closeness that came so naturally between them. But now, in this moment, she knew her resolve had been less about conviction and more about protection. Protection from something that might hurt her if she let herself give in too much.

But here, in this small living room lit by soft amber light, stitched together by a silence that had become a kind of comfort, she felt herself surrendering. The walls she had built were crumbling, crumbling fast, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop it. Not now. Not in this space, with Lisa’s warmth pressed against her and the quiet settling into her bones.

She was folding. She could feel it happening, the slow, inevitable unravelling of her defences. Already. Quickly. More quickly than she had expected.

And, strangely, she didn’t mind.

Not now. Not like this.

She wanted Lisa’s comfort. It wasn’t a question anymore, just an undeniable truth.

After a moment, Carla shifted slightly, turning her body toward Lisa, but keeping them connected. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. It was a subtle movement, just enough to let her face Lisa fully without breaking the quiet intimacy between them. She didn’t lean too far in, but kept herself close, her presence there as steady as the pulse of air between them.

“I used to love the attention, you know,” she said quietly, her voice almost a confession. The words fell from her mouth with a strange kind of heaviness, as if they had been waiting to be said for far longer than she realized. She spoke without hesitation, but with a carefulness that spoke of years of guarding herself. “The buzz, the interviews, the signings. The whole thing.”

She gave a small, dry laugh, a sound that was more resignation than humour. It wasn’t bitter, but it was stripped of the glamor she once attached to it. “I didn’t have the greatest life growing up. So, having people notice me... it felt amazing. I thought it meant I mattered.” The last part hung in the air like a weight, its truth unsettling yet undeniably real.

Lisa didn’t interrupt. She didn’t fill the space with words of comfort or platitudes. She just listened, fully and without judgment. Her hand remained around Carla’s arm, her thumb absent-mindedly tracing a light, comforting pattern along her sleeve. It wasn’t a need for words. It was just a quiet, grounding gesture. The message unspoken but clear: I’m here. Keep going, if you want to.

Carla’s gaze drifted to their hands. Her thumb brushed lightly along Lisa’s skin, a subtle connection, as if drawing strength from the warmth beneath her fingertips. There was something grounding in the contact, as if every time their skin touched, she was reminded that she wasn’t alone.

She spoke again, the words more deliberate this time, the quiet resolve in her voice something new, something she hadn’t expected. “I know you said earlier I didn’t need to explain anything to you. But I want to. Tell you more, I mean.” She hesitated, then pressed forward. “I shared a bit, but I want to tell you everything. I want to share things with you, no matter how difficult they are.” Carla mirrored Lisa’s earlier words back to her. She held Lisa’s gaze, watching her carefully, hoping her eyes would show that this wasn’t just a reflex. It wasn’t just an echo of what Lisa had said. This was choice. This was trust, offered freely.

Lisa didn’t speak right away. Instead, her hand found Carla’s, their fingers intertwining as if this simple touch could carry the weight of everything unsaid. Her squeeze was gentle, but firm, grounding in a way that didn’t need words. It said everything that needed to be said in that moment: I’m here with you. I’ll hold this with care.

“Okay,” Lisa said, her voice soft but firm, warm but resolute. It was the kind of acceptance that felt like a promise. There was no rush to her response, no push for Carla to share more before she was ready. Just a quiet understanding.

Carla nodded slightly, her breath steadying as she drew in a deep inhale. “I was young and naive,” she continued, her eyes drifting to the space ahead, focusing on something distant as if the words themselves were hard to hold. “But I believed people would still see me for me, you know?” She let out a breath, almost a sigh, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips but not quite reaching her eyes.

“But they didn’t. My so-called friends used me for money, and when I wouldn’t buy them things anymore… they just vanished. No texts. No calls. Just silence.” The words carried a sting, but Carla didn’t shy away from it. She let herself feel it. She let the silence settle between them, the space where the memories lay, heavy and unacknowledged for too long.

Her voice wavered for a brief moment, but she steadied herself again. “Everyone thinks they know everything about me because of social media. But it takes things from you. Your privacy. Your quiet. Your ability to make mistakes without someone watching and recording and judging.” She looked away, the weight of the truth pressing down on her chest as if it was a physical burden.

Her jaw tightened as she swallowed hard, a small hitch in her throat as she tried to push through the discomfort. “And the longer you’re in it, the less you get to be a person. You stop being someone. You start being content. A product.”

Her exhale was slow, deliberate, almost like she was releasing the last bit of tension she had been carrying. “And that’s without even getting into the pressure. For your next story, your next post, your next version of yourself to be more exciting than the last.” Her voice dropped to a murmur, quiet but heavy. “I was so tired of it all.” Her words hung in the air, and then she whispered, almost to herself, “I still am.”

Lisa nodded slowly, her brows knitting together as she absorbed everything Carla had said. The words didn’t need fixing. They didn’t need to be filled with empty reassurance. Lisa didn’t offer solutions or advice. She just let the weight of Carla’s confession sit with them both, letting the silence speak for her. “Must have been lonely,” Lisa said, her voice simple, uncomplicated, but full of understanding.

Carla’s gaze shifted toward her, surprised by the simplicity of the response and, in a strange way, how right it felt. There was no pity in Lisa’s voice, no judgment. Just truth. Simple and real.

“Yeah,” Carla said, her voice cracking just slightly. “Yeah, it was.”

Lisa gave her hand another gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation of her presence, her support. A steadying force. “And that’s why you came here?” Lisa asked, her voice still soft but laced with curiosity, understanding.

Carla nodded, her head leaning into Lisa’s side, the motion almost unconscious now. “I wasn’t meant to stay this long. I only went to clear my head for a few days. Get out of the city. Out of my head.” She paused, the words trailing off as she hesitated, then added softly, “But then I met you and…” She let out a small breath, her voice quieter now. “Well, I wanted to stay.”

Lisa’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles, a quiet one that didn’t need to be big to carry all the emotion behind it. Her eyes softened as she looked down at Carla, her gaze warm, sincere. “I’m glad you did.”

Carla let herself rest fully against Lisa now, her forehead brushing lightly against Lisa’s collarbone. The motion was soft, slow, like she was finally allowing herself to sink into the comfort she had longed for. “I’m glad I did too.”

She didn’t say more after that. She didn’t need to. The words had all been spoken. The explanations and reassurances were gone, replaced by something far more important – understanding. A softness between them that hadn’t existed since the argument, had quietly returned. Real. Earned.

They were in a good place.

Not perfect. Not finished.

But understood.

There was no lingering tension between them now. Just the quiet certainty that whatever had been unspoken before was no longer an obstacle. They were in a space of mutual understanding, an unvoiced connection that made them both feel grounded. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was real. They didn’t have to rush into the next conversation, the next question, the next answer. Just being was enough for now.

Eventually, Carla let her head drop back against Lisa’s shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of it as the gentle curve of Lisa’s arm settled around her. The warmth from Lisa’s body seemed to seep into hers, pulling away the last traces of tension. Every inch of her body softened as she let herself melt into the comfort of Lisa’s presence. She sighed, her breath slow and steady as her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of exhaustion. The day, with all its noise and chaos, seemed to slip away like water down a drain, leaving only the quiet hum of the moment behind.

Her eyes closed for a brief moment, the dark lids settling over her gaze like a curtain falling to signal the end of a long performance. A small yawn escaped her lips, unguarded and soft, like the stretch of muscles after a long, restful sleep. She wasn’t trying to be anything she wasn’t. She was simply being.

“You’re knackered,” Lisa observed quietly, her voice laced with that tender warmth. It was said with a touch of humour, a soft acknowledgment of Carla’s exhaustion, like a quiet recognition of how much she’d been carrying, how much weight she had been holding in silence.

Carla cracked one eye open, her body still slow and languid from the softness of the moment. The dim light from the hallway filtered through the crack in the door, casting a warm, golden hue across Lisa’s face. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, barely a smile, but enough to convey a quiet, sleepy amusement. “A bit,” she murmured, her voice thick with drowsiness, the words tumbling out like a gentle sigh. The admission felt simple but significant, and there was comfort in that, in the fact that she wasn’t pretending, wasn’t trying to put on any mask. She wasn’t anything more than tired and grateful. Not tonight.

Lisa watched her for a beat, the softness in her gaze never wavering. She didn’t need to say more. It wasn’t about fixing anything. No, it was enough just to be with her, to let Carla exist in this space of unspoken understanding.

After a moment, Lisa slowly pulled away, standing with a soft, measured grace. There was no rush in her movements, no urgency. Her body shifted with a quiet gentleness, as though she were aware of the way Carla’s body still needed a few more seconds to settle into the quiet comfort they’d created. Like a flower that needed time to unfurl its petals.

“Come on then,” Lisa said with an easy, unhurried smile, her voice low and steady, pulling Carla’s attention back to the present. “Let’s get you to bed. Spare room’s this way.”

Carla nodded, her body feeling heavier now, the weight of the night settling deeper within her bones. Every step she took toward the stairs seemed to pull her further into the comfort of Lisa’s home, further into the quiet space that seemed to cocoon her in safety.

The staircase creaked under their feet as they began to ascend, each step carrying them further from the noise of the world below. The soft groan of the old wood was almost rhythmic, a comforting sound that blended seamlessly with the quiet of the night. It wasn’t an unwelcome sound; it felt familiar, grounding. The creaking seemed to match the slow, steady beat of Carla’s heart, each step bringing them closer to a place of rest. A place where silence wasn’t heavy with expectations but light, forgiving, and free.

At the top of the stairs, Lisa paused and nodded toward the door on the right. “Spare room’s through here,” she said in that same quiet tone, the one that seemed to resonate with the stillness of the house. She flicked the light on, and the soft glow of the lamp spilled into the room, revealing a space that felt as though it had been waiting for Carla, waiting for this moment, this need for quiet and rest.

The bed was neatly made, the sheets tucked in with a care that spoke of simple, homely comfort. The crisp white fabric was softened with the faint scent of lavender, the soap on the linens mixing with the cool breeze drifting in from the slightly open window. The air was fresh, but still a delicate balance between warmth and coolness that seemed to echo the tone of the night. A small bedside table sat beside the bed, adorned with a few books, a lamp. The small details that made the room feel more lived in and less like a hotel room. It was a room meant to welcome someone, not just as a guest, but as someone who was meant to feel at home.

“Wait here,” Lisa said, her voice soft but purposeful as she turned toward her own room. “I’ll go get you some clothes to change into.”

Carla hesitated at the threshold, standing just inside the doorway for a moment. Her eyes moved slowly around the room, taking in the small details. She wasn’t sure if she should step fully inside or wait in the hallway. But as she took in the soft glow of the light, the quiet warmth of the space, something in her released, and she stepped forward. The room seemed to invite her in, to wrap her in its comfort, urging her to make herself at home.

Lisa returned quickly, holding out a pair of soft, faded pyjama bottoms and an old, oversized T-shirt. She handed them to Carla with a gentle smile, as though the act of giving was just as natural as the quiet intimacy of the moment. “The bottoms might be a bit short on you, but it should be fine for the night,” Lisa added with a small chuckle, her tone warm and easy, the humour light and unforced.

Carla smiled faintly, the expression tired but sincere. She took the clothes from Lisa with a small, appreciative nod, the fabric soft in her hands. There was something about them: the softness, the worn edges, the faint smell of laundry detergent and the faint imprint of familiarity. It felt like a gift, not just in the sense of clothing, but in the way it made her feel cared for, looked after. Something as simple as a pair of pyjamas carried weight, and in that moment, Carla realized how much she had missed the small, quiet gestures of care.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice soft as she looked up at Lisa, her gaze lingering a moment longer than usual. She wasn’t just thanking her for the pyjamas. That much was clear. She was thanking her for everything: the care Lisa had shown, the patience, the space to speak freely without judgment. It was a quiet, wholehearted kind of gratitude, the kind that sat somewhere in the chest and swelled with each beat of the heart.

Lisa offered a soft smile in return, something warm and unguarded flickering in her expression; an understanding that didn’t need to be put into words. “There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet in the bathroom,” Lisa said, her voice light but practical as she gestured toward the hallway. “Toothpaste too. It’s just across the hall. Sorry, this room doesn’t have an ensuite.”

The apology came automatically, habitual, but the sincerity in Lisa’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. It was a simple thing, but Carla appreciated it; that Lisa still cared about the little details, still wanted her to feel comfortable here.

Carla raised an eyebrow, letting a teasing smirk rise to her lips. The tiredness hadn’t fully disappeared, but the spark behind her eyes had returned, even if only for a moment. “Oh no,” she said, mock-dramatic. “I have to use the main bathroom? What a disaster.”

Lisa let out a quiet laugh, a gentle huff of amusement. The sound loosened something between them, softened the lingering weight in the air.

“Why do you have a spare bedroom anyway?” Carla asked, more curious than teasing now, her tone lighter as she tilted her head. “Thought it was just you and Betsy.”

Lisa’s face softened immediately at the mention of her daughter. A fond, almost wistful smile tugged at her mouth, and the warmth in her eyes deepened. “It is,” she said, her voice gentle. “But little miss popular used to have her friends over all the time when she was in school. So, we converted the office into another bedroom.” She paused; a touch of emotion caught in the back of her throat “I wanted to do anything to make her happy after Becks.”

The way she said it was quiet, but full of love. The kind that ran deep and steady, built not just on obligation but devotion. You could hear it in the way she spoke of Betsy: the pride, the effort, the fierce tenderness of a mother who had always tried her best. Carla’s chest swelled at the honesty of it, at the sheer gentleness that Lisa carried beneath all her strength. “You’re a good mum,” she said, without hesitation. “Betsy’s lucky to have you.”

Lisa blinked, her eyes flicking downward for a beat as her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. The compliment landed somewhere tender, somewhere she wasn’t used to being seen. She gave a shy, almost bashful smile, her voice quiet as she replied, “Thanks.”

It was just one word, but Carla felt its weight, the way it was laced with surprise and appreciation, as if Lisa wasn’t used to hearing it. Or maybe not used to believing it.

Lisa hesitated for a second, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge of the wood as though grounding herself there. “I’ll, er… leave you to get changed,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’ll be back once I’ve done the same.”

Carla nodded, her expression softening. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks again, Lisa.”

Lisa gave her one last small smile, then disappeared across the hall. The soft click of her door closing was barely audible over the hush that had settled across the house.

Carla changed slowly, peeling off the layers of the day one by one. Her own clothes were folded with care and placed neatly on the chair in the corner, almost like a quiet ritual of leaving the weight of everything behind. The pyjama bottoms were, as Lisa had warned, a bit short on her legs, but they were soft and worn-in in the best way, fabric that had been softened over time. The oversized T-shirt enveloped her completely, its hem brushing her thighs. It was the kind of shirt that someone had reached for again and again. Comfort made tangible.

She smiled faintly to herself, rubbing her hands over the cotton. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and had the faintest trace of Lisa’s perfume, like a memory lingering in the air.

She slipped across the hallway, brushing her teeth quickly but methodically, the familiarity of the small act strangely comforting. When she turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the spare room, it felt like she was returning to something already hers. She climbed into the bed, pulling the cool, crisp sheets up to her chin, and exhaled.

The quiet wrapped around her like a blanket, soft, not stifling. The kind of silence that let her breathe. Her thoughts didn’t race tonight. They moved gently, drifting like slow-moving clouds across a calm sky. For once, she didn’t feel like she had to brace for the next storm. Her eyes grew heavier with each passing moment, her body sinking deeper into the mattress. She let herself rest. Fully. Completely.

She must’ve drifted off, just barely, because she didn’t register the fact that Lisa had returned at first.

There was a gentle knock on the doorframe, barely a sound, but enough to stir her from the edge of sleep. Carla blinked, her mind foggy with exhaustion.

Lisa had returned to the room, now in her own pyjamas, hair loosely tied back in a messy bun, her features soft and glowing in the warm lamplight. Her eyes landed on Carla’s form, curled on her side, blanket pulled up, and something in her expression shifted. It was like watching someone exhale a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.

She stepped into the room slowly, her footsteps light on the floorboards. She didn’t want to disturb the peace that had settled, just wanted to be close. Lisa lingered at the edge of the bed, her gaze resting on Carla’s sleeping face, the relaxed curve of her mouth, the calm in her brow. The peace that hadn’t been there hours ago was now etched softly across her expression. Lisa felt something warm bloom in her chest. A quiet ache, but the good kind. The kind that said this matters.

Leaning down, she pressed a feather-light kiss to Carla’s cheek: gentle, brief, reverent.

“Goodnight, love,” she whispered, the words tucked into the dark like a secret meant only for Carla.

Carla stirred, just a little, her eyes fluttering open halfway. She didn’t fully wake. “’Night,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, before turning over and burrowing deeper beneath the covers.

Lisa lingered for another second, her heart full, then slipped back into the hallway. The house welcomed her again with its quiet hush. The bedroom felt a little cooler now, the air brushing gently against her bare arms as she turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a hush of shadow.

She slid beneath the covers, the sheets cool against her legs, the cotton crisp and smooth. The pillow welcomed her like an old friend – the familiar dip where her head always landed, the faint scent of home clinging to the linen. It was the kind of comfort that asked for nothing, that simply existed like the walls of the house, like the stillness of the night.

For a moment, Lisa simply lay there, still, her breathing shallow and even as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. She stared at the ceiling first, the outline of it faint in the dark, her mind humming with the weight of the day. Not in a restless way, but quietly, like the last few notes of a song hanging in the air.

She hadn’t expected Carla to stay. Not really.

Not after everything. Not with how uncertain it had all felt just hours ago. She’d told herself not to expect anything and yet…

Carla had stayed.

And something in Lisa eased with that truth. Something in her chest loosened, the tension slowly unwinding as if her heart had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.

She turned onto her side, the duvet rustling softly with the movement, and her eyes found the faintest sliver of light spilling beneath the bedroom door. Just a narrow strip of golden glow left from the hallway lamp they hadn’t turned off. It didn’t quite reach her bed, didn’t light up much, just a soft line across the floorboards, but it was enough.

It was enough to remind her.

The spare room down the hall wasn’t empty tonight. It wasn’t just a room with neatly made sheets and quiet air. It held something more now. Warmth, presence. Carla.

And that changed everything.

Lisa lay there for a while longer, her gaze steady on the light. It flickered slightly when the house settled – wood expanding, creaking in its bones – and she smiled faintly at the sound. This house, this life, had seen so many versions of her. And now, it was seeing another. A version that still believed in connection, even after hurt. A version that hoped.

They were fixing things.

And Lisa could feel it. That whatever existed between them hadn’t broken entirely. It had bent, yes. But it wasn’t broken.

They were still something. More than just friends. They had something real. Something they were choosing again. With gentleness. With intention.

And Lisa knew, deep in her bones, that it was worth holding onto.

Chapter Text

Carla stirred at the sound of something clinking. It sounded soft, domestic, distant. A cupboard door, maybe. The quiet hum of a kettle starting to boil. There was a rhythm to it, a quiet pulse of someone else’s morning unfolding nearby, wrapped in the unspoken comfort of routine. A world already in motion, even as she was still half-held in the embrace of sleep.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, lashes sticking together. Her limbs felt heavy, almost sunken into the mattress, the kind of sleep that had arrived not out of sheer exhaustion, but out of something deeper. Relief. A surrender. Her body, worn thin by too many sharp words, too many silences, had finally let go.

The ceiling above her wasn’t familiar. Not her own. Not a hotel. It was off-white, a little scuffed, with an uneven swirl pattern. There was a fine crack branching out from the corner near the window like a hairline fracture, something easily missed unless you were lying still, staring up. The curtains were drawn but thin, and the light filtering through was soft and pale, tinged with morning gold. It was the kind of light that suggested everything was just beginning.

There was a faint scent of lavender in the air, something clean and soft that lingered in the sheets. Not overpowering, but unmistakable. It wasn’t just fabric softener. It was Lisa. That scent had quietly attached itself to her in Carla’s mind, woven into hoodies, filling her lungs when they sat far too close to each other. Lisa’s clothes always smelled like lavender: calm, familiar, and oddly grounding.

And with it came the memory. Sharp and sudden, like something pulled from beneath the surface. The scent anchoring her, unlocking everything. The memory snapping into focus, sharper than before.

Clearing her head. Going on a walk to escape the weight in her chest. The rhythmic crunch of gravel under her trainers as she moved without destination. The cold night air biting at her cheeks, painting her skin with wind and uncertainty. Her hands buried deep in her coat pockets; fists clenched around nothing. The quiet ache of being alone. Then, turning toward something familiar. Her feet taking her there before her brain could fully object.

Arriving at Lisa’s. The conversations that took place. The one at the kitchen and then the one at the sofa. Low and careful, with blankets pulled around their knees and the distant hum of the fridge as the only background noise. They talked. Not in circles, not defensively. Honestly. Quietly. Words heavy with meaning but light in tone. The nearness of their knees, the occasional brush of fingers, the way Lisa didn’t look away. That had been everything. And now…

She was in Lisa’s house.

The spare room.

They hadn’t wanted to leave each other.

A small smile crept across her face before she could think twice about it. The kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest. Last night had been unexpected. She hadn’t planned to come over. Hadn’t even texted ahead. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she turned back up at Lisa’s after the argument. Probably distance, maybe polite sympathy. But what she got was warmth. Presence. Willingness. They’d both said things that needed saying: quietly, carefully, but they’d said them.

And Carla hadn’t expected to feel this settled afterward, but she did. Settled in a way that wasn’t about the bed or the house or even the borrowed pyjamas. It was Lisa. Lisa’s steadiness. Lisa’s willingness to let her stay. The quiet assurance in her voice when she said, “You could always stay.”

Everything wasn’t perfect. And Carla was beginning to learn that being perfect was okay. That being perfect, always saying the right thing, doing the right thing, never making mistakes, wasn’t what made something worth holding onto. Maybe it was okay to stumble. To take time. To double back and try again. That things didn’t need to be perfect as long as people learn and grow and are willing to put in the work to make things right. To make things better. That love, real, sustaining love, could be messy and honest and brave all at once.

She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, padding softly across the room. The floor was cool beneath her feet, the wooden boards smooth but chilled from the night. The cool air brushed against her arms, and she hugged herself briefly, letting the oversized T-shirt fall lower around her thighs as she stepped out into the hallway, the faint sounds growing louder now. The soft tap of a spoon against a bowl, the creak of floorboards settling under someone’s weight.

As she stepped into the hallway, a quiet stillness met her. The kind of stillness that was alive with sound. Not silence, exactly, but softness. The distant tap of a spoon against a bowl. The occasional creak of the old floorboards. The hush of the kettle building to a low rumble. The house felt lived-in, warm at the edges, like it had already been up for an hour or two.

As she reached the doorway to the kitchen, Carla paused, just for a moment, like stepping into something sacred.

Lisa was standing by the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. She hadn’t seen Carla yet. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, lazy twist, a few strands curling around her face like they’d escaped during sleep. She was wearing soft pyjamas: faded cotton bottoms and that old hoodie with the band logo that was now barely legible, cracked and worn with too many washes. The way she stood, hip slightly cocked against the counter, both hands wrapped around her favourite mug like she was soaking in its warmth, it tugged something quiet and tender in Carla’s chest.

At the table, Betsy sat cross-legged in one of the chairs, a half-empty box of cereal perched in front of her and her phone propped against a water glass. She was eating in that distracted teenage way. Methodically, spoon rising and falling like it was on autopilot, while scrolling through something that barely registered on her face. Her hair was a little damp, sticking out at odd angles like it had air-dried in a rush, and she wore an oversized hoodie that read Class of 2022 in peeling white letters across the chest.

Carla hovered in the doorway, uncertain for a second. Not because she wasn’t welcome, but because everything suddenly felt so intimate. Like she’d stepped into a snapshot she wasn’t sure she belonged in. She wasn’t sure whether to walk in or say something first, but before she could decide, Lisa glanced up (maybe sensing her) and met her gaze. Her smile was small, still sleep-soft, but warm. “Morning,” she said, her voice low and steady with that gentle, unhurried calm that always seemed to settle things.

Carla stepped fully into the room. “Morning.”

At the table, Betsy paused mid-spoonful. Her gaze flicked up slowly, eyes scanning Carla. The oversized T-shirt, the pyjama bottoms that didn’t quite reach her ankles. Then shifting briefly to Lisa, and back again. There was a beat of silence. A single brow arched, just a millimetre, then she returned to her cereal like nothing had happened.

Carla felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Not sharp embarrassment, exactly, more like the warm awareness of being seen. Clearly Betsy didn’t know she was staying over. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. And to her quiet relief, Lisa didn’t rush in to cover the moment with noise or explanation either. She simply turned back to the counter, as calm as ever, and asked casually, “Want a cuppa?”

Carla nodded, grateful for the normalcy of the question. “Yeah. Coffee, please.” She paused, glancing down at her empty hands. “I just left my phone in the room. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Lisa said, already reaching for the jar of coffee.

Carla padded back out into the hall, her footsteps soft against the cool wood of the floorboards. The air was colder here, away from the kitchen’s gentle warmth, brushing along her bare arms and legs with a quiet bite that raised the fine hairs on her skin. She wrapped her arms loosely around herself, the oversized T-shirt shifting against her as she moved. Behind her, the scent of toast and brewing coffee lingered like a tether – faint, comforting, domestic. A reminder of where she was. Of who was waiting.

The hallway creaked softly as she passed, the familiar groan of old timber under careful steps. The morning felt delicate, like something still forming.

As soon as she was gone, Betsy glanced up from her cereal with a dry sort of calm, her spoon mid-air, her tone laced with that matter-of-fact teenage sharpness. “So… she stayed. Things went well then?”

Lisa didn’t look over. Her attention stayed on the kettle as she poured hot water into the mugs, steam rising in gentle coils between them. Her movements were smooth, unhurried. The kind of practiced rhythm that came from years of doing things with quiet purpose. “In the spare room.”

Betsy arched a brow, resting her spoon in the bowl with a soft clink. “So things didn’t go well.”

Lisa let out a short, almost soundless laugh through her nose. Not quite amused, not quite dismissive. The kind of sound that acknowledged truth, but also complexity. “They did. Eventually. We talked. Properly this time.”

“Right.” Betsy leaned back slightly in her chair, posture casual but eyes sharp, watching her mum with that uncanny teenage ability to cut through adult deflection. “So why does it feel like you’re trying not to look too happy about it?”

Lisa finally glanced over, her eyes steady, expression careful but not closed. “Because I’m not rushing anything. We talked. We’re in a better place. That’s all.”

There was a beat. Betsy didn’t press, just tilted her head, a knowing smirk tugging faintly at the edge of her mouth. “Right. And that’s why she’s wearing one of your favourite T-shirts and a pair of your pyjama bottoms.”

Lisa turned back to the kettle; her movement smooth but telling. A tiny shake of her head, the kind that tried to dismiss but didn’t quite make it convincing. Still, there was the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Barely there, but enough. A betraying smile, reluctant but warm, flickering before she could rein it in. “It was the only clean thing that would fit her. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Betsy replied, tone light, lifting her spoon again with performative innocence. “I’m just observing.”

There was a brief silence. It wasn’t tense, but full. The kind of pause that felt like something had shifted slightly, like dust settling in a beam of sunlight.

Lisa finished making the coffee, her movements quiet and practiced. The clink of spoons against ceramic echoed gently through the kitchen, filling the space with the soft, grounding sounds of morning. The steam from the kettle drifting into the air, the fridge humming quietly in the background, the low rustle of Betsy’s sleeve as she leaned on the table.

The kitchen, with its worn wooden counters and slightly chipped mugs, felt lived-in. Familiar. Safe. A space that had seen difficult mornings and laughter-soaked afternoons and now, this new kind of quiet. The kind that came after something real.

Betsy watched her mum over the rim of her cereal bowl, her tone losing its edge. Softer now. More sincere. “It’s just… it’s nice, you know. Seeing you like this. Different, but not in a bad way.”

Lisa paused, her hands stilling around the mug she’d just finished stirring. She didn’t look up immediately. Just slid the milk across the counter, her brow knitting ever so slightly. “Like what?”

Betsy shrugged one shoulder, the spoon still in her hand, though she wasn’t eating now. “I dunno. Lighter. Less... wound up. Like your shoulders aren’t always somewhere around your ears.”

Lisa exhaled. Not quite a sigh, but close. A breath let out like she hadn’t realised she’d been holding it. “It’s early days.”

“I know.” Betsy scooped another spoonful and crunched down on it with casual certainty. Then, between bites, added, “Just saying. You like her. She likes you. Don’t overcomplicate things.”

Lisa let out a small, reluctant laugh. She leaned her hip against the counter, holding the mug in both hands now. “You’re very mature for someone eating Frosties at half past nine.”

Betsy grinned, unfazed. “You’ve got to stay grounded. Can’t go around being emotionally perceptive and eating boring foods like porridge. It’s too much.”

Lisa chuckled, and the sound was different. Not guarded, not polite. It was real. Soft. Fond. A little surprised by itself. She reached for the milk again, a small smile still clinging to her face. “Well, your wisdom is noted.”

Carla returned a few minutes later, phone in hand, hair finger-combed into some semblance of order. Her fingers worked absently over the screen, as if scrolling helped delay full wakefulness. She looked more alert now. Her eyes clearer, her steps surer but the edges of sleep still clung to her, softening her in the way early mornings do. There was a looseness in the way she carried herself, like her guard hadn’t yet found its way back on. The sleeves of Lisa’s T-shirt hung long past her elbows, brushing her wrists, and the cotton pyjama bottoms rode just a little too high on her ankles, bunched and casual.

A thin stripe of morning light streamed through the hallway window behind her, catching her as she moved. It touched the edge of her hair, the curve of her cheek, and gilded the fabric of her borrowed clothes in gold. She looked almost suspended in that light for a moment. Like she was still stitching herself back together from the night before.

Lisa passed her the mug of coffee without a word. Their fingers brushed in the handoff, and something quiet passed between them. Just a flicker of warmth and recognition. A small smile tugged at both their mouths, unspoken but mutual, a signal that whatever had begun the night before was still intact in the morning light.

Carla took the mug with both hands, cradling it gratefully as she slid into the seat opposite Betsy at the table. The steam curled up into her face, fragrant and grounding, and she closed her eyes for just a second, letting the heat seep into her fingers.

“Morning again,” Carla said with a small grin, her voice still hoarse with sleep, like the day hadn’t fully taken hold of her yet.

Betsy looked up briefly from her cereal, her gaze flicking from Carla’s face down to the oversized T-shirt hanging loosely off her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Nice shirt.”

Carla followed her gaze and tugged lightly at the hem, a small smirk tugging at her mouth. “Lisa gave it to me,” she said, then added, glancing down at herself, “It’s comfortable.”

Betsy gave a slow, knowing nod, spoon held mid-air. “Classic move.”

Carla frowned, tilting her head, genuinely curious now. “What is?”

Betsy opened her mouth to reply, the start of some dry, teenage wisdom already forming but Lisa cut her off before a syllable could land.

“There’s toast, if you’re hungry,” Lisa said quickly, the words a little too brisk, like they were thrown in to plug a leak in the conversation. She slid into the seat beside her daughter, setting her own mug down on the table with a soft clink. Her movements were practiced, casual, but Carla noticed the slight tension in the way Lisa avoided her gaze. The way she reached for her mug a beat too quickly, as if hoping it might distract from whatever had just been left unsaid.

Betsy didn’t miss a beat. She reached for a slice of toast immediately, as if she’d been waiting for the excuse. “You know it’s rude to cut people off,” she said, the words delivered with that effortless teenage deadpan, but there was a flicker of mischief in her eyes. She was enjoying herself.

Carla blinked between them, bemused, a half-smile already playing at her lips. “What am I missing?”

Lisa’s response came too fast, too flat. “Nothing important.”

Carla’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the amusement never left her face. “If you say so,” she murmured, letting it go (for now) and took a long sip of her coffee. The warmth seeped into her fingers, her chest, her stomach. She could feel herself settling, like sediment finally drifting to the bottom of a glass of water. Not quite anchored yet but getting there.

She leaned back slightly in the chair, wrapping her hands more firmly around the mug. The ceramic was warm, grounding. Morning light spilled in through the half-open curtain above the kitchen sink, washing everything in a soft gold. It made the surface of the table glow and lit up the steam curling from the mugs. The dull silver edge of the butter knife gleamed where it caught the light. Lisa’s hair, still a little messy at the edges, strands escaping her bun, shimmered faintly where the sun caught it. There was a stillness to the room, not silent, but gently humming, like the house itself was breathing slow and steady beneath the morning routine.

Lisa tilted her head toward the table, a wordless nudge, and Carla caught the gesture easily.

“I could eat,” she said, already rising forward to grab a slice of toast. Her fingers brushed the edge of the plate, then paused briefly over the choices. She picked one that was still warm, slightly crisped on one side. She bit in without fanfare, the simple comfort of butter and bread hitting exactly right.

The next few minutes unfolded with a rhythm that felt older than it was. Not forced or performed, but natural. The kind of rhythm people slip into when they’re comfortable, or at least willing to try being comfortable. When silences don’t need to be filled, and small, familiar movements can speak louder than conversation.

Carla reached for the butter, her motions unhurried. The knife glided across the toast with a soft scrape, then dipped into the jar of strawberry jam, its lid already loosened. Lisa, across the table, refilled her tea without asking if anyone else wanted some. It wasn’t out of rudeness, but because it wasn’t needed. The rules here, if there were any, were quiet ones. Spoons clinked against cereal bowls, rhythmic and steady. Betsy stirred what was left in hers even though she wasn’t eating it anymore, the spoon dragging lazy circles as she half-listened to the radio.

The sound of it, that familiar murmur of a morning host chatting through local news and half-hearted jokes, filled the quiet in a gentle, almost forgettable way. It was background noise, but it added something, like the sonic equivalent of steam curling from a mug or the ticking of a kitchen clock. The tail end of a song faded out, and a new voice came on. Something low and easy, with a laugh that trailed off into the jingle of an ad. No one really listened, but no one turned it off, either. It belonged to the morning now.

On the edge of the table sat a bowl of banana slices, slightly browning at the edges but still good. No one had touched them yet. A jar of honey, its lid sticking ever so slightly from dried drips, leaned near the butter dish. The label had started to peel, its corners curled up from use, revealing the sticky glass beneath. Carla noticed it absently as she reached past it for her mug. Little things. Lived-in things.

There was something unspoken between the three of them. Not silence, exactly, but a shared ease. A permission to exist without spectacle.

And maybe that was what made it feel so remarkable.

Something had shifted overnight. Not loudly, not dramatically, but gently. Quietly. Like a tide changing direction. And now they were sitting in its wake, surrounded by ordinary things that suddenly felt like anchors. This wasn’t a moment borrowed out of crisis or convenience anymore. It was becoming something else. Something rooted.

It was nice. Familiar, even. The kind of morning that didn’t shout about itself. If Carla let herself close her eyes, even for just a heartbeat, she could almost believe this was what every morning looked like. Not a fluke. Not a one-off.

She curled her hands more firmly around that mug, grounding herself in the heat it offered. The coffee was already cooling, but she didn’t mind. Her legs were tucked under the chair now, her posture more relaxed than it had been all morning. Her body, it seemed, was starting to believe in the safety of this moment. In the possibility of this becoming something real.

The silence stretched, gentle and unbothered, until Lisa shifted in her chair. A soft clink of spoon against porcelain, followed by the delicate sound of tea being sipped.

“So,” Lisa said finally, her voice warm but deliberate, “any plans for today?”

Carla glanced over, startled not by the question but by how easy it was to answer. She had to finish chewing her toast before she spoke. “Not really,” she said, brushing a few crumbs from her fingers. “Though I probably should get some clothes. If I’m staying for a while.” She gave a small smile, part apology, part invitation. “I didn’t exactly come prepared for an extended stay, and I can’t live out of your laundry basket.”

Betsy smirked without looking up. “Why not? Seems to be working for you.”

Carla let out a quiet laugh, the kind that fluttered out before she could stop it. She glanced down at the oversized T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, tugging playfully at the hem. “Not sure your mum wants me cycling through her wardrobe.”

Lisa raised a single eyebrow, eyes over the rim of her mug. “Tempting,” she said, dryly. “But no. Besides nothing would fit properly.”

Across the table, Betsy straightened slightly, her cereal bowl now more milk than cereal, the last soggy pieces floating in half-hearted circles. She rested her elbows on the edge of the table, eyes flicking between the two adults with something close to mischief glinting in them. “Well, in that case, if you’re going shopping…we might as well come with you. I could use some new stuff.”

Lisa didn’t even blink. She gave her daughter a look so practiced it barely required effort. A subtle lift of the brow, a tilt of the head, the kind of parental response honed through years of nonsense. It was the look that said really? without saying anything at all. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do Mum,” Betsy said with mock indignation, gesturing to the hoodie she was wearing like she was revealing some grave injustice. “Look at this thing. It’s from 2022. That’s practically vintage.”

Lisa deadpanned. “That’s your leaver’s hoodie.”

“And?” Betsy replied, unfazed, spoon wagging in her hand like a pointer in a courtroom drama. “It’s faded. The logo’s peeling. The cuffs have holes. I’m practically an artefact at this point.”

Lisa’s mouth twitched. “And besides, you’re heading back to your student flat tonight. You won’t want to lug a bunch of bags back on top of your suitcase.”

“That’s why the old stuff gets left here,” Betsy said, tone dry but pointed. As if she were explaining cutting-edge sustainability to a climate-denier. “It’s called rotating your wardrobe, Mother.”

Carla couldn’t help it. She laughed into her coffee, the sound bursting out before she could swallow it. It was real and warm, tinged with something unguarded. The kind of laugh that tugged a little at her chest because it had been a while since laughter felt this easy.

“Honestly?” she said, her smile lingering as she wiped at the corner of her mouth with the side of her thumb. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Lisa leaned back in her chair, easing into it like the conversation had unknotted something in her spine. Her mug was warm in her hands, the ceramic resting against her lip, her breath stirring the steam that curled lazily from it. She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, her gaze shifted. First to Betsy, who already looked like she was mentally rewriting her day to include shoe stores and iced coffees and then to Carla. Carla, who sat with one leg tucked under her, body angled sideways in the chair like she’d always sat there.

Something about the sight: quiet, domestic, a little undone, stirred something in Lisa’s chest. Made her fill full, a little more complete. Like a drawer you had to close gently, so it didn’t spill.

She let out a slow breath, the kind you don’t realise you’ve been holding. Not reluctant, not resistant. Just aware. Present in a way that was both cautious and steady.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Reluctant only in the way that anything meaningful feels a little too big to carry without effort. “Fine,” she said at last, giving in with a faint roll of her eyes. “But I’m not carrying any of your bags, Bets.”

“Deal,” Betsy grinned, triumphant, her spoon clinking as she dropped it back into the cereal bowl with finality. There was a glint of teenage glee in her eyes. The satisfaction of a small win, even if the stakes were low.

Lisa pointed a finger at her, mock stern. “And I draw the line at any shop that smells overbearingly of scented candles. Oh, and if there are any neon signs with motivational quotes like Live, Love, Laugh I’m walking out.

“No promises,” Carla said, grinning into her mug, her tone edged with gentle mischief. Her eyes met Lisa’s over the rim, and something sparked quietly there.

“It’s Live, Laugh, Love,” Betsy corrected gravely, as if the order mattered more than anything else, her words muffled through the last bit of her breakfast.

Lisa gave a small shake of her head, but there was no real dismissal in it. Just the soft, amused resignation of a full home again. A feeling that she wasn’t sure she was ever going to be able to experience again. She may be outnumbered in her own kitchen, but she didn’t mind. Her smile lingered, unforced, settled into the corners of her face like it had been waiting there all along. The kind of smile that didn’t try too hard. The kind that just was.

They returned to their breakfast without fanfare. Carla reached for another slice of toast and spread the butter a little slower this time, like there was no rush. Betsy drained the last of her cereal milk with a slurp that would’ve earned her a warning on any other morning, but Lisa didn’t say a word. The radio in the background played a half-forgotten song from someone’s playlist, the kind you don’t recognise until the chorus lands and suddenly it’s familiar. Outside, the day had begun to stretch open, pale and wide through the kitchen window.

There was no urgency. No agenda looming overhead. Just the sound of cutlery. The scent of toast. The sense of three people learning how to share a table. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Plans were made. Toast was eaten. And somewhere between Lisa’s second cup of tea and the way Carla’s smile lingered just a fraction longer than expected, it started to feel like the day might actually be a good one.

Not just bearable. Not just fine. But bright. Hopeful.

Ordinary in a way that meant something.

Ordinary in a way that held promise.

Chapter Text

Carla squinted through the windscreen as Lisa eased the car into a narrow parking space, the tyres crunching softly over loose gravel. Lisa adjusted the steering wheel with careful precision, her mouth set in a line of quiet concentration. The car gave a slight jolt as she finally brought it to a stop, the engine ticking in the silence that followed.

Lisa exhaled loudly, her breath fogging slightly on the windscreen. Her shoulders sagged against the seatback as she shifted into place, a flicker of weariness betraying itself in the tight set of her jaw. Carla leaned forward, peering through the glass as the sun glinted off the car parked beside them, its windows smeared with pollen and dust. She wrinkled her nose, then turned toward Lisa with a lopsided smile.

“Remind me again why we didn’t just walk the high street in Willowbrook?” she asked, unbuckling her seatbelt with a metallic click. Her tone was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. A teasing warmth. “I would’ve happily trailed behind you both while you debated cardigans and sock length.”

From the back seat, Betsy stirred. She leaned forward with practiced ease, her chin coming to rest on the headrest between the front seats. Her waves bounced into view, wild and unapologetic, framing her face. “Because there’s nothing cute in Willowbrook,” she said flatly, speaking as though it were common knowledge and slightly offensive to suggest otherwise. “Unless you count that one shop that sells socks and scented drawer liners.”

Lisa twisted in her seat, one hand still gripping the steering wheel like she wasn’t quite ready to surrender the driver’s seat. Her eyes narrowed, mock-offended. “Hey, I like that shop.”

“You would,” Betsy replied without missing a beat. Her voice was deadpan, but a mischievous smirk ghosted across her lips.

Lisa rolled her eyes and let out a quiet huff, but didn’t rise to the bait. She shifted the gearstick into park, the movement mechanical but familiar, and finally released the steering wheel. With a soft click of the handbrake, she turned fully to face Carla, her tone gentling. “I promised I’d bring you here, remember? Ages ago. When you first told me you’d be sticking around for a while longer. Figured it was time I made good on it.”

Carla arched an eyebrow, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And here was me thinking you’d forgotten. I was bracing myself for a solo trek.”

From behind them, the sound of shifting fabric as Betsy wriggled in her seat cut through the moment. “Well, you have me to thank for that. Mum didn’t even want to go shopping today,” she declared, tugging at her seatbelt and letting it snap back with a satisfying thud. Her tone was self-important, like she’d single-handedly dragged the entire outing into existence.

“I simply said you didn’t need to go shopping,” Lisa said, mildly, as she pulled the keys from the ignition. They jingled as they left the slot, the sound bright in the confined space. “Carla and I could’ve come another time.”

The car doors slammed in unison, a strangely satisfying sound that echoed across the open car park like a punctuation mark. The air outside was crisp and sharp, the kind that made you question if you’d underdressed even when the sun was out. A gust of wind whipped through the gap between two parked cars, catching the edge of Carla’s borrowed denim jacket and yanking it tight across her torso. She instinctively reached up to brush hair from her eyes, but the breeze had already tugged it loose again.

It was the kind of spring day that couldn’t quite commit to being spring. The sun beamed down in short, warm bursts that hinted at summer, but every few steps were interrupted by gusts that sliced straight through cotton layers and made scarves feel like a smart decision. Light danced on car windows, dazzling and brief, before the next drift of cloud rolled overhead.

Betsy took the lead without hesitation, walking ahead with the casual confidence of someone who knew every shortcut and back stairwell in the building. Her pace was relaxed but purposeful, her boots hitting the pavement with soft, even thuds. Shoulders back, chin high, she moved like the mall had been built for her.

Carla fell into step beside Lisa, a beat behind. Her hands were buried deep in her jacket pockets, fingers curled into the soft lining. She glanced sideways at the looming structure ahead. Her brow furrowed slightly. “I thought you said this place was small,” she murmured.

“It is,” Lisa replied breezily, “For a shopping centre anyway”

Carla gave her a sceptical look, eyebrows arching. “There’s a digital map in the entrance, Lisa. That’s not small.”

“It’s only three floors.”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

Lisa barked out a laugh, her breath visible for a moment in the cool air. “Okay, but compare this to the Trafford Centre or any of the ones I know they have in London. This is small.”

“Fair point,” Carla mumbled, rubbing her sleeve between two fingers like she was testing its texture. “Suppose I’ll let you have this one.”

The automatic doors whooshed open with an obedient sigh, and they stepped into a blast of manufactured air, warm and dry, carrying the unmistakable scent of fried food and bleach. The shift was immediate: from the sting of spring wind to the artificial calm of indoor climate control. That smell hit Carla with a strange nostalgia, like airports or train stations or shopping centres from childhood. Familiar. Comforting. Slightly gross.

Inside, the shopping centre pulsed with movement. People drifted in every direction, weaving past each other with the grace and clumsiness of practiced routine. Plastic bags crinkled with every step. Somewhere close by, heels clicked briskly on polished tiles. The canned music from the overhead speakers was tinny and upbeat, slightly forgettable pop layered over the murmur of voices.

Teenagers clustered around vending machines, trading snacks and stories in rapid-fire bursts of energy. A toddler howled somewhere near the food court, their voice rising in operatic misery as a parent tried to wrangle them into a pushchair. The echoes of their struggle bounced across the tiled floor like distant thunder.

Carla’s pace slowed without her realising it. Her gaze flitted across the space. Not quite panicked, but instinctively alert. It wasn’t crowded, not compared to London’s rush hours, but still. There were a lot of people. A lot of eyes.

She sank her hands deeper into her pockets, knuckles brushing against her hips. Her chin dropped a little, a subtle tilt she wasn’t even aware of, like she could fold into herself without anyone noticing. No one stared. A few people glanced their way, the vague and fleeting curiosity of strangers clocking other strangers. But no one lingered. No widened eyes. No pointing fingers. No whispers. Still, that old tension began to hum low and steady beneath her skin like the faint static before a storm.

Lisa noticed, of course she did. She always noticed. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly until they matched. Her gaze slid sideways, watching the way Carla’s shoulders had inched up toward her ears, how her jaw had set a little too tightly.

“You alright?” Lisa asked, her voice barely more than a murmur, soft and private in the bustle around them.

Carla nodded, a bit too fast, then caught herself and added quickly, “Yeah. Just... it’s been a while since I was in a place with this many people.”

“We don’t have to stay,” Lisa said gently. “We could always go somewhere quieter. Or just go back and do some shopping in Willowbrook.”

Carla was already shaking her head. “No. We’re here. I want to be here.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but there was a quiet insistence in it, a grounded certainty. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay, even if it made her stomach flutter with nerves. Even if her muscles stayed half-tensed beneath her jacket.

Lisa studied her a moment longer. “You sure?”

Carla scanned the open space again. The crowd. The noise. The sequinned blur of a child spinning wildly near the escalators, arms outstretched like airplane wings. His mum was juggling a shopping bag that looked on the verge of splitting and a pram that refused to steer straight. It should’ve felt chaotic. It did. But not dangerous.

“I’m sure,” she said softly. “I don’t know if I would be if I was on my own. It feels easier with you.”

Lisa’s features softened immediately. Her reply wasn’t verbal. It didn’t need to be. Instead, she leaned in slightly and nudged her shoulder against Carla’s, a quiet show of support.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, tone lightening, “I’m sure your sunglasses disguise will work. Can always buy you a cap as well. Just like in the movies.”

Carla let out a breath of laughter, small but real, like a window cracked open in a stuffy room. She tilted her head and smiled, some of the stiffness in her posture finally loosening.

“You’re such a dork.”

Before Lisa could respond, Betsy reappeared, circling back like a human boomerang with opinions. She emerged from the flow of foot traffic with her usual theatrical energy, hair slightly windblown, cheeks flushed, and a twinkle in her eye like she’d just scouted enemy territory and lived to report it.

“Right,” she declared, clapping her hands once with the authority of a general issuing orders. “I’m thinking we have to go Hollister, Bershka, Urban Outfitters, Zara and Primark. Any other shops can be up for debate.”

Lisa turned, eyebrow already lifted. “Or” she said, drawing the word out pointedly, “we could let Carla decide where she wants to go first. You know, since she’s the one who actually needs clothes.”

Betsy groaned, long and operatic, like the very suggestion had wounded her. She tossed her head back slightly, arms falling to her sides with theatrical despair. “Fine,” she said, dragging the word out like it physically hurt. “I suppose I’ll allow Carla to have first pick.”

Carla grinned, the earlier tension now retreating in the face of Betsy’s antics. “Why thank you, Betsy. Very magnanimous of you.”

Betsy, already eyeing the nearest storefronts with a critic’s eye, didn’t miss a beat. “Just don’t pick an old person shop,” she warned. “I mean it.”

Carla blinked, amused. “And what exactly counts as an old person shop?”

Betsy didn’t even pause. “Anything with mannequins in trousers that have too many pleats. Or if the display uses the word ‘slacks’. And if the background music sounds like something you’d hear in a dentist’s waiting room? That’s an immediate red flag.”

Carla turned to Lisa, who was stifling a laugh, and they exchanged a look that said Lisa had heard this kind of logic before and knew better than to fight it.

“So…” Carla said carefully, testing the waters. “Is H&M an old person shop?”

Lisa snorted before Betsy could weigh in. “Don’t let her dictate where you shop, Carla. Next thing you know, she’ll have you boycotting anywhere that doesn’t sell crop tops.”

“I’ll allow H&M,” Betsy declared at last, tone lofty, flicking her wrist as if bestowing an honour.

Carla pressed her palms together in mock reverence and gave a low, exaggerated bow. “I am humbled by your generosity.”

Betsy rolled her eyes with the well-practised flair of someone who thrived on being dramatically exasperated. “Right, let’s get your sensible basics out the way before we move onto the real fun,” she said, pivoting toward the escalators with purpose.

Lisa gave Carla a knowing smile and gestured ahead. “Lead the way, Queen of Taste.”

They entered H&M to the familiar blast of generic pop and the faint scent of polyester and ambition. That strange, slightly chemical freshness that clung to every new garment and somehow lingered in the air like a cheap promise. The store was busy but not overwhelming, the kind of hum that made itself known without demanding attention. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed softly, bathing everything in that flat, department-store glow. Too bright to be flattering, too dull to be warm. Shadows vanished beneath the brightness, leaving everything oddly featureless.

Carla paused just inside the entrance, blinking against the artificial light. Her fingers twitched in the pockets of her denim jacket, her shoulders tensing as her eyes swept the store: rows of folded T-shirts in regimented stacks, mannequins posed mid-stride in curated blandness, tables piled with jeans in fifty nearly identical shades of blue.

Compared to the overwhelming chaos of the trendier shops, that all contained pulsing LED lights, mirrors at every angle, and racks jammed with sequins and contradictions, this place felt oddly calm. Predictable. Safe in a bland, comforting sort of way. It smelled like mass production and looked like minimal effort. It was exactly what she needed. Exactly what she wanted.

Betsy peeled off immediately, already homed in on something halfway down a central aisle. “Ooh,” she exclaimed, beelining for a rack of cargo trousers. “These have eight pockets.” She was grinning, fingers already flicking through sizes with mechanical speed.

Carla veered gently to the right, drawn toward a quiet display of jumpers and plain cotton tees. Her footsteps slowed, steadying with each rack she passed. Her hand reached out, brushing the edge of a neatly folded pile, the fabric soft and smooth beneath her fingers. There was something meditative about it: the muted shuffle of hangers, the gentle murmur of voices, the thump-thump of a remix playing overhead like it had forgotten its original lyrics.

No one stared. No one gave her a second glance. There were no startled looks, no long pauses in conversation. Just people moving, browsing, buying, forgetting each other entirely. She wasn’t remarkable here. She was just another body, another person in jeans. And that was more soothing than she’d expected.

She let her shoulders relax. Picked up a few plain T-shirts: one in a washed-out navy, another in black, and two in classic white. They weren’t flashy, but they were hers. Chosen on her terms.

Lisa lingered a few feet away, meandering but keeping an eye on her. Every so often, she’d reach out and tug something off a rail (it was always something mildly absurd) and hold it up like a lawyer presenting key evidence.

“This?” she asked now, holding aloft a bright yellow dress. It was aggressively cheerful, the sort of garment that looked like it came with its own sunbeam and maybe a warning label.

Carla stared at it, expression unmoved. “You are joking, right?”

Lisa tilted her head, faux innocent. “What gives you that impression?”

Carla stepped closer and frowned at the dress. “Lisa, it’s the colour of a highlighter.”

“You’d look cute as a highlighter,” Lisa offered, her face deadly serious.

Carla snorted, the first real laugh bubbling up in her chest since they’d entered the store. She reached past Lisa and tugged a plain black jumper from a nearby rack, holding it up like a talisman. “I am not wearing yellow.”

Lisa let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I thought if you were dragging me shopping, you’d at least entertain me and try on this ugly dress.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between the dress and her friend. “I suppose I could try it on…” she said slowly, weighing the dress like it was plotting something. “But only if you try on something ridiculous as well.”

Lisa’s smirk spread slowly across her face like a challenge accepted. “Deal.”

She passed the yellow dress over with theatrical flair, and Carla accepted it between two fingers, holding it like a biohazard. “If I’m doing this,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Lisa, “I want full commitment from you. I mean it. No half-measures, no complaining.”

Lisa tilted her head. “Name your terms.”

Carla scanned the shop like a hawk surveying prey. Her eyes flicked over cardigans, jeans, and a wall of slogan tees before locking onto something down near the back. It was half-concealed behind a clutter of sales signs and a clearance rack of neglected fashion experiments. Her expression lit up with the kind of glee usually reserved for cartoon villains.

“Okay,” she said, her voice practically purring. “Found it.”

Lisa squinted suspiciously. “What is it?”

Carla didn’t answer. She stepped forward with purpose, parted two denim shirt dresses like curtains, and extracted, with the triumphant precision of someone pulling Excalibur from a stone, a two-piece fleece monstrosity in a bland, hospital-waiting-room beige. The hoodie was comically oversized, complete with a cavernous kangaroo pocket and sleeves that looked long enough to double as sleeping bags. And stitched boldly across the chest in neon-orange block letters was a single word: FEARLESS. The matching joggers were worse: shapeless, bulky, and elasticated in ways that defied both fashion and physics.

Carla turned, holding it up like a sacred relic. “Behold.”

Lisa actually flinched. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh no,” Carla said sweetly, hugging the hoodie to her chest like a newborn. “You said ‘deal.’ This is the deal.”

Lisa regarded the fleece with something close to horror. “That’s not an outfit. That’s a cry for help stitched in synthetic thread.”

“And yet,” Carla said, batting her lashes, “it’s going to look amazing on you.”

Lisa took it reluctantly, holding it away from her body as if it might grow legs and flee. “I’m going to look like a disgruntled sheep.”

“A cute sheep,” Carla replied, beaming.

Lisa shook her head, staring down at the bundle with a sort of grim resignation. “You do realise I’m five foot three, right? This outfit is going to devour me whole.”

“That’s the point,” Carla said brightly. “You’ll be cosy. Like a fashion-forward marshmallow.”

Lisa let out a long, theatrical breath but didn’t hand it back. “Fine. But if I vanish inside this hoodie and they find only one of my shoes next to the bench, tell Betsy I loved her”

“Noted,” Carla said with a grin, already making a beeline for the changing rooms.

From the other side of the store, Betsy looked up, clocking the bizarre garments in both of their arms. She zeroed in instantly, phone already in hand. “I assume crimes are being committed in there,” she said, arriving with the speed and focus of someone who lived for chaos. “And I demand to witness them.”

Carla disappeared behind the curtain first, and a few minutes later she emerged, shoulders slightly hunched, arms lifted like she wasn’t sure where to put them. The yellow dress clung awkwardly to her shape. Too tight in places, too fluttery in others and flared stiffly around her knees like it was made of reinforced optimism.

Lisa’s hand flew to her mouth. “You look like a very fashionable lemon.”

Carla gave her a flat stare. “Thank you. I feel like I should be standing on a motorway holding a sign that says, ‘Slow Down: Roadworks Ahead.’”

Right on cue, Betsy stepped forward, wide-eyed with delight, and snapped a photo like a paparazzo on a mission.

“Send that to me,” Lisa said immediately.

“Delete that,” Carla said at the same time.

“Absolutely not,” Betsy grinned, already airdropping it to her mother.

Carla turned to Lisa, unimpressed. “I don’t know why you’re looking all smug. It’s your turn now.”

“Oh, I cannot wait for this,” Betsy breathed, her gaze dropping to the armful of beige fleece Lisa was holding like a cursed object.

With the bravery of someone marching to her execution, Lisa vanished into the changing room. From behind the curtain came a shuffle, a pause, and the sound of what could only be described as someone being slowly consumed by polyester.

She re-emerged moments later with the gait of someone who had just accepted defeat on a spiritual level. The hoodie ballooned around her, hanging off her frame like a canvas tent in a gale. The sleeves drooped past her fingertips, flopping with every movement, and the joggers had pooled around her ankles like she was being gently swallowed by her own clothes. The FEARLESS label peeked out beneath a sagging fold, its bold confidence hilariously misplaced.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Carla collapsed against the wall, doubled over with laughter.

Betsy staggered back a step, wheezing. “Oh my god, Mum. You look like you were eaten by a soft furnishing.”

Lisa raised her arms. Or tried to. The sleeves flopped pathetically. “I feel like a beanbag with abandonment issues.”

“You look like one,” Carla managed between gasps. “And not even a chic one. Like a novelty beanbag that’s been discontinued for safety reasons.”

Lisa fixed her with a glare, though it was hard to take seriously with her hood nearly engulfing her face. “I’m so glad I agreed to this.”

“Oh no,” Betsy said, already lifting her phone again. “You’re a pioneer. This is the next big aesthetic. Fearless Fleece core.”

“Betsy, I swear…”

“Turn to the side,” Carla added, wiping tears from her eyes. “We need the full silhouette.”

Lisa sighed deeply but obeyed. The joggers swished audibly with the motion, as if protesting.

“You look like a very determined mushroom,” Carla whispered.

“That’s enough humiliation for one morning,” Lisa muttered, tugging the hoodie hem down as she turned toward the changing room again. “I’m changing back into clothes with seams and a sense of purpose.”

Carla held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. But for the record, you wore that better than expected.”

Lisa paused, narrowed her eyes. “That better not be a dig.”

“Just saying,” Carla called after her, “if you ever leave the bookshop, I think you’ve got a future in ironic loungewear campaigns.”

The curtain swished shut behind Lisa with the drama of a theatre act ending.

Betsy dropped onto the nearest bench, still laughing so hard she wheezed. “I would never have got Mum into something that ugly. You need to come shopping with us every time.”

Carla sat beside her; the yellow dress folded over one arm like a retired battle flag. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Their laughter came again. Softer now, quieter but no less genuine. It settled low in their chests, not the breathless kind that stole oxygen but the sort that left behind a glow. The kind you didn’t even realise you’d been craving until it found you: familiar, steady, shared. It lingered between them like a thread, invisible but strong.

A few minutes later, Lisa re-emerged from the changing room, once again dressed in her usual jeans and jumper. She tugged her sleeves into place with exaggerated precision, smoothing the fabric down her arms as though trying to erase all memory of the FEARLESS fleece. A wry dignity clung to her like perfume. Her expression was almost neutral again, back to business as usual, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. She was trying not to smile. Badly.

“No photos past this point,” she declared flatly. “Let’s pay for the stuff we actually want and go somewhere I don’t have to defend my honour.”

The three of them made their way to the checkout, arms full with a modest but satisfying haul. There were soft jumpers in muted tones: dusty blue, heather grey and a handful of plain tees that passed Carla’s strict no-logos policy, as well as two cardigans that had somehow earned a rare joint nod of approval. There was a quiet sense of victory to it all. The kind of quiet that came from comfort, not compromise.

As Lisa placed their pile on the counter, Betsy casually slid a pair of oversized sunglasses onto the stack. The lenses were the colour of oil slicks and entirely unwearable indoors.

Lisa didn’t even blink. “Nice try.” She picked up the sunglasses and put them back on the side.

Betsy grinned, shameless. “Was worth a go.”

Receipts printed, bags handed over, they stepped back out into the main concourse. The doors sighed closed behind them like a curtain falling on the first act. The earlier noise had ebbed into a more manageable hum, the rush-hour energy softening into background buzz. Shoppers drifted rather than darted, and the air felt just a little less electric.

Then Betsy’s head snapped up like a meerkat spotting movement in the tall grass. “Zara now. It’s the closest”

Lisa groaned, the sound heavy with theatrical dread. “Oh God. The one with the lights so bright you can see through time?”

Betsy was already walking, ponytail swinging, voice breezy with teenage conviction. “It’s the aesthetic. You wouldn’t get it. Come on. We’re doing the full youth culture tour.”

Lisa and Carla exchanged a look. The kind shared between people who knew they’d already lost the argument. “I’m blaming this on you”

Carla smiled and bumped her shoulder gently against Lisa’s. “I accept full responsibility.”

Lisa’s fingers brushed briefly against Carla’s as they walked, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough. And off they went. Three bags deeper, one fleece trauma heavier, and just beginning to hit their stride.

Chapter Text

The food court buzzed with the low hum of lunchtime chatter and the overlapping smells of chips, doughnuts, and whatever the noodle place in the corner was doing with garlic. It was something so potent it seemed to rise like a fog and hang in the air. Trays clattered against tabletops, plastic chairs scraped loudly on the scuffed linoleum floor, and somewhere nearby a baby let out a sharp wail before being hushed with a juice pouch. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, giving everything that washed-out, too-bright glow of commercial spaces. The kind that made time feel a little unsteady, like it could slip by unnoticed while you waited for your food to arrive.

They had claimed a table by the window, the glass a little smudged from fingerprints and greasy reflections, but the view looked out over a quiet stretch of car park and sky, which made it feel marginally more peaceful. The table itself was surrounded by a modest fortress of shopping bags tucked under their chairs: paper and plastic in various sizes, handles looped like flags from conquered territory. They were the spoils of a successful morning, half-practical, half ridiculous, and all very them.

Lisa stood suddenly, brushing off her jeans with the brisk energy of someone who’d just remembered an errand they were determined to complete before it slipped away. “I’m just going to pop into Next across there and pick up a few bits,” she said, nodding toward the shop across the concourse.

“You’re going to buy more sweater vests,” Betsy said without glancing up, her voice dry as she sucked noisily at the last of her lemonade through the straw.

“No comment,” Lisa replied with a grin, already walking backwards a few steps, eyebrows raised in mock defiance. “Play nice, you two.”

As Lisa disappeared into the crush of shoppers, the atmosphere around their table shifted. Not to silence, exactly, but to something slightly more still. The volume of the world stayed the same, but its rhythm changed. A little less chaotic. A little easier to breathe in.

“So,” Betsy said, her voice slicing softly through the lull, still focused on the ice rattling in her cup, “what’s it like? Being recognised, I mean.”

Carla blinked at her. The question dropped with no preamble, like stepping into a pool and finding it deeper than expected. “Right into the existential stuff, huh?”

Betsy gave a small shrug, not quite looking at her. “You don’t have to answer. I just… it’s weird, I guess. Knowing people know who you are before you’ve even said anything.”

Carla tilted her head, then let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in her chest too long. “It is weird,” she said honestly, voice low and even. “It’s one of those things people think they want. The attention, success, recognition, until they actually get it and realise how loud it all is. How much it takes up space in your head.”

Betsy finally lifted her gaze. “You don’t like it?”

Carla considered that for a second. “Some parts, sure. I love writing. I love hearing from people who’ve connected with something I made. That part is amazing. But the rest of it?” She gave a small, tired laugh. “Being ‘known’? Having people you’ve never met think they know everything about you because of a quote on Twitter or something you posted on Instagram? That’s the part I never signed up for.

Betsy was quiet again, twisting her straw idly in her drink, watching the liquid whirl. “Mum said you were in Willowbrook for a break. Is that why?”

Carla nodded slowly. “Yeah. Things got... overwhelming. I started feeling like a wind-up version of myself. Just going through the motions. Sign here. Smile here. Post something clever. Do the right thing, no mistakes, sell the book, be grateful. And I was grateful. I still am but I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. I needed quiet. Somewhere real. Somewhere small.”

Betsy gave a small nod, almost to herself. “Makes sense. Mum said you’ve been keeping to yourself.”

“I have,” Carla admitted. “Not hiding. Not performing. Just being still. It’s the first time I’ve let myself do that in years.”

Betsy looked up again, this time more directly. Her voice was soft but sure. “It’s been good for Mum too.”

Carla’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

“I mean, she still sighs dramatically and talks to herself when she can’t find her keys,” Betsy said with a half-smile, “but she’s lighter. Happier. I haven’t seen her like this in a long time.”

The words landed like a stone in a still pond, ripples spreading out across Carla’s chest in ways she hadn’t expected. Her voice caught a little. “Really?”

“Really,” Betsy said, nodding. “It’s not like I’m saying she hasn’t been happy in the six years since Mum died, because she has. But this? This is different. All I’m trying to say is, it’s been nice to see her like this.”

Carla’s reply was quiet, but firm. “She’s made me happier too.”

And there it was, something in the way Carla said it. The unguarded ease, the way her whole face softened when she talked about Lisa, like something in her had quietly unfolded. There was no performance, no effort to impress. Just warmth. Just truth. It settled something in Betsy. Something she hadn’t even realised was clenching tight. A slow, quiet unwinding deep in her chest.

“You really like her.”

Carla met her gaze without flinching, without deflection. Her eyes didn’t shine with intensity or sparkle with romance-movie drama. They were steady. Grounded. Honest. Her smile was gentle, warm in a way that didn’t reach to convince or beg for approval.

“I really do,” she said.

Betsy sat back in her chair, the plastic creaking faintly under her weight. She wrapped her hands around her drink again, even though the ice had mostly melted and the paper straw had gone a bit soggy at the end. She didn’t answer straight away. Around them, the food court kept pulsing with life. A baby cried somewhere near the noodle place, shrill and persistent, while behind them someone barked a laugh that cracked through the air like a dropped plate.

“Good,” she said eventually, her voice lower now. Not clipped. Just careful. “That’s... good.”

Carla watched her for a second, her brow gently furrowed. “You okay?”

Betsy gave a small half-smile. The kind meant to look casual, but didn’t quite manage. It twitched at the edges, like it was being held up more by habit than ease. “Yeah. I just. I didn’t think I’d care this much, you know? About who Mum’s seeing. I thought I’d be all cool and evolved and emotionally mature.” She laughed quietly, almost under her breath. “But it’s different when it’s real.”

Carla nodded. “It is different,” she said, no judgment in her tone.

Betsy’s fingers fiddled with the wrapper from her straw, tearing it into smaller and smaller strips. “I loved Mum. Becky,” she said, and the name still caught slightly in her throat, like it was something sacred, something she didn’t say out loud too often. “And so did Mum. She still does. But it’s nice. It’s nice seeing her come back to herself a bit. Or maybe she’s becoming someone new. I don’t know. Either way, she feels more alive lately. Like she laughs properly now. Even when no one’s watching.”

Carla’s voice softened to match hers. “I think she’s got space to breathe again.”

“Yeah,” Betsy said quietly. “Yeah, I think so too.”

She looked down, picking at the edge of her napkin, where the corner had started to curl. “It’s still strange, though. Thinking about Mum with someone else. And not just anyone. Someone who’s, you know…” She gestured vaguely, trying to encapsulate a whole idea with one vague flick of her fingers. “You.”

Carla let out a small huff of breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. “Famous,” she offered gently, not proud, not embarrassed. Just stating a fact.

“Yeah,” Betsy said, glancing up. “It’s not a bad-strange. Just need to adjust to it is all.”

“I get that,” Carla said, her tone still gentle. “I’d probably feel the same if I were in your shoes.”

Betsy looked at her for a beat, long enough for her shoulders to drop a little, like she was letting go of something she’d been bracing against.

“I know my mum’s strong,” she said, quieter now. “She’s had to be, after everything. She doesn’t break easy. But even strong people get bruised. And I don’t want that for her. Not again.”

Carla’s expression softened in a way that wasn’t pity, wasn’t defensiveness. It was understanding. Respect. “I get it,” she said. “And for what it’s worth. We’re not rushing anything. Your mum and I. We are just figuring it out. Taking things slow. Seeing where it goes. She’s worth the time.”

Betsy gave a slow nod, the weight of that answer settling somewhere behind her eyes.

Carla hesitated, then leaned forward slightly across the table, lowering her voice. “And if it ever got to be too much for her. The attention, the weirdness of being seen, the loss of privacy. I’d get it. I wouldn’t push her to stay in something that didn’t feel right. If she needed to walk away, I’d let her. No drama. No guilt. Just gratitude that I got to know her at all.”

Betsy studied her for a long second, quiet and watchful. Carla didn’t flinch under it. Her words sat in the space between them like something carefully laid down, not to persuade but to reassure.

“You’d really let her go?” Betsy asked. Her voice was cautious. Not suspicious, but fragile in a way that said this mattered. That she’d been holding that question like a stone in her palm for days.

Carla gave a sad little smile, nothing performative in it. Just truth. “If it meant protecting her peace? Yeah. I’d hate it. But I’d do it. Because I know how much that means to her.”

There was silence then. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that made space for breath. For release. And something in Betsy shifted. Her posture loosened, the curve of her spine easing as if a knot somewhere inside her had started to unravel.

A beat passed. Carla shifted in her seat, her shoulders angling subtly as if she could physically steer them away from the edge of something too raw, too new. There was a gentle grace to the way she did it, like closing a door quietly rather than slamming it shut. Her mouth curved in a half-grin, the kind that deflected just enough without pushing the moment away completely. “But enough about my emotional boundaries,” she said lightly, her voice lifting with just a hint of humour. “What about you? How’s uni treating you?”

Betsy let out a groan that practically collapsed across the table. She flopped back in her chair, arms flung wide like a soap opera heroine in the final act. “Exhausting. We had a seminar last week where this guy tried to argue, with a straight face, that we should be allowed to hand in unfinished work.”

Carla raised both brows, intrigued. “Bold,” she said, sipping her milkshake.

“He said and I swear I’m not making this up ‘the frayed edges represent life and how nothing is perfect.’”

Carla blinked once, then again, before a laugh broke free – short, startled, and deeply amused. “There’s no way he came up with that excuse on the spot.”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Betsy said, shaking her head like she was still recovering from the absurdity of it. “He monologued for fifteen full minutes about chaos, fragmentation, post-structuralism, the works. Then left early to go ‘meditate with his process.’ Translation: finish his project.”

Carla laughed again, this time letting it roll a little longer, her hand instinctively covering her mouth like she was trying not to disturb the table next to them. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and there was something bright and open in her face that hadn't been there a few minutes earlier. “Incredible,” she said, catching her breath. “A tragic hero in the making.”

Betsy smirked, pleased to have delivered a solid anecdote. There was a shift in her posture now. She was more at ease, the earlier tightness in her shoulders softening. She was also getting to know Carla the person and not Carla the author and could see why her mum had fallen for Carla so quickly.

 Carla had noticed the slight change in Betsy. She didn’t say anything, but she let it register. There was something infectious about the way Betsy talked when she wasn’t holding herself at arm’s length. Everything laced with dry wit and a kind of genuine passion that caught you off guard.

“So,” Carla asked, tilting her head slightly, “Is it fashion design you’re studying?”

Betsy nodded, the smile that followed smaller but more personal. “Yeah. It’s full-on, but I love it. The sewing, the design work, even the deadlines. I mean, I complain all the time, but it’s the kind of stress that feels like mine, you know? Like I’m building something that actually belongs to me.”

Carla’s expression shifted. It wasn’t quite pride. She wasn’t sure she’d earned the right to feel that yet, not when she hadn’t known Betsy all that long, but it was something close. Something understanding. “I do, actually.” Her voice dropped into something softer, richer. “It’s a good feeling. Making something from nothing and knowing it came from you.”

For a moment, they sat in that, in the quiet recognition of someone else who had chosen a hard path because it made their heart feel like it was beating in the right direction. Then another pause, quieter this time. It didn’t hang awkwardly. It just settled, like steam over hot coffee. Warm, thoughtful, alive.

“And living on your own?” Carla asked, her tone careful, curious but not prying. “You settling into it okay?”

Betsy shrugged, running her finger around the rim of her cup. “I think so. I mean, I miss home. More than I thought I would, honestly. But I like the independence. Making my own routine, figuring stuff out. And Mum and I talk all the time.”

Carla smiled at that, the corners of her mouth curling with familiarity. “She mentioned. Said you text her even when you’re just cooking pasta.”

Betsy huffed a laugh, the mock-defensive tone returning. “Yeah, well sometimes I need moral support for boiling water. Don’t judge.”

Carla laughed, warm and companionable. She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin briefly in her hand. “No judgment. Cooking for one is a strange kind of silence, isn’t it? Like the quiet stretches out further somehow.”

That made Betsy pause. She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.” Then, after a beat, she asked, “Do you ever get lonely? Being on your own so much?”

Carla hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to answer. She did. But because honesty always took a little extra time to surface when it was real.

“Sometimes,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t waver, but there was a candour in it that wasn’t performative. “I think that’s why I kept coming to your mum’s shop every day. It wasn’t just the books. It was nice. Talking to someone who didn’t need me to be ‘Carla the writer.’ Just me. I missed that. But sometimes I need the quiet too. I think I was running on empty before Willowbrook.”

Betsy nodded slowly, something flickering in her expression. “Yeah. I think sometimes we need the quiet to hear what we actually feel.”

Carla turned to look at her fully, the words catching her off guard in the best way. “That’s pretty wise,” she said, the admiration in her tone quiet but unmistakable.

Betsy shrugged, smirking. “One overpriced seminar at a time.”

Then, just as Carla opened her mouth to reply, a shadow fell across the table.

Lisa returned, the automatic brightness of the overhead lights catching in her hair and the soft paper shopping bag she carried in one hand. There was a particular shine in her eyes. The unmistakable glint of victory. The kind that said, yes, she had absolutely found the jumper she’d told herself she didn’t need ten minutes ago, and no, she had no regrets.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, nudging her chair back with her foot and sinking into it with the easy, theatrical sigh of someone rejoining a soap opera mid-episode. She set the bag down beside her like a trophy, her eyes flicking between them.

Betsy glanced at Carla, the barest flicker of something unreadable. A question answered, maybe, or one that didn’t need to be asked anymore before she shook her head. “Not really.”

Carla offered a small smile, her voice calm and unguarded. “We were talking.”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed playfully as she looked between the two of them, reading the lingering warmth in the air like heat rising off tarmac. “Talking,” she repeated, drawing out the word. “Or interrogating?”

“A bit of both,” Betsy said without hesitation, not even pretending to feel guilty. “But how else are you meant to get to know someone?”

Lisa turned her attention to Carla, tilting her head with mock suspicion. “Should I be worried?”

Carla leaned back slightly, lifting her milkshake like a toast. “Why? Worried she’s scared me off already?”

Betsy smirked. “As if I could do that. If you’ve stuck around with her this long, you’re a lost cause, Carla.”

Lisa groaned in mock betrayal, reaching for a napkin like it might shield her. “Excellent. Gang up on me. So glad I left you two unsupervised for fifteen minutes.”

But under the dramatic eye roll, there was something quieter in her face. A flicker of ease that hadn’t quite been there when she’d left. She was relieved. Not just that the table hadn’t descended into awkward small talk or carefully avoided landmines, but that they’d found each other’s rhythm. That whatever shape this relationship might take, it was forming from something real.

As if summoned by the weight of that thought, or maybe just the scent of salt and oil thickening in the air, their food arrived. A server appeared with a tray balanced high and the careful speed of someone navigating a crowded food court. Burgers slid into place, fries heaped in waxy baskets, milkshakes towering under clouds of whipped cream and plastic cherries that glistened like cartoon jewels.

The scent hit immediately: fried potato, melted cheese, the sweetness of synthetic strawberry syrup and the sharp tang of vinegar someone had already splashed over their chips. Conversations around them blurred, but theirs lifted, carried by the comfort of familiar rituals and the clatter of napkins being unfolded. Lisa launched into a story, barely waiting until she’d unwrapped her burger.

“So,” she began, gesturing with one hand like she was performing for a crowd, “this woman came into the shop the other week, absolutely furious. Like, storm clouds over the moors furious. And demanded to return a book because, and I quote, ‘the ending was emotionally inconvenient.’”

Carla snorted into her milkshake. “What does that even mean?”

“She didn’t want the character to die,” Lisa said, mock-affronted. “Said it was unfair. As if the book personally betrayed her. Like it was my fault. I didn’t write the book.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, sipping her milkshake with exaggerated caution. “Wasn’t one of mine, was it?”

Lisa scoffed. “Please. You’d never kill off a character without emotionally preparing your reader over three chapters and at least two rain-soaked monologues.”

Carla grinned. “I’m considerate that way.”

Lisa gave her a long, sideways look. “You’re emotionally manipulative in a very specific, well-structured way.”

Carla smirked, tilting her head. “So you have read my books.”

Lisa paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No comment.” But there was a flicker at the corner of her mouth. The kind of smile you try to swallow when you’re caught red-handed and secretly don’t mind.

Lisa opened her mouth to fire back, but Betsy leaned in right on cue, saving her from any more embarrassment. “I had a guy in my seminar try to pass off a velvet cape as his final design. Called it ‘gender-neutral knight core.’”

“Oh my God,” Lisa said around a mouthful of fries. “I love that.”

“He wore it to class. Fully committed.”

Carla nearly choked on her drink. “Didn’t think anyone would find capes fashionable”

Laughter rippled between them, soft and rich. It wasn’t the chaotic, collapsing giggles from earlier in the day or that giddy, changing-room kind of laughter. This was quieter, steadier. The kind that nestled in your chest like something earned.

Carla found herself speaking less, listening more. Watching. There was a kind of choreography in the way Lisa and Betsy moved around each other. Tossing comments back and forth, rolling their eyes with a synchronised sort of affection, finishing each other’s jokes without stepping on the punchlines. It wasn’t performative. It was lived in. Honest.

She watched as Lisa stole one of Betsy’s fries and got flicked on the wrist in retaliation. Watched as Lisa mock-gasped when Betsy admitted to skipping to the final chapter of most novels just to check who survived. These weren’t just habits. They were history, written into the muscle memory of a thousand dinners, quiet mornings, shared grief, and hard-earned laughter.

And somehow, in all that movement, Carla didn’t feel like a spectator. She didn’t feel like an intruder on something private. She felt included. Welcomed. Like someone who could find her own rhythm in the space between theirs.

Across the table, Lisa caught her eye mid-laugh, mouth open around a joke, a fry dangling halfway to her lips, and the look that passed between them said more than words could. It was gentle, knowing. A shared heartbeat in the chaos.

Carla smiled back, her hands loose around her cup, her body finally relaxed in the chair.

Her heart steady.

And full.

As the last of the fries disappeared and the cold drinks were drained down to the melting ice cubes rattling at the bottom of the cups, they gathered their bags. Betsy’s arms were piled high with shopping bags that rustled softly with tissue paper, while Lisa balanced her own haul with the easy grace of someone who had done this dance many times before and had even taken some of Carla’s bag off of her.

Their feet ached slightly from the hours spent on tiled mall floors, but their spirits remained buoyant, lightened by laughter and the small, shared victories of the day. Outside, the sky had softened into a pale, watery blue, clouds stretching and smudging like gentle strokes across a watercolour canvas. It was that golden-hour lull. When the afternoon begins to melt toward evening and the ride back to Willowbrook slipped into a quiet contentment, the kind of silence where no one feels the need to fill the air with noise.

In the back seat, Betsy’s head lolled gently against the window, her breath even and calm as she dozed off for a few minutes. One headphone hung loose around her neck, the other resting just at the edge of her ear, soft music drifting faintly in and out of consciousness. Shopping bags were stacked around her like protective walls, soft rustlings of paper and fabric cushioning the small space she’d claimed. Carla leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the landscape blur by. Fields of green and gold, trees swaying softly in the breeze, the occasional flash of a farmhouse or a distant barn. Her fingers found Lisa’s resting lightly on the gearstick, an unspoken connection passing between them, quiet and reassuring.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sun had dipped low behind rooftops, washing everything in a rich, honeyed glow. Shadows stretched long across the gravel, and the air carried that crisp hint of evening coolness, the scent of damp earth and flowering honeysuckle drifting faintly in through the car windows.

Inside the house, the calm stillness gave way to a flurry of movement. Betsy appeared in the hallway, hauling her bags with a mix of determination and indecision. She fished through her clothes, laying them out with care. One pile for the things she’d take back to uni, another for the pieces she could afford to leave behind for now. This sorting took time, maybe thirty minutes or more, punctuated by sighs and a few changes of heart. Clothes were folded, then unfolded, and folded again before finally being stuffed into her bag.

Lisa watched, amused and affectionate, before swooping in with practiced hands. She took everything out again, her fingers smoothing and folding with precise care. “Everything’ll be creased by the time you get back to uni if I leave it like that,” she said gently, her voice carrying a note of loving fuss that was familiar, warm, and just a little bit insistent.

Betsy rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. It was moments like this, those small gestures of care, that reminded her just how much her mum cared about the little things, the things that often went unnoticed but meant the world.

She pulled out her phone charger and grabbed the portable one from her bag, stuffing it into a pocket with a casual flick. Carla moved to help, offering a hand with a quiet smile.

But Betsy gently shooed her away, once, twice. There was no malice in the gesture, just the clear rhythm of a routine rehearsed countless times. Lisa and Betsy worked side by side, a tacit understanding shaping the space between them, a dance of familiarity and unspoken affection.

There was a subtle shift in the energy now, stretched thin in that bittersweet way visits often end. The goodbyes crept in at the edges, unspoken but felt, like the fading light of day slipping into dusk.

Betsy reappeared in the hallway, coat half on, bag slung over one shoulder. She paused by the bookshelf, fingers brushing against a photo frame almost absentmindedly, straightening it just a fraction before turning.

“All right. That’s everything, I think.”

Lisa’s gaze lingered on her, brows knitting in playful scepticism. “Train ticket?”

“On my phone.”

“If your phone dies?”

“I’ve got my regular charger and the portable one.”

“Charged?”

“Fully charged. Swear.”

Lisa reached out, smoothing a wrinkle in Betsy’s top, then flicked a stray bit of lint off her shoulder. The kind of small fussing that wasn’t really about the clothes at all. “You’ll text me once you’ve arrived?”

Betsy rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “Obviously.”

“I love you, Bets.”

“I love you too, Mum. Now don’t cry or anything. I’ll be back soon.”

Lisa sniffed, mock-offended. “No promises.”

Carla stood a little to the side, giving them space, watching Lisa’s face soften for the barest moment. It was a look only someone who knew her well that would catch the quiet ache of motherhood, the unwillingness to hold too tightly but the fear of letting go too soon.

Betsy turned toward Carla, her voice genuine. “Thanks for today. Seriously.”

Carla smiled back, feeling something warm bloom in her chest. “It was fun. I haven’t laughed that much when shopping in ages.”

There was a hesitation in Betsy’s eyes, then she stepped forward and pulled Carla into a hug. It wasn’t long or overly sentimental, but solid and real. A quiet acceptance wrapped in the awkwardness of teenage tenderness. Carla returned the hug, surprised by how deeply touched she was. Then Betsy stepped back, casting one last look at her mum. An unspoken exchange that said all the things she wasn’t great at saying out loud before opening the door.

Lisa watched Betsy walk down the path, the bag bouncing softly against her hip with each step. Betsy didn’t look back until the gate clicked shut behind her, and when she did, she lifted her hand in a wave. Quick, sure, and quietly certain.

And then she was gone, swallowed up by the soft glow of the evening light.

Lisa lingered on the porch a moment longer than necessary, the warm circle of the porch light pooling around her feet. Carla said nothing, just stood quietly beside her, her presence calm and steady.

Lisa exhaled, a slow breath that trembled slightly with the weight of unsaid things. “I know she’s fine. I do. But I still hate it when she goes.” Her voice was soft, almost fragile, carrying the tender ache of a mother reluctant to release her child into the world. It wasn’t just worry. It was the bittersweetness of love stretched across distance.

Carla’s fingers found Lisa’s hand, warm and sure, and she gently laced their fingers together. The touch was simple but profound, a grounding anchor in the quiet twilight. “Because you love her,” she said quietly, her voice steady and certain.

Lisa nodded, voice low and thick with feeling. “Yeah. Because I love her.” Her eyes softened, shimmering faintly with the shimmer of unshed tears caught in the porch light.

They stood like that for a long moment, fingers entwined, the soft buzz of the porch light humming quietly overhead. The silence was not empty or heavy but full, comforting and familiar, like they didn’t need words to understand each other.

Lisa squeezed Carla’s hand once more before letting go. “Come on,” she said, voice a tender murmur now. “Let’s go in before it gets cold.” The small invitation carried a quiet warmth, a gentle pull back into the sanctuary of home.

Inside, the house greeted them with the soft glow of the hallway light, casting long, gentle shadows on the cream walls, the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser lingering in the air. They moved through the quiet rooms, the sound of their footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, until they reached the living room where a table lamp bathed everything in a golden, intimate light. The silence between them was calm and easy, like a well-worn rhythm finally found again.

“Do you want tea?” Lisa asked, already moving toward the kitchen, her voice light, trying to bridge the quiet with routine.

“Always,” Carla replied with a small smile, following behind.

The kettle began its steady rumble as Lisa went about the familiar dance: pulling down two mugs, the soft clink as they met the countertop, the rustle of tea bags pulled from their wrappers, the quiet tap of a teaspoon stirring. Carla leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Lisa with a quiet admiration. Her movements were fluid, confident, effortless and sure in the comforting space of her own home.

Minutes later, they returned to the living room, each carrying a mug, the warmth radiating through the ceramic into their hands like a small balm against the evening chill.

Carla sank into the sofa first, sinking into the cushions with a sigh, her tired muscles relaxing against the familiar fabric. Lisa followed, curling up on the opposite end, one leg tucked beneath her, a cushion hugged loosely to her chest like a shield and comfort both. The low murmur of the television filled the room, something light and undemanding flickering across the screen, muted. Neither really watched; the sound was just a gentle companion to their quiet togetherness.

Words were unnecessary at first. They sat side by side, the soft glow of the lamp painting their faces in warm light, each lost in their own thoughts yet somehow connected. The silence wrapped around them like a soft blanket: safe and unpressured.

Every so often, Carla glanced over. Her gaze tender, not intrusive, simply taking in Lisa’s quiet presence. The steady reality of this moment, calm after the emotional storm of the day. The TV credits rolled slowly, the muted flicker casting dancing shadows. Neither moved to turn it off; it was a faint pulse of light in the peaceful dim.

Carla stretched a little, sinking deeper into the sofa’s embrace, her legs extended and toes nudging the edge of the coffee table lazily. Her empty mug rested on her stomach, balanced there more from habit and comfort than purpose. Lisa sat nearby, legs curled beneath her, a soft blanket draped across her lap. One arm rested along the back of the sofa, fingers twitching slightly as if reluctant to let go of the warmth, the closeness of the night.

For a long while, they simply existed side by side. No need for conversation, no pressure to fill the space. The house breathed with them: quiet, steady, alive in its own way. Finally, Carla broke the silence, her voice teasing but gentle. “Your sofa’s dangerous.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the flickering screen. “Dangerous?”

“It’s too comfortable,” Carla said with a small laugh, tilting her head back against the cushions. “I could stay here and forget I have a house. A life. Work.”

Lisa’s smile was soft and knowing as she shifted, their knees brushing together just so. “You say that like it’d be a bad thing.”

Carla chuckled quietly. “It’s not. That’s the danger.”

Lisa watched her for a moment and how Carla’s guard slipped in these quiet moments, how the weight she carried seemed lighter here. Just two people, sharing a simple space, no roles to play.

Eventually, Lisa reached forward, plucking the empty mug from Carla’s stomach. “You’ll drop this and blame me,” she said with a mock sternness.

Carla smirked, eyes sparkling. “Absolutely.”

Lisa carried the mugs back to the kitchen, the gentle clink of ceramic muffled by the quiet hum of the dishwasher in the background. Carla watched her move. There were no grand gestures, just the simple, graceful familiarity of Lisa in her element.

When Lisa returned, she didn’t immediately settle back on the sofa. Instead, she hesitated, standing by the edge with the blanket pooled at her feet, her thumb tracing the hem of her sleeve in a restless, absent-minded gesture.

Carla sat up a little, concern softening her expression. “You good?”

Lisa nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“God help us all,” Carla echoed playfully, a teasing lift in her voice.

Lisa gave her a sharp look but didn’t argue, folding back onto the sofa beside Carla. Close, but leaving a small space between them, as if inviting but not rushing.

After a moment, Carla stretched and sighed softly, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth. “All right. I should probably head off before I completely melt into your furniture.”

Lisa glanced over with a soft smile. “You sure?”

“Can’t stay over two nights in a row now, can I? Can’t have you thinking I’m easy.”

Lisa laughed quietly, a genuine sparkle in her eyes. “Oh no, the scandal. Imagine what the neighbours would say.”

Carla grinned, pulling herself to her feet with a soft groan, exaggerating her stretch, joints creaking playfully. “Exactly. Reputation ruined.”

“What a shame that would be.” Lisa teased.

Carla moved to the coat rack and slipped into her jacket slowly, savouring the moment. Not stalling, exactly, but reluctant to leave the gentle warmth of the room behind. The quiet comfort lingered in her bones, like the faint scent of someone else’s laundry detergent still woven into the fabric. Her fingers brushed the zipper pull, hesitating just a heartbeat before she began to draw it upward. Then, Lisa’s voice came, quieter than before, tentative, almost vulnerable.

“Carla?”

Her hand froze mid-zip, the soft rustle of fabric hanging still in the air. She turned her head just enough to catch Lisa’s gaze over her shoulder. There was something different in Lisa’s eyes now, less guarded, more open, a quiet invitation hanging delicately between them.

“Yeah?”

Lisa stepped forward, closing the small space between them by just a few inches, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur that felt almost intimate. “What are you doing this Friday?”

Carla blinked, the surprise softening immediately into curious warmth. “Friday? Nothing. Why?”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

Carla froze. Not from shock, but from a moment of quiet surprise that made her tilt her head slightly, eyes narrowing in that amused, teasing way she always had when something caught her off guard but delighted her. “Like an actual, planned-ahead date?”

Lisa smiled crookedly, a hint of playfulness flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Well, the last one was planned too. I just didn’t tell you it was a date until afterwards.”

Carla laughed softly, shaking her head. “I’m not sure that counts.”

“Technicalities,” Lisa said with a shrug, her tone light but sincere.

The silence stretched between them for a beat longer, rich with unspoken feelings. Then Carla turned fully to face her, letting her arms fall loosely to her sides. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a slow, genuine smile that seemed to light up the room. “You’re really asking me out properly, huh?”

Lisa shrugged again, this time with less bravado, her vulnerability shining through. “Figured you deserved an actual question. And maybe a reservation. Somewhere that serves more than just thermos coffee and an early wake-up time.”

Carla’s smile deepened, warm and bright, full of teasing affection. “Look at you. Pulling out all the stops.”

“I can be very impressive when I try.”

Carla studied her for a long moment, then reached out gently, tugging at the sleeve of Lisa’s jumper, to pull her closer and to just feel the softness beneath her fingers, a subtle connection. “Friday works,” she said softly. “Pick me up at seven?”

Lisa nodded, a quiet happiness spreading through her like a slow, soothing exhale. “It’s a date.”

Carla leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Lisa’s lips. Just a quick peck, light and sure. It wasn’t dramatic, or a moment they needed to name. It was simple. Familiar. The kind of kiss you give someone when you already know you’ll see them again.

Lisa’s smile deepened, quiet and real. Carla lingered just a moment longer, savouring the lingering warmth between them, before stepping back toward the door. “Goodnight, Lisa.”

“’Night, Carla.”

Carla opened the door, the cool night air brushing her face like a soft whisper, crisp and fresh against her skin. She paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder with a small, sure smile. Quieter now, but no less certain, as if the moment was etched deep inside her.

“And for the record,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Lisa’s, “The last date did count. And it was very impressive. Just so we’re clear.”

Then, with one last steady breath, she stepped out into the night. The door clicked softly closed behind her, leaving Lisa alone in the warm glow of the living room, the promise of Friday hanging sweetly in the air like the faint scent of rain on the wind.

Chapter Text

Carla checked the mirror again.

Not because she thought anything had changed in the last thirty seconds (it hadn’t) but because the nerves were starting to hum just beneath her skin, an almost electrical current, restless and uncontainable. And fussing gave them somewhere to go. She adjusted the collar of her shirt with the precision of someone pretending not to panic. Smoothed the sleeves, even though there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. She ran her fingers through her hair. Not quite a comb, not quite a rake, just trying to loosen it a little, give it more movement. But the second she looked at herself again, she groaned softly and undid the whole thing, ruffling it back to where it had been.

She’d changed twice already. Okay, four times.

First was the casual look. Too casual. Then the dress. Way too much. The black sweater was too ‘funeral,’ the green top made her look like she was trying too hard, and the outfit she finally landed on had been put together with the slow, breath-held deliberation of someone defusing a bomb. But she couldn’t tell anymore if it worked. She couldn’t even tell what she wanted it to say. Just that she wanted Lisa to look at her and see her and want to stay.

And now Lisa was nearly here.

Carla felt it deep in her stomach. A slow, tightening flip that seemed almost physical, like her body was bracing itself for impact before the moment even arrived. It was as if every nerve was coiled, ready to spring the instant Lisa’s car appeared at the far end of the driveway.

She stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Then at her phone. Still nothing. No new messages blinking on the screen, no missed calls sitting stubbornly in the notification bar. The quiet around her felt overwhelming, a heavy silence that pressed in on her from all sides, making the empty driveway outside seem even more vast and still.

Beyond the window, the long stretch of gravel lay empty and waiting, bathed in the soft glow of early evening. The fading sunlight filtered through the swaying branches of the trees, casting long, delicate shadows that stretched like fingers across the lawn. It was as if the world itself was dimming the lights, quietly drawing the curtains for something intimate and fragile to unfold.

Her heart was doing that ridiculous fluttery thing again. It wasn’t like the gentle kind of butterflies that danced lightly in the stomach. No, it was more like a clumsy, breathless flutter that prickled sharp and urgent beneath her ribs. It was too dramatic to be called butterflies, too charged to be just nerves. Yet it carried a weight, heavy with hope and possibility, impossible to ignore.

Why are you nervous? she scolded herself. It’s just Lisa. You’ve spent time with her before. You’ve kissed her before. You’ve been on a date with her before! Except you hadn’t known it was a date then. You hadn’t had the luxury of panic or the space to spiral. No warning. No slow build-up. No looming pressure.

But this time?

This time she’d had days.

Days stretching out ahead like a tangled thread she couldn’t stop unravelling in her mind. Days to think about how the date could go wrong. To imagine Lisa’s expression when she opened the door tonight. Would it be warm, hesitant, excited? Would there be a flicker of regret?

The sound of tyres crunching over gravel made her chest lurch suddenly. An unexpected jolt that rippled through her ribs like a shockwave. It was the kind of sharp, visceral reaction she hadn’t quite anticipated, as if her body had been holding its breath and finally exhaled in a startled gasp. Her breath hitched sharply, shallow and quick, like her lungs weren’t quite ready to catch it, catching on an invisible edge. For a heartbeat, everything else blurred, the world narrowing to the rough gravel beneath the wheels and the quiet hum of anticipation thrumming beneath her skin.

Without even thinking, her legs carried her toward the window on pure instinct. It was the same way they’d betrayed her all afternoon, pacing, stopping, stealing furtive glances through the curtains as if she could somehow slow time or change the moment just by watching it approach. But this time, she stopped herself mere inches from the fabric.

No.

She wasn’t going to be that person. The one who hovered nervously, heart hammering like a frantic drumbeat echoing behind her ribs, fingers twitching at the curtain’s edge like a child caught between hope and fear. Even though, truthfully, yes, she had been exactly that: pacing, restless, desperate to see.

Instead, Carla turned away, the cool air brushing against her skin as she moved. Her fingers found the back of the chair where her jacket lay folded, the fabric cool and slightly stiff beneath her fingertips, a small anchor in the storm of her nerves. She grasped it firmly and shrugged it on, her hands trembling just slightly as the weight settled over her shoulders.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, holding it just long enough to try and calm the fluttering chaos inside her chest. The sensation was strange. Nervous butterflies were tangled with electric sparks; a jittery current that made her skin tingle and her heart race all at once.

And then, with a quiet, steadying resolve, she reached for the door handle and pulled it open.

Lisa was already there, walking up the gravel path with that effortless rhythm. The kind that seemed to slow time itself when Carla’s eyes caught her moving. Each step was steady and sure, yet relaxed, like a melody Carla had learned by heart but never quite stopped marvelling at.

She wore a midnight-blue blazer that was impeccably tailored, as if stitched just for her. It hugged her shoulders and was tapered gently at the waist, balancing sharp structure with a touch of softness. The blazer was thrown open casually, revealing a pale grey t-shirt underneath that softened the formality, lending the whole look an easy, approachable coolness.

Her jeans fit like a second skin, hugging her legs without appearing tight or strained, and her boots, though clean, bore subtle signs of wear. There were faint scuffs at the toes and gentle creases in the supple leather that spoke of long walks and real adventures, not just fashion statements or staged appearances.

Lisa’s hair was tucked delicately behind one ear, soft waves tumbling forward just enough to brush the curve of her cheekbone. The late afternoon sun caught the strands, gilding them in molten copper and warm honey hues that seemed to set her aglow from within, casting a halo that blurred the edges of the moment.

When Lisa reached the step, she smiled. That crooked, unguarded smile Carla knew was a rare gift, meant only for her. It was effortless and genuine, the kind of smile that unfolded slowly and warmed the air between them.

Carla’s chest twisted with something tight and sudden. She forced herself to unlock her jaw just in time to return the smile, imperfect but real, a small offering of herself in response.

Lisa’s eyes swept over Carla’s carefully curated look. The black satin blouse peeking from beneath a sharply tailored wine-red blazer, sleeves pushed up just so to reveal a flash of bare skin, intimate without being flashy. The high-waisted black trousers were sleek and pristine, paired with a modest heel that lifted Carla’s posture just enough to feel like she was dressed for something special.

Her hair fell in loose waves around her face, casual from afar but upon closer inspection revealing the hours of coaxing and coaxing it had taken to achieve that effortless softness. No hint of overdoing it, just the perfect balance.

Lisa’s eyes softened, a flicker of something almost unreadable glimmering in their depths. “You look...” she started, her voice catching gently as if the words carried weight, then settling with quiet sincerity, “really good.” It wasn’t rehearsed or flashy. It was simple, honest, and utterly true.

Carla blinked, warmth blooming low in her stomach, and whispered, “So do you.”

For a breathless second, they stood still. The world contracting to the space between them. Carla felt a cool breeze slip teasingly beneath her collar, brushing over the bare skin of her neck and chasing away the warmth of her rising flush.

Lisa’s hands rested casually in her jacket pockets, but the way she held herself, relaxed on the surface, yet taut with hidden tension, betrayed the nerves flickering beneath. It was the kind of casual that wasn’t casual at all, like she’d practiced looking composed but couldn’t quite still the flutter inside.

Then, with the slightest step back, Lisa gave a small nod of her head in the direction of her car. A gentle, intimate invitation. “Shall we?” she asked.

Carla nodded, locking the door behind her with deliberate care, forcing herself to ignore the tremble in her hands. They walked side by side down the path, their arms brushing close but not quite touching, the space between them alive with everything left unsaid. Each step echoed louder than it should have. The soft, rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their shoes, the rustle of leaves whispering overhead in the trees, and somewhere distant, a pair of crows calling out sharp and clear, marking the moment like a secret.

Lisa opened the passenger door with a quiet, “Here,” and Carla hesitated a moment before sliding inside.

“Still charming, I see,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt.

Lisa grinned as she rounded the front of the car. “I’m trying to win points,” she replied. “Second dates are all about strategy.”

Carla raised an eyebrow as Lisa settled behind the wheel. “I thought second dates were about confirming whether the first one was a fluke.”

Lisa glanced over, eyes steady and searching, the engine still off, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. “Was it?”

Carla held her gaze longer than she meant to, letting the question linger: soft, tentative, weighted with meaning.

“Guess we’ll find out,” she said quietly.

The answer settled between them, unspoken but undeniable. Solid and gentle, like a promise. Lisa smiled. Slower this time, like she was allowing herself to believe it too. And Carla, sitting there in the passenger seat with her pulse racing, the warmth of that smile sinking deep into her chest, smiled back.

They pulled out of the driveway, the car quiet except for the low hum of the tires rolling over the asphalt and the faint purr of the engine. The world outside was caught in that liminal hour. The dusky in-between where the sun had dipped low, but night hadn’t fully arrived. The sky was streaked with washed-out pinks and pale lavenders, soft clouds bruised by the fading light. Shadows stretched long across the road, and the last slant of golden sunlight slipped across the windshield like a benediction, warm and fleeting.

Inside the car, the air felt suspended. It wasn’t tense, but expectant, like a breath held just before something important is said. Music played low through the speakers, something stripped down and gentle: soft acoustic strumming, paired with a voice that sounded like velvet fraying at the edges. Melancholy, maybe, or just honest. It wasn’t loud enough to distract, but just present enough to fill the silence, weaving between them like a thread.

Carla let herself exhale slowly, finally. Her shoulder blades eased against the seat. For the first time since she’d heard Lisa’s car in the driveway, she wasn’t counting her heartbeats.

After a few minutes, Lisa spoke. Her voice was softer now. Lower than usual, careful in a way that suggested she was opening a door she wasn’t used to leaving ajar. “I was nervous, by the way.”

Carla turned her head, surprised. “You?”

Lisa kept her eyes on the road, but there was a sheepish curve tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I changed shirts three times. Almost brought flowers. Then panicked because that felt like too much. Then panicked again because not bringing them felt like not enough.”

The image hit Carla with a mix of affection and relief. Lisa, standing in front of her closet, running a hand through her hair, overthinking. The knowledge softened something inside her that had been wound a little too tightly all day.

Her chest loosened, just a bit. The knot she hadn’t realized was lodged beneath her sternum began to unravel. She smiled, small and real. “I stood by the mirror for so long I started critiquing my own posture.”

Lisa let out a breathy laugh, casting her a sidelong glance. “So basically, we’re both a disaster.”

“Speak for yourself,” Carla replied, lifting her chin in mock offense. “I’m a vision of composure.”

Lisa gave her a long, exaggerated once-over, head tilted, lips pursed as if considering an abstract painting. “Mmm. Totally. Couldn’t even tell you were pacing in the window.”

Carla groaned, slumping an inch lower into her seat. “You saw that?”

“Only the curtain twitch,” Lisa said, flashing her a grin that was all teeth and mischief. “But it was a very elegant twitch.”

Carla laughed, a full sound this time, tipping her head back against the headrest as if that might ground her from how light she suddenly felt. “God, I’m never dating again.”

Lisa smiled, her fingers easing on the steering wheel. The tension she’d been holding finally began to slip away. “That’s a shame. I was already planning our next date.”

The words were casual, almost playful. But something in them landed, like a pebble dropped into water. They didn’t make a splash. Just ripples. Carla felt it settle in the space between them, and in herself.

“Hey,” she said, nudging Lisa’s shoulder gently, her tone teasing but threaded with affection. “Who says you get to plan all the dates? My turn next.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, clearly aiming for playful nonchalance. “So there will be a next time?”

Carla smirked, turning her face toward the window like she could hide the flush of warmth creeping up her neck. The fading light caught her profile, all soft lines and quiet glow. “If you’re lucky enough,” she murmured, her voice as warm as the golden dusk spilling across the dashboard, “yeah.”

The car slipped into an easy silence again, but this time it didn’t feel like something unsaid was hanging in the air. It felt comfortable. Settled. Like they were both leaning into it now. Whatever this was.

Outside, the landscape stretched out in familiar swaths of green and deepening blue. Willow trees swayed gently along the roadside, their branches flickering in the breeze like slow-moving waves. The hills rolled up in the distance, dusky and soft, casting shadows that pooled in the hollows of the land.

They drove a few more minutes, the moment stretching just long enough to feel natural, before Carla turned her head again, curiosity edging into her voice. “So, where are we actually going?”

Lisa gave a quick glance her way, her expression shifting into something a little sheepish. “Okay, full disclosure,” she said, slowing the car as the traffic light ahead turned red. She eased to a stop and shifted slightly in her seat, angling toward Carla. “I realized I kind of set myself up with the first date.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, amusement already curling at the corner of her mouth. “What do you mean?”

Lisa tapped lightly on the steering wheel, a rhythmic little motion that felt like a stall tactic. The light flicked to green, but she didn’t move, just let the moment hang for a second longer. “I mean I went all out. The whole walking trail, sunset view, handpicked picnic setup, dramatic romantic lighting from the goddamn horizon. First date and I’m already giving you the greatest hits of Willowbrook. Now I’m like... how the hell am I supposed to top that?”

Carla let out a soft, amused laugh, turning in her seat to look at Lisa properly. Her expression warmed, open and sincere beneath the humour. “Don’t be silly. I’m not dating you for grand gestures.”

That got Lisa’s attention. She glanced over again, and this time she really looked, her eyes locking with Carla’s, her expression softer now, touched with a flicker of doubt that hadn’t fully disappeared. “You’re sure?”

“Completely,” Carla said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “That first date was special because it was you. Not because it was a ‘thing.’ You could’ve walked me around the block and talked about the weather and I probably still would’ve kissed you.”

Lisa blinked once, then exhaled slowly, like something in her chest had finally let go. Her mouth tugged into a smile that was quieter than before, but deeper somehow. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I thought this one could be a bit more low-key. A bit more traditional.”

Carla leaned back in her seat, letting her smile unfold, slow and easy. “Traditional sounds nice.”

Lisa’s hand rested on the gear shift, but she turned her head for a beat, the light catching her cheekbones. Her eyes searched Carla’s face for a moment, then lit with that familiar gleam: amused and steady, like she was letting herself believe what was happening. “Yeah?”

Carla met her gaze, this time with no teasing. Just simple truth. “Yeah.”

They turned off the main road a few minutes later, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they pulled into a small car park tucked behind a thicket of trees. The bistro ahead looked like something out of a postcard. Stone walls dappled with ivy, the green climbing in lazy curls toward a peaked roof. Golden light spilled from tall, narrow windows, casting warm shadows on the cobblestone walkway that led to a deep wood door flanked by pots of lavender and rosemary. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. Quiet. Intimate. Removed from the hum of the village.

Lisa shifted the car into park and turned toward Carla, her tone soft but touched with a hint of pride. “I figured somewhere a bit outside the village might give us more privacy,” she said. “Fewer wandering eyes.”

Carla looked at her, a smile playing on her lips. “Clever thinking. Almost like you’ve done this before.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, mock-serious. “What, gone to dinner? Scandalous.”

Carla feigned a gasp, pressing a hand to her chest like she’d been wounded. “You’re telling me this isn’t your first time going to dinner with someone? I’m heartbroken. Truly.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, but laughter slipped through her grin. “You are such an idiot.”

“And yet,” Carla said sweetly, unbuckling her seatbelt, “you like me.”

“I’m not sure why,” Lisa shot back but there was no bite in it, just a soft thread of affection braided into her voice.

Their laughter followed them out of the car, threading between the soft sounds of the countryside. A breeze rustling through the trees, the distant chirp of crickets, the slow creak of a wooden sign swinging from an iron bracket above the door. Lisa rounded the car, and with an ease that didn’t quite disguise the intention, she opened the passenger door for Carla. As they walked toward the entrance, her hand hovered near Carla’s lower back. Not quite touching, not yet. Just... there. Protective. Familiar. Like she was trying not to overstep but couldn’t help being present.

Carla didn’t say anything. But she noticed. She felt it.

The bistro itself had a kind of old-world charm, the kind that didn’t try too hard. Mismatched chairs scraped gently against well-worn floorboards, the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic welcoming them like a promise. Vines curled along the stone exterior, visible even through the thick glass windows, and the golden light inside flickered like something pulled from a memory.

A host led them to a small table tucked near the window, half-shielded by a curtain that swayed gently whenever the door opened. A candle flickered between them; its wax pooled in a stubby glass holder that had probably seen a thousand quiet nights like this one.

Lisa slipped off her jacket, draping it over the back of her chair as she sank into her seat with a slow, contented sigh.

“You pick the wine,” she said, glancing across the table with easy warmth. “But I’m driving, so just a small glass for me.”

Carla smirked as she picked up the leather-bound menu. “You’re letting me take control? Brave.”

“I like to live on the edge,” Lisa said, resting her chin in her hand, elbow propped casually on the table. “Besides, I trust your taste.”

Carla looked up from the wine list, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in Lisa’s voice. Not just a flirt, not just a line. Real. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The moment settled between them like dust in warm light. It was unforced, familiar, the beginning of something easing into its own pace.

Carla chose a bottle of Italian red (something full-bodied, rich but smooth) and when the server returned and poured them each a glass, the dark liquid caught the candlelight like garnet. Conversation flowed easily as they picked at the first round of starters: slices of warm sourdough, creamy hummus, and a small, artful plate of mixed tapas. Carla reached for a piece of bread just as the little bowl of olives was set down.

Her expression shifted instantly.

“Oh no,” she said with a grimace, pushing the bowl away like it had personally offended her.

Lisa blinked. “Not an olive girl?”

Carla turned to her with solemn disgust. “They taste like disappointment in brine.”

Lisa let out a sudden, delighted laugh. It was loud enough that the couple at the next table glanced over, smiling. “What did olives ever do to you?”

“They existed,” Carla said, tone perfectly dry as she broke off a piece of bread and dunked it into the hummus with unnecessary focus.

Lisa grinned, never breaking eye contact as she reached for an olive and popped it into her mouth with exaggerated satisfaction. “More for me.”

From there, the conversation meandered, the way good ones do. Not rushed or awkward. The conversation was just carried by the ease between them. They drifted from books to eccentric customers to the kind of daily routines that Carla confessed she used to avoid when she’d first arrived in Willowbrook. The small-town rhythm had felt foreign to her then, all polite nods and shared glances in the bakery. Now, sitting across from Lisa, it felt like the kind of slowness she’d grown to crave.

Lisa lifted her glass, eyes dancing. “Someone once tried to return a poetry collection because and I quote ‘it didn’t rhyme.’ Not all poetry has to rhyme.”

Carla nearly choked on her wine. “Seriously?”

“They were so offended,” Lisa said, lips curving around the rim of her glass. “Like it was personally disrespectful. Like the book had betrayed them.”

Carla wiped at her mouth with a napkin, grinning. “Did you give them a refund?”

“I gave them a sonnet,” Lisa said dryly. “It went unappreciated.”

Carla tipped her head back with a laugh, eyes bright with delight. “You’re such a menace.”

Lisa leaned forward, elbows on the table. “They hadn’t even read past the first page! Just opened it, saw no rhyming couplets, and decided it was defective.”

“That’s incredible,” Carla said, still smiling, like she was tucking the story away for later. One more detail in the growing collection she was building of Lisa.

Their mains arrived soon after. Carla’s risotto glistening with herbs and shaved parmesan, Lisa’s pasta steaming and rich, laced with garlic and lemon. They paused for a moment as their plates were set down, offering thanks, settling back in.

The conversation softened then, folding into the warm backdrop of the bistro. Silverware gently clinking, the low hum of other conversations brushing past them, the soft laughter from a nearby table punctuated by the clatter of glasses. Candlelight flickered between them, dancing across their wine and catching the glint of something unspoken in their eyes.

Carla swirled a fork through her risotto, then glanced up with a spark of remembered curiosity. “Did you end up reorganizing that display in the shop?”

Lisa lit up instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. “I did. There’s this thing I read once. It was something about how people naturally walk to the left when they enter a space.”

Carla raised a brow, sceptical but entertained. “That’s a thing?”

Lisa gave a shrug, half-committed, half-defiant. “Maybe. Could’ve been about supermarkets. Or airports. I don’t even know anymore. But I figured, why not test it? So I moved all the new releases to the left-hand table near the door.”

“And?”

Lisa grinned, twirling her fork. “Sales went up.”

Carla leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, amused. “I love that your retail strategy is just vibes and half-remembered psychology studies.”

“They haven’t failed me yet,” Lisa said with mock pride, raising her glass for a sip.

Carla watched her over the rim of her own glass. Really watched her. Watched the curve of her smile, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes, the candlelight softening the edges of her features. Lisa’s hair had fallen slightly forward, brushing the edge of her cheek. And suddenly, there it was. That quiet, aching pull in Carla’s chest. The kind of want that didn’t announce itself with urgency, but with a softness that was almost harder to ignore. She wanted to kiss her. Just for a moment. Just to see if it still felt like that first time. Like a secret being told in silence.

But she didn’t move.

Instead, she reached across the table, fingertips brushing against the back of Lisa’s hand, tentative, a question more than a gesture. When Lisa didn’t pull away, Carla let her fingers settle, twining loosely with Lisa’s.

Lisa looked down, her eyes flicking briefly to their joined hands. Then back up. When she met Carla’s gaze again, there was something steady in it. Not just affection. Something more grounded. Like she was in this. Fully. Carla gave her hand a soft squeeze. Not urgent, not dramatic, but certain. A small, wordless promise. Lisa’s answering smile was quiet and real, the kind that settled low and warm in the chest.

Then, Lisa spoke, her voice low and easy. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Carla blinked. “That’s vague.”

“Doesn’t have to be deep,” Lisa said with a shrug, idly nudging a roasted tomato around her plate. “Just something random. Like…” she gave a meaningful glance toward the earlier tapas tray, “your weird thing about olives.”

Carla pulled a face. “It’s not weird. They’re disgusting. Like, offensively salty little gremlins.”

Lisa laughed, really laughed. The sound low and delighted, like it came from her gut. “Well, I think they taste amazing.”

“Well,” Carla said, lifting her chin in mock superiority, “I think my palate is just refined.”

Lisa tilted her head, smirking. “We’re perfectly balanced. You hate olives. I love olives.”

Carla raised a brow, amused. “Are you saying this makes us compatible?”

“I’m saying,” Lisa said, nudging her foot lightly against Carla’s under the table, “I’ll happily eat all the offensively salty little gremlins for you.”

That made Carla laugh: the kind of laugh that cracked her open a little. It came unfiltered and easy, tipping her head slightly to the side, eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a sound that made Lisa’s heart tip off-centre in the best possible way, like she'd just unlocked something she hadn’t known she’d been reaching for. Carla caught her breath, still smiling, and shifted in her seat as if rallying. Carla twirled her fork in the remnants of her risotto, pretending to consider. “Alright,” she said. “Something you don’t know about me”

Lisa leaned in, elbows on the table, giving her full attention.

“I used to be really into astronomy,” Carla said, her voice softer now, almost shy.

Lisa’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “Like telescope, star maps, the whole thing?”

Carla nodded, and this time the smile that followed was more inward, touched with a kind of fond embarrassment. “I had this notebook where I tracked the phases of the moon. I made up constellations. I genuinely believed I could find Saturn with this crappy little telescope I saved up for”

Lisa’s grin spread slowly, warm and wide. “Did you?”

“I found something,” Carla said, her fork idle on her plate now. “It might’ve been a plane. Or a really optimistic streetlamp. But I felt very accomplished.”

Lisa shook her head, utterly charmed. “That’s actually adorable. I love that you were a little space nerd.”

Carla gave a laugh, but her eyes darted away like she wanted to brush it off. “Yeah, were,” she said lightly, colour blooming at the tops of her cheeks.

Lisa caught the shift immediately. The deflection, the sudden retreat. She leaned forward a little, voice teasing but perceptive. “Oh my God. You still are a space nerd. Aren’t you? Are you still tracking the moon”

Carla narrowed her eyes, fighting the smile that tugged at her lips. “Haha, very funny,” she said, then sighed with mock defeat. “And not officially, no. But... I do always know when it’s going to be a full moon.”

Lisa grinned. “Yeah, me too. I look at the sky.”

Carla rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but sometimes it looks like a full moon when it’s not. There's stuff like gibbous moon, apogees and lunar illusions. It’s a whole thing.”

Lisa gave a little bow of her head. “Good to know. I’ll remember that for next time.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I try,” Lisa said breezily.

Then Carla went quiet for a beat, her gaze drifting toward the window. The candlelight flickered gently, catching the curve of her cheek. “I do miss looking up at the stars, though,” she said softly. “There’s barely any in London. Just a few if you’re lucky.”

“You’ll get a chance to stargaze in Willowbrook,” Lisa murmured.

Carla’s gaze lifted to meet hers. “I’ll be dragging you with me.”

Lisa smiled, slow and genuine. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And then stillness. Not the uncomfortable kind. Not the kind that hangs awkwardly between people who’ve run out of things to say. This was different. This was the kind of stillness that felt like breath held between heartbeats. A moment suspended in amber. Their eyes met and held longer than before, longer than was strictly necessary and yet neither of them looked away.

Because it wasn’t just looking anymore.

It was seeing.

Carla’s gaze traced the familiar lines of Lisa’s face, and suddenly they felt unfamiliar again. In the way something becomes more mysterious the longer you stare at it. Like seeing a constellation in the sky that you’ve passed a hundred times, but tonight it clicks into a shape you recognise. A meaning you hadn’t noticed before. Lisa, for her part, didn’t blink. Her expression had softened. The usual edge of humour giving way to something quieter, more open. Her eyes searched Carla’s with the kind of focus that made Carla feel like she wasn’t just being looked at but understood.

Everything else receded: the muted clink of cutlery, the faint murmur of conversations, the low music spinning from unseen speakers. Even the candlelight between them seemed to flicker in time with something quieter. Something internal.

And in that still, suspended breath of time, something passed across the table.

Not a confession. Not quite.

But a truth. Shared. Known. Felt.

Then Carla let out a breath of a laugh, barely more than a sigh. The kind of sound that breaks something tender, not with force, but care. Like running a fingertip over the surface of still water, watching the ripple move outward.

“Okay,” she said, voice a shade lighter than before. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Lisa blinked, and the moment eased. She leaned back with theatrical flair, one hand to her chin like a philosopher in deep thought. “Hmm. Okay.” A beat, a pause. Then, with mock solemnity: “I played the trumpet when I was younger.”

Carla lit up instantly, joy blooming across her face like dawn breaking over water. “No.”

“Oh yes,” Lisa said, grinning with faux pride, her tone just shy of smug. “First chair. School band. I was a menace.”

“There are photos, aren’t there?” Carla asked, already picturing it. A young Lisa with a trumpet way too big for her in her hand, cheeks puffed, concentration etched into her tiny, determined face.

Lisa leaned further back, arms crossing like a gate slamming shut. “No.”

“Oh, please,” Carla said, leaning in. “I need to see this.”

“Absolutely not, Carla.”

Carla burst out laughing, unable to hold it back: bright, helpless, completely undone by the image now stuck in her mind. “Spoilsport,” she said, wiping at the corners of her eyes.

Lisa joined her, her laugh full-bodied and free. It wasn’t just amusement. It was more like relief, delight, the kind of happiness that burrows under your ribs and makes space for itself. Their laughter tangled together, filled the small space around their table, and curled into the corners of the bistro like it had always belonged there.

“Okay, so, space nerd and trumpet geek,” Carla said once she could breathe again. “We would’ve been unstoppable at twelve.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lisa replied, grinning. “One of us with her head in the stars, the other making deeply unhelpful jazz noises in the background.”

That sent another small ripple of laughter through Carla, but this time it faded sooner because something else settled in its place. A quieter feeling. Her gaze lingered again. On Lisa’s smile, the soft curve of her cheek, the way the candlelight caught in her hair and turned it gold at the edges. She didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t need to.

There was that stillness again. A sense of being known and being welcome in that knowing. No expectation. No pressure. Just a closeness that had become effortless. The kind that didn’t require explanation anymore. It just was. Their fingers weren’t touching now, but the memory of contact remained. Like warmth held between them, just beneath the surface.

And in that moment, quiet, settled, true, something shifted.

Not dramatically. Not with grand declarations or cinematic swells.

But undeniably.

Like a tide turning.

Like something once tentative rooting itself in the present tense.

Like the quiet certainty that whatever this was… it was real. And it was becoming something worth holding on to.

Around them, the low hum of the bistro carried on like a gentle current, steady and alive. Silverware clinked softly against plates, punctuating the air with delicate, rhythmic taps. Nearby, the sharp pop of a wine bottle punctuated the murmur of conversation, laughter bubbling up like a secret shared. The soft glow of candlelight flickered between tables, casting dancing shadows that stretched and curled on the scuffed wooden floor. The warm scent of rosemary and roasted garlic lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the sweeter notes of melting vanilla bean ice cream from the kitchen. But despite the lively backdrop, Carla felt cocooned from it all, as if the world had compressed, focusing solely on the small, glowing space they now inhabited together.

Lisa leaned back slightly in her chair, her fingers brushing the rim of her wine glass in a slow, absent rhythm, the gentle scrape of her thumb against glass like a quiet meditation. Her voice lowered, a soft murmur that carried both warmth and a rare vulnerability. “This was a good idea.”

Carla nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, eyes reflecting the candlelight with a quiet glow. “Yeah. It really was.”

Lisa’s eyes flicked up, meeting Carla’s with a look that held something unreadable. A flicker of something deep and unspoken flashed across her face before softening into something tender, almost shy. “Dessert?” she asked, the invitation light but hopeful.

Carla tilted her head, amused and intrigued. “Tempting me already?”

Lisa’s gaze drifted down to the plates scattered between them. The remnants of sourdough crumbs, a few stray olives, the faint smear of hummus, their mains and then back up at Carla. “I’m not sure I’ve got room for a whole dessert, but…”

Carla raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, the teasing sparkle in her eyes growing. “But?”

Lisa grinned, the kind of grin that hinted at playful scheming. “If we were to, say, split something, that might be negotiable.”

Carla matched the grin, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “You’re trying to gauge if I’m the sharing type.”

“Aren’t you?”

Carla hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the table as if weighing the decision carefully. “Depends. What are we ordering?”

Lisa picked up the small dessert menu, scanning it quickly, the candlelight casting a warm glow over the glossy paper. “Okay. There’s a chocolate fondant that looks like trouble. Comes with vanilla bean ice cream.”

Carla leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially like it was a delicious secret. “I will fight you for the gooey middle.”

 “You can have the middle. I’ll take the edges. Fair deal?”

“Generous,” Carla said with mock gravitas. “You can stay.”

Lisa laughed softly, the sound light and clear, catching the server’s eye and placing the order. “One fondant. Two spoons please.”

When the dessert arrived, the rich scent of warm chocolate enveloped them instantly: thick, dark, and intoxicating. The fondant’s cracked top revealed hints of molten chocolate beneath, inviting and dangerous. The vanilla bean ice cream sat beside it, already melting into a creamy pool that promised contrast. Cold against the warm, sweet richness.

They took turns spooning bites, the silence between them comfortable and easy. Each mouthful was savoured, eyes occasionally meeting with mischievous smirks when one scored an especially gooey bite. At one point, Carla nudged the plate a little closer to Lisa, who smiled back, not just because of the gesture but because she was starting to realize how natural it all felt. This simple sharing, this quiet connection.

“How are we already at dessert?” Carla said finally, her voice soft, edges softened by the warmth of the night. “I swear we just sat down.”

Lisa gave a quiet nod, her eyes warm and thoughtful. “Time does that sometimes. With the right people.”

The last of the fondant disappeared between them, wine glasses now nearly empty, their table cleared of everything except the small candle flickering low and steady, its flame dancing gently like a heartbeat.

Carla leaned back in her chair, eyes soft, lips curving into the beginnings of a private smile. One meant just for herself, but somehow shared. “That was really nice.”

Lisa nodded, her gaze lingering on Carla’s a moment longer than necessary, rich with something unspoken. “Yeah. It was.”

They didn’t rush to leave. The moment stretched, a fragile bubble in time. They paid the bill slowly, almost reluctantly, savouring the final moments. Outside, the cool night air settled softly around them, crisp and refreshing after the warmth inside. It wrapped around their shoulders like a quiet promise.

Chapter Text

The drive back was quiet, in that comforting way things sometimes are when words feel too small for what’s humming under the surface. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be broken, because somehow it says everything on its own. Outside the windshield, the country road stretched ahead with the golden glow of the occasional streetlamp. Trees bent toward each other across the lane like old friends murmuring secrets, their leaves rustling gently in the warm breeze. The evening air was still mild, touched with the lingering warmth of the day. The sky above had deepened into a clear indigo, the last traces of dusk softening at the edges, and the fields on either side glowed faintly in the moonlight: dry and golden, undisturbed.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was cosy, the windows rolled up to hold in the day’s heat. Carla leaned her head against the glass, her gaze following the soft blur of hedgerows and quiet cottages as they passed. The road wound steadily on, peaceful and familiar. Beside her, Lisa drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in her lap. Her profile was illuminated in flickers. Her jawline was softened by the rise and fall of streetlights, her eyes were focused, calm. Her mouth held the echo of a smile, as if the evening still lingered on her lips. The silence held warm like the last stretch of a song you didn’t want to end. Neither of them reached to fill it. The car just moved forward, steady and sure, carrying them through the soft hush of evening.

Eventually, the outline of Carla’s house came into view, nestled behind its low stone wall, porch light glowing like a beacon in the dark. Lisa pulled into the drive, the quiet crunch of tires over gravel marking their return. The gentle purr of the engine faded as she turned the key, and with it, the headlights dimmed and cut out plunging the car into soft darkness. Only the faint wash of the porch light spilled across the windshield now, painting slanted gold across the dashboard and casting long shadows through the interior.

Outside, the house stood silent, the windows blank, the garden hushed under a dome of stars. Inside the car, it was suddenly still. Still in that full-bodied kind of way where even the air seems to hold its breath.

Neither of them moved.

Carla sat with her fingers resting lightly on the door handle, her gaze lowered, not quite seeing. The warmth from the drive still clung to the seats, the faint residual hum of conversation hanging between them like the scent of rain; present, but elusive. Her body was angled just slightly toward the door, but she hadn’t turned it. Not yet. Something about the moment felt breakable. Like moving too quickly might snap a thread stretched tight between them, one neither of them had named but both of them felt.

She turned her head, slowly, and glanced sideways.

The interior was low-lit, the soft amber of the dashboard casting subtle glows across Lisa’s face. That light caught her cheekbone, brushed the corner of her eye, made the faintest shimmer in the strands of blonde hair near her temple. Her expression, usually so composed, so sharp-edged and knowing, had gentled into something quieter. Her mouth, often curved in dry amusement or teasing commentary, was relaxed now, almost thoughtful. Her eyes were downcast but not vacant. They were focused inward, somewhere private. She looked like someone on the edge of saying something important. Or not saying it and hoping it would be understood anyway.

Carla’s voice, when it came, was soft. Softer than she intended, but sure. Like it had risen from the centre of her chest rather than her throat. “I don’t want the night to end.”

Lisa looked up. The change was instant but subtle. The playful light that often danced in her gaze receded, like mist clearing from glass, revealing something steadier underneath. Something unguarded. The corner of her mouth lifted, not in amusement, but in quiet recognition. “Me neither.”

A pause followed. Not awkward. It was never awkward. It was just thick with possibility. Then Lisa’s eyes shifted, just slightly, and something flickered there; a decision taking shape. A brightening behind her gaze. Like a spark catching. She smiled. Not the easy grin she wore when deflecting compliments or cracking jokes but something slower. More deliberate. A curve of her lips that said she’d just made up her mind.

“Come with me,” she said.

Carla blinked. The words caught her off guard. Not because of what they meant, but because of the way Lisa said them. With no room for doubt. With that confident, quiet edge Carla had only seen when Lisa was completely certain of something.

“Where?” Carla asked, her voice a little lower now, a little more careful.

Lisa didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward slightly instead, and the keys gave a soft jingle as she pulled them from the ignition. Then she pushed her door open. The interior light flared on briefly, illuminating her silhouette, the lines of her face in profile, the firmness of her movement, before she stepped out, letting the door fall shut behind her with a soft thunk.

From outside, her voice came light and teasing. “You’ll see.”

Carla watched her for a moment through the windshield, heart giving a curious little flutter against her ribs. There was something deeply familiar in Lisa’s smile. Something mischievous, yes, but grounded. Assured. She wasn’t bluffing.

“You’re being cryptic,” Carla said, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself.

Lisa looked back over her shoulder, the porch light catching in her eyes. “It’s a short walk. Come on.”

Carla hesitated. Just for a heartbeat, long enough to acknowledge the soft tug of nerves at the edge of her chest. Then she huffed a quiet, mock-exasperated sigh and reached for the handle. “If this ends with me being murdered in the woods I swear to God.”

Lisa’s laugh drifted through the night: open, amused. “Why do you always think I’m going to murder you on our dates?”

Carla stepped out and closed the door behind her, the air cool against her arms. She walked toward Lisa, who was already ambling down the garden path and toward the street, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her coat. “Because you were a detective. You’d know how to get away with it.”

Lisa shot her a sidelong glance; brows lifted with feigned solemnity. “Exactly. I was a detective. A pretty good one. I follow the law. I don’t break it. I’m retired, not rouge” She let that settle, then added, lips curling into a sly smirk, “Besides, do I look like someone who’d ruin a perfectly good date with a felony?”

Carla didn’t answer right away. She stopped and looked at her. Lisa was standing with the easy posture of someone who knew exactly what she was doing, her smile tilted at just the right angle, her eyes glinting with playful challenge. And yet, beneath all of it, there was sincerity. It was steady and undeniable.

Carla narrowed her eyes in exaggerated scrutiny. “Hmm,” she said at last, drawing it out. “You could be the type to use your charm as a cover.”

Lisa turned her head, clearly entertained, and arched a brow. The light caught in her eyes, reflecting something sharp and amused. “Is that what this is? Charm?”

Carla began to walk the last few steps around the car to join Lisa on the path. She took her time walking around the front of the vehicle, the gravel crunching underfoot, her smile growing as she approached Lisa on the path. When she passed close enough to brush shoulders, she leaned in just enough to make it count.

“Undeniable,” she said, her voice low and warm, the grin dancing in her eyes like light off water.

Lisa laughed. Not a big sound. Not theatrical. But something quieter. More private. It slipped from her lips like something that hadn’t been planned and hadn’t needed to be. A sound like the release of tension, the acknowledgment of a shared joke and something more than a joke all at once.

She fell into step beside Carla as they started down the lane, their bodies moving easily in rhythm, the space between them thinning with each unspoken beat. The road stretched ahead, softened by dusk, the village folding itself into sleep around them. Porch lights had clicked off one by one, windows darkened behind drawn curtains, and the world had taken on that in-between quiet. The kind of stillness that felt deliberate, sacred.

The air had shifted too. It was cooler now, edged with the crispness of dew waiting to fall. The scents of earth, chimney smoke, and honeysuckle hung lightly in the air. Every footstep they took seemed to echo, just faintly, in the hush. Enough to remind them they were the only ones walking here now.

And then, after a long beat, just when Carla had started to think the silence might carry all the way to wherever they were headed, Lisa’s fingers brushed against hers. It was the softest contact, barely there, a question disguised as an accident. Carla’s gaze darted sideways, and she caught the tilt of Lisa’s head, the almost imperceptible way her brow lifted in invitation. That subtle glance said more than words might’ve dared. Lisa wasn’t pushing. Just offering.

Without overthinking it, Carla turned her hand and laced their fingers together. The warmth of Lisa’s skin was immediate. A quiet steadiness that settled over her like a blanket she hadn’t realized she’d needed. There was no tension in Lisa’s hand, no urgency. Only calm. Her thumb moved once across the back of Carla’s hand: slow, deliberate, and achingly gentle.

A silent promise, or maybe just the start of one.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

The village around them slept on, unaware. Here and there, golden rectangles of light still glowed in windows above them, softened by curtains or partially closed shutters. Those lights seemed distant somehow, like fragments of a world they weren’t part of just now. The gravel beneath their feet scraped softly, the only rhythm anchoring them in the moment. The world had narrowed, as if on purpose, to the sound of their steps and the quiet hum of something unfolding.

Then, at last, Carla spoke. Gently puncturing the spell to let in just a sliver of breath. “You know,” she said, her voice low and a little amused, “This feels suspiciously like a scenic detour.”

Lisa’s reply was quick, easy. “It’s a strategic one,” she said, and there was a familiar warmth in her tone, a smile stitched into the words. “And anyway, I think you’ll like it.”

Carla glanced over at her again, her curiosity stirred but not rushing ahead. She wasn’t sure what Lisa was planning. That uncertainty might have unnerved her once but now, it just made her want to see what came next. There was something about Lisa’s presence that invited trust. So, she didn’t press. She just walked.

It wasn’t until they rounded the next corner that Carla’s pace slowed, her gaze catching on the familiar, gently looming shape ahead.

The bookshop.

It rose like a silhouette against the dark, quiet and still. Its windows darkened, shutters pulled halfway down like sleepy eyelids. The shop always felt timeless in daylight, but now it looked like a memory from someone else’s dream. Nostalgic and waiting.

Carla blinked, slowing a little more as realization dawned. “Wait…”

But Lisa was already at the door. She paused, reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out a key. The metal caught the light, glinting once, briefly, before she slid it into the lock.

“You’re breaking into your own shop?” Carla asked, incredulous and half-laughing.

Lisa turned her head, that smirk returning. “It’s not breaking in if you have keys,” she said, sliding the lock open with the ease of habit. “Perks of ownership.” The bell above the door gave a small, familiar chime as she pushed it open, softer than usual in the stillness of night, like even the bell knew to whisper.

Inside, the shop exhaled its usual welcome: the mingled scent of aged paper, polished wood, and the faintest trace of dried lavender. Shadows clung to the corners, unmoving, but Lisa stepped in with the confidence of someone crossing the threshold of home. She moved to a side table, flicked on a lamp, and let golden light spill out in a slow ripple. It lit the shelves first, catching on worn spines and curled dust jackets, then moved across the floor like a sunbeam trapped in amber.

Lisa let the door fall shut behind them with a click, then quietly turned the lock again. Not out of caution. More out of instinct. The kind of motion someone makes when they’re used to creating a safe space.

Carla stood in the doorway for a moment; her breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. The shop looked different now. Stripped of the bustle and hum of customers, it felt like something alive but sleeping, full of stories waiting to be told. It didn’t feel like a building. It felt like a secret.

Lisa moved deeper into the space, switching on one more lamp (the one near the old velvet chair in the reading nook at the back). Then she stopped. She didn’t rearrange a thing. Didn’t explain herself. She just waited. Waited for Carla.

Carla stepped in slowly, her boots muffled on the rug, her senses drinking in the softness of everything: the low light, the creak of the floorboard beneath her step, the smell of old ink and warmth. She passed a table stacked with poetry anthologies and ran her fingers gently over the cover of the topmost one, her touch lingering like memory.

“I really like it here, you know.”

Lisa turned slightly, her silhouette cast in soft shadows. “Yeah?”

Carla nodded once. “I do my best to avoid bookshops these days. Too much attention. Expectation. But there was just something about this place. I felt drawn to it.”

Lisa didn’t answer right away. She looked at Carla like she was looking through her and into her all at once. Something soft and grateful behind her eyes. Lisa stepped closer, her presence a comforting warmth in the cool evening air. "Well, I'm glad you did."

Carla's lips curled into a small, genuine smile. "I'm glad I did too."

Her hand lingered on the book a moment longer before she let it go, drifting deeper into the shop. The soft creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her steps added to the sense of intimacy in the space.

Lisa watched her from near the counter, hands tucked into the deep pockets of her blazer, her silhouette still and unintrusive in the quiet hush of the shop. The low light from a nearby lamp haloed around her in soft amber, brushing her shoulders with gold. There was something careful in the way she stood. Not tentative exactly, but reverent, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile thread had woven its way between them.

“You want to sit?” she asked eventually, her voice low and even, nodding toward the old velvet chair nestled in the reading nook beneath the bay window.

Carla glanced over at the chair, then down at the thick rug beneath her feet. Her mouth twisted slightly in thought. “Actually,” she said, tone light but edged with a kind of quiet truth, “I kind of want to lie down.”

Lisa’s smile came slowly, widening just enough to reveal amusement and something softer underneath. “Can’t say I’ve ever laid on the floor here before.”

“First time for everything.”

Lisa huffed a quiet laugh, already bending to unlace her boots. “First time for everything,” she echoed, her voice warm with shared mischief.

Carla slid off her shoes with a soft shuffle and crossed the worn floorboards to the centre of the reading nook. The rug there was deep and dense underfoot, patterned with faded jewel tones that had softened over time. She sank down with a sigh, folding gracefully onto her back, the quiet thump of her shoulder blades meeting the rug barely audible. Her arms relaxed at her sides, palms open, as if giving the moment permission to hold her.

Above, the ceiling beams stretched like old bones across the high roof, softened at the edges by time and lamplight. Carla's eyes traced their lines, breathing slowly, deeply like she was letting something inside her settle.

Lisa padded over and lowered herself beside her, the movement unhurried. She didn’t lie flat immediately. She just eased back onto her elbows, watching Carla the way someone might study a half-remembered song. Something about her expression was open but curious, like she couldn’t quite believe this was real. That they were real.

“It’s weird,” Carla murmured, still watching the beams. Her voice had the softness of someone speaking a truth to themselves. “This place at night. It feels... softer.”

Lisa eased down fully then, lying flat, arms crossed lightly over her stomach. Her voice came from beside her, low and wry. “It’s the absence of customers.”

Carla smirked. “You mean the chaos.”

“I mean the chaos,” Lisa confirmed with a smile.

The shop creaked faintly in the pause that followed. Old wood expanding and contracting. A subtle breeze outside moved the sign against the window with a barely audible tap. From somewhere down the block, a distant car passed, its engine fading quickly into silence.

Carla’s gaze moved slowly across the dim silhouettes of shelves; their shapes blurred at the edges in the low light. She let the quiet wrap around her, not awkward but companionable, thick with the kind of silence that invites truth.

“Do you ever feel like... you’re just now becoming the person you were always supposed to be?” she asked, her voice a whisper, almost cautious, like she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to say it aloud.

Lisa didn’t answer at first. She let the question breathe in the space between them. When she did speak, it was with quiet conviction. “Yeah. I do.”

Carla’s hand moved slightly, fingers brushing Lisa’s until they found purchase. “It’s strange,” she said. “For so long, I was just performing. Being what everyone expected. Meeting deadlines, signing contracts, smiling when I didn’t feel like smiling.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the weight of it. “And then I burned out. Completely. I didn’t write a word for over a year. Not one.”

Lisa didn’t rush to respond. She simply let the silence hold the confession. Her stillness was its own kind of support.

“It scared me,” Carla admitted, her voice smaller now. “Because I thought if I couldn’t write, then what was I? Who was I without it?”

Lisa turned her head slightly, looking at her through the soft gold wash of the lamplight. Her face was open, gentle. “You’re not what you make. Or what you’ve lost. You’re still you. You always were.”

Carla blinked, quickly, trying to keep the emotion from spilling. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Lisa said, “but it’s true.”

A stillness settled between them again, but it was different now. Not hollow. Just… deep.

Then, quieter still, Carla said, “I’ve started writing again.”

Lisa inhaled softly, a sound that might have been surprised, or quiet awe. Or maybe somewhere in between. She didn’t try to hide it. “Yeah?”

“Nothing huge. But sentences that feel like mine. Ideas that I don’t hate. Ideas that don’t hate me back.” She let out a soft, dry laugh. “It’s not just writing for the sake of writing. I want to write again.” She paused, breath hitching slightly. “I didn’t think I would. I’d convinced myself it was done. That I’d ruined it. But then I started scribbling things. Scenes, little fragments and it felt familiar again. Like something waking up. Like I was waking up.”

Lisa’s expression softened even further, her eyes locked on Carla’s with something unspoken and full in them. “Do you know how rare that is?” she asked after a beat. “To fall back in love with something you thought had left you?”

Carla gave her a small smile, flickering but real. “I’m still scared it’s temporary.”

“Even if it is,” Lisa said, “You’re still writing. That matters.”

Carla turned her head slowly on the rug, the side of her face brushing soft against the weave. Her gaze found Lisa’s in the warm, golden halo cast by the lamplight. It softened everything. It made Lisa’s features look almost dreamlike: the curve of her cheek, the faint crease near her mouth where laughter liked to sit, the quiet steadiness in her eyes. “You know this place is part of it, right?” Carla said. Her voice was gentle, but there was weight beneath it.

Lisa blinked, her brows lifting just a fraction. “What do you mean?”

Carla’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “This shop. You.” She exhaled slowly, the words delicate, vulnerable. “The way you looked at me like I was still a whole person even when I didn’t feel like one. Being here made me want to try again. Just to see if the words would still come.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thoughtful, brimming with something quiet and real. Lisa didn’t rush to fill it. Instead, she shifted her hand slowly across the small space between them, and without a word, gently linked her pinkie with Carla’s. The touch was light, deliberate but unassuming. The kind of gesture that didn’t ask for anything in return. Just steadiness. Just presence.

“I hope you keep writing,” Lisa said softly, her voice barely more than breath. “Even if no one ever reads it. Even if it’s just for you.”

Carla closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, they shimmered faintly in the lamplight. She let out a breath that trembled at the edges, and it sounded a little like relief. “Yeah. Me too.” Her voice was softer now, almost confessional. “I’ve missed it. So much.”

They lay like that for a while, the hush between them as easy as breath. The shop around them was still. Shelves standing like sentinels, stories sealed in spines all waiting, listening. Eventually, Lisa shifted slightly onto her side, propped on one elbow now, her head tilted just enough to keep Carla in full view.

Carla mirrored her without thinking, turning so they faced one another. The rug cushioned her shoulder, and their knees bumped lightly in the middle. Their faces were inches apart now. Close enough to share breath, close enough to count freckles.

The light from the lamp draped golden across Lisa’s features, catching on her lashes and glinting at the corner of her eye. Her expression was unreadable in the best way: soft, open, unguarded.

Carla leaned in first. Slow and sure, with the kind of intention that left room for retreat but hoped for none. Lisa met her halfway.

Their lips met in a kiss that felt like breath being let out after too long held in. It didn’t spark with fire, didn’t crackle with urgency. Instead, it anchored. Gentle, steady, a question already answered. The soft press of mouths, the shared quiet of it, spoke more clearly than anything words could’ve done. It was grounding. Like finding familiar ground after a long time wandering. Like I see you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Their mouths moved slowly, no choreography, just instinct and closeness and trust. Carla could feel the soft pull of Lisa’s bottom lip, the faint warmth of her breath between kisses, the way Lisa’s hand had stilled against the rug but not withdrawn. There was no rush to deepen it. No hunger. Just warmth, and something steadier than want.

When they eventually parted, they stayed close, foreheads almost touching, their noses brushing softly in the space between them. Lisa didn’t speak. She simply lifted one hand, careful and unhurried, and ran her thumb once, featherlight, across the back of Carla’s hand. Like she was tracing something precious. Memorising it.

Carla’s heart beat quietly but with purpose. The hush that settled around them now wasn’t silence. No, it was presence. The kind of quiet that only existed when everything was finally allowed to rest.

She stayed on her side, her body half-curled in the softness of the rug, close enough to feel the faintest brush of Lisa’s exhale against her cheek with every quiet breath. The lamplight still glowed gently behind them, casting gold across the curve of Lisa’s jaw, the slope of her collarbone. And in that stillness, something in Carla loosened, unlatched in a place she hadn’t realised she was holding shut.

“I forgot what it felt like,” she said, voice low, rough at the edges like a page that had been turned too many times. “To be with someone like this. Without feeling like I had to perform. Or protect something.”

Lisa didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Carla offered a small smile, worn and real, the kind that came not from joy exactly, but from the recognition of safety. “I’m trying to believe that.”

Lisa reached up slowly, carefully, and tucked a strand of hair behind Carla’s ear. Her fingertips brushed warm along her temple. Gentle. Reverent. “Take your time,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The words landed somewhere deep, in the quietest, loneliest part of Carla’s chest, and settled there like warmth spreading through frost. Something caught in her throat then, and she had to blink against it. Not grief. Not sadness. Just fullness. The weight of being seen. The ache of being understood.

Lisa shifted again, her body curling slightly to face Carla more fully. Their knees bumped gently, a quiet point of contact that neither of them moved to correct.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re writing?” Lisa asked, her voice soft but steady. Curious but never pressing.

Carla hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly against the rug, a breath catching in her throat like it didn’t quite know whether it belonged to fear or hope. Her eyes flicked away for a second. Toward the shelves, the ceiling, anywhere but Lisa’s gaze. Then her gaze returned, softer now, a little more unguarded. “Not yet”

Lisa didn’t push, didn’t even blink. She just listened.

Carla continued, voice quieter now, careful. “It still feels... fragile. Like if I look at it too closely, or let anyone else look at it, it might fall apart. Or I will.” She paused, then added, “I’m scared if I share it too soon, the noise will come back. The pressure. The eyes. I’m not ready for that part yet. But maybe soon”

Lisa’s expression didn’t change. There was no disappointment, no surprise, no frustration. Just something open. Soft. Steady. “Okay,” she said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll be here when you are. And it’s okay if you never want to share. I understand.”

Carla’s smile deepened, something grateful flickering behind it. “Thank you.” The words were barely more than a breath, but they carried weight. They held everything she didn’t quite know how to say yet. Everything she maybe didn’t need to say.

And then they were still again, just lying there, the pause stretching. Neither of them wanted to disturb the softness that had wrapped around them. This moment held so gently between what had been and what might still be.

Eventually, Lisa let out a quiet sigh, the kind that broke the silence with affection rather than finality. “As much as I’d like to keep lying on the floor like emotionally complicated teenagers, we should probably get up”

Carla groaned, easing herself onto her back before sitting up with exaggerated care. “Yeah. My spine is no longer nineteen.”

Lisa laughed under her breath as she pushed herself upright, then stood, stretching slightly before reaching down to offer Carla her hand. Carla took it without hesitation, let herself be pulled to her feet. But she didn’t let go right away. Her fingers stayed wrapped around Lisa’s, warm and steady, before brushing gently along her palm. A quiet thank you stitched into the touch. Then she stepped back to retrieve her shoes.

Lisa moved to the lamps and began turning them off one by one, her silhouette passing briefly through each soft pool of light before it blinked out. The shop dimmed slowly, shadows stretching long across the floorboards, then folding in around the corners of the shelves like the shop itself was exhaling. The final lamp clicked off with a soft snap, and the hush that followed was a new kind of quiet. Not empty, but full.

Like the shop had seen it all and chosen to hold it safe.

Outside, the air met them cool and still. The village had folded in on itself for the night, tucked beneath rooftops and warm quilts, the hush of it soft and complete. A few porch lights flickered across the lane, casting wide amber halos over stone steps and uneven garden paths. Their glow made everything look older, softer, like a photograph left out in the sun too long. A streetlamp at the far corner buzzed faintly, its light pulsing with the slow rhythm of a heartbeat. Somewhere nearby, a cat leapt soundlessly over a garden wall, its eyes catching the light before disappearing into shadow.

They walked the path back to Carla’s slowly. Their hands were still loosely twined, fingers swinging in a rhythm that didn’t need speaking. Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to. Willowbrook was quiet around them, like it was holding its breath on their behalf.

When they reached Carla’s front gate, they paused. The house stood in gentle silhouette, windows dark, porch light glowing golden overhead. Carla stopped at the first step, and Lisa did too, their hands still joined between them. Lisa’s thumb moved once, a slow, grounding pass across the back of Carla’s hand.

Carla looked up, and the porch light caught the gentle slope of Lisa’s jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, the fine lines near her eyes. She looked steady. Beautiful. Familiar in a way that made something inside Carla ache.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Carla murmured, voice barely louder than the breeze.

 Lisa’s answer was just as soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

 They looked at each other in the golden porch light, the shadows long behind them, and then without ceremony, without fanfare, Carla stepped forward. She kissed Lisa like she meant it. Like it had been coming all night.

There was no hesitation this time. Her hands fisted in the collar of Lisa’s blazer, pulling her in close, like the need had been held back too long. Lisa responded immediately, instinctively, one arm wrapping around Carla’s waist, the other sliding up to cradle her jaw with the kind of gentleness that always felt like a choice. A promise.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t performative. It was breathless. It was edged with the sharp sweetness of relief and hunger. The kind of kiss that speaks without needing to be translated. The kind that says: I’m here. I want this. I want you.

Lisa made a low sound in her throat, her mouth moving against Carla’s with quiet urgency, her fingertips slipping beneath the hem of Carla’s jacket to find warm skin at her waist. Carla leaned into it, her body suddenly and startlingly awake. Like it had remembered a language it hadn’t spoken in a long time.

They didn’t part until they had to: breath catching, lips swollen, foreheads pressed close. Carla rested her brow against Lisa’s, her eyes fluttering shut. Their noses bumped gently. Neither of them moved.

Carla’s voice came out lower than she meant, and rough at the edges. “Stay.”

Lisa didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, letting their breathing even out, still folded into the hush between them. Carla’s hand remained tangled in Lisa’s, thumb brushing idly over her knuckles. The air between them buzzed. Not tense, but electric. Quiet, but not calm. It felt like standing on the edge of something, not dangerous, but vast.

Carla gave Lisa’s hand a soft tug, and together, they slipped inside – up the stairs and down the hall. Their footsteps muffled on the carpet, the door closed softly behind them like punctuation at the end of something unspoken. The world outside fell away in degrees. First the village, then the night, then everything but the echo of Lisa’s fingers curled gently around hers.

The bedroom light was already on. The small lamp by Carla’s bed casting its usual muted light across the room. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t performative. It was the kind of light meant to be lived in, to wind down inside of. The glow pooled in corners and softened the edges of everything it touched. Their shadows stretched long and quiet along the floorboards. The air was cooler here, but not cold. The kind of cool that settled on skin like silk. Like a pause. Like a breath you didn’t know you needed.

Carla crossed to the dresser, fingers brushing the edge out of habit, and opened a drawer. She pulled out her sleep shirt and shorts with the ease of routine. Then, after the briefest beat, she reached back in (this time without thought, just instinct) and grabbed another set. A soft, slightly oversized T-shirt. Flannel shorts that looked well-worn, broken in by countless evenings and the comfort of solitude.

She turned and held them out, no words, no ceremony, just the quiet offering of something that had once belonged only to her. She didn’t look at Lisa when she did it. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t a statement. It was trust, handed over like second nature.

Lisa took them with a kind of reverence “Thank you”

They changed in silence, comfortable and slow-moving. Unguarded, like the space between them didn’t require anything else. There were the quiet sounds of fabric shifting, zippers undone, bare feet brushing against the floor. And underneath it all, something tender was settling. Something soft and real.

When Carla turned around, Lisa was standing barefoot, her hair mussed slightly from tugging the shirt over her head, her jeans folded neatly on the chair like she didn’t want to leave a mark or make a mess. Carla’s shirt hung a little loose on her frame: the sleeves brushing her elbows, the hem almost to her thighs. Her skin caught the lamplight in soft gold. Her hands were still at her sides, relaxed, open. She looked… God. She looked like she belonged here.

Not in a possessive way. Not in a way that asked for anything. Just naturally. As if this was a moment, they’d come to without even realizing they’d been heading toward it all along. As if this quiet, lamp-lit space had been waiting for her shape to fill it. As if Lisa was always meant to be here. Always meant to be in her life.

The sight hit Carla low and sharp, molten heat curling in her gut. Not just desire, but want, layered with something deeper. Something that made her feel both steady and weightless all at once.

She didn’t stop to think.

She crossed the room in two steps and kissed her like the moment might disappear.

This time, it was different.

This time, it burned.

Lisa made a soft, startled noise. Not from hesitation or surprise but from sheer want. Lisa responded immediately. Their mouths moved together in hungry rhythm, kisses turning deeper, less careful. Carla’s fingers slid up into Lisa’s hair, tangling there, pulling her in. Lisa’s hands mapped their way along her waist, beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips skating over bare skin, deliberate, grounding.

They bumped against the edge of the bed. Lisa guided them backward, her hands strong and steady, her breath catching in her throat when Carla’s nails grazed down her back through the thin fabric of her borrowed shirt. Lisa’s mouth traced the edge of her jaw, the hinge of her throat, and Carla’s head tipped back instinctively, lips parted, breath ragged.

Everything was spiralling forward. Heat, movement, intention. Carla’s hands fumbled at Lisa’s waist, unsure if she wanted to tug her closer or push the shirt up, or maybe both. Her legs brushed the edge of the mattress. Her body was fully alive now, electric, burning from the inside out.

Lisa’s hands moved too. Confident, assured, measured. One slid up Carla’s spine again, a familiar path. The other dipped lower, catching just beneath the elastic waistband of Carla’s shorts. Warm fingertips pressed against bare skin at the small of her back, just above the curve of her hip.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

Carla stilled. Not sharply, not dramatically, but completely. Like something inside her had caught on a memory, or a fear, or just the echo of a place she hadn’t been in a long time. Her hands froze where they were, breath still high in her chest. Her body, so open seconds ago, now went quietly rigid. Not pushing Lisa away, but no longer pulling her in.

Lisa felt it at once. The subtle shift, the flicker of hesitation, the sharp edge of Carla’s breath pulling short. She pulled back just enough to see her, one hand still resting against her waist, the other coming up to lightly touch her arm.

“Hey,” she said gently. “We don’t have to do anything. You know that, right?”

Carla’s chest rose and fell, her mouth opening once, then closing. “I know,” she whispered. “And I want to. I do. It’s just…” Her voice wavered, unsure on how to communicate how she was feeling.

Lisa didn’t move away. Her hand stayed exactly where it was, soft and steady. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. If you want to stop, we’ll stop” she said simply, voice full of understanding.

Carla nodded, a tiny movement. Her eyes glistened in the low light, with something raw, exposed. “Can we just lie down? Cuddle? Just be close?”

She hated how small her voice sounded. But Lisa didn’t flinch. She just held still, like hearing Carla say what she needed was the easiest thing in the world.

Lisa smiled, soft and certain. “Yeah. Of course.”

Before she moved, Lisa leaned in and pressed a single, unhurried kiss to Carla’s temple. Not because she expected anything in return, but because she wanted to give something back. Just softness. Just proof that she was still here. That she was completely okay with Carla’s decision to stop.

They moved together gently. There was no rush, no tension. The weight of what almost happened didn’t linger between them like regret. It just settled, real and acknowledged, before giving way to something quieter, steadier.

They climbed into bed without another word. Carla curled close without hesitation. Lisa’s arm slipped easily around her, her body shaping instinctively to Carla’s. Her shoulder became a resting place, her side, an anchor. Carla’s fingers curled lightly at Lisa’s ribcage, grounding herself in the warmth there. Lisa’s thumb traced idle lines along the curve of Carla’s hip, slow, unhurried, soothing.

No pressure.

No questions.

Just warmth.

And stillness.

And something that felt a lot like peace.

Chapter Text

Carla woke slowly. It wasn’t sudden, not the sharp snap of alarm clocks or urgent thoughts tugging her out of sleep. Instead, the world came back to her in soft layers like mist lifting from the surface of a quiet lake.

It was the birds that did it. They weren’t jarring or insistent, just a steady chorus of morning calls drifting in through the cracked window. Sparrows trilled in clusters like a background hum, while somewhere nearby, a blackbird was in full voice, its song fluting out above the rest in fluid, confident bursts. The notes were clear and deliberate, as if it knew it was being listened to. The room felt still. Soft. Like the morning itself had decided to tread carefully. There was a kind of reverence in the way the light touched the walls. It was golden and slow as if even the sun didn’t want to disturb what it had found here.

For a few seconds, Carla stayed motionless. She was caught in that gentle in-between where sleep hadn’t fully let go, but the world had begun to drift in. Her mind floated in that delicious haze, untethered. She felt warm. Held. The sheets were twisted loosely around her legs, the duvet slumped over her hips, a little too heavy but not in a way that suffocated. Her muscles, usually taut and ready before her eyes even opened, were slack, liquid with rest. Her body felt anchored. Heavier in the way you only get after real sleep. The kind that seeps into your bones and gently asks you to stay a little longer.

She blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft golden haze that filled the room. The air smelled faintly of morning: clean and cool. Her window had been left cracked overnight, just enough to let in the early spring air, and now a breeze stirred the curtain. It moved like a ghost, slow and quiet, pulling with it the scent of damp earth, fresh growth, and something green and living. The smell reminded her of walking through woods after rain. That tender promise that things were growing, even if you couldn’t quite see it yet.

And then she felt it. The weight beside her. The distinct presence of another body. A shape beneath the covers, warm and still.

Lisa.

Carla didn’t move at first. Just listened. The birds. The faint creak of the old radiator as the morning warmth spread through the room. The sound of her own heart, quiet and steady. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up like this. Not alone. Not haunted by the buzz of her phone or the sharp tap of her thoughts pushing her toward emails, deadlines, expectations. Not already halfway through her day before her feet hit the floor.

She turned her head slowly, careful not to shift the mattress too much.

Lisa was curled toward her, still asleep. One arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting loosely across the narrow divide of the bed as if it had reached out in the night. Her fingers were just touching Carla’s wrist, light as breath. A whisper of contact. There was a faint crease in her cheek from the pillow, a soft dent that would disappear soon but made her look impossibly human. Her hair, tousled and half-fallen into her face, caught the light at the ends, a tangle of warmth. Her mouth was relaxed, slightly parted, the corners curved into the barest hint of a smile. Peaceful.

Carla watched her and the strangest thing was, she didn’t feel awkward about it. She didn’t feel like she was trespassing. It didn’t feel like something stolen. It just felt true. Like this was a moment she was meant to live in. That her life, this version of it, finally had room for quiet. For softness.

She’d spent so long armouring herself. Every day a performance. Every conversation calculated, even the warm ones. She’d been proving herself since before she knew she was doing it: to bosses, to friends, to strangers who saw her skin or her name or the curve of her shoulders and decided what she was before she opened her mouth. She had carried everything like it was hers alone to hold. Always smiling. Always handling it.

But this? This was just her. In her own room. In her own bed. With someone who made that feel like enough. And she liked it. Not just waking up next to someone. Waking up next to her. Next to Lisa. There was a kind of peace humming through her that she didn’t know how to name. It asked for nothing. Expected nothing. Warmth without performance. Stillness without pressure. It was new. Or maybe not new. Maybe it was something ancient and quiet she’d long forgotten she was allowed to have.

She studied Lisa’s face, her soft breathing, the gentle twitch of her fingers where they curled on the pillow. Her heartbeat swelled painfully. That sweet, aching thrum that comes when you realize you are somewhere safe. Somewhere wanted.

This was the kind of moment she tried to write about. The kind of stillness she gave her characters as reward after chapters of struggle. The kind of intimacy she knew how to describe in others but never quite believed could belong to her.

As Carla watched, content to let the silence stretch, Lisa stirred. A slight furrow appeared between her brows, as if even in sleep, she sensed the shift in air. Her lashes fluttered once, then again. Slowly, her eyes opened, still hazy and unfocused, drifting for a moment before they found Carla.

“Are you watching me sleep?” Her voice was thick with sleep, that endearing rasp that clung to the morning. Her words were slow, a little slurred with drowsiness, but already shaped around a smile she hadn’t committed to yet.

Carla didn’t flinch. “Maybe.”

Lisa blinked, slow and exaggerated, then let out a groan as she rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat beneath the covers. One arm flopped over her eyes in theatrical protest. “That’s creepy.”

“Only a little,” Carla replied, her tone utterly unapologetic, though a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She liked watching Lisa like this: hair mussed, voice gravelly, still warm from sleep. There was a kind of quiet magic to it. A moment that felt borrowed from someone else’s life. Or maybe one she didn’t know she was allowed to want until now.

Lisa dragged her hands down her face and sighed deeply, like the weight of Carla’s supposed crimes was just too much for one woman to bear. “You’re lucky I like you or I’d be pressing charges.”

Carla propped herself up higher on one elbow, her smile widening. “You’d never hold up in court. You’re in my house, after all.”

Lisa turned her head lazily on the pillow, her eyes half-lidded with sleep but her smile sharp and fond. “Right. So, I broke in, then fell asleep in your bed. Classic criminal behaviour that.”

“You do make a habit of loitering around bookshops and charming your way into people’s lives,” Carla said, teasing, her voice dropping into a warm lilt.

Lisa hummed, not denying it. Her eyes fluttered shut again like the conversation had become part of the dream she wasn’t quite ready to leave. “Guilty.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. A breeze curled through the cracked window, stirring the white curtains like breath. Outside, the birdsong continued, less insistent now, more like a background lullaby as the world turned slowly awake.

Carla let her gaze drift. She studied Lisa’s face again, finding more things to be in awe of. The way her mouth curved even in stillness, the delicate fan of lashes across her cheeks, the faint pink crease from the pillow pressed into her skin. She looked utterly content, and somehow, so beautiful it made Carla’s chest ache. Without thinking too hard about it (because if she did, she might stop herself) Carla reached under the duvet and found Lisa’s hand, still slack with sleep. She slid her fingers between hers.

Lisa’s eyes opened at the contact slowly. A steady awareness blooming. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at Carla and gave a small, gentle squeeze in return.

They lay like that for a while. No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of two people choosing stillness. The air between them filled with a kind of peace that felt fragile and sacred. The warmth of Lisa’s hand in hers settled something deep in Carla. Something she hadn’t even realized was unsettled until it started to ease.

But even in that calm, Lisa noticed. She always did.

She felt the tiniest shift. Carla’s hand tensing, her breath catching. “What?” Lisa asked softly.

Carla blinked, as if pulled from deep thought. “What do ya mean what?”

“You’re thinking something,” Lisa said, tilting her head slightly, lips twitching. “I can feel it.”

Carla hesitated, then gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Just about how nice this is.”

Lisa’s smile melted into something warm and sincere. “Yeah. It is.”

It should’ve ended there. Should’ve been enough, really. The soft squeeze of Lisa’s hand, the weightless quiet between them, the gentle mess of morning. But something tugged at Carla, subtle and insistent. Like a thread caught on the edge of her heart, fraying slowly.

She dropped her gaze to their hands, still twined together beneath the duvet. Lisa’s fingers were warm against hers. She brushed her thumb gently across the back of Lisa’s hand, slow, thoughtful. Her other hand drifted toward the hem of the sheet, tracing the fine embroidery like it might offer her some kind of direction, or courage. Her fingers followed each little curve and dip in the stitching, stalling. Not from uncertainty, exactly, but from knowing the shape of what she wanted to say and fearing how fragile it felt, even in her own head.

She swallowed. “So,” Carla said finally, voice low and softer now, testing the weight of it. “Not to ruin the moment, but I’ve been thinking.”

Lisa cracked one eye open, the look she gave full of sleepy sarcasm and affection. “Oh no. Carla Connor’s been thinking. Alert the authorities.”

Carla snorted and gave her a light nudge with her knee beneath the duvet, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Be serious for a second.”

Lisa’s smile faded, not in a bad way. No, it softened. It folded in on itself into something quieter, more attentive. She shifted fully onto her side, arm tucked beneath her head, the duvet pooling slightly around her waist. Her bare shoulder caught a shaft of morning light. “Okay,” she said, eyes steady. “I’m listening.”

Carla nodded, mostly to herself, and let the silence hang for a beat. Long enough to feel the shape of what she was about to say settle in her chest. Her voice, when it came, was gentler than she expected. “This. Us. It feels really good. Like really good.”

Lisa’s expression didn’t change much, but something in it softened further, like the words had landed right where she expected them to. Her lips pulled into a slow, certain smile. “I agree.”

Carla exhaled. Not quite a full sigh, but a breath that had weight to it. “And I guess I just…” Her words trailed, then returned. “I want to know where we stand. I’m not trying to rush anything or make it weird. But I…” She looked down again, her fingers now curled loosely around Lisa’s. “I want this. Properly.”

Lisa didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh it off or blink too fast or fill the silence with something easier. She simply looked at her, like she always did. With patience. With presence. There was a steadiness to her gaze that felt like a hand on Carla’s back: quiet, unwavering, grounding. Like she was giving Carla space to feel what she needed, without judgment or pressure.

After a moment, Lisa asked, “What are you trying to ask?” Her tone was light, but the question carried a quiet sincerity beneath the playful smile that tugged at her lips.

Carla’s fingers flexed slightly where they were still joined. Her voice was steadier this time. “I just wanted to know if we are something. If I can call you mine without it sounding presumptuous.” Her gesture between them was small and a little clumsy, like she was trying to outline the space they took up together and failing to measure its depth.

Lisa’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “We already are something,” she said, and her voice was impossibly gentle. “Have been for a while, if you ask me.”

Carla let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Not from amusement, but from relief. It came out soft, caught somewhere between surprise and happiness. Her heart gave a strange, skipping ache in her chest. “Yeah?”

Lisa nodded, with the kind of certainty that didn’t need any fanfare. “Yeah.”

Carla tilted her head back slightly, eyes skimming the ceiling like it might give her the right words next. But none came. Only the quiet thud of her heart and the realization that this, this conversation, this person, this possibility, mattered more than she’d been willing to admit until now. She glanced back at Lisa, her voice a little rougher around the edges. “Okay, but like are we going to say it out loud? You know just so we’re clear?”

Lisa’s brow arched, amused now. “You want a label, Carla Connor?”

“I don’t know,” Carla rushed to say, then immediately rolled her eyes at herself. “Maybe. I mean, yes? I think so. Not in a thirteen-year-old writing love hearts all over her books kind of way, just…” She hesitated. “I want to know if I can introduce you as my girlfriend without sounding delusional.”

Lisa made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “God forbid you be delusional about something that’s actually going well.”

Carla bumped her shoulder, half playful, half needing the contact. “Lisa.”

Lisa caught Carla’s hand again, squeezing it with the same surety she’d given her every time Carla got too far in her own head. “Okay. You want a label? We can have a label. You’re going to have to ask me properly though.”

Carla squinted at her, half amused, half exasperated. “I literally just told you I didn’t want to do this in a cringy teenager way. Do you not think we are a bit old for that?”

Lisa gasped, dramatically offended, hand pressed to her chest. “Are you age-shaming me?”

“A little bit yeah.”

“Well,” Lisa said, sitting up a little straighter and tossing her hair off her shoulder in mock indignation, “if you’re going to insult my maturity and not ask me properly, then I guess we can’t be official.”

Carla stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious.”

“Lisa.”

“Carla.”

Carla let out a groan that came from somewhere deep in her soul. She let go of Lisa’s hand and threw herself face-first into the pillow. Her voice came out muffled and utterly defeated. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Lisa was already grinning. One of those wide, crooked smiles that pulled at her cheeks and made her eyes gleam with mischief. She stretched out beside Carla, resting her chin on her shoulder and speaking just above a whisper. “Go on,” she murmured, voice light and teasing, “I’m waiting.”

Carla turned her face just enough to peek out from behind the pillow, her expression narrowed in a mock glare that couldn’t quite hide the warmth building behind her eyes. She huffed, dramatic to the last, and lifted her head enough to speak clearly.

“Lisa, will you be my girlfriend?”

The words landed in the space between them like a held breath finally exhaled.

Lisa’s face lit up. Many different emotions flicking through her eyes. Delight, yes, but also the quiet joy of being chosen, openly and without hesitation. “See?” she said, her voice soft and playful. “Was that so hard?”

Carla rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “Are you going to answer me then?”

Lisa didn’t answer. Not with words.

She leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t meant to prove anything. Just a firm, steady press of lips against lips. Simple and certain. A kiss without performance or pretence. Warm with the kind of intimacy that didn’t need explaining. The kind of kiss that said yes with every part of her.

When she pulled back, their foreheads touched. Carla’s eyes had fluttered closed, her breath catching a little. From something deep inside finally settling.

“Yeah,” Lisa whispered, their breath mingling in the small space between them. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Carla smiled. Really smiled. Not the guarded smirk she wore like armour, not the polite upward twitch she gave in boardrooms or over coffee. This one was wide, unguarded, bright with something that made her look years lighter. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she gave a small, helpless laugh that tasted like happiness. “Good,” she said, her voice hushed and full. “Because I was fully prepared to throw a tantrum if you said no.”

Lisa chuckled, low and amused, the sound vibrating softly against Carla’s collarbone as she leaned in again. “Would’ve liked to see that.”

“You’re the worst,” Carla mumbled, even as she curled toward her.

“And yet,” Lisa said, tucking a piece of Carla’s hair behind her ear with a careful, almost reverent touch, “you just asked me to be your girlfriend.”

Carla mock-scoffed, drawing her brows together in exaggerated dismay. “Regretting my decision already.”

Lisa just smiled and pulled her in close, so their limbs tangled effortlessly, so their hearts settled into the same quiet rhythm. Like they were meant to fit like this. Not in some perfect, tidy way, but in a soft, human, real way.

Their foreheads met again. Carla’s breath slowed, syncing to Lisa’s without even trying. Their joined hands stayed where they were, laced between them, solid and steady in the space beneath the duvet.

“No you don’t,” Lisa whispered.

Carla’s eyelids fluttered, her voice no more than a breath. “No, I don’t.”

They stayed like that for a little while. Foreheads still touching, fingers threaded, breath syncing in the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be broken. It was the kind of stillness that settled over you like a blanket, warm and quiet, needing nothing but presence. Carla’s pulse had begun to slow, its earlier stutter softening to something steadier. Lisa’s hand, still intertwined with hers, was warm and certain, the kind of anchor that didn’t drag you down. The kind that held you in place just long enough to breathe.

Carla shifted slightly, just enough to meet Lisa’s eyes properly. Her muscles moved with hesitation, like something fragile about to break the surface. Her expression had changed. The lines of her face no longer taut with tension, but not entirely soft either. There was something steadier behind her gaze now. A kind of seriousness that wasn’t heavy but rooted. Quiet. Certain.

“Lisa,” she said, voice low, almost as if speaking too loudly might tip the moment out of balance. “About last night”

Lisa sat up a touch, just enough to give Carla space to move, to speak but she didn’t pull away. Her hand remained, solid and gentle, grounding. “You don’t need to explain,” she said softly, her eyes never wavering. “I told you that already.”

“I know,” Carla murmured, her gaze dipping to the bedspread between them. To the slight crease where their hands met, the subtle pull of fabric beneath her thumb. “But I want to.”

Lisa didn’t press her. She simply nodded once, slow and open, and waited. Her stillness wasn’t passive. It was an invitation. An offering. Space to let Carla talk when she was ready.

Carla leaned back against the headboard, spine curving into the familiar give of the pillows behind her. One leg tucked loosely beneath the other, and though her posture opened slightly, her gaze stayed fixed on a far-off corner of the room. The one just above Lisa’s shoulder. She held Lisa’s hand in hers, lightly, absently, as though it might tether her to the here and now while the words reached backward.

“There was someone,” she began, the words careful but even. “A couple of years ago. It wasn’t serious. We both said that. Casual. No pressure.”

Lisa didn’t react. She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t judge. She just offered the same quiet presence she’d offered all morning. Her grip didn’t change. It didn’t need to.

“I believed them,” Carla continued, her voice dipping just slightly. “I mean I wasn’t looking for anything more, either. We were on the same page. Or so I thought.”

She rubbed at the side of her neck with her free hand, fingers pressing against tense muscle. Her jaw ticked. A subtle sign of strain, of something still buried beneath her composure.

“But then I got papped leaving their flat at some ungodly hour. No makeup, still half-asleep, hair a mess and the next day, boom. Every headline you could imagine. It was in every paper. Sun front page.”

She let out a short, sharp laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Apparently, I was the ‘obsessed older woman’ they’d been stringing along. Manipulative. Unstable. Desperate. Take your pick.”

Lisa’s jaw twitched. Only a tiny shift, barely perceptible, but Carla caught it. She always noticed the small things with Lisa. The way her breath hitched just before she said something she wasn’t sure would land. The faint crease between her brows when something unsettled her. This, though, the jaw tension, it was quiet anger. Not at Carla. Never at her. But at the faceless someone in the story now unfolding. The unnamed person who had done this. Who had hurt her.

Still, Lisa didn’t interrupt. Didn’t flinch away or pull her hand back. Her silence wasn’t avoidance. It was trust. She was letting Carla have the space. Letting her choose when and how to lay this down.

“They sold the story,” Carla went on, her tone tightening like a thread pulled taut. She could feel it winding around her ribs now, the memory, the shame. “Pictures. Texts, even. Made me out to be some delusional clinger-on who couldn’t take a hint.” She swallowed, slow and deliberate, like forcing something bitter past the lump forming just behind her sternum.

“And I didn’t even care about them. Not really.” Her voice cracked on the last word, almost too quiet to catch. “But that?” She hesitated. The next breath she drew in was thin and shaky, not quite enough. Her chest rose, trembled, stilled. “That gutted me,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “It made everything feel cheap. Like I’d let someone into my space, and they set fire to it just to watch the smoke.”

Her hands flexed slightly, fingers curling against Lisa’s as if to stop herself from curling in entirely. It wasn’t just the memory that stung. It was the aftermath. The judgment. The doubt. The way it had crept into every quiet moment that followed. How it had lingered in doorways and in other people’s eyes. How it had made her question her own instincts. Lisa’s thumb moved again: slow, repetitive strokes over the back of her hand. A small, wordless reassurance. She was still here. Still listening. Still holding on.

Carla exhaled, quiet but ragged. “So, I told myself, never again. No more casual. No more grey areas. If it wasn’t real, official, defined, then I wouldn’t go near it. Because at least then I’d know where I stood. At least then, I couldn’t be blindsided.”

She glanced down at their joined hands. At the quiet way they fit together, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her own thumb had begun tracing gentle, absent circles against Lisa’s skin. A movement she hadn’t noticed until just now. It was instinctive. Almost desperate. A need to ground herself in something real.

“And I knew this wasn’t casual,” she added, her voice lifting in urgency, in need. “Not with you. I knew that from the beginning. But we hadn’t said it out loud. We hadn’t put a name on it. And last night, even though it felt different, even though it felt good, part of me still panicked.”

Her voice wobbled now, faltering under the weight of her honesty. She blinked hard, as if it might chase away the sting in her eyes.

“Like if it all went wrong, and someone found out, and everything fell apart, then it would be my fault this time. Because I didn’t follow my rules.” She lifted her gaze again, finally meeting Lisa’s eyes. The vulnerability there was stark, unshielded. “I didn’t want to take that chance. Not with you. So, I put a stop to it.”

Lisa didn’t speak straight away. She didn’t fill the silence with hurried reassurances or empty words. Instead, she simply present in the stillness, grounded in her care, offering Carla the quiet dignity of being heard without interruption. Her thumb continued that same, slow rhythm on Carla’s hand. Steady. Comforting. A heartbeat without sound.

“Thank you for telling me,” Lisa said at last, her voice so low and sincere it nearly undid Carla. “That’s not easy. I know that.”

Carla’s mouth twitched, like a reflex, like her body had almost remembered how to express something lighter but hadn’t quite committed to it. She glanced down, lashes casting faint shadows beneath her eyes.

“I just didn’t want you to think it was because of you,” she said finally, voice low, the edges of her words feathered with hesitation. “That I didn’t want you.” She looked up again, and this time her gaze didn’t waver. “Because I did. I do. That’s never been the question.”

Lisa’s hand tightened gently around hers, a small squeeze, just enough to be felt. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it didn’t need to be. It was a confirmation. I hear you. I believe you. I’m still here. “I never thought that” Lisa said quietly. Her voice held no trace of doubt, no hint of performative reassurance. Just truth, soft and solid. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Carla’s brows drew together, faint and furrowed. Not in confusion, but in the worn-in reflex of someone used to second-guessing her own feelings. “It’s just… we were having such a good time,” she admitted, the words spilling with the weariness of regret. “I feel stupid for letting some tiny insecurity ruin that.”

“Hey.” Lisa’s tone was gentle, but it came with a subtle shift in her posture: her spine straightening slightly, her eyes sharpening, just enough to cut through Carla’s self-blame. “You didn’t ruin anything.” She took a breath, then said, without the slightest hesitation, “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I didn’t want to sleep with you Carla because I really, really did.”

That finally pulled a reaction from Carla; a real one this time. Her mouth lifted, faint but genuine, like the ghost of a smile that had been waiting in the wings. Her shoulders loosened just a fraction.

Lisa smiled too, smaller now, gentler. Her voice dropped again, intimate and steady. “But you’re my girlfriend. We will have plenty of time for that. Whenever you’re ready. Whenever we both want to.”

Lisa shifted slightly, drawing a little closer, not crowding, just enough to make sure Carla could feel her presence fully. She gently guided their joined hands to the quiet space between them, palms resting together like a shared promise. The gesture was simple, unassuming. But in that moment, it was everything.

“You don’t owe anyone your body, Carla,” Lisa said, voice quiet but certain. “Or your trust. Or an explanation. You can say no. For any reason. Or no reason at all.” Her eyes searched Carla’s face. Not for proof. Not for permission. For connection. So, Carla could see that she meant all the words she was saying “You don’t need to explain yourself. Not with me. Not ever.”

Carla blinked, slowly, as the words settled into her chest like warmth after cold. Like sunlight through a window you hadn’t realized had frosted over. “Really?” she asked, almost childlike in its softness from long-unmet need.

Lisa nodded once. “Really.”

Carla let the words take up residence inside her, though something in her still curled defensively. Old reflexes. Old scars. She shifted slightly, as if uncomfortable in her own skin, but not ready to abandon the moment. “Thank you,” she murmured anyway. Her voice was small out of habit. It was as if gratitude was something she’d always been expected to offer, even when the kindness she received should have been a given.

But Lisa shook her head immediately. “You shouldn’t thank me for that.”

Carla turned to look at her, confusion drawing a faint crease between her brows. “I shouldn’t?”

“No.” Lisa’s voice remained soft, but there was something unyielding in it now. Not harsh, but protective, like armour made of tenderness. “Respecting your wishes shouldn’t be something special. It should be standard. The bare minimum.”

She shifted again, closing the final bit of distance between them until their knees touched beneath the blanket. Her fingers tightened just slightly around Carla’s, like she needed her to feel every word.

“I don’t know what’s happened in your life to make you think you have to apologise for having boundaries,” Lisa said, her eyes never leaving hers, “But if there’s one thing you learn during this relationship, Carla Connor” she said her name with intention, with care, “it’s that you can say the word no. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Her thumb swept over Carla’s knuckles again: slow, steady, grounding. “You don’t have to justify every decision. You don’t have to please everyone around you. You can do what’s best for you.”

Carla didn’t answer at first. Her lips parted slightly, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she just looked at Lisa, eyes glistening. Not from tears, she wasn’t about to cry. But from the ache of being seen. Really seen.

It was a sensation both delicate and overwhelming, as though some long-hidden part of her had been gently peeled back and exposed to sunlight for the first time in years. The light felt strange and fragile, bathing parts of her she’d kept tucked away, and she wasn’t sure if the feeling was comfort or terror. Maybe a tangled mix of both. But she didn’t look away. Instead, she held Lisa’s gaze, letting the quiet between them thicken with unspoken truths.

Slowly, with a certainty that surprised her, Carla leaned forward. Their foreheads met again in a soft, intimate touch. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them: quiet, steady, like two pieces fitting together without effort. It was a silence that didn’t demand anything beyond their presence, a pause that felt both fragile and unbreakable.

Her voice barely rose above a whisper when she finally spoke, fragile and raw. “You’re really not going to let me make excuses for myself, are you?”

Lisa’s smile was gentle; a small curve of warmth and amusement that softened her face like the question had been anticipated all along. “Not even a little.”

Carla stayed pressed close, not pulling away. The softness of the duvet wrapped around them, the brush of skin against skin grounding her in the moment. Her eyes fluttered closed as the stillness folded in like a comforting blanket. Outside, the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Nothing sharp or intrusive, just the distant rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, the soft chirp of early birds, and the faint creak of ancient floorboards settling beneath the quiet.

Lisa’s fingers shifted, tracing a slow, deliberate path along Carla’s arm. The touch was light but electric, coaxing a soft exhale from Carla’s lips without a word spoken. There was no hurry in Lisa’s movements. No expectation. Just presence. A steady warmth that drifted to the base of Carla’s neck, where Lisa’s hand came to rest, thumb moving in slow, tender circles along the curve of her jaw: grounding, patient, reassuring.

When Carla opened her eyes again, Lisa was already watching her.

Her gaze was unwavering. Patient. Overflowing with a tenderness that felt both familiar and profound, and something deeper still. Something steadier, more certain. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t need. It was a quiet, unshakable promise: I see you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Carla leaned in.

The kiss that followed was deliberate and unhurried. It carried no heat, no desperation. Only truth. Unrushed, unforced. A kiss that asked for nothing because it already held everything it needed already. Trust. Clarity. Safety.

Lisa met her halfway. One hand curling gently into Carla’s hair, the other cradling her hand between them. Their lips moved in slow, sure rhythm, like the long-awaited release of breath after holding it in too tightly for too long. Like surrendering fear to something softer. When they parted, Lisa said nothing. She pressed her forehead back against Carla’s, their breaths weaving together again in a steady, soothing cadence. Steady. Safe.

Carla, who had spent most of her adult life building walls, bracing herself, holding firm, shutting down before anyone else could, closed her eyes once more. And this time, she didn’t resist. She let the feeling wash over her, tender and profound.

She let herself feel all of it.

Not just the kiss.

But the safety.

The steadiness.

The quiet, unshakable knowing that this moment, this morning, was real.

Deep inside her chest, something shifted. Clicked into place like a lock sliding open after years of resistance. A new memory was already forming, fragile but fierce. One she would carry with her through darker days, when panic clawed back, when she forgot how to be gentle with herself. It would be a beacon. A lighthouse calling her home.

Because someone had looked her in the eye and said: You can say no. You can do what’s best for you.

Eventually, the quiet began to stretch with the delicate sharpness of morning edges. It was the kind of silence that didn’t press down or demand but rather nudged softly at the corners of the room, like the faintest breath of air shifting the curtains.

Lisa shifted beside her, a movement so slight it barely disturbed the stillness. She pressed a feather-light kiss to Carla’s temple, so soft it was almost a secret, before leaning back just enough to murmur, “I should get up.” But despite the words, she made no immediate move, as if she was savouring the quiet a little longer.

Carla’s smile was slow, tired but warm, the kind that comes from feeling unexpectedly safe. “You’re already vertical,” she teased gently. “That counts.”

They lingered in that suspended moment. Knees still brushing under the tangled duvet, skin warm from shared closeness, breath soft and steady. The room felt like a cocoon, a bubble apart from the world. Then Lisa finally swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching long and slow. The subtle click and pop of her joints was quiet but real, grounding them back in the present. One sleeve of her sleep shirt slid down, exposing a bare shoulder that caught the early light just so. Carla’s eyes followed the small details with affection blooming quietly inside her.

“Come on,” Lisa said, dropping her arms and smiling with that easy confidence. “I’ve got to be at work soon and I’d quite like to be fed. You hungry?”

Carla blinked as if remembering food was a forgotten concept. “Now that you mention it…”

Lisa stood and scanned the room until her gaze landed on a hoodie draped over a chair. She grabbed it, one of Carla’s, oversized and softened from wear, and pulled it on without ceremony. “Then come on,” she said, the grin tugging at her lips.

Chapter Text

Carla padded into the kitchen, hair pulled back into a messy knot, sleeves of her jumper pushed up past her elbows. The air here was cooler but comforting, the quiet hum of a lived-in space. Lisa was already at the counter, barefoot and relaxed, humming softly as she filled the kettle. Morning light spilled across the floor, gilding the plain tiles with a gentle glow.

“You found everything alright then?” Carla asked, voice still thick with sleep.

Lisa glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “Had to look in most of your cupboards, but yeah. Although I’m lucky you even had two mugs. There’s practically nothing in here.”

Carla shrugged, leaning against the doorway with a casual shrug. “I’m subletting, aren’t I? Didn’t want to use any of their stuff, so I bought just enough to get by.”

Lisa’s brow lifted in playful disbelief. “So, this is the glamorous life of a bestselling author, huh?”

“Try not to be too dazzled,” Carla deadpanned, heading for the fridge.

Lisa took a slow sip from the glass she’d just filled. “And where is all their stuff anyway? I wasn’t joking when I said the cupboards are practically empty.”

“Well, the stuff I didn’t want to use I boxed up and shoved in the spare room,” Carla replied, reaching for the milk. “I didn’t want to get confused.”

Lisa let out a low, amused hum. “So organised. Almost suspiciously so.”

“You try living in someone else’s house and not losing your mind over their novelty egg cups.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Lisa, warm, affectionate, and easy, rising from deep in her chest. “I’d pay good money to see you use a novelty egg cup.”

“Absolutely not.”

Lisa leaned back against the counter, still smiling like the sight of Carla put her at ease. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, please.”

While Lisa poured the hot water into the mugs, Carla rummaged in the cupboard that held her sparse collection of kitchen essentials and pulled out a familiar box.

“Okay,” she called over her shoulder, “We’ve got cereal, croissants, or toast.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, mock serious. “Such riveting options.”

Carla shot her a flat look. “Pick one, smartass.”

Lisa tapped her chin theatrically. “Croissants. Obviously.”

Carla snorted, pulling them out and setting them carefully on a plate. “You can always go back to your house if you’re looking for a gourmet breakfast.”

Lisa took a slow sip of coffee, watching Carla over the rim of her mug. “And miss the thrill of watching you panic over slightly stale pastry? Not a chance.”

Carla rolled her eyes “They aren’t stale.” She popped two croissants into the microwave to warm and turned, mug in hand, to lean beside Lisa at the counter.

For a few minutes, they stood in companionable silence: their shoulders occasionally brushing, the faint hum of the microwave mingling with the soft click of the kettle finishing its boil. It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be broken. It felt lived-in and familiar, like the morning light streaming through a clean window, bathing everything in gentle clarity. And in that stillness, coffee warming her hands, breath steady, warmth pressing softly at her side, Carla felt something rare and precious: ease.

When the croissants were ready, they carried their mugs and plates over to the kitchen table – a small, slightly wobbly thing barely big enough for two. Their knees bumped as they sat, bare feet finding each other beneath the table. The light hit them at an angle now, painting long shadows across the floor. Carla watched dust motes spin in the air like lazy snowflakes.

Lisa glanced at her phone and made a low sound of regret. “I should head out soon. Nearly time to open up the shop.”

Carla, mid-bite, nodded. “Big day at the shop?”

Lisa wrinkled her nose. “If by ‘big’ you mean reorganising a bunch of books that have been put back in the wrong place and someone asking for a novel they vaguely remember from fifteen years ago, then yes. Massive.”

Carla snorted into her coffee. “Don’t forget the teenager asking for books she’s seen on TikTok. Or the old man who wants to tell you his entire life story while you’re trying to scan a barcode.”

Lisa pointed her croissant at her like a sword. “That old man is a local treasure and I will hear no slander.”

Carla lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. If you say so. No more old people slander.”

Lisa smiled around a bite of pastry. “Thank you. He’ll be thrilled to know his legacy is safe.”

They lapsed into another stretch of silence, but this one felt different. Like the moment was winding down, not ending, just settling. Lisa reached across the table, fingers brushing against Carla’s before curling gently around them. She gave a soft squeeze, grounding and warm. “Thanks for letting me stay. Seriously. I’ve had such a good morning.”

“You’re my girlfriend,” Carla said, like that should explain everything. But her voice had gone soft again, almost reverent. “Kind of part of the gig.”

Lisa’s smile curled a little more on one side: her signature half-grin, crooked and quietly sincere. She gave Carla’s hand one last squeeze before standing and collecting their mugs. She rinsed them in the sink with practiced ease, moving through the unfamiliar kitchen like it belonged to her, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Carla watched her. Still getting used to the idea that Lisa wasn’t just someone anymore. She was hers. Saying “girlfriend” and meaning it felt like discovering something tucked inside her own chest that had always been there waiting to be named.

Lisa walked back over and bent to kiss the top of Carla’s head. “I’ll see you later, love.”

Carla glanced up with a squint. “Wait. Are you going out dressed like that?”

Lisa paused, glanced down at herself. She was still in her sleep shirt and shorts (Carla’s actually) with Carla’s hoodie pulled over her. Her hair was only half-tamed, still bearing the faint impression of the pillow, and she hadn’t bothered with socks or shoes yet. She looked like someone who had rolled out of bed and tried to pass it off as a look.

With a shameless shrug, Lisa said, “Figured this could pass off as actual clothes and not something I slept in. You know if no one looks too closely.”

Carla arched an eyebrow, not impressed. “You’re going to work in that?”

Lisa’s laugh was warm, easy, and unapologetic. “Relax. I was going to stop by mine first and get changed.” She reached for her phone on the counter, thumbs moving lazily as she checked her messages, as if the topic of her possibly going to work in slept-in clothes wasn’t currently on the table.

Carla crossed her arms, shifting her weight against the counter with deliberate scepticism. It was the same look she used when someone in a meeting suggested something categorically unwise. “Lisa. Don’t be ridiculous. Go borrow something of mine.”

That made Lisa pause mid-scroll. Her eyes flicked up, registering the seriousness behind Carla’s tone. “You sure?” she asked, almost cautious not wanting to overstep any boundaries so early in their relationship.

Carla nodded once, slow and certain. “Absolutely. Help yourself.”

There was a flicker in Lisa’s expression, a softening, something almost sheepish, before it gave way to a grin. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with teasing suspicion. “You realise that’s practically a milestone. First time borrowing my girlfriend’s clothes.”

Carla made a sound low in her throat. “Don’t make it weird.” Carla smiled shaking her head. “Plus, you’re literally wearing my clothes right now.”

“Ah, but we weren’t technically girlfriends when I first borrowed them,” Lisa countered, already pushing off the counter with a smug kind of energy, like she’d just won a point in a long-running debate.

“You are such a dork.” Carla sighed “Now go get ready for work.”

“Yes, boss,” Lisa said with mock solemnity, giving Carla a cheeky salute before disappearing down the hallway.

From the kitchen, Carla could hear the creak of the wardrobe doors opening, followed by the unmistakable rustle of hangers sliding against the rail. A beat later, Lisa’s voice floated faintly back. She was humming something tuneless and vaguely upbeat, like the soundtrack to a very sappy movie. Carla smirked into her mug, shaking her head at the sound.

It was such a small thing, Lisa rummaging through her wardrobe, and yet it settled something inside her. The image was oddly intimate. Lisa, barefoot in her hallway, fingers trailing across hangers, choosing which part of Carla’s life to wrap herself in for the day. It was domestic and ordinary and so quietly affectionate it almost caught Carla off guard.

A few minutes later, Lisa padded back into the kitchen, her steps light but unhurried. She wore one of Carla’s shirts now – a soft navy button-up that looked effortless on her, sleeves rolled to the elbow. It hung open at the collar and the way it draped over her frame made Carla’s breath catch a little in her chest. The jeans from the night before were slung low on her hips, rumpled and familiar, grounding the whole look in something casual but suitable for work.

Her hair was tied up now, a messy ponytail that suggested more function than fashion, but a few soft strands had escaped and curled loosely around her face. They caught the light from the kitchen window, turning gold for a second as she stepped into the room.

Carla looked up from where she was standing, her lips tugging into a slow, dry smile. “That’s one of my favourite shirts, you know.”

Lisa glanced down at herself, smoothing a hand over the hem like she hadn’t already committed to wearing it out the door. She tugged it gently, theatrically. “It’s our shirt now.”

Carla narrowed her eyes, but the look was all show, her amusement barely disguised. “That’s not how shirts work.”

Lisa just shrugged, casual and unbothered, pulling the hair tie from her wrist to redo the ponytail with one hand. “Maybe not in general. But I think you’ll find this is a very progressive household.”

Carla snorted into her mug. “Progressive my arse. Next thing I know, you’ll be nicking my slippers and claiming squatter’s rights.”

Lisa grinned at her from the doorway, arms folded, the very picture of mock innocence with just a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Well now that’s an idea.”

Carla didn’t even look; she just grabbed the nearest bit of scrap paper from the table and flung it in her direction. Lisa ducked easily, still laughing, the sound rich and genuine as it bounced off the quiet kitchen walls. “Violence this early in the morning” she muttered, crouching to put on her shoes. She bent to tie one lace, hair swinging forward, and straightened with a soft exhale, brushing a loose curl that had escaped the hairband from her cheek.

The laughter lingered, then softened. Lisa stepped closer, slow but certain. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Carla’s lips. Carla closed her eyes into it, breathing in the scent of her own laundry detergent clinging faintly to Lisa’s collar and the warmth of coffee on her lips.

Lisa pulled back just enough to speak. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, threaded with something gentle. “Text me later?”

Carla opened her eyes. “Obviously.”

Lisa’s smile was small but radiant. The kind you don’t try to make, but that rises up anyway when you’re standing in the right moment with the right person. She kissed Carla again, this one quicker, lighter, the punctuation at the end of a sentence she didn’t need to finish.

Then she turned toward the door.

“Have a good day, love,” Carla called out, her voice warm, familiar.

Lisa’s grin curved lazy and fond. “You too. Don’t miss me too much.”

And then, just like that, she slipped out into the morning. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

The flat stilled. Carla stood where she was, letting the hush settle around her like a blanket just pulled up over her shoulders. She stood in the quiet, letting it settle around her. Not heavy, not empty, just full. Full of breath. Full of warmth. Full of something new taking root.

Eventually, she turned and began to tidy without really thinking about it. She rinsed the plate, wiped the crumb trail from the counter with the edge of her sleeve. Nudged the chair back under the table using her hip. The room still smelled faintly of croissants and coffee and somewhere outside, the blackbird hadn’t stopped singing: a bright, endless loop, like it had found something worth repeating.

She moved slowly through the house, bare feet brushing across the floorboards. She let her fingers trail along the back of the sofa as she passed it. The flat still wasn’t hers, not really. It was all borrowed textures and someone else’s light switches but something about it felt different now. Like it had been stretched to fit her just a little better.

She reached her desk.

The mess was exactly as she’d left it. Her notebook askew on the side with a pile of pens and pencils on top where Carla wanted to sketch out her characters. A half-drunk glass of water was still on the desk from a couple of nights ago, sweating in the morning warmth.  

She sat.

The chair creaked faintly beneath her, familiar now in its own quiet way. She reached for her notebook, the soft leather cover worn at the edges, and opened it to the page she’d last scribbled on. Lines trailed off mid-thought, like a breath caught and held. She ran a finger over one of the notes. A character name, half underlined. Another margin scrawl circled twice: found, not fixed. Carla exhaled slowly, the memory of Lisa’s voice still warm in her ears.

She set the notebook aside, hands steadier now. Then she opened the laptop. The screen blinked to life, casting a soft glow against the morning light.

Carla paused.

Let her fingertips hover just above the keys.

And for a moment, no longer than a heartbeat, she nearly let the doubt in. The familiar tug of hesitation, of wondering if the feeling would fade, if this morning had been a fluke. If the steadiness Lisa gave her could really last outside the cocoon of soft sheets and quiet laughter.

But then she exhaled.

Let the breath go.

And with it, the tension in her shoulders. The pressure to prove something. The fear of not knowing how to begin.

Because it wasn’t about having the perfect words. It was about starting anyway. It was about doing what she wanted.

She smiled, small, private. The kind that curled at the edges of her mouth and settled somewhere behind her ribs.

And then she began to type.

It started slowly. A sentence. Then another. Not prose, not yet. Just fragments. The scaffolding of something still forming in the dark.

Carla knew better than to chase it too hard. Over the years, she’d learned that inspiration was a fragile thing. A flicker of motion at the corner of your eye that vanished if you turned your head too fast. So, she didn’t. She let it come in its own time; let it pool at her fingertips like water through a sieve.

A rough outline began to take shape beneath her hands; just enough to hold onto. Each line she typed pulled invisible threads tighter, coaxing form out of the fog. She toggled back to her notebook, flipping through the familiar worn pages. Dog-eared corners. Words written in the margins in looping, impatient handwriting. She skimmed over lines of dialogue, backstory notes, bullet points she had scribbled while half-asleep.

She stopped at one entry, underlined and boxed in. It was the original seed of the whole idea.

Main Character: late 20s. On the run from a life that looked fine on paper.

She copied the line over, but something about it didn’t feel right anymore. She stared at it for a long moment, then began to rewrite.

Main character: lost but pretending not to be. She’s not running away, just drifting. Untethered. She books flights instead of making plans. Smiles like it’s fine. It’s not.

She read it back and felt a quiet click somewhere in her chest. That was better. That was closer to the thing she’d been chasing. Not just escape, but avoidance disguised as freedom. She wasn’t fleeing something dramatic or dangerous. She just didn’t know how to stop. And maybe didn’t want to admit she’d never learned how.

Carla let that sit with her a moment, then her eyes drifted back to the notebook in her lap. She flipped forward a few pages, searching for more context, for the place where story might begin to thread itself together. Her fingers stopped on a page marked with a bright strip of sticky note and a heavy line of pink highlighter.

A heading sat at the top in all caps: SETTING: SMALL TOWN

She frowned. That detail had always felt a little out of place, even back when she first wrote it down. She tapped the tip of her pen against the edge of her keyboard, brows drawn together in thought.

A small town didn’t fit. Not at first glance. How did you ground a story in a single location when the protagonist herself refused to land? Her entire character was built on movement, on flight. What kind of town holds someone who never meant to stay?

The more she thought about it, the more rigid it seemed. Flying straight into a quiet place, checking in to a B&B or setting up camp in some photogenic village square, it felt off. Contrived. Her main character wouldn’t do that. She would never willingly go away from city life. But then again, changing the setting to a big city wasn’t any better. Carla had considered it briefly in the early brainstorming stages, maybe setting the whole story in Berlin or Montreal or Madrid. Places where someone could disappear. But those ideas felt too safe. Too familiar. Cities were built for ghosts. For people who wanted to just exist. Her character wasn’t a ghost. Not yet. She was just lost.

She flipped back a few more pages, chasing down her own thinking from weeks ago. The pages were a mess of underlined words, scattered arrows, half-formed ideas with double question marks scribbled beside them. She moved past a page with a full timeline scratched out in the margins, then paused on one where the ink had bled through a little, as if she’d written the note with more urgency than usual.

Her eyes caught on a phrase in blue pen, scrawled diagonally in the margin like a thought that hadn’t waited its turn.

“Movement ≠ escape. Just means you haven’t found what makes you stay.”

Carla blinked. She didn’t remember writing it. But the words lodged somewhere deep in her chest, wedging between ribs like a truth she hadn’t wanted to say out loud.

That was it. That was the real heart of it. The truth under all the drafts and outlines and setting changes.

Her protagonist didn’t want to stop. That was the whole point. She wasn’t searching for a place or a person or even a version of herself. She was avoiding stillness because she was terrified of what might surface in the silence. A woman always in motion, not because she needed to get somewhere but because she had no idea where to land.

But Carla knew stories couldn’t live in motion. They lived in friction. In those tiny ruptures where the current shifts, where something or someone pulls the character in a direction they never meant to go. She needed something to tie her character to the town.

She leaned back in her chair, her shoulders loosening. Eyes to the ceiling. The light above her flickered faintly, but she barely noticed. Maybe she doesn’t choose the town, she thought. Maybe it’s not a decision at all. Maybe it just happens.

She let the idea grow quietly.

A flat tire? A wrong turn?

No. Too simple. Too easy to undo. She needed something that didn’t just delay the protagonist but re-routed her. Something that pressed her into place long enough for the friction to begin.

The blinking cursor pulsed at the edge of her screen like a held breath. From the kitchen came the low, steady hum of the fridge: soft, constant. Outside, the sky had dulled to the kind of muted grey that made the hours blur together. She turned toward the window, absently brushing her sleeve across the condensation gathering on the glass. Rain had started to fall. Slow and steady, like a thought taking shape. It traced gentle lines down the pane, caught the light in slanted silver streaks. Everything outside looked blurred. Distant. Like a dream she was only half awake for.

And just like that, she saw it.

A storm.

Her breath caught. Not dramatically. Not loud. But just enough to know that this idea was a good one. Her spine straightened, muscles pulling tight as something inside her recognized the shape of the answer. Not a flat tire. Not just a wrong turn. A storm. Sudden and severe. One that rolls in fast and reroutes everything. Her protagonist gets forced off the motorway. No exit plan. No cell signal. No way to Uber her way back to her itinerary. Just miles of wet road and a blinking detour sign and then shelter. A nowhere town she’s never heard of whose name she forgets twice before she even gets there.

Carla didn’t even think before her fingers found the keyboard again. The words came quickly, before the idea could slip away like so many others.

Ends up in a small town by accident. Literally. A storm reroutes her. Storm so severe that all travel has been cancelled. Stuck somewhere with no airport, no Uber, no signal until the storm clears.

She stopped and read it back. Her pulse had picked up. Just slightly, but enough for her to notice. Her hands hovered above the keys, warm now. The words weren’t everything. They weren’t even refined. But they mattered. There was something beneath them: a current, a shape. A pulse beneath the surface. Something she could build a life on.

And more followed, as if the idea of the storm had knocked something loose in her. The next idea fell into place like the next beat of a song:

She wanders into a local café: half for shelter, half by instinct. The love interest works there. She’s sharp-edged but calm. Has that settled kind of energy. Grounded.

Carla leaned in, elbows on the desk now, the words finding her faster than her thoughts could catch them.

They clash a little at first. The love interest is unimpressed with the MC’s aimlessness. The MC is annoyed by how deeply she notices that.

A smile tugged at her mouth. Small, crooked, involuntary. The kind of smile that came from somewhere deeper, behind her sternum. Familiar, but not showy. The kind of smile that lived at the back of her throat, not quite ready for daylight but no longer hiding either. She scrolled down and opened a new paragraph, not bothering to overthink now. Just letting it move.

Over time, they start talking. Briefly at first. Then longer. The MC keeps returning. Not out of obligation, but because it’s the first time in months something has felt good.

She reached for her notebook again. The cover was warm from where her hand had been resting, the leather soft and pliable from use. She flipped through pages until she found the one she remembered scribbling in bed one night, her head half on the pillow, the room lit only by the screen of her phone. The handwriting was worse than usual, jagged and rushed, but the phrase was still legible.

She underlined it again, slowly. Three times.

Found, not fixed.

A quiet breath slipped from her chest. That was it. That was the story’s spine. Not a grand salvation arc. Not a fix-it fantasy. Just… this. Discovery. Subtle, sideways, honest.

She turned back to the screen and let her fingers move without hesitation.

This isn’t a rescue arc. No one’s being saved. This is about recognition. The kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that shows you who you are when you’re not trying to be anything.

She sat back again, her spine easing into the curve of the chair, the breath in her chest softening around the words she’d just written. They lingered in her like a held note: something half-felt, not fully claimed. It was close. Too close, maybe. The kind of close that makes you hesitate. The kind that flickers between fiction and confession.

It reminded her of Lisa.

Not the details. Not in any obvious, external way. Her protagonist wasn’t her and her love interest wasn’t Lisa. She had never wandered into a café in the middle of a storm. And Lisa hadn’t been standing behind a counter, offering her coffee and calm with the same hand. But the feeling, the quiet draw toward stillness, the instinct to stay without knowing exactly why, that was real. That was hers.

Carla hadn’t meant to stay in Willowbrook. It was supposed to be a stopover. A pause between one life chapter and the next. A chance to breathe, maybe, but nothing permanent. But then Lisa had been there. Not in any sweeping, cinematic way. Just… there. Constant. Kind. Someone who spoke gently but saw clearly, who made space without asking questions Carla wasn’t ready to answer.

And then there was the bookshop. That slightly crooked old building with shelves that creaked and corners that smelled like dust and pine. It had felt like breathing. Like standing still didn’t have to be a surrender. Like being known didn’t have to cost anything.

She hadn’t planned to stay. But she had. Because something quiet had reached out and asked nothing of her and somehow, that had meant everything.

So, her story was close. Similar. But not the same. And besides, fiction was allowed to borrow truth from the real world. That was part of the magic. No one would know, not really. The story wasn’t her life, just shaped by its outline. No one but Lisa might recognise the echo. And Lisa wouldn’t say anything. Lisa would just smile that subtle, knowing smile of hers and maybe squeeze Carla’s hand without a word. Weren’t that what stories were for? Not to replicate life, but to reshape it? To lay down pieces of the real world like tiles in a mosaic, until something new and whole emerged?

She stretched her fingers, rolled her wrist once, then leaned forward again. The chair creaked beneath her, but she hardly noticed. The ideas were flowing.

The storm knocks out the power. The café is running off a backup generator. She typed quickly, almost automatically, letting the scene form.

It’s chaotic. Locals crowding in for warmth, for food, for company. Staff overwhelmed. The MC (still an outsider, still restless) offers to help. Not out of duty, but instinct. She’s not good at staying still, but she is good at helping. It gets her out of her own head.

Carla paused, watching the cursor blink. The rhythm of the story was no longer a theory. It was becoming shape. Form. Something she could press her palms against. The edges were still soft, but they were there.

Power returns three days later. MC finally checks her email. Flight has been rescheduled. One-way ticket. Milan. The words tapped out steadily beneath her fingers. She can finally return to her plans. But then she glances over.

Carla could see the moment now, the café dim and quiet, chairs half-stacked, the floor still warm with the memory of the day and the love interest is there, stacking chairs in the soft hush of closing. Not dramatic. Just present. Steady.

And the MC finds that she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. So, she moves her flight. Delays it by a week. Not because she’s sure, but because, for the first time, she’s uncertain. And she doesn’t want to rush through that feeling. There’s still time, she tells herself. Time to say goodbye to the town, to the café, to the woman she wasn’t supposed to meet.

Carla sat back, her fingers brushing lightly over the keys. She read the paragraph again. Then, slowly, as if speaking something aloud for the first time, she added:

They grow closer throughout her time in the town. There’s a moment, maybe quiet, maybe not, where the MC realises she doesn’t feel lost anymore. Just still. And it doesn’t scare her.

She stared at the screen, her heart thudding gently in her chest. That was the moment, wasn’t it? The big climax to her story.

When the week’s up, she’s meant to go. Bags packed. Taxi waiting at the curb, its engine idling in the early morning hush. The driver checking the time, glancing toward the door. Her hand on the handle. One more breath. But she doesn’t get in.

Carla blinked once, her chest rising slowly. She felt it. She felt the weight and lightness of the moment landing in tandem. Like exhale and inhale. Like choosing stillness and motion at the same time.

Then she typed one more line:

She cancels the flight.

Her hands fell from the keyboard and came to rest in her lap, her fingers loose, as if the act of writing had drained the tension from them. She let them sit there, palms cooling, heart still steady.

The screen glowed in front of her, soft and forgiving. The cursor blinked at the end of the sentence, rhythmic and patient. Like it was waiting but not demanding. Like it understood that sometimes the silence after a line was just as important as the line itself.

Carla stared at it. At the shape of what she’d written. The bones of something that might actually become a story. A real one. Not polished. Not perfect. But true. It hummed with potential. Not just from what was already there, but from what might grow out of it. From what could come next.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel the usual weight that followed these early drafts. That fear of not doing the idea justice. That ache of trying too hard.

Instead, it felt quiet.

It felt open.

It felt like possibility.

She exhaled, a slow, surprised sound and leaned back slightly, as if getting distance from the words might confirm they were real. Her shoulders dropped for the first time in what felt like hours. The muscles between her shoulder blades, always tight when she wrote, finally gave way to a loosening warmth.

The corners of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close. Like the ghost of one trying to remember its way back to her face. Possibility. God, she’d missed that. That delicate flicker of maybe. That sense that the words weren’t just escaping her anymore. They were showing up. Tentative, messy, unfinished but present. Like something had finally shifted back into place.

She let the feeling settle before she moved, like she was afraid any sudden gesture might scare it off. Then, gently, she closed her laptop, the soft thud of the lid folding down sounding far more final than she expected. She didn’t move right away. The lid clicked shut and then silence settled around her like a blanket. No keyboard tapping. No inner monologue telling her it wasn’t good enough. Just quiet. Real, full-bodied quiet.

The quiet of the flat had shifted. It wasn’t just background now. It was present. Holding space around her. The kind of quiet that invited reflection. She felt it in her bones, in the still rhythm of her breathing. Peace. A pause in the usual hum of pressure. It had weight, this stillness, like the apartment was exhaling with her.

Carla glanced toward the window. The rain had eased, leaving behind a sheen on the glass and the faint drip-drip from the gutters outside. Somewhere down the street, a car engine purred to life, then faded. Normal life was resuming: steady and unremarkable. She watched the rivulets of water trail slowly down the pane, catching the last of the grey afternoon light. It was beautiful in that understated way rainy days could be – all silver edges and softened corners. Even the sky looked like it was resting.

She rubbed her fingertips together absently, still feeling the phantom rhythm of typing, still half in the world she’d been writing. She didn’t want to lose it, the momentum, the clarity, but her body was buzzing gently with the need to move. Not because she was stuck because for once, she wasn’t, but because her head felt full in the best way. Like her thoughts had weight again. Structure. Purpose. She needed to let the ideas breathe.

She grabbed her coat, tugged on her boots, and stepped out into the soft drizzle that lingered still. The air kissed her cheeks with its damp chill as she stepped out onto the street. Everything smelled washed: the concrete, wet leaves, the faint earthiness of the park two streets down. She took it in like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Willowbrook was quiet this time of day. School kids were still in class; shop doors were propped open but slow with foot traffic. Carla liked it this way. She tucked her hands in her pockets and let the cool air sting a little at her cheeks. It felt real. Like something solid she could press herself into. The street had the kind of gentle lull that made her want to wander with no real destination.

She didn’t mean to walk toward the bookshop. Not at first. She told herself she was just wandering. But somehow, her feet knew better. The pull to see Lisa was just too strong.

Her boots scuffed lightly against the pavement as she passed the bookshop, glancing once through the window. Lisa wasn’t at the till, but her notebook was open beside it. The shop looked paused mid-thought, much like Carla had just been. She smiled to herself and kept going.

There was a café a little further down. It was smaller than the one Lisa had first recommended to her – the one Lisa preferred for food and takeout, but it was closer. And Carla wanted to rush back to the bookshop in order to catch Lisa encase she left the shop on her break.

Carla stepped inside, the café, the bell above gave a soft chime, and the barista gave her a nod without stopping their milk frothing. The walls were cluttered with framed sketches and poetry printouts. Carla liked it instantly. Who knew one small town could have so many charming shops.

She ordered two coffees. Hers black, Lisa’s more milky. It felt familiar. Easy. Like knowing someone well enough to get their coffee right was its own kind of intimacy. There was something deeply grounding in it. This quiet ritual of ordering for someone else, no guesswork required. No panic over too much sugar or not enough milk. She didn’t second-guess it, didn’t hesitate when the barista asked. It was automatic, as natural as breathing.

The barista slid the cups across the worn wooden counter, steam curling upward in soft spirals. Carla wrapped her hands around them instinctively, soaking up the warmth like it might reach deeper than just her skin. The cups were warm in her hands as she stepped back into the street.

She timed it perfectly.

Just as she rounded the corner again, she spotted Lisa through the window of the bookshop, flipping the small hanging sign to ‘Closed’ with one hand and pulling on her coat with the other. The motion was practiced, smooth, like she’d done it a thousand times. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Lisa stepped out, pulling it shut behind her and twisting the key in the lock. She paused when she caught sight of Carla.

Carla held up the cup.

Lisa blinked, then broke into a grin. “Don’t tell me this is you missing me already?”

Carla smirked. “Just thought I’d treat my girlfriend to a coffee on her lunch break. Is that alright with you?”

Lisa smiled at that. A soft, crooked little thing that reached her eyes. “Oh, I’m definitely alright with that.”

She crossed the short distance with an ease that made Carla’s heart give a gentle lurch like it recognized the rhythm of Lisa’s walk, the small bounce in her step when she was in a good mood.

Lisa stepped toward her, fingers curling around the offered cup like it was a routine they’d done a hundred times. No surprise in her eyes. Just something softer. Familiar.

“Perfect timing,” she said, taking a sip without hesitation. “I needed this.”

Carla smirked. “I know. I’ve dated you for a full six hours now. Basically, an expert.”

Lisa let out a warm laugh, the sound crackling through the stillness like a fireplace being stoked. “A full six hours? Have you been counting?”

Carla shrugged unapologetically. “Maybe.”

Lisa shook her head, still smiling as she sipped again. “God help me.”

Carla fell into step beside her as they started a slow lap around the block. Their arms brushed once, then twice, before they reached for each other’s hands. There was no fanfare to it. Just a natural, quiet clasp.

“How long do I have you for?” Carla asked, her tone light but laced with something softer underneath.

Lisa moved their joined hands up so she could read her watch. “Another twenty-three minutes before I have to reopen the shop.”

Carla arched a brow. “Very precise.”

“I run a tight ship,” Lisa said, mock stern. “I pride myself on being on time and providing the community with their literature needs.”

Carla hummed, amused. “A woman of the people.”

Lisa shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t like people.”

That earned a hearty laugh from Carla. “Lisa, you run a bookshop. You have to interact with people every day! What d’ya mean you don’t like people?”

Lisa gave a dramatic sigh. “I can interact with people. I just don’t like it.”

Carla grinned, squeezing her hand. “You are so intriguing.”

“I don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment or not.” Lisa raised her eyebrow.

“Guess you’ll never know,” Carla teased.

Lisa made a noise in her throat that was half amusement, half mock indignation. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

Carla smiled around the rim of her coffee. “You seem to be coping.”

Lisa glanced sideways at her, eyes crinkling with something soft. “Barely.”

They turned the corner, shoes squeaking slightly on the damp pavement. A few puddles still clung to the edges of the curb, fractured mirrors of the overcast sky above. Carla sidestepped one without thinking, tugging Lisa gently with her.

Lisa glanced over. “Chivalrous.”

Carla scoffed. “I just didn’t want to spend the next twenty minutes with you whining about soggy socks. And don’t forget the countless messages you’d send me as well. I’d never hear the end of it.”

Lisa smirked. “You know me so well.”

They fell into a gentle rhythm after that, their pace syncing naturally as they walked. Willowbrook’s high street curved gently ahead of them, quiet and unhurried. The florist’s stall on the corner was shuttered for the day, stray petals from earlier arrangements scattered along the pavement like confetti after a forgotten celebration. The community noticeboard leaned slightly to one side, swollen with damp flyers, lost cats, local concerts, poetry nights that had already passed, their corners curling from the rain.

A breeze drifted through the street, not forceful but sharp enough to lift the edges of their coats and tease strands of hair loose around their faces. Carla glanced up at the grey sky, pale and heavy but no longer raining. Just still. Like everything was holding its breath.

Lisa took another sip of her coffee; her other hand still loosely laced with Carla’s. “So, what did you get up to this morning while I was slaving away at my real job? Watch rubbish reality TV or something?”

Carla gave a small, satisfied hum. “Actually, I wrote for quite a while today.”

Lisa turned to her, eyebrows lifting, the teasing draining from her voice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Carla looked ahead again, as if watching her words float in front of her, careful not to scare them off. “A whole outline. Character, setting, first beats of the plot. It’s nothing polished, but it’s there. It was like my ideas were just flowing.”

Lisa stopped walking for a moment, her fingers giving a gentle tug to halt Carla too. She turned fully toward her, eyes bright despite the grey sky. “That’s amazing.”

Carla let out a breath. A small, shaky laugh she didn’t mean to release. Half relief, half disbelief. “I think this idea will stick. I think I might actually finish this story. Which is rare lately.”

Lisa’s eyes softened. The sincerity in them made Carla feel suddenly exposed in a way she didn’t mind.

“You gonna let me read it?”

Carla snorted, a flicker of a grin on her lips. “Absolutely not.”

Lisa grinned. “Didn’t think so. But I had to ask.”

“You can read it when…”

“When you’ve finished writing. I know, I know” Lisa cut her off with a smile: light, easy, but threaded with understanding.

They started walking again, slower this time, their pace more like a meander than a destination-driven stroll. Their footsteps fell into a soft rhythm, the kind that made you forget time was even passing. Carla’s thumb moved in slow, looping patterns over the back of Lisa’s hand. Not consciously. Not deliberately. Just something her fingers seemed to know to do. Reassurance, maybe. Or grounding. Or the simple comfort of touching someone who made space feel safer. She didn’t even notice she was doing it until Lisa tilted her head slightly, catching the movement with a small smile tugging at her mouth, curious but not teasing.

Lisa hummed, low and content. The kind of sound people made when they were exactly where they wanted to be. “Do you always do that?” she asked, her voice gentle, like she didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening between them.

Carla glanced over, brow creasing slightly. “Do what?”

“Talk about your work like it’s this fragile thing. Like if you say it too loud it might vanish.”

That gave Carla pause. Her smile faltered into something more thoughtful, a subtle pulling inward. The question wasn’t meant to sting, and it didn’t. Not really. But it landed, in that precise, quiet way the truth often does. She looked ahead, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment. They passed a closed charity shop with dusty windows and tired mannequins dressed in woolly jumpers too heavy for May. The display looked forgotten, out of step with the season. One scarf had slipped halfway off a mannequin’s shoulders, bunched at its feet like a misplaced thought.

“That’s because sometimes it does,” Carla said finally. “The words, I mean. They disappear before I can get them down. Or they come out wrong and then I hate them. But today felt different.”

Lisa gave her hand a soft squeeze. A quiet gesture that said, I hear you, without needing to say anything at all. “I’m really glad,” she said.

Carla nodded, but the compliment sat oddly in her chest. Not bad, just unfamiliar. She’d spent so long tensing against expectation that even kindness had to find its way in slowly. Being seen felt like standing in bright sunlight after too long in the dark: welcome, overwhelming. She was learning how to believe in herself again, slowly, since getting to know Lisa. After years of publishers and media voices dimming her light. But it was still strange at times. To be complimented by someone who meant it with their whole heart.

They walked on, their hands still clasped, letting the conversation settle into silence. It wasn’t awkward or filled with the need to say more. It was simply there. Soft and expansive. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be broken. The kind that allowed you to just be.

Eventually, they circled back to the bookshop.

They stopped just outside the door again. Lisa turned toward her, coffee still cradled in her hand like it was something valuable, like it had meant more than just a drink. Her eyes were gentler now, her expression dialled down to something more open.

“Thanks for this,” she said, her voice low, unguarded. “The coffee. The walk.”

Carla shrugged, but her posture gave away her shyness. Her shoulders dipping slightly, mouth twitching in that almost-grin she wore when something mattered. “Felt like a good idea.”

“It was.”

Lisa leaned in and kissed her, brief, but certain. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything, just acknowledged what was already there. Then she stepped back, reaching into her coat pocket for her keys. The metal jingled softly as she sorted through them, fingers practiced, not needing to look as she found the one she needed.

“Try not to be too impressive while I’m gone,” Lisa said, shooting her a sideways look as the key turned in the lock.

“No promises,” Carla replied, her voice quiet but smug, a warmth still lingering in the space between them.

She stayed there for a moment after the door clicked shut, the shop swallowing Lisa’s footsteps like a sigh. Through the misted glass, Carla could just make out her figure moving behind the counter. The shape of her familiar even in silhouette.

She finished the last sip of her coffee, now lukewarm, then rolled the cup between her hands, the cardboard slightly softened from her grip. With a small flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the bin beside the shop door and stepped back.

The street remained quiet. Still overcast. Still soft around the edges. She didn’t head toward home. Instead, she turned down the gentle curve of the high street. She walked past the bakery with its display case fogged from the inside and past the benches no one sat on when the sky was heavy with the threat of rain. Her pace was unhurried. Wandering, not fleeing. Moving, not seeking.

Not to chase anything.

Just to breathe.

And maybe, if she was lucky, she might spot something she could tuck away to use later: a crooked street sign, a cat sunning itself in a windowsill, the edge of a poster with only one word still visible. Anything with texture. With story.

She kept walking. Slow. Steady.

Letting the day open up around her. Letting it make space.

Chapter Text

It had been a long day.

Not the catastrophic kind. No fire alarms, no flood warnings, no robberies or power cuts. Just that specific kind of day where everything felt slightly off-kilter from the moment she woke up. No single moment to point to and say that’s when it all went to hell. Just a steady build of small annoyances, each one stacking messily on the last like an ill-balanced tower. Until Lisa felt like she might actually dissolve if one more person asked her where the non-fiction section was without reading the sign first. It was right there. Bold black letters on crisp white card. Mounted at eye level. How could people miss it?

First, the delivery was late. Not just a few minutes late; that might have been tolerable. No. It was late enough that she’d opened the front doors to the shop with the creeping dread that ten boxes of new stock were still sitting untouched in some depot on the edge of the county, their barcodes mocking her from afar, just waiting to ruin her morning.

It meant everything had to be unpacked during opening hours, which turned the whole process into a kind of logistical nightmare. A ballet of cardboard, tape, scanning devices, and shuffling customers who somehow always chose to stand in the most inconvenient places. She couldn’t be in two places at once. She couldn’t be behind the counter handling transactions and crouched on the floor surrounded by packing paper and fresh titles and scanning and sorting the new stock. And every time she tried to juggle both, the bell above the front door rang with unnerving precision, like it was tuned to the exact moment she became absorbed in something else.

A steady stream of early browsers trickled in, asking for help finding obscure titles she hadn’t heard of in years or insisting they needed a specific edition of a poetry collection published in 1987, “but only the one with the blue cover.” Others stood patiently at the till, wallets in hand, waiting for Lisa to notice them and every time she thought she had a moment to herself, someone else would need something.

Then, when the delivery did finally show up, lumbering in around 10:47 a.m. with a disinterested courier and no apology, half of it was wrong.

She slit open the first box with the worn blade of her box cutter, already anticipating the titles she needed to put out. Instead, staring back at her was a glossy wall of oversized hardcovers. Twenty copies of The Deep Blue: An In-Depth Guide to Ocean Life. A book bursting with high-resolution images of squid, kelp forests, and various breeds of obscure sea urchin. It was the kind of book that was beautiful in theory, but she knew that her customers would not care. So not only had she never ordered it, but she was also fairly certain she couldn’t sell a single copy of it even if she paid customers to take one off her hands.

Meanwhile, the one book people did want, a sports autobiography she’d promised to at least three regulars, each of whom had asked about it with increasing urgency over the past week, hadn’t arrived. Not a single copy.

She’d spent twenty frustrating minutes on hold to the supplier’s customer service line, her mobile wedged uncomfortably between her shoulder and her cheek while she scanned the few correct items into the system with one hand, the scanner beeping back with mechanical cheer that grated on her already-fraying nerves. Eventually, a man with the kind of voice that suggested he’d long stopped caring confirmed what she already suspected: one of her boxes had ended up in another branch’s shipment, and she’d been given theirs instead.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she muttered under her breath

The man stated that someone would ‘swing by’ to pick up the wrong box and deliver the right one ‘later today.’ Which didn’t help her now. “Later today” could mean three hours or seven or never. With no indication of a time frame, Lisa resigned herself to the idea that she’d probably have to stay in the shop the entire day, trapped between the front desk and a growing pile of books that weren’t supposed to be hers.

By noon, she hadn’t even taken a proper break.

She’d stood in the cramped back room, which smelled faintly of cardboard, ink, and lemon cleaning spray, half a packet of crisps in one hand and her phone in the other. The screen lit her face in a cool blue light as her thumb hovered over the keyboard, regret coiled tight in her chest.

Eventually, she typed:
[12:07] Lisa: Sorry, can’t make lunch. Day is going to hell. Will explain later. Hope you’re having a better one. x

The reply came only minutes later.
[12:09] Carla: Oh no. That sucks. Let me know if you need anything x

Lisa read it twice, and for the first time that morning, her shoulders dropped by half an inch. The simple message, not fix-it language, not pressure to talk, just quiet, reliable care, let a small warmth edge its way into the borders of her frustration.

[12:10] Lisa: I’ll be alright. Enjoy the rest of your day love. Talk to you later x

She locked her phone and slipped it into her pocket, not waiting for Carla’s next reply. As much as she wanted to sit and speak to her girlfriend, to take five minutes, even two, she didn’t have the time. Not today.

She rifled through the cupboards in the staff-only area and came up with a sad collection of emergency snacks: a granola bar she didn’t remember buying, a packet of almonds, and a chocolate digestive. She reasoned she’d have a proper meal later when she got home.

The rest of the day passed in a slow, dragging crawl. A blur of rearranging, customer small talk, and quiet frustrations she didn’t have the space or energy to name. She made it to closing time without shouting at anyone, which, all things considered, felt like an achievement.

She didn’t even raise her voice when a toddler (sticky-fingered and wild-eyed) toppled the carefully arranged display by the front window. The one she’d set up just yesterday. A tiered layout of summer reads and paperbacks with cheerful covers, angled in a way she was quietly proud of.

The kid’s mum had rushed over, face flushed and frantic, apologising in that breathless way that meant she was more embarrassed than sorry. Lisa had smiled, told her it was fine, and watched in resigned silence as the woman shoved the books back into the display in no particular order. Titles scrambled, covers backwards, genres colliding. A kind of chaos that made Lisa’s jaw clench.

As soon as they’d left the shop, she went straight over and redid the display from scratch.

By the time Lisa finally locked up and trudged the familiar path home, the world had settled into that hushed, blue-grey pause between day and night. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of sun-baked pavement and cut grass, but the slight breeze at her back offered the faintest relief. Her limbs ached in that low-grade, all-over way that didn’t scream for attention but pulsed quietly beneath her skin. The consequence of a thousand small movements: bending to shelve, reaching to stack, standing in place for longer than anybody was meant to.

Her shoulders throbbed with the dull weight of the day, her calves stiff with fatigue. She could feel the echo of tension in her jaw, where she’d clenched through conversations she didn’t have the patience for. Her brain buzzed with leftover static: customer queries, numbers from the till, the hold music from the supplier looping endlessly in the back of her mind.

The dull clink of her keys in hand was the only sound she registered as she reached her front door. Her fingers felt clumsy with exhaustion as they found the lock. The key turned with a soft, familiar click that felt like a full-body exhale.

She was already toeing off her shoes before the door clicked shut behind her. One kicked into the hallway wall, the other collapsing awkwardly against the doormat. She didn’t bother picking them up. Not tonight. She didn’t turn on the main lights either. The idea of overhead brightness felt unbearable. Instead, she reached for the small lamp in the corner of the living room, the one tucked beside the bookshelf. Its warm glow spilled softly across the room like melted honey, catching on the edges of spines and the curve of the armchair.

Her eyes landed on the hoodie draped across the back of the chair. It looked casual, effortless but something in her chest stirred when she saw it.

Carla’s.

Left behind last week after one of their slow, meandering evening walks. The kind where conversation came in waves, and in between, they let silence stretch comfortably between them. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty but shared. Lisa had cooked them dinner afterwards. Nothing fancy, just pasta with pesto and roasted tomatoes, but it had tasted good because they’d eaten it together, legs tangled on the sofa, bare feet brushing beneath a shared throw, laughter tucked into the corners of the room.

Lisa had meant to return the hoodie. She’d even folded it once, precisely, smoothing the sleeves and tucking them in neatly. She’d placed it by the door, planning to carry it over next time they met. But somehow it had stayed. The plan to give it back had softened into a kind of excuse to keep it close. It belonged to Carla but now it lived here, like it was waiting for her return.

Without thinking, Lisa crossed the room and picked it up. It still held Carla’s scent. Something subtle and grounding: clean cotton, lavender, the whisper of skin warmed by sun. The smell of home, though not the place. She tugged it on in one slow, deliberate movement, the hoodie falling over her shoulders like a second skin. The sleeves were a little long, the hem brushing mid-thigh, enveloping her in something that wasn’t quite hers but made her feel more like herself. The warmth settled over her shoulders, down her arms, across her chest.

It felt like a comfort item. Like armour, but gentle. Like wearing someone’s attention. Someone’s care. And for the first time all day, Lisa allowed herself to breathe, deep and slow, her hands tucked into the hoodie’s front pocket, her weight sinking into the quiet. Wrapped in Carla, wrapped in peace.

She sank onto the sofa with a tired sigh, her entire body folding in on itself like a deck chair collapsing under the weight of too many long days. Her knees tucked up instinctively, her shoulders rounded forward, and the hoodie swallowed her frame like a shield. The cushions dipped beneath her, cradling her weight as though they, too, had been waiting all day for her to finally sit down. Her bones hummed with the kind of ache that just whispered, relentlessly, from joints and muscles worn thin by repetition. She felt her spine release its protest one vertebra at a time as she sank deeper, her body remembering what stillness felt like.

For a moment, she just sat there. Hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands until only her fingertips peeked through. Her eyes drifted shut. She didn’t speak, didn’t reach for her phone, didn’t even fidget. She simply let the quiet press gently against her skin.

And the quiet. Oh, the quiet was bliss.

No rustling shopping bags. No distant coughs from customers in the back aisles. No tapping fingers on the counter. No tinny phone speaker voice saying, “If you just hold for one more minute, I can check that for you.” Just silence. Or maybe not silence, exactly but something better. Stillness. Blessed, uncomplicated stillness. A soft hush that filled the space like a deep exhale.

Then her stomach growled. Loud and undeniable. It echoed in the room like a petty betrayal.

She blinked and sighed again, this time with more exasperation. Her body reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything resembling a real meal today. A handful of crisps, half a stale biscuit found at the back of the staff cupboard, and exactly two sips of coffee that had gone cold while she was elbow-deep in a box of misdelivered books.

 The idea of cooking felt laughable. Even thinking about standing upright in the kitchen made her legs ache in protest. She imagined herself rising, putting something together, a quick sandwich, maybe, but the thought vanished as quickly as it came.

Instead, she let her head fall back against the cushion with a quiet groan, her eyes half-closed. “You need to eat,” she muttered aloud, voice low and scratchy in the silence, like a rusted hinge. “Be a functional adult for five minutes.”

But she didn’t move. Not even a twitch. She didn’t reach for the blanket, didn’t push herself upright. She just sat there, heavy as wet sand, stewing in that particular brand of tired that felt cellular. Her limbs didn’t even feel like hers anymore. They were lead weights. Sandbags stitched to bone.

Somewhere in the fog of indecision and hunger and hoodie-wrapped inertia, she was just starting to contemplate whether she could muster the will to microwave something vaguely edible when the doorbell rang.

She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Surely there couldn’t be more problems to sort out. Not another missing parcel or a neighbour asking her to sign for something or…

The bell rang again. Not impatient. Not pushy. Just certain. Like someone who knew they’d be let in.

Lisa groaned and forced herself upright, joints cracking softly in protest. She dragged her feet across the floor toward the door, rubbing at one eye with the sleeve of Carla’s hoodie. Half of her expected to open it and find a clipboard-wielding stranger trying to sell her a new energy plan.

But when she pulled open the door, she stopped short.

There stood Carla.

Arms full.

One large pizza box balanced carefully in one hand, steam already fogging the cardboard slightly in the evening air. And two carrier bags looped over her other wrist, filled to bursting with food and drink. Lisa’s gaze flicked across the contents and landed on a familiar green packet wedged near the top. Her favourite biscuits. The good ones. The ones she only ever bought once every few months as a treat, then rationed like precious currency. Carla must’ve gone to the expensive shop for them, the one with the obnoxiously curated shelves and jazz music playing at half-volume.

Her throat tightened, just a little.

Carla looked windswept and travel-worn in the softest way. Her cheeks were flushed with the chill of the night air, lashes damp from the walk over, and a few strands of hair had worked their way free from her ponytail, clinging to her temple. She wore that look. The one she always had when she was doing something for someone she cared about: part sheepish, part proud, and completely undeterrable. Her smile was small but certain. The kind that didn’t need a response to be felt.

“I know you said you’d be alright,” she said, her voice low and warm, steady despite the cold in her lungs. “But I also know you. So… I brought reinforcements.”

Lisa blinked once. Then again. For a few seconds she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even react properly. The contrast was too sharp. Her house had been quiet, still, a cocoon of weariness and dust motes, and suddenly there was Carla: all motion and effort and intention, arms overflowing with care.

All the tension that had been braced along Lisa’s spine dropped like a stone. Her breath came out in a quiet rush. The sight of Carla standing there, wind-chilled and thoughtful, pierced through her exhaustion like sunlight through thick cloud.

Then she let out a laugh: short, hoarse, involuntary. The kind that cracked something open. “I can’t believe you carried all that,” she said, stepping forward quickly to take the pizza box before it could tip.

Carla shrugged with theatrical casualness, as if lugging half a pantry across town in the cold was a regular Tuesday thing. “You said you were having a bad day. I just wanted to treat you.”

There was no expectation in her tone. No hesitation. Just a calm certainty. Like she already knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Lisa didn’t hesitate either. She stepped back and pulled the door wider, her grip tight around the pizza box like it might anchor her to this exact moment.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words catching on something in her chest. “This is exactly what I needed.”

Carla stepped inside without ceremony, kicking off her boots with the kind of ease that came from dozens of other evenings just like this. Where there hadn’t been snacks and pizza, maybe, but there had been comfort. Familiarity. That quiet, wordless understanding between two people who knew each other well enough to show up unasked.

Lisa watched her move through the space like she belonged there. Carla’s presence didn’t fill the room so much as it fit into it, settling into the corners without pushing anything out of place.

“Go sit down,” Carla said, nudging her gently with her elbow as she passed. “I’ve got it from here.”

Lisa obeyed without protest. She kicked the door shut behind her and followed the trail of rustling bags and pizza warmth into the living room, still holding the box like it might disappear if she let it go.

Carla disappeared into the kitchen, already unpacking with soft efficiency. “Hope you’re in the mood for pizza and terrible telly.”

Lisa smiled at the familiar phrase. “Honestly, that’s all I’ve ever wanted in life.”

“Then you’re in luck,” Carla called back, her voice muffled slightly over the clatter of cupboard doors and the delicate chaos of bag rummaging. “I brought enough snacks to last us through at least two seasons of something absolutely awful. Maybe three if we ration the biscuits.”

Lisa laughed again. A softer sound this time, tugged from her without effort. She eased herself back down onto the sofa with a grateful sigh, curling her legs beneath her like a cat finding its favourite patch of sun. The hoodie sleeves were long over her hands again, and she let them hang there, safe and soft.

She closed her eyes and just listened. To the clink of bowls. The fridge door yawning open and shut. The fizzy hiss of a drink being opened. The clatter of everyday kindness filling her kitchen. The kind of sounds she hadn’t known she missed until now.

Moments later, Carla reappeared, arms full again. Two ceramic plates balanced neatly in one hand, an armful of bowls tucked against her chest, and a bottle of something lemony clasped beneath her elbow. She moved with quiet precision, placing everything down on the coffee table with surprising grace, like it wasn’t her first time navigating this exact space.

“Figured we could put the food in these instead of eating straight out the bags.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “How very posh of you.”

Carla rolled her eyes with a grin, shaking her head as if to say, you love it. Then she paused, mid-motion, and narrowed her eyes at Lisa in mock suspicion.

“Wait… are you wearing my hoodie?”

Lisa glanced down at herself as if she hadn’t already known. She tugged the sleeves farther over her hands, grinning. “I’m cold.”

“Stop stealing my favourite clothes.”

“It was on my chair,” Lisa replied, her tone syrupy with faux innocence. “In my house. Couldn’t have liked it that much if you forgot it.”

Carla let out a huff of air. Half a laugh, half a defeated groan and pouted in theatrical despair. “No fair,” she said, with a sigh so dramatic it could’ve earned her a standing ovation. “I don’t have a comeback for that.”

Lisa leaned back against the cushions, triumphant. “You weren’t supposed to.”

Their laughter mingled, soft and genuine, a kind of harmony built from long-held closeness. It filled the room with a gentle warmth, more nourishing than the food still waiting on the coffee table.

“C’mon, shift. Let me sit down.”

Lisa scooted over obligingly, and Carla dropped onto the cushions beside her with a content sigh. She reached back, tugging the blanket off the back of the sofa and draping it across their laps without thinking, like it was second nature.

She tucked one leg underneath herself and settled in, shoulder brushing Lisa’s as she reached for the remote. The blanket stretched high across their thighs, warm and faintly scented with the fabric softener Lisa always used. That crisp, clean-linen smell with a hint of something floral.

Lisa nestled in closer, the shape of her slowly softening into the couch. Her tension seeped out of her like steam from a forgotten mug. Her head tipped back against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut, breath evening out. She rubbed her thumb idly against the blanket’s edge, a quiet, grounding gesture. And for the first time that day, Lisa didn’t feel like she was holding anything together. She didn’t feel brittle, or sharp, or stretched too thin.

Carla tapped the remote against her thigh, the rhythmic thunk a quiet counterpoint to the hush of the room. She turned slightly toward Lisa, eyes narrowing with playful intent. “Alright. What do you want to watch?”

Lisa waved a hand without opening her eyes. “You pick.”

Carla tilted her head, studying her. “Lisa, it’s your relaxing evening. You pick.”

“Yeah, but you travelled all this way,” Lisa murmured, finally cracking one eye open. Her gaze was sleep-soft but sharp at the edges, amused. She turned her head just enough to look directly at Carla, her cheek pressing into the armrest. “I think it’s only fair that you pick.”

Carla scoffed, but her tone held no real bite. “It’s a ten-minute walk. It’s hardly like I hiked Mount Everest to see you.”

Lisa smirked, completely unrepentant. Her voice was light, teasing. “It would make me happy if you picked.”

Carla narrowed her eyes, brandishing the remote like a weapon. “You can’t play that card.”

“I think I just did.”

Carla gave her a long, unimpressed look. It was the kind of look that might have worked if her mouth wasn’t already twitching at the corners. The tiniest tug of something warm curled under her ribs. “Fine,” she said, voice softening as she turned back to the screen. “I’ll pick the show.”

Lisa looked entirely too pleased with herself, a subtle smugness pulling at her mouth as Carla began to scroll. Titles blurred past: gritty thrillers with high-stakes music, sharp-edged sitcoms with canned laughter, a documentary on unsolved murders she’d already watched twice. The menu’s ambient noises, faint clicks and swells of preview music, filled the quiet, but Lisa didn’t seem to care. She only shifted slightly, curling further into the cushions with a barely audible sigh, her shoulder brushing gently against Carla’s.

Carla’s thumb hovered, then flicked on. Then paused. Then backtracked. Her movements were slow, almost meditative, as she scrolled through rows of thumbnails that blurred together. Usually, she picked something without much thought. She let instinct lead or settled for whatever had the best reviews. But tonight, the stakes felt oddly higher.

She wasn’t usually this indecisive but something about Lisa curled up beside her made her want to get it right. Hoodie sleeves pulled down past her knuckles, hair falling forward like a curtain, the slow and even rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. It all made Carla oddly aware of the moment they were in. How it felt like a bubble they hadn’t meant to make, and now neither of them wanted to pop.

She didn’t want just background noise. She wanted something that might make Lisa smile. Something that would hold her attention in that quiet, tilted-head way she got when something surprised her. A show they could talk through, laugh at, gently argue about. One that gave them an excuse to stay up too late and rewind favourite scenes. One that made the moment stretch out a little longer. Something that turned time soft at the edges.

A few minutes of half-focused browsing later, a police drama caught Carla’s eye. She hesitated, thumb poised. The title was familiar. She’d seen it in passing before but she never clicked. Tonight, though, it looked different. Interesting. She let the trailer autoplay, and as the dramatic score swelled and the voiceover promised "moral ambiguity and shocking twists," Carla smiled faintly. Now that was a show she’d want to watch. Tight pacing, sharp dialogue, characters who never quite said what they meant. The kind of story that sat with you afterward. That hummed in the silence even after the credits faded.

She was about to back out, murder and bleak detectives probably weren’t high on Lisa’s wish list tonight, when Lisa stirred beside her.

"Are we going to watch this," Lisa asked dryly, "or are we just going to rewatch the trailer for the fifth time?"

Carla shot her a flat look, though her lips twitched again, caught between amused and exasperated. “You are so dramatic. It’s played once.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And a half.”

Carla snorted, then tossed the remote lightly from one hand to the other, like she was weighing her options. “I’ll find something else.”

“But you want to watch this.” There was no judgment in Lisa’s voice, only a calm, confident knowing. Despite the few months they had known each other, Lisa could always read Carla. Sometimes better than Carla read herself.

“I can watch it on my own,” Carla said with a shrug, but it came out softer than she meant it to.

Lisa shifted closer under the blanket, a small, barely-there movement that somehow carried weight. Her voice was gentler now, quieter. “Watch it with me.”

Carla hesitated. For a moment, she didn’t look at the screen at all. She looked at Lisa. Really looked. She looked at the way her hair had slipped loose from behind one ear, at the relaxed curve of her mouth, at the familiar crease between her brows that deepened when she meant what she said. She wasn’t teasing now. She wasn’t just playing along. She was being serious, honest.

“You sure? I know it’s not really your kind of show…”

Lisa smiled. Not big or showy, just that quiet, lopsided one that felt like a secret passed between them. It was the kind of smile that made Carla feel seen in the gentlest way. “But it’s yours. And I want to watch it with you.”

That did something to Carla’s chest. A little shift. A little thud. Like her heart had just tapped gently against a window, asking to come in.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice quiet, nudging Lisa’s leg gently with her own as she pressed play on the first episode. “But if it’s bad, that’s on you.”

Lisa grinned, content and unbothered, her eyes drifting back to the screen. “Deal.”

The screen flickered to life, casting a soft, flickering glow across the living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the opening credits rolled. Carla sank into the cushions, shifting until she found a comfortable angle. Beside her, Lisa adjusted subtly, their bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces until her shoulder brushed softly against Carla’s.

The show opened with a moody establishing shot. A sweeping view of the city skyline, its windows glowing faintly in the rain-soaked dark. Water streaked across a car windscreen as ominous music thrummed beneath it. Then, within the first two minutes, a body was discovered in a narrow alleyway, neon signage casting eerie reflections in puddles. Carla leaned forward slightly, her interest piqued. Already, her brain was turning, taking in details, slotting them into theories. A small, satisfied smirk pulled at the corner of her lips.

Lisa didn’t say much at first. She sat quiet, taking slow sips from her glass of lemonade, her eyes half-watching the screen, half-wandering. It was hard to tell whether she was actually following the plot or just letting the sounds wash over her. Her posture was relaxed, but there was something distant in the set of her features.

Then, maybe fifteen minutes in, Lisa let out a quiet scoff. It was subtle, barely a breath, a tiny exhale of disbelief. Carla flicked her eyes sideways but didn’t comment, lips twitching.

The episode had picked up speed. A dramatic interrogation had begun. The lead detective was pacing behind the table, sleeves rolled up as if that somehow lent him credibility. The air in the room was tense. Sweat glistened on the suspect’s brow. Carla’s eyes followed every flicker of movement. She was locked in now, fully engaged, her mind piecing together subtle clues and narrative red herrings like a mental jigsaw.

Another minute passed. The detective leaned in low, voice gravelly with implication, trying to rattle the man across from him.

“They didn’t even offer him a solicitor,” Lisa said, barely above a mutter. Her eyes narrowed slightly, tone clipped and unimpressed.

Carla didn’t respond right away. She heard it and registered the way Lisa’s voice took on that firm, precise quality but she stayed quiet, smiling faintly when the suspect caved just as she’d predicted. The show was playing out like a puzzle she was already halfway to solving.

Then Lisa made another sound. A little noise in the back of her throat. Part scoff, part sigh. “God, this is bad procedure.”

Carla finally turned her head, her expression more amused than annoyed. “You do realise it’s fiction, right?”

Lisa huffed, arms crossing under the blanket. “Yeah but at least try to pretend you consulted someone who knows how the law works.”

Carla raised a brow, her tone turning teasing as a slow grin unfurled across her face. “And I’m guessing you would’ve handled that differently, Detective Swain?”

Lisa didn’t look away from the screen. “First of all,” she said, her voice dry, “I would have made sure there was another officer present when I was conducting the interview. And second, I wouldn’t have asked leading questions like” she dropped into a melodramatic imitation of the detective, “‘Did you do it?’” She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s going to get you anywhere.”

Carla bit the inside of her cheek, fighting to stifle a laugh that threatened to spill out at Lisa’s outburst.

The absurdity of the next scene was almost too much. The way the lead detective dramatically pulled up the CCTV footage with the kind of flourish reserved for a Hollywood thriller. The screen zoomed in obsessively on a grainy image, sharpening it into an impossibly clear shot, as if the pixels themselves were bending to the detective’s will. And then came the audio. Impossibly crisp, every word audible, as if the camera had a built-in microphone right next to the suspect’s mouth. Carla shook her head slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes as she turned back to the screen.

Lisa sighed heavily, a long, tired sound that carried the weight of professional frustration. “That’s not how evidence handling works,” she muttered, her voice low but sharp, cutting through the show’s dramatic tension like a scalpel.

Carla let out a soft sniff, the kind of noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. She glanced at Lisa out of the corner of her eye, catching the flicker of a smirk threatening to tug at her lips. “I didn’t realise we were watching with the commentary track on,” she teased lightly.

Lisa’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, the warmth spreading visibly even in the dim flicker of the TV light. She shifted under the blanket, pulling it a little higher around her shoulders as if trying to hide behind the soft fabric. “Sorry,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “I’m ruining the show, aren’t I? You can pick something else if you want. Clearly not good with inaccurate police dramas.”

Carla shook her head gently, her tone soft but firm. “No, no. This is good.”

Lisa turned toward her, studying her face closely, as if trying to decipher whether Carla was being sincere or just humouring her. Her eyes searched for any hint of sarcasm but found none.

Carla smiled then, a genuine, warm smile that softened the edges of her face. “I mean it. This is more entertaining than the actual plot. I get to enjoy the ridiculousness of the show and get educated by my girlfriend on how things actually work. What’s not to love?”

Lisa laughed, a short, dry sound that was nonetheless genuine, the tension breaking between them for a moment. “Your girlfriend nattering in your ear, probably.”

“Nah,” Carla replied, nudging her playfully with an elbow. “I’m having fun. It’s like I’m watching a mystery within a mystery.”

Lisa blinked, confused. “What?”

“Well,” Carla explained with a grin, “I’ve just been trying to guess what you’re going to complain about next. My money’s on the next scene involving terrible forensics.”

Lisa opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, the next episode began. Within thirty seconds, the lead detective was seen dusting for fingerprints bare-handed, fingers dragging carelessly across the evidence.

Lisa threw her hands up in exasperation, the frustration bubbling out in a sharp voice. “You can’t touch evidence with bare hands! What is this, amateur hour?”

Carla said nothing. Instead, she watched Lisa closely. Watched the way her eyes sparked with indignation, the way her body leaned forward as if trying to physically intervene through the screen. Her voice was sharper, more animated; her posture straightened, radiating a fierce energy that Carla hadn’t seen all evening. In that moment, Carla felt her heart catch in her chest, as if she were witnessing something rare and quietly beautiful unfolding right before her.

Lisa must have sensed the shift too, because after a beat, her voice softened. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

Carla gave a small, easy shrug, her gaze flickering back to the flickering screen. The light played over her features, calm and patient. “Don’t,” she said gently. “I like seeing you like this.”

Lisa turned her head slightly to meet Carla’s eyes, brows drawing together in mild confusion, as if searching for the exact meaning behind those words. “Like what?”

Carla smiled softly, her voice warm but teasing. “Passionate. Snarky. Weirdly outraged over procedural inaccuracies.”

Lisa huffed, a breath of amusement escaping her despite herself, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, both reluctant and genuine. “It’s just” she paused. “This used to be my life. For a very long time. You don’t just forget how things work.”

Carla shifted a little closer, the warmth of her body a quiet anchor as she spoke in a voice low enough to feel intimate. “Do you miss it?”

Lisa hesitated, the glow from the television casting flickering shadows across her face, highlighting the traces of thought behind her eyes. “Sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Not the long hours. Not the endless paperwork. And definitely not the risk. But the job? Yeah. I miss it. There were parts I loved. It made sense. Most of the time anyway.”

Carla leaned her shoulder a little more firmly against Lisa’s, their bodies pressing together now, the blanket cocooning them like a fragile shield. “What made it make sense?”

Lisa exhaled softly “The rules, mostly. There was a structure to it all. Procedure. You followed the steps, and if you were good and maybe a little lucky you got the truth.”

Carla tilted her head, voice quiet and thoughtful. “That sounds like something you’d be good at.”

Lisa’s reply was simple, without pride or bravado, just steady and sure. “I was. I knew how to get confessions out of people, but more importantly I knew how to speak to victims. To try get them to speak, provide evidence. You have to talk to a suspect and a victim in two completely different ways. Not many detectives understand that.”

Carla looked at her profile, the set of her jaw, the faraway look in her eyes. “You don’t talk about it much. Being a detective I mean.”

“No,” Lisa said, shaking her head lightly.

“Why”

“It’s hard to explain. I retired over six years ago. It’s not my life anymore. Plus, when people hear ‘retired detective,’ they expect war stories or some dramatic case that broke me.” Her voice softened further, barely above a whisper. “But mostly, it’s just stuff you carry. Quiet things. Some good, some not.”

Carla nodded slowly, her voice reflective. “So, what kind of cases did you work?”

Lisa’s smile was wry, a flicker of mischief returning. “You want the full list?”

Carla laughed, warmth in her tone. “Maybe just your favourites. Or the weirdest. Or the ones that made you want to throw a chair.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Lisa, a sound lighter than before. “Alright. Weirdest first, then. We once had a guy break into a garden shed and steal only garden gnomes. Five of them. Left everything else untouched: the mower, the tools, an expensive strimmer. Just took the gnomes.”

Carla grinned, eyes bright with disbelief. “Gnomes?”

“He lined them up outside his flat like a tiny army,” Lisa explained, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Said they were ‘watching the neighbours.’”

Carla laughed fully now, a rich sound that shook her shoulders under the blanket. “Please tell me you kept a photo.”

“I didn’t,” Lisa said. “There’s definitely a news article with one. Maybe I’ll dig it out for you.”

Carla rested her head gently against Lisa’s shoulder, feeling the steady pulse beneath her skin. “I’d like that.”

The show continued, its dramatic dialogue fading into background noise. Just blue flashes and distant voices now, barely audible.

Carla’s voice came again, softer this time. “Did it ever get to you? The bad stuff?”

Lisa didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and steady, carrying a weight that wasn’t easily shaken. “Yeah. Sometimes. Some cases stay with you. Especially the ones where you couldn’t fix it. Where there wasn’t an answer, or not one that felt fair. I used to shut down and put everything into little boxes. Compartmentalize. Avoid my issues. When Becky died and I retired, I realised that probably wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with things. I went to therapy. That helped.”

Without hesitation, Carla reached under the blanket and found Lisa’s hand. She laced their fingers together gently, no words necessary.

Lisa squeezed her hand in return, voice soft and apologetic. “Sorry. This isn’t exactly pizza-night conversation.”

Carla’s tone was firm, full of quiet strength. “I don’t care. I want you to be able to talk to me about these things, Lisa. You might not have been a detective for six years. You might not have been a detective when we met. But I still want to know about it. Know about you. If you want to share, of course.”

They sat like that for a long moment, the flicker of the TV light painting flickering patterns across their faces. The blanket wrapped around them like a warm pause between words and silences.

Finally, Lisa’s voice came, quiet but steady. “You know, if you’d asked me six months ago whether I’d ever talk about this stuff again, I’d have laughed in your face.”

Carla smiled, steady and sure. “Yeah, well you didn’t know me six months ago. I’m very convincing.”

Lisa chuckled softly, the sound warm. “You are. Stubborn, too.”

“That’s my charm,” Carla said, leaning in to press a brief, tender kiss to Lisa’s shoulder before settling back beside her.

“No, but seriously, Carla. You’ve made things easier for me. I want to talk to you about things. Good and bad.”

Carla squeezed her hand again, voice simple and sure. “Good,” she said. “Because you do the same for me.”

They sat like that for a while longer: fingers intertwined beneath the soft, worn blanket, the warmth seeping through their joined hands. The muted glow of the television flickered across their faces, casting gentle shadows as the next episode rolled on, unnoticed by either of them. The crime drama’s sharp dialogue faded into the background, forgotten beneath the quiet hum of their presence together. Carla’s head tipped slightly, her cheek brushing softly against Lisa’s shoulder, a small, effortless connection that said more than words ever could. Carla’s lemonade balanced precariously on her knee, droplets slowly gathering and soaking into the blanket below, leaving a faint, damp circle that neither of them seemed to mind.

Eventually, Carla stirred, the spell of comfort gently breaking.

“Back in a sec,” she murmured, pushing herself up with a soft groan. “Too much lemonade. Don’t finish the episode without me.”

Lisa smiled, not turning to look at her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Carla padded quietly down the hall, bare feet making soft thuds on the wooden floor. Lisa took the chance to stretch out her legs, savouring the stretch through her tired muscles, and reached for her drink just as her phone buzzed insistently beside her.

FaceTime. BETSY ❤️

She answered with a small smile, her voice low and warm. “Hey kiddo.”

Betsy’s face filled the screen, bright and animated, already mid-laugh. “Hi! You look cosy.”

“I am. What’s up?”

“I was gonna text, but then I thought, No, I want to see my mum’s face. You’re not busy, are you?”

“I’m never busy for you, you know that Bets.”

“Ewww mum, don’t get all soppy. I only want to avoid the chaos going on in the kitchen.”

“Oh brilliant. Good to know I rank behind avoiding your housemates.”

Betsy laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Well, I mainly wanted to see you. Avoiding my housemates is just a plus.”

Lisa chuckled softly. “Naturally.”

They talked for a minute or two, Betsy launching into a dramatic retelling of her flatmate’s latest culinary disaster, complete with exaggerated gestures and theatrical sighs. Lisa smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching as she pictured the scene. Then, faint but unmistakable, came the soft footsteps of Carla returning down the hall, the scrape of a drawer opening in the kitchen breaking the easy rhythm of the conversation.

“I’m getting another drink,” Carla called casually from the doorway. “Would you like one?”

Lisa froze for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden presence. “Yeah, please” She called out realising that Carla would need a response.

And Betsy, with all the gleeful triumph of a daughter catching something juicy, leaned eagerly into her camera. “Wait. Was that Carla? Why didn’t you say you had company?”

Lisa sighed, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips, knowing full well there was no way to back out now. “Yes, that was Carla. And she was in the bathroom. I was gonna tell you when she got back.”

“Was you?” Betsy questioned, raising one eyebrow in playful accusation.

“Yes, Bets,” Lisa laughed softly. “I wasn’t going to shove her in a different room while I talked to you or anything. That would be weird.”

Carla appeared in the doorway carrying two drinks, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. “Here, love,” she said, setting the glasses down carefully on the low table. Her fingers brushed the rim of Lisa’s glass as she placed it, then she glanced over with a flicker of apology. “Oh, sorry, you’re on the phone.”

Lisa’s eyes twitched, barely containing a smile.

Suddenly, Betsy’s voice erupted through the speaker, sharp and loud enough to make Lisa flinch, “DID SHE JUST CALL YOU LOVE???”

Lisa groaned, her hand rising to rub her forehead. “Betsy, lower your voice. Some of us would still like to have working eardrums.”

But Betsy was already halfway to standing, her chair scraping softly against the floor, as if rising might give her a better vantage point. “This is so much better than my flatmate nearly setting the oven on fire.”

From behind the phone screen, Carla remained just out of Betsy’s view. She glanced toward Lisa, eyes flickering with a hint of uncertainty, as if she wasn’t sure she’d overstepped by speaking so casually. Lisa caught the look and offered a quick, reassuring smile, her hand gently patting the empty space beside her on the couch, silently inviting Carla back.

Carla settled down beside Lisa more slowly this time, the soft thump of the cushion beneath her marking her return. She held her drink loosely in one hand, her other hand finding its way to rest near Lisa’s leg. Lisa’s knee brushed against hers, a quiet, grounding contact that made her chest tighten pleasantly. Without breaking their gaze, Lisa shifted the phone gently, angling it so that both of their faces fit snugly in the frame.

On the screen, Betsy’s eyes were fixed on them, a mischievous glint barely contained beneath the surface. She fought to suppress a smirk, but it played at the corners of her mouth. “Hi, Carla,” she said, voice dripping with teasing sweetness.

“Hi, Betsy,” Carla replied warmly, her voice steady but laced with amusement.

“Sooooo,” Betsy began, dragging out the word as if it held the weight of ten unanswered questions all at once.

Lisa shot her a sharp, knowing look, the kind only a mother could perfect, a gentle warning in the shape of a glance. “Betsy.”

“What?” Betsy grinned, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “I was just going to ask Carla if she calls many people love, or if it’s something she reserves for you.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “Bets, stop being so dramatic.”

Carla chuckled quietly, leaning back slightly as she met Betsy’s gaze through the screen. “I mean,” she said thoughtfully, “I do call the odd person ‘love’ every now and then. You know, a fan or something. But I don’t usually offer them a drink and tuck them under a blanket while we watch crime shows, if that answers your question.”

Lisa shook her head with fond helplessness. “You’re not helping.”

Carla smiled mischievously at Lisa, completely unbothered. “Didn’t realise I was supposed to.”

Betsy laughed. “Sounds like you’re being very well looked after so really she is helping”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, feigning long-suffering. “Brilliant. Outnumbered in my own living room.”

Carla gave her a satisfied little shrug, leaning back into the sofa like she’d just won a game she hadn’t known she was playing.

Betsy snorted. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop being annoying… Mostly.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Lisa muttered under her breath, but the smile tugging at her lips was impossible to hide.

Carla let out a soft laugh beside her, her shoulder brushing gently against Lisa’s. She took a slow sip of her drink but stayed quite content to let the moment settle. On the screen, Betsy grew quiet, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. Lisa could already see the gleam of curiosity lighting up her face.

“Okay, but what is going on here?” Betsy asked, voice sharp and playful. “Because if I’ve interrupted a planned date, you could have told me. I can call back tomorrow.”

Lisa rolled her eyes again, but the edge was gone. “It’s not a planned date.”

Carla leaned forward, her smile growing a little wider as she glanced at the screen. “More of a spontaneous ‘you looked like you needed pizza and terrible TV’ kind of situation.”

Lisa nodded. “Which, for the record, was exactly what I needed.”

Betsy crossed her arms dramatically. “Right. And do you usually eat pizza and cuddle under blankets with just anyone?”

Carla made a mock-considering face. “Hmm. No. Can’t say I do.”

Lisa snorted. “Alright, fine. Since you’re clearly not going to let it go…”

She glanced sideways at Carla, who was nursing her drink, watching the banter unfold like she was both amused and a little braced for impact. Their knees still touched beneath the blanket – a quiet, steadying pressure that made Lisa’s heart ache softly. She turned back to the screen, her voice dropping into that special soft tone she reserved for moments that mattered.

“We’ve decided to give this a go,” Lisa said finally, her voice steady, calm but soft in that quiet, careful way she sometimes spoke when something mattered deeply. Her eyes held a flicker of vulnerability, like she was gently breaking open a part of herself she’d kept close for a while.

Carla’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile, eyes sparkling with warmth and teasing confidence. “And they say romance is dead.”

Betsy’s response came in a gasp so exaggerated it seemed to fill the room with its echo, “Wait, wait. It’s official-official?”

“Yes,” Lisa said. Her gaze flicked briefly to Carla before settling back on her daughter. “Carla is my girlfriend.”

On the other end, Betsy’s grin widened until her whole face lit up, her excitement bubbling over. “Since when? When did this happen?!”

Lisa shrugged casually, though there was a softness to her tone that betrayed the weight of the news. “A few days ago.” The words hung in the air, deceptively light but heavy with meaning. Betsy caught the subtle undercurrent immediately.

“And you’re only just telling me now?” Betsy’s voice cracked playfully with mock indignation. “Mum. What the hell.”

Lisa arched a brow in return, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement. “You’ve been busy, Bets. This is the first call we’ve had since Carla and I got together. I didn’t think you’d want it in a text message.”

“Well, no, obviously not,” Betsy replied, with a faux grumble, though there was no real annoyance beneath it. “But I could’ve done a dramatic gasp properly. Set the mood. Thrown virtual confetti. Maybe sent a card or something. This is a big deal.”

Carla snorted softly into her glass, setting it down with a gentle clink. “Do you always react to news this dramatically?”

Without missing a beat, Lisa and Betsy said in perfect sync, “Yes.”

Betsy blinked, then burst into a wide grin. “Okay, good. At least you agree with me on something.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, her whole posture softer than it had been earlier like something had unclenched beneath her skin.

“I’m happy for you both,” Betsy added, and this time her voice was less teasing. “Really.”

Carla looked back towards Betsy, caught off guard by the heartfelt warmth in Betsy’s voice. Her smile deepened with gratitude. “Thanks, Betsy.”

“Well, right,” Betsy said, shifting back into her usual playful energy. “I know you said I wasn’t interrupting anything, but I’m going to go. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mum. And Carla you’re getting a full interrogation when I next come back.”

Carla chuckled, already slipping into the spirit of the game. “I’ll prepare my alibi.”

“Smart woman,” Betsy grinned.

Lisa’s voice softened again, low and tender. “Night, Bets, love you.”

“Night, Mum, love you too,” Betsy replied, then paused for a beat, her voice gentle and sincere. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Carla. Goodnight.”

Carla blinked, clearly touched by the unexpected kindness, and then smiled warmly. “Thanks. That, that means a lot. Goodnight Betsy.”

With one last bright smile, Betsy ended the call. The screen went dark, leaving the room filled with a quiet kind of peace.

Lisa set the phone down gently on the coffee table, the soft thud almost a punctuation mark in the quiet room. The room felt still again, but not the same kind of stillness it held before. This one was warmer. Settled.

Carla nudged Lisa’s leg lightly beneath the blanket, her touch easy and familiar. “She’s great, you know,” she said softly, her voice low enough to be just between them. “You did good with her.”

Lisa gave a crooked smile, the edges of her lips tugging up in a way that held a mix of pride and relief. “Yeah,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “She turned out alright, didn’t she?”

They sat in the silence that followed, a comfortable pause that wasn’t empty but full of meaning. The TV hummed in the background, voices and music drifting from the show but neither of them was really paying attention anymore. Their focus was on the gentle rhythms of each other’s presence.

Then Carla leaned in and rested her head lightly against Lisa’s. “You okay?”

Lisa turned her face just slightly, brushing her nose against Carla’s hair, inhaling the scent of Carla’s shampoo. “Yeah. I think I really am.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, heads tilted together, the glow from the lamp painting everything in soft amber. Carla’s hand found Lisa’s again beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining with a natural ease, like the dance of two pieces fitting perfectly together. No fuss, no fanfare, just the quiet reassurance of being known and accepted.

Lisa exhaled slowly, the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying finally melting away as her body sank deeper into the cushions of the sofa. She glanced sideways at Carla, noticing the curve of her jawline, the delicate sweep of her lashes catching the light, the faint smudge of lemon on the rim of her glass. The sight of her made something inside Lisa settle, soften.

“I’m glad you came over,” she said quietly, voice thick with something close to gratitude. “You made a crap day feel good. I didn’t even realise how much I needed your company until you were here.”

Carla’s expression softened, her eyes warm with understanding. She nudged Lisa gently with her shoulder, a silent promise wrapped in the motion. “That’s what I’m here for,” she said, voice low and steady. “Bad days. Good days. Weird in-between ones.”

Lisa’s voice dropped even further, like she was sharing a secret she hadn’t told anyone in a long time. “It’s been a long time since I let anyone in like this. I’ve done everything on my own for six years… I think I forgot I’m allowed to ask for support.”

Carla turned to face her, her brow softening, eyes full of gentle encouragement. “Yeah?”

Lisa nodded, just once, slow and sure. “You make it feel easy.”

That seemed to settle somewhere deep in Carla, but she didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she gave Lisa’s hand a gentle squeeze beneath the blanket, a quiet reassurance without words. “Good.”

Lisa’s smile was small, fragile, but real. A little beacon in the quiet room. “You want to start the next episode?”

Carla let out a soft laugh, the sound light and teasing. “Sure. But only if I get to make sarcastic comments this time.”

Lisa shifted closer, her arm instinctively sliding around Carla’s shoulders, pulling her gently in. “No promises,” she teased.

Carla curled in a little more, nestling closer, and Lisa moved with her. The blanket tugged up over both of them like a shared shield. Carla sighed softly, her breath warm against Lisa’s collarbone, and closed her eyes, sinking into the moment.

“Comfortable?” Lisa asked, voice low and tender.

Carla nodded slowly against her, voice muffled but certain. “Yeah. This is… really nice.”

Lisa smiled, her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along Carla’s arm. “Stay as long as you want.”

Carla didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached out, took Lisa’s other hand beneath the blanket, and twined their fingers together once more. The gesture was quiet, a wordless promise.

“I was kind of hoping you’d say that” she whispered finally.

And just like that, there was no need for big moments or dramatic gestures. Just two women, wrapped up on a sofa, limbs entangled, the kind of closeness that spoke volumes in silence. They stayed like that, bathed in the soft glow and steady warmth, as the next episode played on, and the night quietly held them safe.

Chapter Text

The sun was already warm on their shoulders, the kind of early May morning that hinted at summer without making any promises. The light filtered softly through a hazy blue sky, not yet sharp or intrusive, just enough to cast a golden sheen over the cobbled high street. Lisa and Carla walked side by side, fingers loosely intertwined, their arms brushing occasionally with quiet affection. There was no rush in their steps; just the unspoken understanding of people comfortable in each other's company, falling into the slow, easy rhythm of the town as it stirred awake around them.

The soft scrape of broom bristles echoed faintly from across the street, where a shopkeeper in a striped apron swept dust and leaves from his threshold. Farther down, another proprietor straightened a row of potted herbs outside his window, his mouth moving in cheerful conversation with a customer still nursing her takeaway coffee. A toddler, all round cheeks and enthusiasm, waddled toward a hanging basket overflowing with petunias, jabbing a mittened hand upward as if he meant to pluck the whole thing from the sky.

Behind them, a dog barked once, sharp and declarative. Then again, this time in a more relaxed rhythm, as if agreeing with the child’s excitement. It wasn’t an aggressive bark. More like it had opinions about the weather.

Carla squeezed Lisa’s hand gently, tilting her head toward the scene. “Everyone here’s so bloody cheerful in the morning.”

Lisa grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Give it an hour. Someone’ll be arguing about bin collection or whether scones should be jam-first.”

Carla snorted. “Scandal,” she murmured. “The true divisions of the British countryside.”

They walked past the bakery, the sweet, yeasty scent of fresh loaves curling warmly into the morning air, mingling with the sharper green aroma from the florist next door. A breeze lifted the corner of the florist’s striped awning, sending a light cascade of flower petals spinning to the pavement. Carla caught the faint perfume of lilies and carnations, undercut by something spicy. Cinnamon, she thought, from the bakery’s morning batch of buns.

Just as they rounded the corner near the old stone church, its bell tower casting a long, angled shadow across the lane, Carla slowed. Her pace faltered as her attention snagged on the scene unfolding across the road. The village green, usually quiet and empty at this hour, was alive with motion. A group of people were scattered across the grass like a small, cheerful construction crew, hauling lengths of striped canvas from the back of a van and dragging thick metal poles through the dew-slicked grass. The morning light caught the fabric, casting red and white reflections across the ground like the inside of a circus tent being born.

Nearby, two women stood on tiptoe beneath an old chestnut tree, threading strands of faded bunting between its low-hanging branches. The triangles flapped lazily in the breeze, catching in the leaves now and again before being freed with a laugh or a curse. On the far side of the green, a man stood at the top of a rickety stepladder, arms flailing as he shouted directions over the chatter and the thud of crates being unloaded. His voice barely carried, and his gestures  (exaggerated and increasingly exasperated) seemed to go mostly unnoticed by the others, who were too busy trying to assemble what looked like the frame of a marquee without quite agreeing on how.

Carla’s brow furrowed slightly. She tightened her grip on Lisa’s hand just enough to get her attention. “Is someone doing a pop-up shop or something?”

Lisa followed her gaze, her eyes lingering on the green for a moment before she gave a small, almost dismissive shrug. “Something like that, darling.”

The way Lisa said it was breezy, deliberately so, and Carla caught it instantly. It was the kind of breeziness that didn’t just float off the tongue; it was placed, curated. A tone designed to sound throwaway, to close off a line of conversation without actually lying. It wasn’t just that Lisa wasn’t elaborating. It was how she wasn’t elaborating. The timing of the shrug. The faint upward lilt in her voice. The way her eyes flicked back to the green for half a second too long before moving on. It was all too casual. Too offhand. Like she was hoping Carla wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t notice.

But Carla noticed.

She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes, her gaze trailing over Lisa’s face as if she could read the truth there, behind the soft curls shifting in the breeze, behind the practiced calm. She was one question away from pressing, from gently teasing the full answer out of her. Not because she was suspicious, but because she could feel something lingering under the surface. Unsaid. Unshared.

Carla opened her mouth, ready to ask what exactly “something like that” meant but then closed it again. She let the curiosity settle into a quiet, familiar place at the back of her mind, a mental bookmark to return to later. If it mattered, Lisa would tell her. And if not, well... she was sure there were clues enough in the morning air that she could figure it out herself.

They’d only gone a few more paces when something in a shop window snapped her attention like a sudden splash of paint across a grey wall.

She stopped.

A vibrant display covered nearly the entire pane of glass. A burst of colour and motion that felt almost loud against the gentle tones of the street. Brights and pastels collided in a poster plastered unevenly across the inside.

Carla leaned in closer, reading:

WILLOWBROOK ANNUAL FESTIVAL
Food • Live Music • Local Makers • Games • Raffle • Parade
10th May - Willowbrook Green - All Day!

In the bottom corner, a ridiculous cartoon character beamed up at her with its little tongue sticking out in concentration. It was mid-juggle, three cupcakes frozen mid-air in an impossible loop, its hands stretched out in exaggerated effort. The font around it bounced joyfully across the page, all oversized loops and playful swirls, like someone had let a child design it with stickers and too much sugar. There were sparkles drawn in the corners, a little sun wearing sunglasses, and an almost aggressive optimism to the whole thing.

Carla blinked. Her lips parted slightly as she turned to Lisa. “Willowbrook have a festival?”

Lisa didn’t seem surprised by the question. She gave a small nod; hands still loosely linked with Carla’s. “Yeah. Same time every year. Always the second weekend in May.”

Carla glanced at the date again, then back at Lisa. “That’s a random time to have a festival.”

Lisa gave a short laugh. Bemused like she remembered asking the same thing once herself. “Yeah, you just sort of learn not to question things here. I’m sure there’s a reason. Some old village tradition maybe. I never actually asked. It’s just one of those things that’s always happened.”

Carla’s gaze lingered on the poster. On the cheerful, slightly chaotic joy of it. Something about it made her oddly emotional. As if she'd stumbled into a childhood memory that didn’t belong to her.

“Do you not have a stall?” she asked after a moment. “Just it says something about local businesses.”

Lisa laughed properly then, the kind that came from deep in her chest. “God, no. Never have. Too much work for just me, and I never wanted to rip Betsy away from the fun. In fact,” she said, her voice softening, “I usually go to the festival with her every year. She loves it. The food, the music, the noise. She’s always dragging me from stall to stall. She was properly gutted this year when she realised it clashed with her final exam next week and couldn’t come back for it.”

Carla nodded slowly, absorbing the words. A picture began to take shape in her mind: Lisa and Betsy walking the green, arms full of caramel apples and paper bags filled with lavender soaps and fudge, the two of them ducking beneath fluttering bunting, laughing through a cloud of candyfloss and suncream and music. That kind of memory. Warm and real and theirs.

It was a lovely story.

But still…something tugged at Carla. Not quite jealousy. Not even insecurity. Just a sense that she was the reason that Lisa hadn’t mentioned anything. That Lisa didn’t want to invite Carla into her traditions yet.

“So,” she asked carefully, “you’ve been every year since you moved here?”

Lisa nodded, her smile touched with nostalgia. “Yeah. Bit of a tradition.”

Carla’s gaze flicked sideways toward the green again, where the marquee now stood partially raised, its white flaps shivering in the breeze like sails looking for wind.

“Did you not want to go this year, then?” she asked. “Since you haven’t mentioned it.”

Lisa hesitated. Just for a beat but Carla caught it. Caught the slight dip of her head, the way her eyes briefly avoided hers. Then she looked toward the green again, toward the flurry of movement and sound, before answering.

“Didn’t think you’d fancy it,” she said after a pause. “Big crowds. Lots of noise. The whole town turns up. Some people even come in from neighbouring villages. I didn’t think you’d want to be somewhere you might get recognised.”

Carla didn’t respond at first. The words hung between them, weightless and heavy all at once. The kind of sentence that said more than it seemed to.

She could still feel Lisa’s hand in hers, warm and steady. The pad of Lisa’s thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles in an absent rhythm. They were still connected, still in sync, but something in the air between them had shifted. Not badly. Just enough to ask for attention.

Carla looked back at the poster in the shop window. Then her gaze moved past it to the green where laughter rang out from somewhere near the tents, and a child’s voice squealed with delight. A dog barked again, that same casual, conversational bark from earlier, as if it, too, was joining in.

Lisa’s words lingered, soft and uncertain.

I didn’t think you’d want to be somewhere you might get recognised.

It wasn’t said with bitterness. It wasn’t even said with fear. It was said with care. With consideration. But also, perhaps with a bit of quiet resignation. Like she’d already decided on Carla’s behalf and made peace with it.

Carla hesitated. Her instinct was to reassure Lisa, to close that tiny, growing gap between them. But she took a moment instead. To take a breath, to ground herself. Then she turned fully, meeting Lisa’s gaze, steady and deliberate. “Thank you for considering my feelings,” she said, her voice low and sure. “Really. But if there’s something you want to do, I want you to tell me. So we can come to a decision together. I don’t want me being worried about my fame ruin anything for you.”

Lisa blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that. I mean she wasn’t sure what she was actually expecting but it definitely wasn’t that. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out at first. She looked at Carla for a moment, really looked at her, as though the shape of her was changing right in front of her eyes; becoming not just someone she was falling for, someone she was learning to love, but someone she could share things with that were messy, uncertain, complicated.

Her expression softened, the tension in her shoulders loosening almost imperceptibly. She nodded slowly. “You’re right,” she said finally. “I’ll tell you about these things in future. I just…” She trailed off and glanced down at their joined hands, her thumb now motionless against Carla’s skin. “I haven’t gone without Betsy before. And I didn’t want you to feel pressured to replace her. Or like you had to pretend to want to do something just for my sake. Especially because you’ve told me before how uncomfortable crowds make you.”

Carla felt something tighten in her chest. The kind that ached a little, because it knew it mattered. She stepped closer, shrinking the space between them, her voice soft but firm. “I never feel pressured with you.”

And she meant it. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Lisa’s mouth. Quick, but grounding. Not performative, not for show. Just a quiet anchor in the moment. A way of saying I’m here. I want to be here.

They lingered like that for a few seconds, heads gently inclined toward one another, foreheads almost touching. Around them, the village moved on. The sounds of preparation continuing like distant music: hammering stakes, unfolding tables, the low hum of anticipation. Then, without another word, they resumed their walk. Their fingers wove together again, easy and familiar, their hands swinging lightly between them like the rhythm of something reaffirmed.

The festival was coming to life now.

Striped tents billowed into shape as volunteers secured them with ropes looped taut over the grass. Tables were draped with cheerful cloths, reds and yellows and floral prints, while crates of preserves, handmade crafts, and fresh-cut flowers were carefully arranged by eager stallholders. The breeze carried the scent of cinnamon sugar from an early food truck, warm and nostalgic, undercut by the savoury tang of onions beginning to caramelise on a hotplate.

Carla watched it all with new eyes. She saw a woman with cropped grey hair adjusting a velvet-lined rack of delicate necklaces, pausing to tilt each pendant so it caught the morning light. A teenager was wheeling a speaker, nearly as tall as he was, across the green, grunting as he bumped it toward a small, raised platform already dotted with microphone stands and tangled cords.

There was no chaos to it, not really. Just the gentle churn of people building something together. The entire green shimmered with the quiet hum of anticipation. Just the unmistakable feeling of joy being carefully arranged.

Carla exhaled, slow and thoughtful. “Maybe we should go.”

Lisa stopped walking, turning to face her fully. “Are you sure?”

Carla nodded. “Yeah. Could be fun to go to this festival with you. If you want to go, of course. I know you said this was your thing with Betsy.”

Lisa’s expression shifted. Something in her softened, uncoiled. Not quite a smile yet, but the beginning of one: gentle, tentative. Her eyes searched Carla’s, and what she found there seemed to settle something in her.

“I would love to go with you, Carla.”

The festival was already in full swing by the time Lisa and Carla returned to the green.

The bunting stretched in soft, uneven zigzags across the square, catching the breeze like half-forgotten flags strung up for a celebration that no one could quite believe had finally arrived. The grass underfoot had already been worn flat in patches, trampled by the passing feet of locals and visitors alike. The whole green buzzed with colour and motion. Bright tents clustered along the edges like an uneven row of teeth, picnic blankets dotted across the lawn, kids shrieking with joy. The air was thick with the scent of fried onions, cinnamon, and sunscreen. A heady mix that clung to the back of the throat and made Carla blink with surprise at how hot it had become for May.

Somewhere nearby, an acoustic guitar was being played. The tune meandered between chords, sometimes finding its way into something recognisable, sometimes drifting into what might’ve been improvisation or just someone messing about. Carla couldn’t tell if it was an actual act or some teenagers commandeering the community sound system, but the music floated over the festival like smoke: loose, pleasant, and not quite in tune.

Carla slowed a little as they stepped into the heart of the crowd, her steps easing as her eyes swept over the scene. She looked like she was trying to take it all in at once: the sun, the colour, the noise, the way the whole town had suddenly transformed into a pocket of celebration. A group of children ran past, all of them clutching balloon animals in varying stages of deflation or distress. One balloon dog had lost a leg. Another had turned entirely into a limp string. Just ahead, a man in a velvet waistcoat yelled gleefully through a megaphone near the coconut shy, though whatever he said was swallowed by the general hum of noise.

It was like a village fair had collided with a street market and decided to invite a folk band, all of it clinging to the edge of cheerful chaos.

Lisa glanced sideways, noting Carla’s slower pace. “You alright?”

Carla gave a small nod, her lips twitching into a crooked smile. “Just taking it in. I’ve never seen Willowbrook like this. It’s like someone turned the volume up.”

Lisa chuckled. “Wait until the raffle starts. That’s when things really kick off.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah? Good prizes, then?”

“If a £10 voucher to the café is a good prize, then yeah,” Lisa replied dryly.

“I suppose it will do,” Carla teased.

They moved slowly along the makeshift path of stalls, the kind that had been shaped more by the wandering feet of festivalgoers than by any formal layout. The grass was already pressed into faint lines from the morning crowds, and the occasional stray ribbon of bunting flapped low enough to brush the tops of heads.

Carla and Lisa’s hands remained loosely linked between them. Not possessive, not performative. Just steady. Natural. Carla’s thumb moved now and then in soft, absent-minded sweeps against the back of Lisa’s hand, her touch barely there but constant. It was an idle gesture, but it carried a certain tenderness. The kind that didn’t need words to make itself known.

The first stall they approached was a modest table with a white linen cloth weighed down at the corners by mismatched stones. It was practically groaning under the weight of fresh loaves, rustic rolls, and golden pastries dusted with sugar. The smell alone was intoxicating – warm yeast, buttery layers, a hint of rosemary from somewhere in the back trays. A curl of steam still rose from the rear row of croissants, catching the sunlight like it had been painted in.

Lisa stepped forward without needing to ask and spoke briefly to the woman behind the stall, an older woman with flour still dusted in her hair like she’d run straight from her kitchen to the green. A moment later, she returned with two warm cheese rolls wrapped in wax paper. She handed one to Carla like it was second nature, like they’d been sharing baked goods for years.

Carla bit into hers and let out an unfiltered sound of satisfaction, somewhere between a hum and a sigh. The outside was crisp and perfectly golden, while the centre was molten with melted cheese and just the faintest hint of garlic. She closed her eyes briefly, the sunlight catching on her lashes.

“Okay,” she said, voice muffled by pastry, “I’m starting to see the appeal of this place.”

Lisa grinned around a bite of her own roll. “That’s just the beginning.”

Carla smiled into her next mouthful, letting the flavour and the moment settle around her. She wasn’t sure which part she liked more. The warm bread in her hands, the sun on her bare shoulders, or the way Lisa’s hand still curled loosely into hers like they were always meant to fit that way. Maybe it was all of it. The rhythm of this day. The ease. The lightness.

They drifted further down the row of stalls, passing displays that glittered or gleamed depending on the angle. Handmade crafts spilled across tables like tiny, curated worlds. There were delicate scented candles cradled in mismatched jam jars, wax coloured like citrus and honey and wild herbs. Dreamcatchers twisted in the breeze above one stall, their beads clicking softly like wind chimes. Strings of fairy lights were wound around table legs despite the daylight.

At one stall, Carla paused. A table of hand-painted coasters was arranged like an eccentric forest, all shaped like animals with slightly cartoonish features. Badgers, owls, a wide-eyed squirrel and a fox with a lopsided tail and an expression that seemed vaguely alarmed. Carla picked it up and held it between two fingers, tilting it to catch the light. The glossy lacquer caught the midday sun like glass.

“Tempted?” Lisa asked, watching her with a bemused smile.

“Nah, not for me,” Carla said, scrunching her nose. “Plus, is it even big enough to fit a mug on it?”

Lisa leaned over the display, scanning the odd assortment. “That is a very good point. Very impractical. You’d have to get that panda one. It’s at least round.”

Carla smirked, setting the fox coaster back into its little wooden tray. “I’ll wait for the deluxe version. Something large enough for a proper cup of tea.”

They continued on, weaving through the crowd with no particular direction. The air was loud with chatter and the rustle of canvas tents. Music drifted in waves, blending with the clinking of glass jars and the occasional bark of a dog on a lead. A small boy in a red superhero cape charged past them at full tilt, arms flailing like wings. He nearly collided with a stall piled high with cupcakes, and Carla instinctively reached out as if she could stop the disaster by sheer will alone. The tray wobbled. The cupcakes trembled. But disaster was somehow averted, and the boy vanished into the crowd.

Carla let out a surprised laugh, genuine and unguarded. “He nearly took out an entire generation of fairy cakes.”

“Would’ve been a tragedy,” Lisa said with mock solemnity.

They soon reached the raffle stall, a square table dressed in pink gingham, where a clear plastic tub brimming with ticket strips sat like a crown jewel. The woman behind it wore a cardigan that had clearly seen every festival for the past twenty years, her mouth pursed like she was guarding secrets that required a winning number to unlock.

Carla handed over two £5 notes and received two strips of bright yellow tickets in return. She gave one set to Lisa without needing to ask.

Lisa tucked hers into the pocket of her jeans while Carla slid hers into her purse with exaggerated care. “I better win something,” she said, mock-threatening. “Or I’ll be part of the village drama.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, her voice matching Carla’s mock-serious tone. “Don’t make me come out of retirement, Carla Connor.”

Carla leaned in, her voice dropping into a whisper that was rich with mischief. “No promises, Detective Swain.” She paused, letting the words hang just long enough before lowering her voice further, just for Lisa. “But if you do have to arrest me, I insist on handcuffs.”

Lisa nearly choked on a laugh, biting down on her bottom lip as her eyes lit up. “That is wildly inappropriate.”

“You love it, Swain.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Carla smirked, clearly satisfied, the playfulness between them charged just enough to sizzle without tipping into spectacle. Around them, the festival buzzed on, but for a moment, it was just the two of them in a bubble of warm bread, quiet teasing, and sunlight curling between fingers that hadn’t let go since they stepped onto the green.

 That was until her gaze snagged on a stall a few paces ahead: an old-fashioned ring toss stand, the kind that looked like it had been dragged out of a village hall cupboard once a year and held together by optimism and leftover paint. Wooden pegs jutted up from a scuffed board in tidy rows, each one crowned with a brightly coloured glass bottle. A string of plastic prizes dangled overhead, swinging gently with every gust of wind: neon slinkies, glittered cowboy hats, a deflated inflatable guitar, and, hanging slightly askew, a small teddy bear with one eye stitched higher than the other and a tiny t-shirt that read ‘I ❤️ Willowbrook’.

Carla slowed to a stop, her face frozen in a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Oh god,” she muttered, staring at the spectacle. “Do people actually win these?”

Lisa, already pausing beside her, tilted her head as though giving the game serious consideration. “Only the brave.”

Carla turned slowly to face her, eyebrows raised. “You’re not seriously”

But Lisa was already digging into her pocket, producing a handful of coins with an air of theatrical resolve. “One round, please,” she said, stepping forward like a soldier entering battle.

Carla folded her arms across her chest, her lips twitching. “This,” she said, voice low and amused, “I have to see.”

Lisa accepted three small plastic rings from the stall keeper: their red edges faded from use. She rolled her shoulders like an athlete warming up, then bent her knees slightly, adopting a stance of exaggerated focus. “You’re about to witness greatness,” she announced.

Carla raised an unimpressed brow. “Mmhmm. I’ll alert the local press.”

Lisa ignored her, narrowing one eye in mock concentration. The first ring flew quick and confident before veering wildly to the left, ricocheting off the side of the board with a hollow clack and landing somewhere near the back leg of the stall.

Carla let out a short, delighted laugh. “Wow. The grace. The precision. It’s like watching a master at work.”

Lisa shot her a look, grabbing the second ring. “Okay, that was just a test shot. This next one will be better. No commentary, thank you.”

She took a breath, adjusted her stance again, and launched. This time, the ring made an elegant arc… directly into the wrong lane, bouncing off a bottle several rows over from her target.

Carla gave a low whistle. “Impressive. Didn’t realise you were aiming for that peg three lanes over.”

“Who says I wasn’t?” Lisa muttered, but she was grinning now, unable to maintain her fake composure.

The third and final ring sat in her palm for a moment longer. She turned it between her fingers, then squared her stance one last time. A hush fell, or at least, it did in their minds, and Lisa threw.

The ring dropped with a dull, anticlimactic thunk in the grass just short of the board.

There was a beat of silence.

Carla blinked. “Right,” she said flatly. “Well. That was embarrassing for all of us.”

Lisa held up her hands in surrender, laughing despite herself. “Okay, clearly ring toss isn’t my calling. But I’d like to thank you for this incredibly humbling experience.”

“Redemption’s a long way off, Swain,” Carla teased, lips curved with wicked satisfaction. “It’s going to take more than that to earn back your street cred.”

Lisa glanced around dramatically, scanning the stalls like a hunter in search of her next quarry. Her eyes sparkled with mock defiance. “Then I’ll just have to find something I can win.”

Carla bumped her gently with her shoulder. “I’ll be here. Watching. Judging.”

Lisa grinned, undeterred. “Good. I need an audience.”

They moved on, weaving through the crowd again, their pace slow and unhurried. Carla paused at a stall draped in layers of hand-woven scarves: soft pastels that reminded her of spring mornings, and deep jewel tones that shimmered faintly when the wind caught them. They danced gently on their hangers, like the breeze itself was admiring them.

Just beyond the scarves, a child sat perfectly still under a canvas tent, their nose wrinkling as a woman painted glittery tiger stripes across their cheeks. The brush moved quickly, and a small mirror propped up nearby reflected the transformation in progress: half-child, half-sparkly jungle cat.

The air was thick with festival energy now: the low thrum of overlapping conversations, occasional bursts of laughter, and the chaotic clatter of prizes being won (or dropped) somewhere nearby. Music still drifted from a corner of the green, and the mingled scents of food and sunscreen gave everything a strangely nostalgic haze.

“There,” Lisa said suddenly, touching Carla’s elbow with a gentle nudge.

Carla turned her head, already sensing the mischief in Lisa’s voice. “What?” she asked, but Lisa was already nodding ahead, her eyes alight.

“My moment of glory awaits.”

Carla followed her gaze and almost immediately snorted. Between a cart piled high with sticky caramel apples and a tent offering tarot readings sat a garish knock-down-the-cans stall, painted in once-bright colours now faded by years of sun and rain. Red and yellow bunting flapped overhead like tired streamers at a half-hearted birthday party. The three pyramids of silver cans gleamed beneath the sun, stacked with clinical precision on narrow wooden shelves. They looked smug. Impossibly stable. The kind of smug that said, Go ahead. Try it. We dare you.

A weathered sign hung above the stall, the paint flaking off at the corners:
KNOCK 'EM FOR A PRIZE!
It might have been bold once, but now it just looked like it had stories. A lot of them.

Carla crossed her arms and tilted her head. “I doubt you’re going to win this one either. Those cans are definitely weighted. Look at them. They’ve not moved since 1997.”

Lisa turned to her; lips parted in a look of mock betrayal. “You doubt me too much.”

“No,” Carla replied, sweet as syrup, “I’m trying to save your ego. And your money.”

Lisa gave a long, theatrical sigh, but she was grinning now, that familiar, unstoppable kind of grin. Without another word, she strode up to the stall and dug into her pocket. A couple of coins clinked in her palm before she slid them across the splintered counter to the teenager manning the booth, a boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but was too resigned to argue.

“One go, please.”

She picked up the first beanbag from the cracked wooden shelf, testing its weight in her hand, tossing it lightly a couple of times like she was stretching out her shoulder. “Prepare to be amazed,” she said over her shoulder.

Carla raised an eyebrow, her arms still folded. “Already preparing to be disappointed.”

Lisa drew back her arm and released the throw with mock solemnity. The beanbag spun through the air, clipped the top of the pyramid and one lone can teetered, danced a little and then toppled off the edge with a pitiful plink. The others stood their ground, unmoved.

Carla tilted her head. “Do I need to call paramedics to check your ego? It looked like it took a hit.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “Very funny. That was just a warm-up.”

She grabbed the second beanbag and squared her shoulders like a woman with something to prove. This time, her throw was sharper, more focused. The beanbag hit low, striking the base of the pyramid. In an instant, the entire stack exploded, tin cans clattering in all directions like startled birds. Even the teenager behind the counter blinked in surprise. Someone behind them gave a single, polite cheer.

Carla blinked. “Okay… show-off.”

Lisa turned slowly, the grin spreading across her face like she’d just won Olympic gold. “Told you I was redeemable.”

The boy behind the counter gestured toward a battered shelving unit cluttered with prizes. Everything from bendy straws and glow-in-the-dark yo-yos to inflatable flamingos and plastic sunglasses the size of dinner plates.

But Carla’s eyes landed immediately on the small stuffed badger sitting a little off-centre. He was… well-loved, if she was being generous. His fur was patchy in places, one of his button eyes sat slightly higher than the other, and the stitching of his little mouth was just crooked enough to look permanently distressed. A faded blue ribbon was tied neatly around his neck like someone had tried and failed to make him look cheerful.

Lisa followed Carla’s gaze and didn’t hesitate. “That one, please.”

The teenager handed it over with a shrug, and Lisa turned with exaggerated flair, holding it out like it was a rare artefact unearthed from some ancient tomb. “For you,” she said grandly. “A token of my incredible athletic prowess.”

Carla took it gently, raising an eyebrow as she examined the stuffed toy’s tragic little face. “You know this guy looks like he’s seen some stuff, right?”

Lisa nodded, deadpan. “It’s perfect. You can think of me whenever you look at his slightly traumatised expression.”

Carla burst into laughter, warm and unexpected, and hugged the badger under one arm like he’d been with her all along. “I’ll treasure it always.”

They shared a look. Brief but grounding. Playful and steady. The kind of look that lived somewhere between affection and understanding, layered with everything they didn’t need to say aloud. Around them, the festival buzzed and roared, but for a beat, it all fell to the background.

Then Carla bumped Lisa lightly with her shoulder. “You’re still never living down that ring toss, though.”

Lisa gave a long, theatrical sigh and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead like a tragic heroine. “I win you a badger, and this is the thanks I get.”

Carla just grinned, utterly unapologetic.

They drifted onward through the crowd, moving shoulder to shoulder as people ebbed around them. A child darted past with a glittery wand, trailed by a harried parent. Somewhere to their left, someone was yelling “Two for a pound!” over a stall stacked high with toffee. The path opened up as they reached the centre of the green, where a small wooden stage had been cobbled together from crates and mismatched panels. A chalkboard easel leaned at a precarious angle nearby, the words RAFFLE PRIZES ANNOUNCED HERE scrawled across it in loopy, enthusiastic blue marker.

At the mic, a teenage girl in a too-big festival T-shirt cleared her throat and fumbled with her paper. “Next number is… um… four… three… six… seven… five?”

Her voice crackled through the tinny speaker system like it was trying to escape.

Carla leaned in slightly, her shoulder brushing against Lisa’s as they both eyed the modest prize table beside the stage. There were mason jars of cordial, homemade fudge in clingfilm bundles, a rather sad bunch of carnations in a jam jar, and perched ominously at the back, a large ceramic owl with wild, unblinking eyes and a paint job that could only be described as bold.

“Remind me,” Carla murmured, “what am I winning again?”

Lisa held up her strip of raffle tickets like it was a golden scroll and peered at the table. “If we’re lucky? A café voucher. Or possibly a bottle of homemade elderflower cordial. Or…” She paused, squinting, “...a very intense-looking ceramic owl.”

Carla wrinkled her nose, her gaze settling on the owl with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Badger’s got competition.”

Lisa looked down at the stuffed toy still tucked firmly under Carla’s arm. The badger’s mismatched eyes stared out at the world like he was unimpressed by the owl’s presence. His stitched smile, however, had taken on an air of quiet defiance. Victory, perhaps.

“We haven’t even named him yet,” Lisa said, almost absently, like the idea had only just occurred to her but now seemed very important.

Carla gave her a look: flat, incredulous, and fond all at once. “Lisa, love. We are both in our forties. We are not naming a stuffed animal.”

Lisa gasped, scandalised, and placed a hand over her heart like Carla had just insulted her entire belief system. “You’re never too old to give a stuffed animal a name.”

“Lisa. Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m completely serious,” Lisa replied, eyes dancing. “What kind of monster owns a stuffed animal and doesn’t name it? He deserves an identity. He has seen things.”

Carla groaned, tilting her head skyward like she was summoning patience from the heavens, but the corners of her mouth were twitching like she was fighting a smile. She looked down at the badger, studied him with the faintest hint of reluctant affection. “Fine. The badger can have a name.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. “What about… Gerald?”

Lisa’s face lit up like she’d just been handed a puppy. “Gerald the emotionally traumatised badger. I love it.”

“I knew you would,” Carla replied dryly, adjusting Gerald under her arm like he was now an official part of her outfit. A slightly haunted accessory with dignity to spare.

Lisa gave a quiet laugh, and together they stood side by side as the raffle numbers continued, the crowd murmuring, the sun dipping just slightly lower behind the rooftops. Gerald sat securely under Carla’s arm, his new name christened, his slightly crooked smile a quiet witness to the odd, steady joy unfolding around him.

They stood like that for a few more moments, only half listening to the raffle numbers being called. The teenage announcer stumbled over digits again, her voice crackling over the mic, and someone cheered from somewhere near the cake stall. The crowd murmured and shifted around them, people leaning closer to compare ticket strips, to squint at the whiteboard, to whisper hopes about fudge or wine or a questionable jar of homemade jam.

They were still grinning at each other, caught in the quiet comedy of naming a stuffed animal in public, the kind of shared moment that buzzed with the comfort of inside jokes and easy affection, when a voice called out from somewhere to their right: warm, familiar, and slightly amused.

“Lisa? Is that you?”

Lisa turned automatically, her smile arriving even before her eyes found the source, as if her body already knew who it would be. “Margaret!”

An older woman in a pale blue cardigan was making her way toward them, weaving expertly through the crowd like someone with years of experience navigating village fetes. The cardigan, buttoned all the way to the top despite the heat, was embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots near the hem, and she carried a straw basket looped neatly over one arm, its contents rustling softly with each step. Her grey hair was swept back in a no-nonsense clip, and she wore sturdy tan sandals that had clearly seen many summers and just as many Sunday services.

“I thought it might be you,” Margaret said, slightly out of breath as she reached them. She gave Lisa a once-over, eyes twinkling. “I almost didn’t recognise you without a pile of books in your arms.” Then, turning toward Carla with a subtle shift in posture that was both curious and assessing, she pointed a knowing finger at Lisa. “Not been out and about that much this past year, this one, since young Betsy moved away. That is until recently. My Archie says he’s been spotting you all over town lately.”

Lisa chuckled, her voice lighter than it might’ve been months ago. “Trying something new. Sunshine. Socialising. Shocking, I know.”

Margaret gave her a long, fond look. Not judgmental, just observant in the way that older women often are, like she could read the last few months of Lisa’s life in the lines around her eyes. Her head tilted slightly, the corners of her mouth softening. “It suits you, love. You seem different lately. Lighter.” She paused, voice dipping a little. “Happier.”

Lisa blinked, not thrown off, but caught off guard in a tender kind of way. The smile stayed, but it shifted, settling into something more rooted, more real. “Yeah,” she said, the word quiet but full. “I am.”

Margaret’s gaze moved naturally to Carla, her interest sharpening just slightly, not invasive, simply curious. “And does this have anything to do with this new friend of yours?”

Carla opened her mouth, halfway to a polite reply but Lisa beat her to it. There was no tension in her voice, no pause to assess or soften what she was about to say.

“Well yes, I suppose it does,” she said, with a simple kind of clarity. “Margaret, this is Carla. And she’s more than just a friend. She’s my girlfriend.”

Carla’s heart gave a quiet, unexpected jolt from the ease of it all. Lisa’s voice held no apology, no explanation. Just fact. Spoken in broad daylight with people milling around and the faint scent of fried onions and sugar in the air. It was so ordinary it felt extraordinary.

Margaret blinked, once. Then her entire face changed. A beam of warmth spreading from her eyes down into her smile like sunshine through stained glass. “Oh! Well then. That makes sense.” She extended a hand toward Carla, her grip firm, her tone full of dry amusement. “Lovely to meet you properly, dear.”

“Good to meet you too,” Carla replied, shaking her hand, her voice relaxed. “Bookshop regular, I’m assuming?”

“You assume correctly.”

“She does more gossiping than buying actual books these days,” Lisa interjected with a sideways smirk.

Margaret gave a perfectly unapologetic shrug. “I’m retired, love. I’ve earned the right to loiter.”

Lisa laughed, a sound that felt lived-in and familiar. “You loiter with intent. Half the village news comes through you before it even hits the parish noticeboard.”

Margaret gave a theatrical sigh, clearly pleased with her reputation. “Well, someone’s got to keep track of who’s dating who, whose garden’s gone wild, and whether the vicar’s new cat is a menace or a miracle.” She looked between them again. Lisa with her slight, sun-warmed flush and soft eyes; Carla holding a stuffed badger like it was the most natural thing in the world and her smile softened into something unmistakably fond. “But I have to say,” she added, “of all the recent gossip, this is the bit I like best.”

Carla raised an eyebrow. “Us?”

Margaret nodded, firm and certain. “You’re good for each other. You can just tell.”

Lisa’s gaze dropped for a beat, her fingers brushing Carla’s gently. Just a small, wordless expression of everything she wasn’t saying aloud. “Thank you, Margaret,” Lisa said, voice low but steady. “That means a lot.”

Margaret gave a small nod, the kind that carried more than it said. Then she shifted the basket higher on her arm with a grunt of determined purpose.

“Well,” she said, with brisk affection, “I’ll leave you both to it. Can’t miss the cake stall before it all disappears. The lemon drizzle goes fast and Archie will never forgive me if I don’t get him some.”

Carla smiled “It was lovely to meet you”

“You too, dear.” Margaret lingered just a beat longer, then leaned in slightly toward Lisa, her voice dropping just enough to feel personal. “And truly, I’m glad to see you out here again. Don’t disappear on us, alright?”

Lisa’s expression softened, and her answer came like a small promise she’d already made to herself. “I won’t,” she said. “Promise.”

With a final nod and a conspiratorial wink, Margaret turned and melted back into the crowd, her pale blue cardigan soon lost among the blur of candy-striped shirts, strollers, and someone holding what looked suspiciously like a jam tart skewered on a stick.

The moment she was gone, the air between them seemed to shift a little quieter, a little more open. Carla turned to Lisa, adjusting her grip on Gerald, who now peeked out from under her arm with his stitched smile and lopsided dignity.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Lisa exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She paused, then added with a little wrinkle of guilt in her brow, “Are you okay? I didn’t really ask before announcing you as my girlfriend. I should’ve checked.”

Carla didn’t hesitate. “I’m okay.” She said it simply, like a fact. “I am your girlfriend. It’s okay if people know that. They’d figure it out from us kissing on the street anyway.” She gave Lisa a playful sidelong glance. “We haven’t exactly been discreet.”

That earned a smile: small, but real. It curved gently at the corners of Lisa’s mouth, slow and certain, like it was unfolding from the inside out. “True.”

Carla didn’t answer with words this time. She just reached out and took Lisa’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. No performance, no fanfare. Just her fingers slipping between Lisa’s, warm and familiar. Lisa’s hand curled into hers with equal ease, and together their palms held the kind of quiet certainty that didn’t need explaining.

“Thank you for coming with me today, Carla,” Lisa said after a moment, her voice softer now, thoughtful, like she was still surprised by how easily everything was falling into place.

Carla squeezed her hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”

They stood like that for a while, still in the thick of the festival, but removed from it at the same time. Around them, children squealed from the bounce of a trampoline, someone dropped a spoonful of ice cream with a muttered curse, and the raffle girl’s voice continued to crackle tinnily through the speakers. But none of it pressed too hard. None of it intruded.

“Feels good, you know?” Lisa said, barely above a murmur. “Being here. With you.”

Carla turned her head slightly toward her, smiling crookedly. “Even with the ring toss humiliation?”

Lisa groaned, throwing her head back in exaggerated agony. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” Carla said, bumping her shoulder against Lisa’s as they finally began to walk again. Slowly, lazily, like the day had nowhere else to be.

“So,” she added, swinging their hands gently between them, “What’s next on the agenda? Another game? More food? Gerald’s looking peckish.”

Lisa tilted her head thoughtfully, pretending to confer with the badger. “I was thinking ice cream. For morale. Obviously. And then maybe the grassy area by the stage. Get a good spot before the live music starts.”

Carla grinned properly now, not the amused smirk she usually wore but something open, something warm. “Now that,” she said, “is a decision I can support.”

And just like that, they disappeared into the crowd again. Two women, a slightly traumatised stuffed badger named Gerald, and the kind of slow-growing happiness that didn’t need grand gestures or declarations to feel real. It didn’t announce itself. It just moved in shared glances, in a brush of hands, in easy laughter and small admissions, in the quiet promise of ice cream and music still to come, through the pulse of an ordinary afternoon that felt quietly extraordinary.

The kind of joy you don’t realise you’ve been missing until it finds you. And when it does, it fits like it was always meant to be there.

Chapter Text

The morning had started out peacefully. It was the kind of quiet hum that Lisa loved most about working in the shop. It was the kind of peace that settled into your chest like a warm drink on a cold day, the sort of stillness that didn’t mean silence but comfort. The shuffle of pages turning, the low murmur of a couple browsing travel guides, the occasional clink of a teaspoon against ceramic. All the background noise of a life being lived gently.

Light through the front windows was soft and golden, pooling across the worn wooden floorboards and casting long shadows across the display tables. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams of sunlight, giving everything a quiet, almost sacred glow. The heavy front door had been propped open with an old iron doorstop in the shape of a cat, letting in a low, steady breeze that stirred the wind chimes she’d hung just inside. Their gentle tinkling danced on the edges of the morning, underscored by the rhythmic shuffle of feet, the distant hum of passing traffic, and the occasional thud of a book being closed or dropped too hard onto a table.

Carla was settled at her usual table near the poetry section, laptop open, headphones in, a half-drunk cup of coffee beside her. The ceramic mug, one of the mismatched set Lisa kept behind the counter, had a little chip on the handle and a hand-painted design of a fox reading a book. The steam had long since stopped curling up from the coffee, but Carla didn’t seem to notice. Her entire posture was pulled forward, coiled into her work like she was physically tethered to the words appearing on her screen.

From her seat, she had the perfect view of both the door and the till, though she didn’t seem to be paying attention to either. Her eyes were narrowed slightly, lips pursed in thought, fingers tapping steadily across the keys in bursts of movement. Every so often, she’d pause, blink hard like she was surfacing from deep underwater, and then dive back in.

Lisa didn’t need to peek to know she was writing. Really writing. There was a particular stillness Carla slipped into when she was deep in it. A quiet intensity, like the whole world had dimmed and blurred around her, and the only thing in focus was the next sentence, the next paragraph. Her hands moved with purpose, not the mindless clicking of someone answering emails or scrolling but the urgent rhythm of someone trying to catch a story before it disappeared.

Lisa had snuck a few glances anyway. She liked watching her girlfriend in her natural habitat. There was something magnetic about seeing someone do what they loved. Carla wrote with her whole body; her shoulders hunched, jaw set, sometimes mouthing words as she typed them. It made Lisa smile, even now, elbow-deep in shelving paperbacks and checking off delivery invoices. Watching Carla write made her feel like everything was okay. Even if, today, it wasn’t.

Somewhere around ten-thirty, the day had quietly stopped being manageable. It hadn’t been loud or obvious. There were no sudden mishaps or phone calls, no bursts of chaos. Just a slow, steady build. It wasn’t that anything went wrong. There was no spilled coffee on first editions, no clumsy distributors sending the wrong boxes, it was just that the customers kept coming. One after another, like the tide refusing to recede. And Lisa, with her soft smile and encyclopaedic memory for titles and authors, was the one they all wanted.

Some were regulars; the kind who didn’t need to ask for help but always stopped for a chat about the new releases. Others were clearly tourists, lured in by the storybook exterior: ivy crawling up the stone walls, a chalkboard sign promising “Books & Quiet Joy,” and the smell of ground coffee and old paper wafting out the door.

All of them seemed to want Lisa’s help.

And (of course) Lisa did help. Because that’s what she did.

She flitted between shelves and sections, stacking, sorting, suggesting. She found the perfect thriller for a weekend getaway, pulled a tear-jerker for a woman who “just needed a good cry,” and even talked a teenage boy into giving poetry a chance. She bounced between sections, recommendations, and the till, smiling even as her throat began to ache and her feet started to protest. Her trainers, already worn thin at the soles, squeaked faintly on the floorboards.

By half eleven, she’d already reshelved three entire stacks in the fiction aisle, dug out two forgotten preorder slips from the bottom drawer and helped a middle-aged man choose an anniversary gift for his wife who, according to him, loved ‘a proper book’ and not this ‘online reading nonsense.’

Her tea had gone cold by the time she remembered it, and her hair, twisted into a bun that morning with a too-small clip, had mostly escaped, falling into her eyes every time she bent to reach the lowest shelves. Wisps clung to her forehead, damp with effort, and she kept pushing them away with an increasingly frustrated swipe.

Despite working on her book, Carla couldn’t help but glance up at Lisa every so often. She loved coming into the bookshop and watching Lisa work. It never failed to impress her how Lisa managed to hold the whole place together with nothing but quiet patience and a seemingly endless memory of book titles and customer quirks. But today, something was different. There was a strain in Lisa’s movements, a tightness in her jaw. She was still smiling, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Carla didn’t interrupt, not yet. Lisa preferred working alone. She’d always been that way according to Lisa herself and Carla respected it. But she made a quiet mental note to check in, to keep watch. Just in case.

It was nearly noon when Lisa’s phone buzzed in her back pocket. She felt it just as she was handing over two beach-read paperbacks to a mother and daughter in matching wide-brimmed hats, their laughter bright as they debated who would finish their book faster. Lisa smiled, distracted, while bagging the books.

She didn’t check it immediately. The receipt machine had jammed (again), and she had bookmarks to fold into the pages with care. She murmured apologies and polite conversation, all the while acutely aware of the buzz that had already stopped. Finally, as the queue thinned for the first time in over an hour, Lisa pulled her phone from her pocket, glanced down, and froze.

Betsy: Hey mum! Don’t panic but I’m on the train 😅 It’s a long story but my flatmate was doing my head in and I’ve left early. Got into York already so I’ll be at the station at like 1:30. Got A LOT of stuff so please come help. Love youuu ❤️

Lisa stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary. Her fingers tightened around the phone. Her stomach dropped in that quiet, sinking way it always did when plans suddenly changed. Then she muttered under her breath, “Shit.”

From the back of the shop, Carla looked up from her laptop. The soft clack of her keys had stopped a while ago (she'd been rereading the same paragraph over and over) and now, her focus snapped entirely to Lisa. She saw the way Lisa’s shoulders tensed, the way she stared at the phone like it had betrayed her.

Carla closed the laptop with a quiet click, stood, and crossed the room. Her steps were light but purposeful, weaving between tables and stacks of books with practiced ease. She stopped just short of the till, her brow furrowed, voice gentle. “You good?”

Lisa blinked and looked up. She was clearly trying to arrange her features into something neutral, but it didn’t quite land. “Yeah. Sorry.” She tapped the screen once, then again. “Just got a message from Betsy. She’s arriving early.”

“Oh?” Carla tilted her head slightly, concern threaded through the simple word. “I thought she wasn’t back until the weekend.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be.” Lisa’s voice was clipped now, tight enough that Carla felt herself straighten. “But there’s been some kind of issue with her flatmate and she’s cut the last few days short. She’s on the train now.” Lisa’s eyes flicked back to the screen. “She’s at York already. I’ve got maybe an hour and a half, two hours max.”

“You need to pick her up?” Carla asked, voice low.

“Yeah. She’s got a suitcase, a duffle bag and a few bin bags full of stuff. I can’t let her drag all that through town. The train station is ages away from the house. A good 45-minute drive.”

Carla nodded slowly, already mentally rearranging her afternoon. “Fair point.”

Carla watched the shift happen in real time, the subtle but unmistakable unravelling. It started with the set of Lisa’s shoulders, which stiffened and then dropped just slightly, as if something heavy had landed there. Her hand, still holding her phone, lowered to hover uncertainly above the till. Then came the way she pressed her lips together, not out of annoyance, but calculation. Like she was working out the maths of it all in her head: timing, traffic, customer flow, closing routines, train schedules, bags of luggage, and guilt. Always guilt.

The look in her eyes wasn’t just about logistics, it was that unmistakable weight of being caught between two equally demanding parts of herself. A business owner and a mother. Responsibility pulled tight against instinct, both of them unwilling to yield.

It wasn’t just that she had to go. It was that she didn’t want to leave the shop to do it.

Carla recognised the tension, had seen it before in moments quieter than this, when Lisa clung to control like it was the only thing anchoring her in place. Letting go, even temporarily, didn’t come easily to her.

“Let me guess,” Carla said gently, carefully treading the line between suggestion and support. “You don’t want to close.”

Lisa exhaled sharply, the sound almost brittle. “It’s just… today’s been mad. In a good way. First time in ages I’ve had this many customers actually buying, not just browsing. It’s like the shop has finally woken up again. I don’t want to lose that business because Betsy didn’t check with me first.” She glanced down at her phone again, voice catching ever so slightly. “But I can’t just leave my daughter stranded either.”

Carla chewed her bottom lip, watching the tight line of Lisa’s jaw and the way her fingers curled slightly against the countertop, as if trying to hold everything together by sheer grip alone. Then, a thought sparked, sharp and clear, like flicking on a switch in a dark room. “So don’t close.”

Lisa frowned, confusion and frustration creasing across her brow. “Carla, did you not just hear me? I can’t leave Betsy to figure things out on her own.”

“No,” Carla said, her voice calm, even, steady like a hand offered across a divide. “But I can run the shop.”

Lisa blinked. A pause stretched between them full of disbelief, caution, and something warmer, quieter underneath. “You’d… what?”

“Hold the fort.” Carla moved behind the counter with practiced ease, casual like it was nothing though her heart had begun to beat just a little faster. It felt like stepping into something unspoken. A gesture that meant more than either of them was saying out loud. “Just for a couple hours. I’ll bag books. Smile awkwardly. Tell people you’re just out to lunch if anyone asks.”

Lisa looked at her like she’d just suggested buying a goat. “You want to run the bookshop?”

Carla shrugged, casual despite the nervous energy now fluttering behind her ribs. “I’d say babysit is more accurate. I’ve spent enough hours here to know how it works. Plus, you always say the till is idiot-proof. Consider this the ultimate test.”

“I said the card reader was idiot-proof. The till has moods.”

“I’m excellent with moody things. I deal with you, don’t I?” Carla teased, the smirk tugging at her mouth softening the moment.

Lisa stared at her, mouth opening, then closing again, clearly trying to come up with a rebuttal and coming up short. “I am not moody.”

“If you say so,” Carla grinned at her, all mischief and affection, eyes bright. “So…what do you say? I would offer to pick Betsy up, but I feel like that’s a mother-daughter thing. I promise I’ll take care of the shop.”

The idea tugged at Lisa with a kind of deep, reluctant ache. Not because she didn’t trust Carla but because she did. And that somehow made it harder. Trust required vulnerability. It meant loosening your grip. It meant stepping back, even when everything in you screamed to stay.

“I don’t want to dump responsibility on you,” she said finally, her voice low and uncertain in a way it rarely was.

“You’re not,” Carla replied, softer now, stepping in closer, warmth lining every word. “You’re letting someone help. There’s a difference.”

Lisa hesitated, torn between the impulse to hold it all together herself and the quiet, unexpected relief that came with the offer. Just a couple of hours, that was all. But even that felt huge. Her eyes flicked to the front of the shop again, where a pair of teenagers were flipping through the fantasy section, giggling and showing each other the covers like they were comparing potential soulmates. “You’ll just keep it ticking over?”

“I’ll even alphabetise something, if it helps calm your nerves.”

Lisa exhaled, a real sound this time, the tension finally letting go at the edges. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough that it softened her whole face.

“Fine,” she said. “But you don’t have to answer the phone. I’ll deal with any missed calls when I’m back.”

“Yes, boss,” Carla replied with a playful mock salute, her eyes sparkling.

Lisa rolled hers, but the smile was beginning to take root. “And I meant it when I said the till can be temperamental, so I’ll just show you how to use it quickly and what to do if it gets jammed.”

She moved behind the till, fingers dancing across the buttons with practiced ease. Part muscle memory, part ritual. “Okay, so if you’re ringing someone through, it’s just this one here. The barcode scanner should pick everything up, but sometimes it misses. In that case, you can type the ISBN here.”

Carla leaned in, nodding along, eyes focused like a student preparing for an exam. “Got it.”

“And the drawer doesn’t always open right away. Don’t yank it. Just wait a second and try again. And if someone wants to pay by card, just press this little icon and the rest is pretty intuitive.”

“What if someone wants to return something?”

“Tell them to come back when I’m in,” Lisa said flatly, not even looking up.

Carla burst out laughing. “Noted.”

Lisa finally glanced over, her mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smile.

“And don’t let anyone try and haggle, no matter how charming they think they are. This is a bookshop, not a bloody car boot sale.”

“I was born for this,” Carla said solemnly, placing a hand on her heart like she was pledging allegiance to the cause. “Consider me thoroughly trained.”

Lisa gave her a lingering look. Half amused, half wary, but mostly full of something softer and harder to name. Gratitude, yes. But also trust. That was the one that lodged somewhere in her throat.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once, firm now. “Okay. I’ll go grab Betsy and be back as quick as I can. I promise not to leave you alone for too long.”

Carla leaned her hip against the counter and offered a lopsided grin, casual and confident in a way that made Lisa’s heart twist a little. “Go on then. Off you pop. Take as long as you need. I’ve got this.”

Lisa reached for her bag and paused; a beat of hesitation, one last moment of control slipping through her fingers. Then she leaned in and pressed a soft, barely-there kiss to Carla’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The shop door creaked open, the bell giving its usual tired ring as Lisa disappeared out into the sunlight. Carla watched the door swing shut behind her, then turned and took in the shop with new eyes.

A man near the nature section was still weighing up two birdwatching guides like his very identity depended on it. The teenage girls had now collapsed onto the floor in the fantasy aisle, phones out, furiously googling synopses and debating sequels. Behind it all, the radio had drifted away from soft instrumentals into a classic soul track, low and warm and full of old longing. Something about second chances.

Carla clapped her hands once, softly, like calling a room to attention. “All right then,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Let’s run a bookshop.”

The drive to the station was brisk but tense, Lisa’s hands tight around the steering wheel and her jaw set just a little too firmly. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windscreen, casting long shadows across the dashboard, but the warmth in the car did nothing to thaw her irritation. As much as she loved Betsy, a surprise return on what had turned out to be her busiest business day in months had not been in the plans. Now, as she turned onto the narrow road leading to the station, she tried to push the frustration aside. Not that she managed it. Her knuckles still ached from how hard she was gripping the wheel.

When she finally pulled up outside the station, the chaos of the forecourt was immediate: honking horns, impatient taxi drivers, and clusters of people juggling backpacks and tearful goodbyes. But Lisa spotted her daughter instantly.

Betsy stood in the middle of it all like a one-woman storm surrounded by a sea of chaotic luggage, her blonde hair twisted into a messy bun, cardigan sleeves shoved up to her elbows. One overstuffed suitcase sat upright beside her, its zip visibly strained. A duffle bag slouched wearily at her feet. Two bin bags, nearly bursting at the seams, looked one jostle away from tearing. A tote bag hung lopsided off one shoulder, dragging her cardigan half off in the process.

Lisa climbed out of the car, closed the door with a measured calm, and folded her arms across her chest. “Really, Betsy?”

“What?” Betsy called innocently, straightening up. She gestured with an open palm to the disaster zone at her feet. “This is my light packing.”

“Light packing my arse. You’ve come back with more stuff than what you left with.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you go shopping, Mother.” Betsy flashed a cheeky grin.

Lisa raised a single eyebrow, unamused. “And you could’ve warned me earlier, young lady. I had to drop everything. The shop was rammed.”

Betsy’s grin faltered just a little. A flicker of guilt passed over her face, quickly masked. “I am sorry for ruining your day, Mum. But my flatmate was using hair removal cream in the kitchen. She cooked pasta next to it. I’m traumatised. Also” she waved vaguely at the bin bags “her new boyfriend stole my Tupperware. And so, I had to steal it back and leave ASAP.”

Lisa opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She shut it again, blinking slowly. For a long beat, she simply stared at her daughter. Her ridiculous, dramatic, wonderful daughter standing there surrounded by chaos as if it were perfectly normal.

With a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire afternoon, she stepped forward, seized the duffle bag, and hauled it into the boot. It gave a wheeze of protest as it was wedged between the emergency kit and a pile of reusable grocery bags, as if even the car itself found this situation hard to swallow. “Please tell me you aren’t moving in with these people next year.”

Betsy rolled her suitcase closer to the car over the pavement cracks. “No. I’ll be happy to never see these people again.”

They fell into the old rhythm then. Packing the car with the kind of mutual efficiency only built from years of holidays, school trips, and seasonal returns. They loaded the rest of the bags together laughing, swearing, arguing briefly over the proper angle to fit the suitcase. Lisa insisted it would only go in wheels-down. Betsy swore it fit better on its side. Eventually, brute force won the debate.

By the time they were both back in the car again, windows slightly cracked to let in the late summer breeze, Lisa’s shoulders had loosened slightly. The familiarity of it, the rhythm, the banter, the slightly absurd drama of university life, chipped away at the earlier frustration like gentle waves against stone.

The car was quiet for a few minutes after they pulled out of the station, the road winding through the edge of the village, sunlight flickering through the trees like an old film reel. The fields beyond were gold and green, humming with heat. Betsy was busy texting someone in her lap probably letting them know she’d made it out alive and Lisa kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping anxiously at her thigh in a restless rhythm.

Eventually, Betsy looked up from her phone and frowned. “Wait…did you have to close the shop for this? You mentioned it was a busy day. Mum, I am so sorry. I didn’t even realise.”

“It’s okay.” Lisa glanced at her sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching with reluctant affection. “I mean yes, I did abandon the shop for you because you always have and always will be more important” Lisa paused to let Betsy know she really meant the words she was saying “But no I didn’t close the shop.”

Betsy blinked, processing. “Wait what? So you’re just letting people take stuff and just hoping they leave the money?”

Lisa snorted. “No. Carla’s looking after it.”

“Carla?” Betsy said, slowly, eyebrows lifting. “As in your girlfriend Carla?”

“No, the other Carla I know.” Lisa rolled her eyes briefly. “Yes, my girlfriend.”

“So let me just get this straight” Betsy twisted in her seat to get a better look at her mother’s expression. “You’ve let your hotshot writer girlfriend, who’s probably never had a retail job in her life, run your precious bookshop?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my mum? You didn’t let me run the store on my own until I was seventeen!”

Lisa let out a snort, shaking her head with a mock sigh. “That’s because you used to file non-fiction under fantasy just to mess with me.”

“In my defence,” Betsy said, deadpan, “Some of those memoirs were delusional.”

“And besides,” Lisa continued, flicking on the indicator as they approached a bend, “Carla wouldn’t have to run the bookshop if someone had just come back at the time we had planned.”

“Yeah that’s my bad,” Betsy said, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic at all.

Lisa reached for the volume dial and turned the radio up just a little, letting a familiar indie track hum low beneath their conversation. A dreamy guitar riff they both recognised from countless early morning drives and lazy Saturdays in the shop filled the car.

“So… how long’s she been in charge?” Betsy asked after a moment.

“About an hour,” Lisa replied. “Give or take.”

“And how many fires do you think she’s started in that time?”

“Betsy don’t even joke. That’s my business you’re talking about,” Lisa grinned despite herself.

“Note to self: don’t joke about your mother’s business,” Betsy smirked, settling back into her seat with a satisfied sigh.

By the time they pulled up outside the house, the sun was warming the driveway in long golden strips. The shadows of the trees stretched lazily across the lawn, their edges soft and flickering with the slow movement of late summer leaves. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet drifting from the neighbour’s fence. The quiet hush of the afternoon settled over everything like a blanket, the kind of stillness that made the world feel oddly suspended, like it was waiting to see what would happen next.

Lisa eased the car into place, parking as close to the front step as she could, then cut the engine. She let her hands rest on the steering wheel for a beat longer than necessary before releasing a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the day with it. She reached for the boot release.

“All right. Operation Unpack the Chaos.”

They hauled the luggage to the front door. It was a clumsy, stop-start process full of uneven momentum and muttered curses. Betsy, never quite graceful when tired, struggled to keep her balance under the avalanche of bags. Her cardigan kept slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times she tugged it back up, and the tote bag hanging off her arm kept swinging into her hip, threatening to take her down altogether. One of the bin bags split slightly at the seam, and Lisa caught a glimpse of what looked like a neon pink slipper poking through.

“Why do these weigh more than you?” Lisa grumbled, shifting her grip on the duffle. “You moving your entire kitchen back in?”

“It’s the Tupperware,” Betsy puffed, dragging the suitcase up the front step. “It’s heavier than it looks. Plastic’s deceptive.”

“Plastic shouldn’t be this heavy,” Lisa muttered. “How many bloody containers does one person need? You don’t even cook.”

“Maybe I was aspiring to cook,” Betsy said, narrowly avoiding a trip over her own shoelaces.

When the last bag was finally inside, the hallway was an obstacle course of luggage, shoes, and the unmistakable scent of stale train air clinging to everything. Lisa paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the wall, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. A light sheen of sweat had gathered at her temples: partly from the physical effort, but mostly from the accumulated stress of the day. Her back ached, and there was a slight tension still clinging to the corners of her mouth that hadn’t quite eased yet.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said, voice softer now. “You okay here?”

Betsy nodded as she tugged off her trainers and kicked them haphazardly toward the hall cupboard, where they landed with a dull thud. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. I might nap for fourteen years.”

“No, you will not,” Lisa said firmly, pointing a finger at her. “You will unpack. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Fineeeee. If I must,” Betsy groaned.

“Yes, you must.” Lisa turned to leave, fishing her car keys from her coat pocket. Her tone was brisk, but her eyes softened. “I’ll bring food later. Love you.”

“That would be amazing.” Betsy leaned in as Lisa stepped closer and hugged her tightly. One of those rare, full-body hugs that meant something. Her arms wrapped around her mother with surprising strength, grounding them both for a moment in quiet, solid affection. “Thanks for coming, Mum. Love you too.”

Lisa kissed the top of her head. A familiar gesture, automatic and deeply felt. It was muscle memory by now, but it never failed to stir something in her chest. “Always.”

She was back in the car a few minutes later, engine humming beneath her as she reversed out of the drive. The leather seat still held the faint imprint of Betsy’s shoulder bag, and the smell of her daughter’s perfume, something citrusy and overconfident, lingered in the air like a ghost of the chaos just passed. The village roads were quiet now. That sweet lull between afternoon and evening, when the world seemed to slow its pace and exhale. Warm light slanted across stone walls and hedgerows, catching on the dust motes drifting lazily through the open windows. Even the birds sounded unhurried, their calls more thoughtful than busy.

And for the first time since that text had pinged into her pocket, yanking her straight out of a packed bookshop and into mum-mode, Lisa let herself exhale properly too. Deep, from the diaphragm. The kind of breath that reminded her body it was allowed to stop bracing.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Carla. She did. She trusted her more than she trusted most people which was saying something, considering how much life had taught her not to. But the shop, the shop was hers. Her anchor. Her second home. Her rebuild after everything else had fallen apart. It had held her through grief, through loneliness, through reinvention. Letting go of it, even for an hour, had felt like peeling off a layer of skin. Vulnerable. Exposed. Unprotected.

But by the time she turned the corner onto the high street, the tight knot of worry in her chest had loosened into something quieter. Something closer to curiosity.

The familiar bookshop front came into view. The chalkboard sign was still upright on the pavement. Lisa slowed, easing into her usual spot in front of the florist next door. She turned off the engine, got out, and crossed the sun-warmed pavement. The scent of lavender and second-hand pages drifted toward her.

The bell above the bookshop door chimed gently as Lisa pushed it open, that familiar, heart-deep sound she associated with home. But this time, it carried an edge of nervousness she hadn’t expected. Her eyes adjusted to the gentle interior light, and she blinked.

No chaos. No customers standing around confused. No overturned displays. No crumpled receipts scattered across the floor. No emergency calls from a jammed card machine. Instead, the shop was calm. Busy, even. But in that quietly contained way Lisa had always prided herself on. The sort of bustle that hummed gently beneath the surface.

A couple of customers browsed near the paperbacks, tilting covers like they were handling something sacred. A young man in a corduroy jacket lounged in the armchair by the travel section, reading a dog-eared copy of something dense and literary. A teenage girl stood near the poetry shelf, her finger moving along the spines with the reverence of someone choosing a spellbook. The soft rustle of pages turned. The low murmur of voices. The faint, familiar clink of the wind chimes by the door shifting in the breeze.

And there, behind the till, was Carla.

Her hair was pinned back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers. The till was open in front of her, and a neatly folded paper bag sat on the counter. She was mid-laugh, chatting with Mrs. Hargreaves, one of Lisa’s oldest and most opinionated regulars, who was pointing animatedly at a paperback with a bright yellow cover.

Lisa blinked. Slowed.

Carla was actually doing it.

Not hovering awkwardly. Not frozen behind the counter. Not texting Lisa a series of panic emojis. Not waiting to be rescued.

She was ringing someone up. Bagging a book. Chatting with confidence. Lisa even caught the tail end of the loyalty card spiel, which was absurd, considering she definitely hadn’t taught Carla how to do that.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. Carla had watched her work this till a hundred times. But still. Seeing her actually be the person behind that counter (capable, relaxed, belonging) tugged at something deep in Lisa’s chest.

She stepped further inside, quiet on instinct, not wanting to interrupt. Just watching. Carla handed over change and said something else, something that made Mrs. Hargreaves laugh again, her voice rising above the soft shop noise like a burst of sunlight. The older woman patted Carla’s hand warmly before turning to nod at Lisa on her way out, lips pressed in approval.

Carla looked up then and spotted her. Her face lit up in that specific, unmistakable way that always made Lisa feel a little winded, like someone had opened a door she didn’t realise she’d shut. “Hey,” Carla said, stepping out from behind the counter. “Everything alright? How’s Betsy?”

Lisa shook herself out of her slight daze. “Fine. She’s fine. Her flatmate is a menace, apparently. But she’s home. And unpacking. Begrudgingly.”

Carla chuckled. “Good. Glad she’s okay.” She paused. “And you? You okay?”

Lisa nodded, letting the door click shut behind her. The bell gave one last, final chime. “Yeah. Just surprised, I guess.”

Carla raised an eyebrow. “That I didn’t ruin your entire business?”

Lisa laughed. “Something like that.”

Carla stepped aside, gesturing toward the till like she was relinquishing a throne. “Don’t worry. I didn’t touch the phone. I had one near-miss with the receipt roll jamming, but I figured it out. And I may have alphabetised a section.”

Lisa looked at her, half-smiling, suspicion creeping in. “Which section?”

“Romance.”

Lisa blinked. “You alphabetised romance?”

Carla gave her a sheepish look, almost a wince. “Okay, half-alphabetised. The top two shelves. It was more for research than anything.”

Lisa tilted her head, arms folding. “Research?”

“For the book,” Carla said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I was looking at my other romance books to double-check I wasn’t making anything too similar.”

Lisa raised a brow, amused. “You were reading your own books?”

“Don’t put it like that. That makes it sound like I have an ego,” Carla whined.

Lisa glanced around again. The shop still full of quiet life, Carla beside her like she’d always belonged behind that counter. It was a strange, soft feeling, like realising something had shifted without her noticing. That her world had subtly rearranged itself, and somehow it worked.

“You’ve done really well,” she said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

Carla leaned a hip against the counter, eyes warm. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

“I never thought that” Lisa said instantly, wanting to reassure her partner that she didn’t think Carla was incapable because she was dumb or anything like that. “You have got a pretty face, though.” She smirked.

Carla huffed a soft laugh, cheeks tinting just enough to be visible beneath the mellow afternoon light filtering through the shopfront windows. “You’re gonna make me blush in front of the customers. Not very professional.”

Lisa reached beneath the counter, automatically straightening a stack of bookmarks like muscle memory. “It’s my business, so all complaints have to come through me. So, I can do what I want.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“It is. So, if I want to flirt with my girlfriend, I can flirt with my girlfriend.”

“And does this rule apply both ways?”

“Hmmmm.” Lisa pretended to think, drawing it out just enough to make Carla squint. “I suppose I could allow it.”

“Noted. For future reference, of course,” Carla said, grinning.

They worked together for the rest of the afternoon. A comforting rhythm set in: the bell above the door chiming with each arrival, the muted scuffle of feet on worn wooden floors, the hum of low conversation, and the gentle sound of pages being turned. Lisa handled the till and kept up her usual cheerful sarcasm with the regulars, but Carla surprisingly seemed to fall into step with the shop’s pulse as if she’d been doing it for years.

Carla made herself useful without being asked, without hovering. She moved through the narrow aisles with easy confidence, her sleeves rolled up, hair half-falling out of its bun as she tidied books, rearranged displays, and helped customers with the kind of soft attentiveness that never felt forced. She chatted to the ones who wanted to talk, like the older woman who came in asking for cozy mysteries and somehow ended up sharing half her life story and simply smiled kindly at the ones who didn’t.

At one point, when Lisa was backed up at the till with three customers in line and someone asking about book clubs, Carla noticed a girl, maybe sixteen, seventeen, hovering uncertainly near the poetry wall. She was tucked into an oversized hoodie, hands shoved into the sleeves, shoulders hunched like she was trying to fold in on herself. Her eyes flicked across the shelves but didn’t land. Every time Carla glanced over, the girl seemed poised to leave like she was psyching herself up to ask for something and couldn’t quite get there.

Carla moved over quietly, keeping her tone light. “Looking for anything specific?”

The girl nodded, once, quick. “Um. Yeah. There’s this book called Queer Voices: A Contemporary Poetry Collection? You had copies a few months ago and I just wanted to know if you still sold them”

Lisa glanced at the poetry shelf once she heard the girls request, trying to remember what was even in stock. The collection was overdue for a restock, had been for months, actually and she was certain they hadn’t had that particular title in ages. She was ready to tell the girl that they didn’t stock that collection anymore when Carla spoke first.

Carla offered a warm, easy smile “Give me a sec. I’ll check the back.”

She disappeared through the staff door, navigating the chaos behind the scenes: half-unpacked boxes, old promotions from two seasons ago, books waiting to be catalogued. She checked the poetry bin first, then the LGBTQ+ shelf in backstock but found nothing. But something made her keep looking. She crouched by a crate labelled ‘Travel & Memoir’, and wedged at an awkward angle near the bottom, half-lost between a hiking guide and a vegan cookbook, was a slim paperback with a lavender spine.

Carla brushed the dust off the cover. Queer Voices.

She returned to the shop floor and crossed to where the girl was still waiting nervously, as if she was already preparing to be disappointed.

Carla held out the book. “Here we are” she said softly.

The girl looked up in surprise. “You found it?”

Carla nodded. “It was hiding. Like a lot of good things.”

The girl smiled, shy and wide-eyed, and took the book like it was something fragile and precious. She didn’t say anything more, but she didn’t have to. The way she held it, tucked close to her chest, said enough.

Carla didn’t linger. She turned and made her way straight over to the counter, where Lisa had been watching the whole thing unfold. Lisa stared at her, brows raised. “How… I haven’t stocked those since February”

“I found a copy wedged under the travel books,” Carla said, her voice low, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “No idea how it got there.”

Lisa shot her a mock-suspicious look. “Don’t tell me you’ve reorganised genres looking for it.”

Carla grinned. “Please, I would never. I respect your chaos.”

By five-thirty, the rush had finally started to ease. The steady flurry of customers that had kept them both moving for hours had trickled to a lazy drip. One last man browsing the history shelves with a vacant look in his eye, a couple in the corner debating whether they already owned the book in their hands, and the comforting silence of the shop reclaiming its usual late-afternoon hush.

Lisa perched on her usual stool. She had one foot hooked comfortably around the bottom rung, an open binder in her lap and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her eyes skimmed a list of online orders she’d meant to input that morning but never had the chance to. The day had gotten away from her, as it often did when the shop was busy. Her back ached in that strangely satisfying way. The kind of ache that reminds you that you’ve had a good day.

Carla had vanished into the back room a few minutes earlier. Lisa assumed she’d gone to grab her laptop or maybe make another round of tea. Something quiet, something predictable but when she returned, it wasn’t with a laptop or a mug. It was with a slim, well-worn notebook and a pen. Her hair was up again, tied into a looser knot now, a few strands curling rebelliously around her face like they’d escaped sometime during the late afternoon. She looked a little flushed from the warmth of the back room, sleeves rolled, eyes still carrying the alertness of someone who’d spent the day paying close attention.

 Without a word, Carla slid onto the second stool beside Lisa and flipped the cover open, her pen already poised.

Lisa didn’t look up right away. “What’s that?” she asked, flipping the page of her binder.

“My brain,” Carla replied, already scribbling something in neat, looping handwriting. “In note form.”

That earned a glance. Lisa quirked an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Dangerous.”

Carla shrugged, eyes on the page. “Maybe. But useful. Today gave me at least four new scenes I hadn’t nailed down before.”

Lisa leaned back a little, curious despite herself. “Because of the bookshop?”

“Mmm, something like that,” Carla hummed, her pen still moving, the sound of it scratching lightly against the paper. The kind of writing done quickly, before it faded, before real life swept it away.

Lisa turned toward her slightly, elbow resting on the counter now. “Care to elaborate?”

Carla didn’t look up. “I’d always known I wanted the protagonist to do something wildly outside of her comfort zone,” she said, her voice soft, thoughtful. “And I already had an idea of her helping out the love interest. I’ve just got real life experiences now.”

Lisa let out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “So, what you’re saying is, I’m doing the Lord’s work. Inspiring the next literary masterpiece.”

Carla bumped her knee under the counter, playful but precise. “You could say that, yeah.”

From there, they slipped into the familiar rhythm of closing. The kind of choreographed quiet dance that came from instinct more than instruction. Lisa flicked off the overhead lights one row at a time, letting the dim evening light from the windows take over. Carla moved around the shop like she’d always known it: drawing the blinds, gathering stray mugs, straightening displays with a practiced flick of her wrist. The kettle was emptied. The mugs were rinsed and left to dry on the wire rack. The last stack of new releases was returned to its proper spot on the front table. The register drawer clicked closed. The back door bolted with its usual sticky clunk.

Everything about it felt... domestic. Familiar. Not like Carla was a guest helping out for the day but like she belonged here. Like she knew where things went because she knew the place, not because someone told her. There was a quiet intimacy in that, one Lisa hadn’t expected to feel. She stacked the final batch of returns under the counter and let out a low groan, rubbing a hand across the base of her spine. “God, I forgot what it’s like when people actually buy books.”

Carla smirked as she stretched her arms overhead, back arching slightly. “Your customer base is exhausting.”

Lisa snorted. “You say that like you didn’t charm every last one of them.”

Carla gave her a flat look. “Flirting with the elderly is a skill. I’ve honed it.”

Lisa laughed, warm and easy, reaching for the front door. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she flipped the Closed sign to face the street. The bell above the door gave one final tired chime as they stepped outside. Evening in Willowbrook was still bright and open, the sky above them washed in pale blue and streaks of gold. The air was fresh but warm, that perfect balance where jackets were shrugged off and time felt like it stretched out endlessly ahead. The shops along the high street still glowed with life – light in their windows, a few signs still swinging gently in the breeze.

Carla paused on the threshold, turning back to glance through the glass. The shop behind them looked unchanged. The shelves were full, the poetry table slightly crooked, steam still curling faintly on the back window. And yet it felt different. Not altered. Just richer. Fuller.

She exhaled. “You know I’ve written so many fake versions of this. Scenes that try to capture this kind of quiet, this kind of closeness. But none of it felt right. Not until today.”

Lisa raised a brow, half teasing. “Because you’d never worked retail before?”

Carla smiled softly and bumped her shoulder. “Because I’d never loved a place like this before.”

Lisa didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. There was no need to elaborate. Lisa felt the weight of those words settle in her chest. The kind of truth that didn’t need dressing up to matter.

They started walking down the high street, their steps falling naturally into rhythm, as if they’d done this hundreds of times before. The air was still warm with the last stretch of spring light, stubborn and golden. A breeze moved gently through the trees lining the road, carrying with it the faintest scents of cut grass, sweet pastry, and brewing coffee from the café at the corner.

A few locals were still out. Older couples strolling arm-in-arm, kids finishing ice creams, a dog tugging its owner toward the park. It all moved slowly, like the town itself had decided there was no need to rush into night just yet.

Carla pulled her notebook from her bag again, the worn spine opening easily in her hands. She flipped to a fresh page, pen already poised.

Lisa caught the motion from the corner of her eye. “Writing more?”

“Just a line,” Carla murmured, scribbling quickly. “Before I forget it.”

Lisa smiled to herself, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “Come on then, author,” she said, glancing over. “Let’s get you home. You’ve had a big day working a real job.”

Carla rolled her eyes, grinning. “You realise I’m putting this in the acknowledgements now, right? ‘To Lisa, who once let me babysit her shop and hasn’t let me live it down since.’”

Lisa chuckled. “I’ll take it. As long as I get a free signed copy.”

“You’ll get the very first one,” Carla promised, slipping her notebook back into her bag. “With a whole dedication, if you’re lucky.”

“Oh?” Lisa raised a brow. “I’m getting upgraded from the acknowledgements?”

Carla bumped her shoulder again, light and teasing. “We’ll see how nice you are to me over dinner.”

They laughed and headed toward the car. The quiet between them easy now, familiar. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

Lisa glanced sideways, letting her eyes linger. Carla looked tired but in the best way. That gentle, satisfied kind of tired that followed a full day of doing something meaningful. Her cheeks were faintly flushed; her lips curved in the beginning of a smile that hadn’t quite settled. And her eyes a little distant, probably turning some moment from the day into fiction already were still anchored enough to meet Lisa’s when she looked.

And just like that, Lisa felt it again.

That quiet, ridiculous rush of affection.

Not for anything dramatic. Not for a grand gesture or a sweeping declaration. Just this. The quiet ease between them, the steady rhythm of their steps. The way Carla fit seamlessly into Lisa’s day, into her life, without fuss, without fanfare. The way she’d stayed through all the little mess and chaos. The way she’d seen everything, every rough edge, every tired sigh, and hadn’t once flinched.

And maybe, just maybe, Lisa didn’t have to carry it all alone anymore.

Without overthinking it, without hesitation, she reached out and took Carla’s hand.

Carla said nothing. She didn’t have to. She simply squeezed back: firm, sure, warm.

They were enough.

And for the first time in a long time, Lisa let herself quietly, desperately want that feeling to last forever.

Chapter Text

There was a soft knock at the door. Just two short raps, measured and polite, followed by silence so complete it made the sound seem louder in retrospect.

Lisa paused, one elbow braced against the side of the washing machine, the cool metal pressing into her forearm as she blinked toward the hallway. The kitchen smelled faintly of detergent and dust; the old floor tiles cool beneath her knees. She was crouched awkwardly, both hands tangled in the sleeves of one of Betsy’s oversized hoodies, trying to shove it into the already too-full drum without breaking the washing machine or her own wrist.

The knock hadn’t come again.

She frowned faintly. No text. No missed call. She hadn’t ordered anything at least, not recently enough for a delivery to be arriving now. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Still crouched, she waited a beat longer, ears straining to see if the person would knock again.

From the living room, the low, almost rhythmic narration of a true crime podcast drifted toward her, the host’s voice smooth and strangely soothing given the subject matter. Layered beneath it came the soft, repetitive clink of spoon against ceramic. Betsy was in full Sunday mode: wrapped in fleece, prone on the rug like a cat basking in a patch of sun, utterly indifferent to anything outside her own little bubble of cereal and crime statistics.

Lisa watched as a hoodie string slipped from the drum and caught in the door seal. She huffed and shoved it back in, slamming the washer shut with a little more force than necessary. Classic Betsy. Unbothered. Utterly unfazed. She stood, stretching out her back with a wince, and wiped her hands on her joggers, trying to present herself a little better to whoever was at the door as it was clear Betsy was not moving anytime soon.

Padding barefoot down the hallway, Lisa raised her voice. It was dry, sarcastic and just loud enough to carry. “Don’t worry, Betsy! I’ll stop what I’m doing and answer the door. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

The response from the living room was immediate but predictable from her teenage daughter. There was a pointed tap as Betsy adjusted her podcast volume a notch louder, the universal teenage signal for I heard you, I’m ignoring you, and I am extremely comfortable where I am. No words. No movement. Lisa rolled her eyes with the affection and exasperation of someone who’d lived with this dynamic for years. At least she was consistent.

The old latch gave a little squeal as she twisted it open, and the door creaked just slightly on its hinges as she pulled it inward. Sunlight spilled in: warm, golden, a little too bright after the dim hallway. Lisa squinted against it, already half-preparing to see a delivery driver juggling boxes that Betsy forgot to mention she ordered or old Mr. Evans from next door coming round to ask if her recycling bin was free again this week. But instead, framed by the glow of a late spring morning and wearing that infuriatingly familiar expression (the one that always sent a brief jolt through Lisa’s chest) stood Carla.

Her hair was tousled by the breeze, strands of dark brown curling around her jaw in soft, wind-blown chaos. Her cheeks were pink from the walk over, flushed with warmth and mischief, and she was wearing that slightly oversized jacket she never seemed to actually zip up, hands stuffed deep into the pockets like she had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Lisa blinked, caught off guard in the best way. “Hi,” she said, a touch breathless, but managing to sound casual. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did I miss a text or something?”

“No,” Carla said easily, the corner of her mouth tugging upward into that half-smile. The one that always looked like it knew a secret. “I was feeling spontaneous. I come bearing suggestions.”

Lisa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over her chest, one eyebrow raised. “Writing suggestions? Bookshop suggestions?”

Carla let out a soft huff of laughter and stepped past her into the hall, her shoulder brushing Lisa’s with the faintest spark of contact. She smelled like wind and citrus and something warm. “No. Weekend-related suggestions. It’s Sunday. It’s your day off. You really need to learn how to relax.”

Lisa closed the door behind her, the latch clicking back into place with a soft thunk. “That’s rich coming from you,” she called, following Carla back inside. “Weren’t you up until two plotting your fictional breakup scene for your fictional couple in your fictional town?”

Carla didn’t deny it. She had the decency to look slightly sheepish as she kicked off her boots by the mat. “That doesn’t count. I was technically working on Saturday.”

“Pretty sure 2am counts as Sunday, darling.”

Carla rolled her eyes, clearly unbothered. “I started on Saturday. That was the point.”

Lisa shot her a dry look. “Right. Because the time stamp on your Google Doc clearly respects the sanctity of weekends.”

Carla just shrugged again, grinning. “It’s not my fault inspiration struck at 11:57pm and refused to let go.”

“Which is why you’re a hypocrite, misses,” Lisa muttered as she walked into the kitchen, reaching for the drying rack. “You’re always telling me I need to rest, and then you go and have a midnight creative breakdown.”

Carla followed close behind and, without hesitation, hopped up onto the edge of the kitchen table like it was her personal throne. She swung her legs lazily, heels bumping a quiet rhythm against the wood. “I was in the zone. Emotional devastation waits for no one.”

Lisa snorted as she filled the kettle. “You really are a menace with a thesaurus.”

“I prefer ‘gifted romantic realist,’” Carla said, batting her lashes in mock sincerity.

Lisa gave her a look. “You just made that up.”

“No. That’s my official title from now on.”

Lisa didn’t argue, she just smiled faintly as she pulled down two mugs and set them side by side. There was something so familiar about this. The slow dance of banter, the way Carla fit into the space like she belonged there. The way Carla made her feel.

Lisa raised a brow but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Alright then, Miss Realist. What is this spontaneous weekend plan you’ve come to disrupt my laundry with?”

Carla’s face lit up bright and quick, like someone about to reveal a winning hand. She reached into the pocket of her jacket with deliberate flair, retrieving her phone like it was a rare artefact. “Okay, hear me out,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We should go do something. The three of us if Betsy’s up for it. I figured we could brainstorm a few options.”

Lisa tilted her head, amused. “You want to plan spontaneity?”

“Controlled spontaneity,” Carla replied, lifting her hand in a vague, sweeping gesture as though she were pitching a film idea. “It’s Sunday. No bookshop, no emails, no late-night character angst. Just us. Having an actual day. You know having fun.”

Before Lisa could respond, a voice drifted in from the living room slightly muffled but timed with surgical precision. “As long as it doesn’t involve hiking or anything that requires real shoes, I’m in.”

Lisa groaned, grinning despite herself. “Now you decide you have working ears” she muttered, passing Carla one of the freshly brewed mugs. Steam curled up between them, carrying the scent of peppermint and familiarity. Lisa tilted her head toward the hallway. “Come on then. If we’re doing this properly, we’d better go consult the goblin child.”

They padded down the hall together, the quiet creak of floorboards beneath their feet syncing with the occasional sip from their mugs. The living room was soft with morning light, sun spilling through the gauzy curtains in golden ribbons, warming the wooden floor and casting gentle shadows across the rug.

Betsy was still in full Sunday slug-mode, draped dramatically across the floor like a tragic figure in a cereal-soaked epic, wrapped in a throw blanket with only her head and one sock-covered foot peeking out. Her cereal bowl was now mostly milk, balanced perilously close to the edge of the rug in open defiance of common sense.

Lisa nudged her gently with her foot, raising one eyebrow. “You’re too nosy for your own good, you know that?”

“I prefer well-informed,” Betsy replied smoothly, not even bothering to look guilty. “Besides, you were like five metres away. Walls don’t stop the ability to hear mum”

Carla laughed as she folded herself into the armchair, curling one leg beneath her. “You make an excellent case. Though I’m still undecided on the ethics of your eavesdropping habits.”

Betsy shrugged, blanket slipping off one shoulder like a velvet cloak. “I contain multitudes,” she said solemnly, before perking up. “So what’s the plan then? Better be a good one. Unless there’s no plan yet”

“I vote we all suggest something,” Carla said, already animated, gesturing with her mug like a conductor. “Then we veto until we land on the winner. Last plan standing.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “This feels dangerously democratic.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Betsy chimed, flashing a grin that was all teeth and mischief.

“I’ll go first,” Carla offered, clearly pleased with herself. “Brunch?”

Lisa arched a brow. “We’re already halfway through the morning. And Betsy’s halfway through a full box of cereal.”

“I have a second stomach for pancakes,” Betsy said seriously, like she was quoting gospel.

“Course you do” Lisa chuckled, shaking her head. “We’ll circle back to brunch. Betsy, your turn.”

Betsy sat up a little straighter, clearly invested now. “What about mini golf?”

Lisa didn’t even blink. “You hate mini golf.”

“No,” Betsy replied, wounded. “I hate losing at mini golf. That’s a very important distinction.”

“Which means,” Carla said, sipping her tea like it contained truth serum, “We are not playing mini golf. I’m not having our fun day out end in an argument.”

“You’re only saying that because you hate to lose as well,” Lisa pointed out, eyebrow arched.

“Exactly,” Carla said cheerfully. “And I’m not looking to start a war today.”

Betsy groaned, raising her spoon in theatrical defeat. “Fine, fine. Mini golf is dead. R.I.P. Mum, you’re up.”

Lisa glanced out the window, watching the breeze stir the branches outside. “Picnic, maybe? It’s warm. We’ve got that massive blanket crumpled in the back of the cupboard, and I bought those ridiculous cheese crackers last week that nobody’s touched yet.”

Carla scrunched her nose. “Okay, but do we have to sit on the actual ground?”

“It’s grass, not lava” Lisa teased. “And we would be sitting on the blanket”

“Still,” Carla muttered, “I’ve read too many horror stories about ants invading sandwiches.”

“We could go out for lunch somewhere,” Betsy offered, voice hopeful. “Pub garden vibes?”

Lisa gave her a look. “You just renamed brunch.”

“Technically,” Carla added, “We’re in brunch’s afterglow right now. It’s the dangerous middle ground of indecision.”

Lisa sighed, leaning back against the sofa. “Can we not spend all day deciding what to do? We’ll waste the whole Sunday like we did last time where we ended up watching four hours of that baking show and eating microwave noodles.”

“That was a good day!” Carla defended.

The room fell into a brief lull. A shared silence filled with the hum of the fridge, the faint crackle of Betsy’s abandoned podcast that she turned down instead of pausing, and the soft click of ceramic as she set her bowl aside.

Then Betsy suddenly sat upright like someone had flipped a switch. Her blanket slipped down her shoulders and pooled around her waist like a cape losing its magic. “Alright. New pitch. Cinema?”

Lisa raised a brow, intrigued but cautious. “Didn’t you see something with your mates, like, three days ago?”

“Yeah, but not this,” Betsy said, already unlocking her phone with the speed of someone unearthing breaking news. Her thumbs tapped away with purpose. “There’s that murder mystery still playing Death at Midnight. Everyone’s obsessed. TikTok’s full of spoilers. I’m on borrowed time. There’s only so many times you can quickly scroll past something”

Carla leaned forward slightly, expression curious. “That’s the one with the poison teacup, right?”

“Yes!” Betsy’s voice shot up half an octave with enthusiasm as she pulled up the trailer. “Supposed to be clever and layered and totally wild. Come on what’s more relaxing than sitting in a dark room where no one expects you to talk? And it’s a murder mystery. That’ll keep your dusty old detective brain entertained, Mum.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes, though she couldn’t hide the smile playing on her lips. “Less of the old, thank you. But I won’t lie a solid whodunnit does sound tempting. Carla?”

Carla’s eyes flicked thoughtfully between them. “Let’s check the showtimes first, then we can decide.”

As if on cue, Lisa and Betsy both reached for their phones like synchronized swimmers diving into a familiar routine. Their fingers moved quickly, scrolling and tapping, heads tilted with quiet focus. The atmosphere shifted into one of soft collaboration. No one had to say much to be completely in sync.

“There’s a showing at the local place at 2:15,” Lisa said after a beat. “But it’s fifteen quid a ticket?” Her voice curled with disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Plus three extra if you want to pick your seat,” Betsy muttered, peering at the screen over Lisa’s shoulder. “Who even does that. Extra for nicer seats sure but to actually pick your seats? That’s inane! Do they think we are made of money”

“Well I am a bestselling author,” Carla offered smugly, lifting her mug like a toast.

Betsy snorted. “Congrats. You’ve just talked yourself into buying the snacks.”

Carla sighed dramatically, reaching for her phone. “Who said you were getting any snacks in the first place?”

“Mum,” Betsy deadpanned, turning to Lisa with theatrical betrayal in her eyes, “Your girlfriend is trying to starve me. That’s got to be some sort of neglect”

Lisa chuckled. “At those prices, we might all be going snackless. We’ll hit the shop on the way get some popcorn and stuff for a reasonable price”

“Actually…” Carla spoke up again, lifting her phone with a subtle air of triumph. “While you two were spiralling over cinema inflation, I checked other options.”

Lisa glanced up with mock suspicion. “Of course you did.”

Carla grinned, unapologetic. “Odeon in the city has loads of showings. Bigger screens, better seats, and there's a Sunday offer on. Seven pounds for me and you Lise and a fiver for Betsy.”

Betsy blinked. “Wait, I get a discount? Why?”

“Student pricing,” Carla said, shrugging. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Betsy brightened immediately, already sold. “Okay, that's way better. Plus, they have that gross nacho cheese that tastes like regret and melted plastic in the best way. Odeon has my vote.”

But Lisa didn’t answer right away. Her gaze shifted to Carla. Soft. Watchful. She noticed the way Carla’s hands tightened slightly around her mug, the barely-there furrow between her brows, the breath she hadn’t quite let go of yet. “You sure you're okay with that?” Lisa asked, quieter now. “It’ll be busy. You know what major cities are like on weekends. It will be packed. Plus, the Odeon’s always full.”

Carla’s smile faltered just slightly. Not gone, just dimmed. “I’ve thought about that,” she said, her voice a notch lower, more careful. “And I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t make me nervous. Because it does.”

Lisa stepped forward instinctively, her hand brushing Carla’s arm: grounding, steady. “We don’t have to go there. Honestly. I’ll pay the ridiculous price for the local place if that feels safer. No pressure.”

Carla looked up, met her eyes. And for a moment, all the easy banter from earlier seemed to soften into something raw and real. “I love that you’d do that,” she said. “But I can’t keep shrinking my world every time something feels overwhelming. I can’t hide forever. My book is nearly done. Public is coming whether I like it or not.”

Lisa’s voice was gentle. “But you have time. You don’t have to rush it.” She knew what it had taken for Carla to even suggest going somewhere crowded, somewhere public. The idea of visibility wasn’t just about leaving the house; it was about stepping back into a world that had once devoured her alive. Lisa’s eyes searched Carla’s face, trying to read the tiny flickers behind her steady expression. The things she wasn’t saying out loud. Lisa shifted closer. “I just, I want to make sure this is exactly what you want.”

“I know,” Carla said. Then she took a slow breath, like she was steadying something inside herself. “But if I’m going to be seen again and I mean really seen. By people who keep up to date with gossip and drama and not the kind of people who live here in Willowbrook” Carla paused to take another deep breath. “Then I want it to be somewhere ordinary. Somewhere quiet and human. Not a panel or a podcast, not with lights and strangers and expectations. Just us. Something real. Something small. Something normal”

Lisa nodded, the ache of affection rising sharp and sudden in her chest. “Alright. The city it is. But if it gets too much, if at any point you want out, just say the word. We’ll leave. No questions, no fuss. I just want you to be comfortable. Deal?”

Carla smiled then, bright through the uncertainty. “Deal.” She hesitated, then added, “I always feel comfortable with you,” she said. “You make me braver, Lise. I feel like I could walk into anything and not fall apart as long as I had you by my side.”

Lisa blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of it. The words landed square in her chest, soft as a breath but with the weight of something irreversible. Her throat tightened. “Carla” she breathed out.  She didn’t even know what she was going to say next. It was just her name, and it felt like a prayer.

From the couch came a long, theatrical groan. “Oh my God,” Betsy whined, dragging her blanket over her head like it was a shield. “That was way too soppy. You definitely owe me food now.”

Carla laughed, cheeks flushing as she tossed a cushion at her. “You were getting snacks either way, you drama queen.”

Betsy peeked out, triumphant. “Good. Expect a heavy dent in your bank account. I need this emotional compensation”

Lisa exhaled through a smile and straightened, the last of the ache folding into something lighter. “Okay, city it is then,” she said, stretching her arms overhead. “Let’s get ready to go before Betsy decides she can’t be bothered and would rather spend the day in a cereal coma.”

They left within the hour: Lisa behind the wheel, Betsy sprawled in the back with her trainers half on, half off and Carla riding shotgun, her face angled toward the window. She’d cracked it just enough to let the breeze curl through.

The city was only forty minutes away. It was close enough that Lisa had done this drive a hundred times before and could probably have done the drive blindfolded but far enough away that Carla had time to sink deeper into her thoughts, letting the soft hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road settle something inside her.

She was quiet for most of the journey. Not withdrawn, just inward. The kind of quiet that hummed with movement beneath the surface, like a tide pulling back before it crashed. Carla sat angled slightly toward the window, her elbow propped against the door, fingers absently tracing the cool edge of the glass. The breeze slipped in through the narrow crack she’d left, stirring the loose strands of her hair and brushing against her cheek like a half-remembered thought.

Outside, the countryside blurred into long stretches of green, hedgerows leaning lazily against the edge of the road, the occasional farmhouse tucked into the dip of a field. But Carla’s gaze wasn’t really on any of it. It was further ahead, further in. Her eyes fixed on the middle distance, unfocused, like she was watching something that hadn’t happened yet. Something she hadn’t quite found the shape of.

Every now and then, Lisa would glance over, careful not to stare. Just brief flickers of attention. Carla’s brow gently furrowed, mouth set in that slight, unreadable line she wore when her mind was somewhere else entirely. It was the same expression she got when plotting out a chapter or trying to unravel a character’s motivation. That soft, abstracted focus like she was assembling a puzzle no one else could see, and only she knew what the picture might be when it was done.

Lisa didn’t interrupt. She knew better than to tug Carla out of her thoughts before she was ready to surface. Instead, she let the silence between them stretch comfortably, filled with the muted thrum of the tyres on the tarmac and the soft spill of Betsy’s playlist through the car’s speakers: mellow guitar riffs and lyrics that didn’t make much sense.

As they passed the green-and-gold Welcome to Carrick City sign, Carla shifted slightly. Not much. Just a quiet inhale, a resettling in her seat like she was bracing for the next part of the story. Lisa noticed it, of course she did. But she didn’t reach for her hand or ask how she was doing. She didn’t want to box Carla in with concern. Some people needed encouragement to open up. Some people needed space to choose. Lisa didn’t want to feel like she was smothering Carla and so she chose to wait and let Carla open up in her own time.

They parked in the multistorey a few streets away from the main drag, the concrete spine of the city humming with late Sunday energy. The building exhaled life. There was the clang of elevators and the soft footfalls of others moving within as well as the distant murmur of laughter, conversation, and idle afternoons waiting to unfold.

Carla climbed out of the car slowly, folding herself into the loudness around her. Every movement was deliberate; the click of her boots on the pavement, the smooth slide of the car door shutting, her jacket hitching in place. She tugged it a little tighter, wrapping herself against the swirl of city sounds and textures. Even though the sky had turned that washed-out grey shade common to late spring (like old pavement and faint warmth) she instinctively slipped on sunglasses, turning the world a shade farther away.

Betsy, oblivious to the subtle tension, was already bouncing on the balls of her feet, a golden retriever rampant on a sugar rush. Gretchen of the street food smells hadn’t even penetrated her focus. “I swear I can smell popcorn from here,” she announced, barely holding still, nose lifted like it was keyed to snack detection mode.

Lisa shut the car door quietly and moved to Carla’s side. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she watched Carla with gentle concern. She watched the way her eyes flicked from neon signs to passing faces, as if mapping where she ought not to linger. There was tension in Carla’s shoulders, a guarded press of her chin. She was waiting for the real world to shift her surroundings or at least, to remind her she didn’t belong.

Outside, the street reflected a world in motion. Couples strolled hand in hand, arms linked, and faces lit with easy conversation. Across the way, a tight knot of teens lounged outside the arcade, their laughter spiking every few seconds: sharp, bright, contagious. Kids cackled over high scores and digital fantasies just out of reach, while the tile sidewalk underneath glowed with neon reflections. A distant wisp of street food wafted in on the breeze. The greasy promise of fish and chips, the sugary warmth of churros dusted with cinnamon, and the faint sweetness of roasted nuts. It all hung together in an aroma collage.

The crowd straightened as they hit the main strip. There were people passing in all directions, voices marrying into city flow. And Carla’s steps, once even, stuttered slightly. Not a stop, but a pause: a breath held at the edge of a thought. She glanced at the clumps of people up ahead, and her shoulders bunched upward.

 Lisa could feel it vividly before she even saw it: the quiet withdraw, the soft sleek of Carla’s instinct to curl inward when everything felt too big, too intense, too real. Then, without a word, Carla reached for Lisa’s hand. It was a small gesture, but it felt like everything; a string connecting her back to someone safe.

Lisa looked down. Surprised, but not startled. Carla’s fingers touched hers with care, not desperation. The grip was tentative, full of hope.

“Is this okay?” Carla murmured, low and thoughtful, barely louder than the city whisper around them.

Lisa squeezed gently. Fingers settling into the familiar curve of Carla’s as they always fit, the same rhythm they’d fallen into at home. “More than okay.”

Carla held on. And in that clasp, whatever had been coiled beneath her ribs, the anxious knot that had wound tighter with every step, every glance, every imaginary headline she thought she saw behind strangers’ eyes, began to slowly unwind. Her shoulders dropped by a fraction. Her jaw unclenched. Her steps steadied. Lisa didn’t say anything else. She didn’t fill the silence with encouragement or reassurance that might feel too heavy. She simply matched Carla’s pace, stride for stride, like she always did. A quiet constant in the middle of a street that felt a little too loud, a little too bright and by the time they reached the cinema, Carla was still holding on, still seeking out Lisa as comfort.

Inside, the foyer was a pocket of warmth and noise. The air was thick with the sugary sting of sweet glaze and the unmistakable salt-and-butter scent of popcorn. A slow-moving queue wound its way toward the snack counter, where fizzy drink machines hissed behind the hum of murmured conversations and the echo of a trailer reel playing overhead.

Betsy had already surged a few paces ahead; eyes locked on the glowing snack menu like it was a sacred text. She planted her feet like a general about to issue orders.

“Okay, so I want nachos with cheese, obviously. Then I’ll get some popcorn. And a large Tango Ice Blast. And a tub of cookie dough bites. Ooh maybe those pick ‘n’ mix bags too. Do they still do the fizzy cola bottles? Wait, no. The foam bananas. You know what, I’ll just get both. I’m feeling chaotic.”

Lisa crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “One hot snack, one cold snack, and a drink,” she said, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “Not a three-course meal, Betsy. Don’t take advantage of Carla’s generosity.”

“This is discrimination,” Betsy muttered, scanning the board with the intensity of a broker eyeing stock trends. “I’m in my prime snack years. You’re crushing my growth.”

“That’s a new one,” Lisa said, a short laugh slipping out.

Behind her, Carla leaned close, voice low against Lisa’s ear. “I would’ve bought her all that, you know.”

Lisa turned just slightly to meet her eyes “I know,” she murmured back. “That’s why I had to put a stop to it. You’re dangerous with a debit card.”

Carla grinned, her voice still quiet. “What can I say? I’m a snack enabler.”

Ahead of them, Betsy was continuing her dramatic war with the limits of snack policy. “Fine,” she said, sighing like it hurt her soul. “Nachos, cookie dough bites, and a large Ice Blast. But I’m combining the cherry and blue raspberry flavours. It’s the superior mix and you can’t stop me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Lisa replied dryly. “I’m just glad you’ve narrowed it down before the previews start.”

They stepped forward in the queue and ordered. Carla insisted on the extra-large salted popcorn and drinks for each of them on top of Betsy’s order, waving off Lisa’s raised eyebrows with an unapologetic shrug and a flash of a smile.

Lisa gave her a long-suffering look, the kind meant to be disapproving, but which landed far too softly around the edges. Her fondness leaked through in every glance. “We absolutely did not need an extra-large.”

“Speak for yourself,” Carla said, reaching out to accept the enormous tub from the concession staff. “I don’t normally share popcorn. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

Lisa let out a huff of a laugh, elbow nudging lightly into Carla’s side. “Harsh, but fair,” she said and then, with no real warning, broke into a small fit of giggles. The kind that curled her nose and made her shoulders shake gently. The kind she didn’t laugh often, but Carla had always loved hearing.

 With arms full of snacks and drinks, they shuffled off to the side. The usher scanned their tickets with a bright beep and a nod, and they headed down the dim corridor toward Screen 7, their footsteps echoing softly on the carpeted floor.

Inside, the theatre was already half-filled, busy enough to buzz with soft energy. Darkness had already fallen over the screen room, the ceiling scattered with low, twinkling lights like imitation stars. The air was cooler here; the chill of air conditioning wrapped in the warmth of buttery scent and the crackling rustle of snack wrappers. It felt like stepping out of reality and into a lull. Stepping into something hushed and self-contained, a world paused just before it began.

Lisa led the way down the aisle, balancing two drinks in one hand and hugging the oversized popcorn tub to her chest with practiced ease. She scanned the row numbers with that no-nonsense certainty she applied to everything. Like even in the dark, even in a new place, she would know where they were meant to be. Carla followed close behind. Her eyes adjusted quickly, pupils dilating to meet the velvet gloom. She took in the familiar slope of the rows, the flicker of light from the screen, the blue glow from fading phone screens as people tucked them away.

They reached their row. Middle of the theatre, dead centre, not too close, not too far. The cinematic sweet spot. Lisa slid confidently into the middle seat like it belonged to her. Carla followed, easing into the seat beside her, adjusting her jacket and tucking one leg slightly to the side. Betsy, without ceremony, flung herself into the seat on the far end with all the force of a sofa cushion being chucked across a room. Her arms were already full of snacks and unspoken opinions.

“Centre of the chaos,” Carla whispered as she sat back.

“Best view,” Lisa murmured, voice low and fond.

Carla smiled and let herself relax into the seat. She could feel Lisa’s shoulder against hers, warm and steady, and the gentle press of their thighs where denim met denim. She leaned in slightly, just enough to make contact. Not enough to call attention to it. Just enough to feel anchored. Beside them, Betsy had already unwrapped her nachos with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a high-stakes operation. She popped open the cheese dip and scooped in the first chip like it was a long-awaited reward. Her satisfaction was immediate and visible.

Carla glanced sideways at them both. This small, strange, wonderful unit that had found its way together despite the odds. Lisa with her quiet steadiness, her protective humour. Betsy, all bright chaos and relentless snack ambition. And herself, somehow finding her way into their lives and feeling like she belonged.

The popcorn sat between her and Lisa, still warm from the machine. Lisa’s hand, no longer occupied with drinks, rested lightly on Carla’s thigh. Casual. Familiar. Carla’s own hand drifted down beside it, resting palm-first on her jeans until their pinkies touched. She didn’t look. She didn’t speak. She just exhaled. The tight, pressurised feeling in her chest, the one that had lingered since they left the car, the one that gripped her ribs every time she imagined someone pointing, or whispering, or knowing, began to loosen. She could feel it. Like a thread slowly unspooling.

No one was staring.

No one whispered.

No flashes. No camera phones. No flicker of recognition.

Just strangers, focused on their tickets and snacks and partners and kids and friends.

This is what it feels like, she thought, staring at the big, dark screen. To be normal. To be okay. To be safe, even in public.

She reached toward the popcorn without a word, her fingers brushing against Lisa’s as she scooped up a small handful. Lisa didn’t startle. She didn’t shift. She simply smiled, lips curled gently as she sipped her drink, and Carla couldn’t help but smile too.

This. This was enough. This was good.

The lights dimmed again, fading from soft amber to deep dusk. The screen lit up, bright and wide and full of promise. And for the next two hours, the world, with all its noise and sharp edges, melted quietly away.

The lights came up slowly. First a flicker, then a bloom, golden and deliberate, like sunrise through a half-opened curtain. They crept out from hidden recesses along the ceiling and behind the screen, spilling across the worn carpet and plush theatre seats like molten honey, warm and piercing after the dense dark that had enveloped the room like a second skin.

Carla winced slightly, shielding her eyes for a breath as the light settled, sharp and overexposed, gilding every detail with too much clarity. The sudden illumination made the edges of the world feel too defined, too exposed. Like waking from a vivid dream and finding reality waiting with hard lines and loud noises.

She blinked several times, eyes slow to adjust, like they were reluctant to release the shadowed cocoon of the film. Her mind still floated somewhere in between: untethered, blurry, hovering in that tender, suspended state that came in the moments just after a story ends. That strange hush where your thoughts haven’t quite returned to your own life yet, where your senses are dulled but your emotions still echo. It was like drifting just above her body, watching the world reform itself around her in fragments. Her limbs felt loose, her breath shallow. The warmth of the story still clung to her skin like a second heartbeat.

Around her, the hush that had held the theatre in thrall fractured. The soft crinkle of candy wrappers broke like rainfall in dry leaves. A soda cup was knocked over two rows down. The dull thunk barely registered over the rustle of coats being shrugged on and handbags being zippered shut. Feet scraped against the sticky floor as people began their slow shuffle toward the aisle. Quiet conversations picked up like radio stations being tuned in one by one, low hums of voices easing into the newly reclaimed space, expanding to fill what silence had left behind.

Carla stirred in her seat, stretching with a long, slow movement. Her spine curving gently, arms arching forward before relaxing into the seat again. It wasn’t a dramatic stretch, just the kind of unhurried motion that said: I feel good here. I don’t want to move yet. Her fingers, now resting lightly on the padded armrest, drifted without thought and brushed against something warm.

Lisa’s hand.

It was like they were magnets. Always drawn to each other. Always had to be in contact with each other. Neither of them moved. That small point of contact said more than words. It held everything steady. As if time slowed down for them alone. As if the world around them had lost its rhythm and they had quietly decided to write a new one, together.

And then, without warning, Betsy exploded into motion beside them like a firework that had finally been lit. She popped upright in her seat with an energy that felt almost reckless, her limbs already in motion before her brain had fully caught up. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and sugar, her eyes wide and glittering beneath the overhead lights.

“That was so good,” she declared, her voice several decibels too loud but entirely sincere. She was already half-standing, arms juggling the chaos of her personal snack apocalypse. “The twist?” she continued, practically vibrating. “I did not see that coming. My brain’s still doing somersaults.”

Lisa let out a soft, amused chuckle as if she was saying you’re ridiculous, but I love you anyway. She leaned across Carla, careful not to disrupt their light hand contact, and gathered up their own discarded cups and snack wrappers with practiced ease. “You were whispering theories the entire time,” she teased gently, glancing sideways at Betsy with a raised brow.

“And I was right about one of them!” Betsy shot back, triumphant, like she’d just won a debate on live television. Her whole face lit up with the smug pride of someone whose one correct guess had suddenly rewritten history. “Also are we getting dinner here because there are some great food places around that we haven’t had in ages”

Lisa gave her a long, exasperated look. “How are you still hungry? You had an entire snack bar to yourself.”

Betsy straightened, placing one hand over her heart with theatrical solemnity. “Snacks are different to actual food, Mother,” she intoned, as if reciting sacred doctrine. “Snacks live in their own food group. They practically have their own stomachs”

Carla huffed a small laugh, still quiet from the haze but charmed by the familiarity of this ridiculous back-and-forth. She caught Lisa’s eye for a brief moment, and something in her chest eased. These were her people. This was hers.

Lisa rolled her eyes with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth and passed Carla her jacket. “We’ll eat in Willowbrook,” Lisa said, already stepping into her coat. “By the time we get back hopefully Carla and I will be hungry enough to eat”

“Fine,” Betsy sighed with mock devastation, throwing her bag over one shoulder like she was preparing for battle. “But I’m calling dibs on aux. You two better not take forever. I’m putting on my sad-girl playlist for the drive back. Since you want to starve me.”

“Great,” Lisa muttered, dry as desert air, but the smirk hadn’t left her lips. “Can’t wait.”

With a dramatic little twirl that sent her hoodie strings flying, Betsy vanished up the aisle like she was making an entrance on stage, weaving through the clusters of people with ease. Carla and Lisa followed more slowly. There was no rush to their movements. There was no need to catch up right away. Their steps were measured, still quiet with the spell of the film. Their hands found each other again, naturally, without conscious decision. Fingers slid between fingers, slow and certain, like slipping into a familiar rhythm, a dance rehearsed in private a thousand times. They wove together with the kind of ease that spoke of history, of trust, of shared nights spent curled up on the couch or walking sidewalks in quieter towns.

There was no awkwardness. No pause for permission. Just skin against skin, warm and steady. Just presence.

Just them.

Outside, the theatre doors gave way to a different kind of hush. The air had that mild, sweet freshness to it. The cool edge of nighttime brushing gently against skin that had been kissed by sun all day. Above them, the sky had settled into that perfect in-between colour – a dusky, washed-out indigo that belonged only to late May, right before the heat of summer took over completely. There was still light clinging to the horizon, the last of the sun’s brushstrokes fading into blue. Streetlamps had flickered on gradually, their golden halos casting long, soft shadows on the pavement. The whole scene shimmered faintly, like something seen through water.

The city wasn’t loud tonight. The usual clatter and hum had receded into something softer, more bearable like the city, too, was exhaling. There were distant sounds, the whir of passing bikes, the hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, but none of it intruded. It all wove itself around them gently, like background noise in a dream.

Somewhere nearby, the scent of takeout curled through the air, mixing with the floral notes of blooming trees. A busker’s voice floated from the end of the block, low and gravelly, accompanied by the gentle strum of a guitar. The tune was old and tender, something wistful that wrapped around them like a lullaby for grownups. It didn’t demand attention. It just was, like the night itself.

Carla glanced sideways at Lisa.

The light touched her like it had been waiting all day just for her face. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the walk, the breeze playing with a few loose curls that had slipped free of her hood. She looked soft in that. There was a kind of gentleness to her that Carla often saw only in quiet moments like this, when no one else was watching.

God, she was beautiful.

Not in the impossible, airbrushed way of movie stars or book covers. Lisa’s beauty was quieter. It lived in the way she moved, in the light behind her eyes when she laughed, in the kindness of her silences. The kind of beauty that lasted. That grew on you. That stayed.

Carla gave her hand a small, deliberate squeeze. Just enough to say I see you. I’m here.

And more quietly: Thank you.

Because this moment, this walk, this night, this feeling of not needing to run, felt like something sacred. Like something fought for and finally won. It wasn’t loud or showy, but it mattered more than anything else.

We did it, she thought fiercely. I did it.

She had walked into a public place. Sat through a whole film. Let herself be seen. Let herself exist. Not as a shape trying to disappear, but as herself. She had laughed because something was funny, not because she was trying to hide. She had held Lisa’s hand, in the dark, in a room full of strangers. And the world hadn’t ended.

No one had stared. No one had whispered. No one had followed.

For once, there had been no threat. Just life.

The knot that had lived in her chest for so long had loosened. Not disappeared entirely. But loosened enough to let the air in.

She was breathing again.

Fully. Freely.

Her lips curled into a quiet, genuine smile. The kind that didn’t ask to be seen. The kind that wasn’t worn like armour. Just soft and real and hers. She gave Lisa’s hand another squeeze. Softer this time. More intimate. A thank-you without sound. Lisa turned at the gesture. Their eyes met. And Lisa smiled slow, sleepy, warm. The kind of smile that made time feel irrelevant. They kept walking, perfectly in sync, their pace unhurried. The car park was just half a block away.

It should have been enough.

It was enough.

Until

“Oh my God!” The voice smashed into the quiet of the night like glass against stone: sharp, sudden, unmistakable. It cut through Carla’s fragile peace like a splinter tearing flesh.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her hand, once threaded with Lisa’s, clattered to her side, as if burned. The warmth vanished instantly, replaced by the gnawing void of absence. Her heart thumped in shock; a coldness spread through her fingers, as if the world had forgotten that connection existed.

Lisa blinked, startled. The air between them seemed to shiver as though some invisible string had been plucked, vibrating with tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her breath caught in her throat, unsteady and half-formed. The space where Carla’s hand had been now felt cavernous. A sudden, gaping absence. Her fingers twitched instinctively, searching the empty air, reaching for a warmth that had vanished like it had never existed.

“It is you!” The voice came barrelling toward them like a train without brakes. Breathless, high-pitched, and crackling with manic excitement. Carla flinched so hard she almost took a step back. Her heart lurched painfully against her ribs, thudding like it was trying to escape. Her breath shortened. Her palms were slick. A hollow panic bloomed in her gut. She knew that voice.

Not by name, not even by face but by tone. That overeager, too-familiar cadence. The voice of someone who knew her or thought they did. Someone who had read too many interviews, memorized too many character names, imagined intimacy through printed pages and parasocial threads.

The woman was young. Mid-twenties maybe. Blonde hair bouncing in a ponytail, screen-glow lighting up her face as she jogged toward them, phone already half-lifted to record. She was typing even as she spoke, fingers moving in manic bursts. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t not document this moment. Couldn’t imagine something being real without posting it.

“You’re Carla Connor, right? Oh my God. This is wild. I’ve read all your books. I’m like, obsessed. I can’t believe it’s actually you!”

Carla forced her mouth to move. Her lips pulled back into a shape that barely resembled a smile. It was a hollow, practiced thing. Her sunglasses were gone. She had nothing to hide behind. The vulnerability of her own face made her skin feel too thin. “Hi,” she said. The word cracked as it left her mouth. Empty. Brittle. Her voice sounded wrong. It was like it belonged to someone else entirely. Like it had to fight through a throat closing in on itself.

But the fan didn’t notice. She was too swept up in her own excitement to see the panic etched into Carla’s features. Too enthralled by her proximity to someone she had projected fantasies onto. “You’ve been totally MIA!” the woman rushed on. “We thought maybe something happened to you. You just, like, disappeared! And now you’re here?! In Carrick?! Are you doing a signing or something? A panel? Please say it’s a new book. Please. I need one like my life depends on it.”

Carla’s mind screamed. Her body was frozen in a flood of noise. Too many questions. Too much light. Too much being seen, being recognized, being talked at instead of talked to. Her ribs felt like they were being squeezed from the inside.

“Oh! And who’s this?” the fan asked brightly, finally recognising that Carla had company. She looked between them with wide-eyed curiosity. “I’ve never seen her at your panels or anything. Is she your sister? Extended family? Do you have a new agent? Or publicist?”

Time stopped. Carla’s heart slammed into her throat. The panic surged into something white-hot. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her brain searched for the safest answer. And then her mouth betrayed her. “No, uh,” she stammered. “She’s just erm. She’s just a friend.”

The moment cracked apart like ice under pressure. The words, just a friend, hung in the air with all the violence of a slur. Not loud. Not cruel. But precise. Surgical. It sliced through the night with devastating simplicity.

Lisa didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

But something in her face shifted: small, sharp, unmistakable. Her jaw clenched tight, the muscle twitching along her cheekbone in rhythmic pulses. Once, twice, three times. It was the kind of physical reaction that came when words would be too dangerous to speak aloud. When silence was the only thing holding you together.

Carla saw it all. Saw the way the light caught on the sudden rigidity in Lisa’s posture, how her shoulders tensed like something invisible had braced against them. And then, slowly, Lisa moved.

She folded her arms across her chest with a precision that felt almost ceremonial. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t to fend off the chill. It was a withdrawal. A quiet, deliberate retreat. Like someone closing a door that had once been held open without hesitation, now locked and bolted from the inside. The motion was slow, careful. Armour sliding into place, piece by piece. Her chin lifted just slightly, a defensive tilt. Her entire frame seemed to shrink inward and harden at once, like someone curling around an invisible wound they weren’t going to show you. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, drained of colour, drained of warmth. There was no visible emotion. No sharp edge. Just an eerie, chilling stillness. Like watching a pond freeze over in real time.

Carla felt it hit her like a wave to the chest: cold and crushing. Because it wasn’t anger Lisa was showing her. It was detachment. Distance.

“Oh, cool!” the fan chirped on, still oblivious, still talking like nothing had cracked open between them. “Well, it’s so good to see you out again. I hope you’re working on something new. You’ve got such a gift. Your characters feel real, you know?”

Carla could barely nod. Her neck moved, but it felt mechanical. Her mouth opened. “Thanks,” she said, the word barely more than a whisper. “That means a lot.”

It didn’t.

Not right now.

Not compared to what she was losing beside her.

“Can I get a picture? This is so cool!”

“Yeah,” Carla managed. “Sure.”

She stood still as the phone lifted. The camera flashed. A burst of artificial light that whitewashed her vision for a second. She didn’t smile. She couldn’t. Her jaw was locked, her eyes unfocused. The edges of the world had begun to blur, her body buzzing with adrenaline and shame. She didn’t see the fan step back. She didn’t hear her say goodbye.

Because all she could focus on was the way Lisa had subtly turned her shoulders. Enough to make it clear she wasn’t part of this. That she wouldn’t be part of this.

Carla stood frozen. The night around her had gone still again, but it wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was brittle. Hollow. Beside her, Lisa didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her arms were still crossed, her shoulders rigid. Her face was turned slightly away, but even from the corner of her eye, Carla could see it. The expressionless mask. The one Lisa wore when she was too hurt to talk about it. The one she used to build walls.

Carla’s stomach twisted, dropping somewhere deep into her shoes. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She wanted to close the distance. To reach into that quiet and take it back. To patch over the crack she’d just split through Lisa’s chest with something soft, something real. She wanted to say that’s not what I meant. That’s not what you are. But all that lived in her throat was ash.

Lisa didn’t look at her. Her gaze was fixed on the pavement, hard and distant, like she could stare straight through the cracks in the concrete if she focused long enough. There was no tremble, no break, no plea, no anger. Just hurt. Deep hurt.

Carla took a step forward, heart hammering. Her breath snagged. “Lise”

Lisa moved. Slowly. Deliberately. Like each step was a decision she wasn’t quite sure she could afford but made anyway. Her eyes met Carla’s, finally, and for a heartbeat, Carla let herself hope. But there was nothing there to hold onto. Lisa had her carefully built mask on. And beneath it there was resignation. A quiet kind of giving up. The kind that didn’t explode but simply receded. Pulled back, like the tide abandoning the shore.

And then Lisa spoke. A single sentence. Simple. “We should catch up to Betsy.”

The words didn’t bite. They didn’t accuse. But they didn’t offer anything either. No invitation. No softness. No reprieve. They were smooth and measured, weighed out with surgical precision. A kindness wrapped in detachment. A velvet-gloved dismissal. Carla almost preferred anger. At least anger was something.

Lisa turned. She didn’t wait. Didn’t check to see if Carla followed. She didn’t falter. Her back was straight; her shoulders squared with quiet dignity. She didn’t reach for Carla’s hand. She didn’t even slow. She just walked, unshaken, unreadable, the picture of composure while Carla stood there, hollowed out and still.

The space between them stretched with every step Lisa took. Not far in distance, but vast in feeling; a chasm opening wide where, minutes ago, there had only been closeness and quiet joy.

Carla didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. She just stood there, heart pounding, throat closed around everything she hadn’t said. The silence left behind by Lisa’s absence was a weight pressing against her ribs. She forced her legs to move. Forced herself to go back to the car.

It felt like walking back into a version of herself she thought she’d outgrown. A version of herself where she was small, muted, shrinking to fit into other people’s comfort zones. She hated the way her steps felt unsure now. Like she’d already been left behind.

By the time she reached the car park, Lisa and Betsy were already inside. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, washing the concrete in pale, indifferent yellow. Carla approached the passenger side slowly, her reflection catching briefly in the window. She looked pale, tense, eyes too wide. She didn’t recognize herself in it.

She opened the door. Betsy didn’t look up. She was curled into the far side of the back seat, one earbud in, scrolling through her phone like it might offer a portal to any reality but this one. Lisa was behind the wheel, hands resting on her thighs, not the steering wheel. Staring straight ahead. Her face was unreadable. Still. That same awful, impenetrable stillness.

Carla climbed in without a word. Pulled the door shut. The click echoed through the cabin like a sealed fate. Carla buckled in, the sound impossibly loud in the silence. And then the key turned in the ignition. The car hummed to life. No one said a word.

It was, without a doubt, the beginning of the most awkward car journey of Carla’s life.

Chapter Text

The front door swung open with a quiet click.

Lisa walked in first, her keys jangling as she dropped them into the ceramic dish by the hallway mirror. The dish gave a soft clink, too loud in the silence. The house felt colder than it had when they left. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. Still. Stagnant. Like the tension had followed them home and slipped in through the cracks, settling into the air like dust.

Carla followed a few steps behind; arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t take her coat off. Her posture was taut, rigid, like she was still bracing against the wind outside. Her shoulders were hunched, her jaw tight, like she hadn’t quite left the street yet. Like the city was still clinging to her skin. She glanced around the hallway like it was unfamiliar territory, her eyes darting to the mirror, the staircase, the edge of the carpet, anywhere but Lisa.

Behind them, Betsy shoved the door shut with her foot, her hands full: phone in one, bag in the other. The door thudded closed, echoing faintly down the hallway. She paused mid-step as soon as she looked up, her eyes catching the stiff line of Carla’s shoulders and the way Lisa’s figure disappeared into the kitchen without a glance back. Her gaze flicked between the two women, frowning slightly.

Lisa had disappeared into the kitchen without a word. Just the sound of her shoes on tile and the distant clatter of a cabinet. Carla was standing in the hallway like she didn’t know what to do with herself, like she’d walked into a house where she wasn’t welcome anymore.

Betsy raised an eyebrow, breaking the silence. “Oookay,” she said slowly, dragging the word out with theatrical suspicion. “What did I miss? Did someone die between the cinema and the car? Was it me?” she gasped loudly “Am I a ghost now?”

Carla gave a strained half-smile, barely there. The kind of expression that was more reflex than feeling. A flicker of politeness stretched over discomfort. She didn’t answer.

Betsy stared for another beat; her expression caught somewhere between concern and sarcasm. “No? Nothing? Really? You’d normally laugh at something like that.”

Still no answer.

Betsy let out a dramatic sigh, tossing her hair back and shaking her head like she was resigning herself to chaos. “Well. In that case, I’m gonna go to my room and let you two emotionally repressed woman lovers work out whatever this is.” She waved a hand around the room, gesturing to the thick tension that filled it. It was practically visible, hanging in the air like fog, clinging to the corners of every sentence left unsaid.

She reached the first step, then turned over her shoulder. “And by the way? You’re both terrible actors. Don’t quit the day jobs. Even a blind person could see the tension between you two.”

From the kitchen, Lisa’s voice floated faintly back. “Nothing happened, Bets. We’re fine.”

Betsy snorted: short, sharp, disbelieving. “Yeah. Nothing happened. That’s why Carla stared out the window the entire ride and you said maybe four words total and two of those were ‘seatbelt’ and ‘okay.’”

Carla winced, visibly. Her face flinched like she’d been struck, the words landing sharper than expected. Her arms tightened instinctively around her torso, as though trying to hold something inside. The hallway lights cast long shadows across her face, and for a moment, she looked like a ghost of herself: pale, drawn, quietly unravelling.

Lisa didn’t respond either. Just silence from the kitchen. Distant. Measured. Like someone walking along the edge of a cliff, carefully choosing every step.

Betsy gave Carla one last look. A glance that said deal with this, whether you want to or not. Then she turned and climbed the stairs, her footsteps fading into the upper floor with a soft creak and thud, until they disappeared entirely.

Carla stayed rooted to the spot. Her coat was still on, zipped all the way up to her collarbone like a barrier. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the strap of her bag, knuckles pale. She blinked slowly, breathing through her nose, staring toward the kitchen like it was a battlefield she didn’t remember agreeing to fight in. The soft hum of the kettle boiling continued, the only sound in the house, rising and falling like a steady pulse. Even that felt too loud.

Then, finally, she moved.

Slowly, like her limbs were heavier than they should’ve been. She reached up, fingers fumbling with the zipper of her coat. It stuck at first, then gave way with a soft rasp. She shrugged out of it, the fabric falling from her shoulders like a weight, revealing the black hoodie beneath. Her favourite hoodie. It was like her comfort armour. She folded the coat over one arm, then let her bag slide from her shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft thud that somehow echoed.

She walked down the hallway on unsteady feet, every step cautious. Like she was approaching a stranger. Like one wrong word might send them both falling through the floor.

In the kitchen, Lisa stood with her back to her, pulling mugs from the cupboard with mechanical care. Each movement was precise, controlled.  Maybe too controlled. Her shoulders were drawn tight, shoulder blades sharp beneath the soft knit of her sweater. She moved like someone holding herself together by muscle memory alone, as though her body knew what to do even if her mind was somewhere else entirely.

The kettle clicked off. Steam rose gently, curling into the air like breath. Lisa reached for the kettle and poured water into the mugs without hesitation, as if she’d done it a thousand times before. She still hadn’t turned around. Her profile was barely visible, the line of her jaw taut with focus, or maybe restraint.

Carla lingered at the doorway, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. She hovered there, uncertain. The doorway felt like a threshold she wasn’t sure she was allowed to cross anymore. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, heart knocking quietly against her ribs.

“You’re mad at me,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. Soft, but steady. Not a question. A statement. A fact she’d been carrying in her chest since the car ride home.

Lisa’s movements didn’t stop. She stirred a spoon through one mug, then the other. The quiet clink of metal on ceramic rang out like a clock ticking down. Only when she set the spoon down with a faint tap did she finally speak and even then, her voice was flat. Blank. Carefully levelled.

“I’m not mad at you, Carla.”

Carla stepped forward, just a little. Her arms remained crossed, folded tightly across her chest, the fabric of her hoodie bunched in her fists. “Well, you clearly are. You didn’t say anything to me the whole journey home.”

Lisa exhaled through her nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a huff. It was the sound of a dam holding. Her jaw tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again. Carla watched the rhythm of it. Watched the quiet tick of emotion being suppressed, just beneath the surface. Like a clock wound too tight.

“Come on, Lisa,” Carla said gently, her voice softening as she took another cautious step into the kitchen. “Be honest with me.”

Lisa didn’t turn around.

For a moment, it seemed like she wasn’t going to answer at all. Her hands moved methodically (almost too calmly). She rinsed the spoon she’d used to stir the tea, setting it aside on a folded paper towel. The only sound in the room was the gentle clink of ceramic against metal. Behind her, the kettle let out a faint hiss as the last of the steam slipped from its spout. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Betsy’s door closing with a soft but definitive click. The fridge buzzed faintly, and even that sound felt too loud in the thick quiet between them.

“I wasn’t silent because I was angry.”

Lisa’s voice broke the silence like a slow knife: smooth, steady, but sharp. Too calm. Composed in that deliberate way people sound when they’re trying very hard not to cry, when they’re holding the ache in their throat down with all the strength they have left.

“Then why?” Carla asked, barely more than a breath. Her voice trembled, as if she already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it spoken aloud. “Why wouldn’t you speak to me?”

Lisa turned then, slowly, like she’d made the decision after some internal negotiation, and leaned her lower back against the counter. One hand curled loosely around the edge like she needed the grounding. The other stayed wrapped around the handle of the tea mug, still full, untouched. Her eyes didn’t flash with anger or fill with tears. They were dry, quiet, steady. But so tired. So full of something that wasn’t rage but hurt.

“Because if I’d spoken,” she said finally, “I might have said something I couldn’t take back.”

Carla’s breath hitched in her throat, barely audible, but enough. Her spine straightened involuntarily, bracing like someone waiting for a wave to hit. But no wave came. Just Lisa, standing there like she was keeping herself from falling apart by force of will alone.

Lisa’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “And I didn’t want to say something that would hurt you just because I was hurting.”

That silenced Carla.

Her breath hitched as if the words had taken the wind out of her. For a second, she stood completely still, frozen in the weight of what Lisa had just said. Then, slowly, her arms uncrossed like they no longer knew how to hold her together. They dropped to her sides, aimless. Useless. Her fingers twitched, uncertain, hovering just slightly like they wanted to reach out to close the distance, to touch Lisa’s hand, her arm, anything but didn’t dare. Because maybe she didn’t deserve to.

She had hurt Lisa.

She hadn’t meant to. God, she hadn’t meant to. But she had. And the weight of that truth settled in her gut like a stone: cold, dense, unmovable. It knocked something loose inside her, and she could feel the crack of it start to spread.

“I didn’t mean to.” Her voice broke on the words, scraping out of her like something raw and unfinished. She didn’t look at Lisa when she said it. She couldn’t. Her gaze hovered somewhere near the floor, like meeting Lisa’s eyes would make it too real. Like it would make her crumble.

Lisa didn’t say anything.

She just stood there. Still. Watching her. Not with anger. Not even disappointment. But with restraint. Like she was keeping something tightly coiled inside. Like if she let it out, it would spill over and neither of them would know how to put it back.

The silence stretched until Carla couldn’t bear it anymore. She needed to speak. Needed to do something, even if it was the wrong thing.

“It was a split second,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush. “She came out of nowhere, and I panicked.” Her throat tightened again. “I’ve been hiding for so long I didn’t even think. It just happened.”

“I know.” Lisa’s responded softly. Almost too softly.

And somehow, that was worse than yelling. That gentle tone. That understanding. That grace. It cut deeper than any accusation ever could. It landed like a bruise pressed too hard. Because even while she was hurting, Lisa was still being kind. Still giving Carla, the benefit of the doubt.

“It feels like you’ve given up on me” Carla whispered. Her voice was almost inaudible, but it cracked wide open. The fear underneath it wasn’t hidden anymore. It was all right there, exposed and trembling.

Lisa blinked, slow and deliberate, as if the words had struck her somewhere vulnerable. The silence stretched again before she finally shook her head, a subtle, heartbreaking motion. “I haven’t,” she said. “But for ten seconds, just ten seconds, someone asked who I was to you, and I didn’t exist.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “It was like I meant nothing to you.”

Carla felt her whole chest squeeze inward. Her mouth opened but nothing came. No defence. No justification. Just the thud of her heart and the sharp sting behind her eyes. She turned slightly, the motion small and almost unconscious, bringing her fingers to her lips like she could hold the guilt in physically. Like pressing her hand to her mouth could undo it.

“That’s not true,” she said eventually, voice barely holding together. “You know that’s not true.”

Carla knew how desperate she sounded but she didn’t care. All that mattered was fixing things with Lisa. Fixing things with the one person she can be herself with. The one person who mattered more to her than anything else. More than fear. More than appearances. More than the way her chest squeezed every time she let herself feel too much.

She took a shaky breath, like she had to steady herself just to say it. “I didn’t drop your hand because you don’t mean anything to me,” she said, her voice hoarse, like she was choking on the truth. “I dropped it because I was terrified.”

The admission tasted like rust and shame in her mouth. It made her want to flinch. Not from Lisa, but from herself. She had told Lisa how brave she made her and then dropped her at the first sign of recognition. She felt ashamed to admit how scared she really was in that moment. She felt ashamed to admit that she let fear win.

Lisa didn’t speak immediately. She blinked once and her mouth moved like she wanted to respond but had to pull the words through something stuck in her throat. Eventually, she nodded. A small, stiff tilt of the chin, so slight it was almost unnoticeable. Like her body had to force itself to agree, even as everything in her clenched tight to hold back what she really wanted to say.

“I believe you,” she said quietly.

The words hung there suspended for a moment that felt like forever. They should have helped. But they didn’t. Because Lisa’s belief, while genuine, didn’t wrap around Carla like safety. It didn’t erase the ache or patch the fracture between them. It was true but it wasn’t enough. Not this time.

“Then why does it feel like we’re about to fall apart?” Carla asked.

The question ripped free of her before she could stop it. Like it had been sitting in her lungs the whole time, waiting for the right moment to escape. Her voice cracked on the last word, and her eyes glossed over, tears threatening to spill. Her whole body felt like it was trembling from the inside. Too much emotion trying to get out through too little space.

This wasn’t just fear anymore. It was that slow, creeping dread you feel when something precious starts to slip through your fingers and no matter how tightly you try to hold on, you can’t stop it.

Lisa didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looked down at the mug still gripped in her hand like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her thumb moved over the ceramic handle in small, repetitive circles. So subtle. So controlled. But Carla recognized it for what it was: a nervous habit. Something to do with her hands while she wrestled with feelings too big to say out loud.

Then Lisa let out a slow breath through her nose, a release, and carefully, almost reverently, set the mug down on the counter. She didn’t slam it. Didn’t even let it clink. It was delicate. Intentional.

Carla’s stomach twisted.

She knew that version of Lisa. The one who moved slowly, gently, like the world around her might break if she wasn't careful. That same caution she used when handling fragile things: old books that were cracking at the seam, the photo album she never let anyone else touch, the tiny plant on the windowsill that she always waters just right.

That was how Lisa treated people when they were already cracked. When she didn’t want to make the fracture worse. And right now, Carla could feel herself being held in that same kind of silence. She was the fragile thing. And Lisa was still trying not to break her. Lisa was trying to find a way to make her words not hurt.

“I’m not asking you to shout it from rooftops,” Lisa said, her voice cracking through the quiet like a fault line opening. Emotion coming through her voice for the first time that evening.

Carla flinched, just barely, as if the sound alone had weight.

Lisa’s hands were braced on the counter now, knuckles blanched white from how tightly she gripped the edge. Her jaw clenched so hard it looked like her teeth might splinter. There was a tremor running through her, present in the way her shoulders pulled tight, the way her body seemed to vibrate with barely contained feeling.

“I just wanted to be acknowledged,” she said, and now each word came louder, faster, like she’d been holding them back too long. “I didn’t need a label. I didn’t need a grand declaration. But some kind of recognition that I matter to you, that I’m not just some stranger you happened to be walking next to, would have been nice.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, bitterness and hurt tangled together. She wasn’t yelling. Not exactly. But it felt louder than a shout. Heavier. Carla opened her mouth, breath catching in her throat, but Lisa didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not now. It was like a dam had been broken and all the hurt that Lisa had felt was being released.

“You didn’t even have to say I was your girlfriend,” she went on, her tone now edged with something jagged. “Just a simple, ‘This is Lisa, she’s someone important to me.’ That would’ve been enough. That would’ve told me I’m not invisible.”

Her hands had started to shake. She pulled them away from the counter and clenched them into fists at her sides, as if trying to physically hold herself together. She paused, drew in a shallow breath but the pause wasn’t long enough for Carla to speak. “But instead,” Lisa said, her voice wobbling now, “you dropped my hand like it was burning you.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. Just a bitter exhale twisted into something almost mocking. “And then you called me a friend. A friend.” She repeated it, quieter this time. “Not even a best friend. Just… a friend.” Her voice cracked open on the last word, and her expression twisted like she’d been punched. “That hurts, Carla,” she whispered. “It hurts. And it’s not all going to be okay just because you were scared.”

Carla didn’t try to argue. Couldn’t. Her throat felt raw, her lungs tight. Her chest folded in on itself like something collapsing. She stood there, arms limp, the air thick between them. Lisa’s words echoed inside her like a siren that wouldn’t shut off.

Just a friend.

She heard it again from her own memory. That moment playing on repeat, her own voice panicked and flat, hollow and sharp. A reflex. A defence. A mistake.

It haunted her.

A mistake she couldn’t rewind.

A wound she didn’t know how to stitch.

“I…” Carla started, but her voice broke before she could finish. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, tried again. “If I had said, ‘This is Lisa, she’s very important to me,’ that would have just led to more questions.” Her voice was low, quiet “Questions I didn’t want to answer.”

Lisa’s eyes lifted at that, and confusion flickered across her face, chased by something more painful. Disbelief. Disappointment. Betrayal. “Oh,” she said, her voice flat now. “So you don’t want to answer questions about me?”

The accusation landed like a slap, even though she hadn’t raised her voice. Carla’s head shook before the words even left her mouth. “No! No, Lisa,” she said, voice rising with desperation. “You’re putting words into my mouth now.”

Lisa let out a shaky breath like it stung to breathe at all. Her hand lifted to her face, rubbed hard across her forehead, then dropped again. Her eyes closed. For a second, she looked like she might cry from exhaustion. The emotional kind. The kind that builds up over too many moments of holding back, of not saying things that needed saying.

Her whole body sagged, folding inward slightly, like her own weight had finally caught up to her. “I know,” she whispered, and this time her voice was soft again. Frayed. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her hands hung at her sides now. Empty. “This is why I didn’t speak in the car,” she said, voice trembling. “My emotions get the better of me and I say things I don’t mean. I didn’t want to do that to you.” Her shoulders sagged as the words left her. She ran a hand down her face and let it fall back to her side, fingers curling briefly into a fist before releasing.

“I know it was awful. I know what it sounded like. I understand why you’re hurting, Lise,” Carla said, her voice low, choked, like it was being dragged over gravel. Her throat worked around the words like they were too big, too jagged to fit. “But you don’t understand what that moment felt like for me.”

She stepped in a little closer, enough that they were breathing the same air. Enough to feel the static between them, the charged quiet of two people standing on the edge of something breakable.

“One second, we were leaving the cinema and everything felt so normal. So safe.” Her eyes darted toward the floor, like the memory itself made her wince. “And then suddenly, there’s someone looking at me for the first time in months. Someone who doesn’t actually care about me. Someone who just wants to see me. To confirm I’m still something they can consume, comment on, dissect.”

She paused, forcing herself to meet Lisa’s eyes again.

“And so I reverted,” she said, shame bleeding into her voice like ink in water. “I slipped back into this old version of myself. Someone I thought I buried the second I met you.” Her voice wavered again, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t step back. If anything, she seemed to lean forward, ever so slightly, like she was trying to close a gap that felt bigger than it looked. “I don’t want to be that person, Lisa,” she said, breath hitching. “I want to be the real me. With you.”

Lisa’s gaze didn’t soften. Instead, her brow tightened. She was guarded. The sharpness in her eyes wasn’t cruelty; it was pain looking for clarity. “And the real version can’t hold my hand?” she asked, voice low and flat. Her words had an edge that cut clean.

Carla flinched. The question sliced through the space between them with surgical precision. “That’s not fair,” she said, instinctive, defensive but even as she said it, she knew how weak and helpless it sounded.

Lisa’s voice cracked as she spoke again. “Isn’t it?” she asked, her voice swelling with hurt. “Today just made me realise that we’re in very different places, Carla.”

It wasn’t just what she said, it was how she said it. Like she’d been trying to deny that truth for weeks, maybe months, maybe since that very first moment they met. Carla’s body stilled. The words hit with a strange, hollow impact. She blinked, once. Twice. Her heartbeat stumbled, then picked up again, uneven.

“I didn’t want that to be true.” Her voice was barely audible now. Threadbare. Fraying.

Lisa nodded, slowly. Her expression didn’t harden, but it didn’t soften either. “Neither did I,” she said. And though her voice was quieter, it still carried a blunt, devastating honesty. “But it is. And we have to figure out what that means.”

A silence dropped between them like a curtain. Thick. Tangled. Neither of them seemed to know how to pull it aside. Carla swallowed hard. Her arms hung heavy at her sides. Her hands curled into the hem of her sweater like she needed something to anchor her.

“Are you saying we shouldn’t be together?”

The words trembled out of her: unsteady and frightened. She could already feel her eyes starting to sting, vision blurring at the edges. This wasn’t how today was supposed to end. They were supposed to see a film. Laugh about the plot on the way home. Fall asleep in bed, skin against skin, their breathing syncing like always.

Not this.

Never this.

“I’m saying…” Lisa paused, trying to choose her words carefully, like the wrong ones might detonate everything. “I’m saying I don’t want to pretend. I’m too old, too tired, and frankly I like you too much to play a supporting role in my own relationship.”

It wasn’t said cruelly. If anything, it was the opposite. Lisa’s tone was calm again. Low and firm, like someone steadying themselves in a storm. There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth. She stepped forward slightly, and the space between them seemed to shift; the air thickening with the weight of everything unspoken.

“I’ve had a wife, Carla.” Her voice trembled, barely, but she didn’t waver. Her shoulders stayed square, her spine held upright like the words were holding her together even as they hurt to say. “We raised a daughter. I introduced people to my family with pride, even when I knew the room didn’t approve. Even when the looks came, or the whispers. And when Becky died” she paused, swallowing back the sudden rush of grief, “I was still proud of the life we had.”

“Whenever I told people I was a widow, and they offered their condolences, I always had to correct them.” She looked down, lips parting on a breath she couldn’t quite release. “I wanted to correct them. I never wanted to erase the fact I had a wife. I didn’t want to let people think I had a husband”

She blinked at the floor, still as a statue, like moving too much would fracture something she was holding together with sheer will. “I’ve taught Betsy since she was old enough to ask questions that some people wouldn’t understand who her parents were. That not everyone would think her family was normal.” She exhaled slowly, steadily, and looked up again. Her eyes found Carla’s, and something fierce burned there. “And you know what I told her to say? I told her to hold her head high. I told her not to apologise for who she is, or who she loves, or what her life looks like. Not ever.”

Her voice didn’t waver this time. Not on those words. But when she looked away again, blinking hard, her voice dropped so soft it almost vanished into the room. “I can’t go back now,” she said. “I can’t be someone’s shame. I’ve already fought too hard to be proud. To love who I am.”

Carla didn’t move at first. She stood frozen, her chest rising and falling too quickly, like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, finally, slowly, she stepped forward. Not enough to close the distance, not enough to touch. But enough.

“I’m not asking you to go back into the closet.” Her voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

Lisa gave a short, bitter smile. Her lips curved without humour, without warmth. “That’s what today felt like.”

Carla’s eyes burned at the truth of it. She didn’t argue. Instead, she took another cautious step, her hands tightening in the sleeves of her jumper like she needed something to hold onto.

“I know it did,” she whispered, her throat thick with guilt. “And I hate that. I hate that I made you feel that way.” Her fingers worked nervously at the fabric, twisting and untwisting, trying to ground herself in motion. “But you have to understand” She looked up, jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple for me.”

Lisa’s brow creased. Her arms crossed again, protective, like she was bracing herself. “It’s not simple for anyone.”

Carla shook her head sharply. “No. That’s not what I mean.” Her voice cracked. It was raw, unfiltered, too full to hold back. “You don’t get it, Lisa. You have control. You got to come out room by room. You got to decide who knew, and when, and how. I don’t have that luxury.”

The silence that followed bristled. Lisa blinked, visibly caught off-guard. “You think it was a luxury?” Her voice sharpened, and behind it sat unmistakable hurt. “Carla, I was nineteen and terrified. I came out to my parents at a kitchen table while they stared at the wall instead of looking at me. I had to explain why I loved my girlfriend like I was confessing a sin. They disowned me. I haven’t heard from them since.”

The pain surged forward now like a slow, rising tide. “I had to explain to a primary school teacher why Betsy had two mums. In front of half the other parents. And I knew, I knew what they were thinking. I felt the judgment from a mile away. I carried it every day.”

Carla’s hands trembled now. Her breath hitched and she interrupted, her voice too raw to filter. “And I don’t get to explain anything! That’s my point, Lisa.”

She started pacing, the space suddenly too small, too tight to contain what she felt. Her words came faster now, tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.

“If I came out to that fan today, I wouldn’t just be coming out to her. I’d be coming out to the whole world. She’d post it on her Instagram story, her Twitter, God knows what else, and within hours it’d be headlines.”

Her laugh was bitter. Tired. It caught in her throat like something she didn’t have the energy to fully expel. “Then the articles start. The headlines. The buzzwords. ‘Queer icon.’ ‘Love life scandal.’ Oh, and don’t forget ‘midlife crisis,’” she added, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because, obviously, the only reason I could possibly be with a woman is that I’ve completely lost the plot. Clearly, I must be unravelling. Losing my grip. Having some mental breakdown because I’m close to the sacred age of fifty and dared to want something real.”

Her jaw tightened, but her eyes were glassy now, swimming with something brittle and rising fast. She looked at Lisa. “And then they’d find me,” she whispered. Her voice dropped further, like she was afraid speaking the next part too loudly would make it come true. “They’d find you. They’d find Willowbrook. They’d find our homes. They’d park vans outside. Hide in the trees with long lenses. Try to talk to you and Betsy every time you leave the house. They’d twist every answer into something clickable.”

She took a breath like it physically hurt to inhale. “You don’t know what that’s like, Lisa. You can’t know. It’s not just a headline for me. It’s a grenade. It’s all of them deciding who I am without asking me. It’s cameras in your face and people screaming your name when all you want is to buy milk. It’s a narrative they write for you. One I’d never get to own.” Her voice broke then, the edges fraying. “Questions they just shout in your face like you don’t matter. Like your life doesn’t matter. Like you’re just content. Just a moment they get to dissect and post and tear apart. Questions I shouldn’t have to answer just because I held your hand outside a cinema.”

Lisa didn’t speak at first.

She just stood there still, silent. Her arms were loose at her sides, fingers no longer clenched, face no longer taut. Something was changing behind her eyes. Her gaze stayed on Carla. It was unwavering and unguarded, but it wasn’t sharp now. It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t anger anymore. Not even hurt. Just understanding. The kind that only comes after everything else has been stripped away.

The silence that followed was like a held breath. Carla didn’t look away, but it cost her everything to keep Lisa’s gaze. Because she knew what she looked like right now. Exposed. Cornered. Vulnerable in a way she’d spent her whole life trying not to be.

“You’re right,” Lisa said quietly.

Carla blinked. The air caught in her chest like a gasp she hadn’t meant to swallow. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” Lisa repeated, more certain this time. “The press. The noise. The way people take pieces of your life and twist them into headlines.” She exhaled softly, like something was loosening in her chest too. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about it like that.”

Her voice changed again then, lower, more tender. “Sometimes I forget you’re a famous writer and not just my Carla.”

That undid something in Carla completely. Her throat went tight in a different way now. From the unbearable intimacy of being seen, being wanted by somebody. Her lips parted, like she wanted to respond, but no words came out. Her heart was thudding hard against her ribs, too loud in her own ears. It felt like it was trying to speak for her to say yes or thank you or don’t let go but she couldn’t find the right shape for the words.

Lisa wasn’t done. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, more carefully now, her tone full of reverence. “Being a writer is part of your identity. Has been since the day I met you. The real you. And I admire that. I love watching you work. That focus you get when you’re deep into something, like the world could fall apart around you and you wouldn’t even blink.” She smiled, small but real. “I just, I forget about the famous bit. That you’re someone people follow. That they think they own parts of you just because they’ve read your books. And you shouldn’t have to have one person, one stranger, spread everything about your life like it belongs to them.”

Carla gave a small shrug, her shoulders curving inward like she was trying to disappear into herself. It wasn’t dismissive. It was weary. A bone-deep weariness that made her feel older than she was. She took a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly, like releasing a weight she’d been holding too tightly. “You get used to it,” she murmured.

Lisa’s response came without hesitation, soft and unwavering. “You shouldn’t have too darling”

The endearment slipped between them so gently it didn’t feel like a grand gesture. It felt like a balm. Like someone pulling a blanket around your shoulders after a storm. Carla felt it land in her chest and settle there. Warm. Steady. Quietly shattering. She hadn’t ruined everything. Not completely. Lisa still liked her. Still saw her. Even through all the fear, the hesitation, the messy edges of who she was.

“I know,” Carla said softly, voice thin with emotion but clear. “But my life doesn’t work like that.” She breathed out again, something fragile loosening with it. “I just need to learn to be brave again,” she said. Her eyes lifted, locking onto Lisa’s. “I meant it earlier when I said I feel like I can do anything with you by my side. I want people to know. I don’t want to keep you a secret.”

Lisa’s gaze softened like dawn breaking over something bruised but still standing. Her eyes shone with something fierce and tender all at once. Pride. Love. Patience. “Then let’s be brave together,” she said. “Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy.”

Carla blinked, her body leaning toward her before she even noticed it happening. Relief bloomed in her chest like a sudden spring thaw. She laughed under her breath, small, disbelieving, aching. “Even if it takes me a while to tell the world you’re my girlfriend?”

Lisa smiled honestly. She stepped forward and finally reached for Carla’s hand. And just like that, it was theirs again. Fingers threading together with the kind of ease that didn’t need fanfare to be felt. It had always been there, even when it slipped. “I’m not saying I’ll wait forever,” Lisa said with a small lift of her brow, gently teasing but grounded in truth. “But yeah. Even then. Coming out is a big deal. I know that. I’ve been through it. Everyone’s journeys are different.”

Carla looked down at their hands. At how they were still intertwined, still warm, still real. Her thumb brushed instinctively over Lisa’s knuckles, like her body was trying to apologise before her mouth could. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lisa squeezed her hand gently. “And I’m sorry I let my hurt cloud my judgment,” she replied. “I didn’t mean to make coming out sound so easy. And I’m sorry if you felt like I was invalidating your feelings.”

Carla shook her head before Lisa could even finish. “You didn’t. Not for a second.” There was no doubt in her voice now. Just certainty. “You’ve never made me feel anything but safe. Seen. Valid. You were hurt, and you had every right to be. You’re only human, Lisa.”

And that was the thing, really. They both were.

A silence followed but not the kind that came from things left unsaid. This one was soft. Easy. The kind of silence that lived in long mornings and shared cups of coffee. The kind that didn't ask for words to prove that everything was okay.

Lisa nodded toward the living room, her thumb brushing over Carla’s hand. “Come on,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Let’s sit down before we both collapse.”

She gave Carla’s hand one last squeeze and then turned, leading the way without letting go. They moved together, shoulder to shoulder, steady now. Behind them, the mugs of tea sat on the counter: untouched and gone cold. Forgotten relics of a conversation that had nearly undone them. But hadn’t.

The living room welcomed them with a hush that felt almost sacred. Only a single lamp glowed in the corner, casting a soft amber light that bled gently over the furniture and walls. It painted everything in gold, turning sharp edges into something softer, safer. The sofa looked impossibly inviting.

Lisa sank down first. Her shoulders curved inward as she let out a long breath, full of the kind of tension that lives in your bones. Tension that had been there all evening, maybe longer. She shifted slightly, making space beside her, then looked up. Her eyes said it before her mouth could: Come here.

Carla hesitated only for a moment before joining Lisa on the sofa, curling into the space that had opened like it was always meant for her. Her knees tucked up beneath her, her side brushed gently against Lisa’s, and she let herself rest.

Lisa’s arm moved instinctively, like her body had already made the decision her mind hadn’t needed to. It rose in a slow, familiar arc, curving around Carla’s shoulders with practiced ease. Her hand came to rest just over the curve of Carla’s upper arm, that delicate dip between muscle and bone, her fingers splaying lightly against warm skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.

She didn’t grip. She didn’t hold too tightly. It wasn’t a desperate clutch for closeness. It was steadier than that. More certain. She simply pulled Carla in with a quiet kind of assurance. No urgency, no question. Just presence. Just this. Just them. As though her arm had always been meant to rest there. As though Carla had always been meant to fill that space.

Their bodies came together easily, almost instinctively. Not perfectly. They’d never been that. It was more like puzzle pieces that had spent enough time together to learn each other’s edges. To know where to yield. Where to fit.

Carla let her head fall gently against Lisa’s chest, finding the place just beneath her collarbone where she could nestle close without having to ask. The warmth of Lisa’s body seeped into her like heat through a blanket, comforting and steady. She could feel the soft, even rhythm of her breathing. It was slower now, steadier than it had been all night and underneath that, the quiet, living drum of her heartbeat.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

It was constant. Steady. Real. And in that rhythm, Carla found something she hadn’t realised she’d been searching for. Something anchoring. Her eyes fluttered shut. Lisa’s fingers began to move without thought, brushing slowly up and down Carla’s arm in a rhythm that had been worn into her over time. The movement was light, absentminded almost, but its effect was anything but. It soothed.

The room around them stayed quiet, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that echoed. It wasn’t hollow or cold.

It was full.

Full of all the things they hadn’t said out loud. All the apologies that had been woven into looks, into touches. Full of everything they’d finally let themselves feel: the relief, the hurt, the hope still trembling between them.

It was the kind of silence that felt earned.

Carla exhaled slowly, her whole body sinking just a little deeper into Lisa’s. Her hands relaxed. Her jaw unclenched. Something inside her that had been on high alert since the cinema (maybe even longer) finally began to soften.

And for the first time since that fan had stopped them on the street, asked that too-familiar question, and ripped the curtain off a moment that should’ve been private, she felt something close to peace.

It was in that quiet, in the hum of the lamp, the gentle touch, the sound of breathing layered over heartbeat, that they both let go.

Not of each other. Never that.

But of everything else.

The fear that had sharpened every word. The defensiveness that had made them flinch instead of speak. The what ifs that had loomed like shadows over all the tender parts of this thing they were building. For the first time that evening, they weren’t bracing for impact. Weren’t waiting to be hurt or misunderstood. They were just being. In the warmth. In the moment. In the quiet, aching relief of still choosing one another, even after everything.

Neither of them seemed to notice the faint creak of the floorboards above. That soft, almost hesitant groan of old wood settling under quiet footsteps. Nor did they hear the careful shuffle of socked feet descending the stairs, each step muted and tentative on the polished hardwood, like someone trying not to disturb a fragile moment.

A moment later, Betsy appeared in the doorway.

She wore an oversized hoodie (probably one of Lisa’s) the fabric hanging loose and comfortable on her smaller frame. In one hand, she clutched a half-open packet of crisps, the thin plastic crinkling faintly with each breath she took. She was mid-crunch, caught in that brief pause between bites, when she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

Her gaze fell on the couch. On them.

Lisa and Carla, curled into each other with a quiet intimacy that seemed almost sacred. Lisa’s arm was still wrapped protectively around Carla’s shoulders, her fingers resting just so, light and sure. Carla’s head lay softly against Lisa’s chest, tucked beneath the curve of her collarbone, her breathing slow and even. Their fingers remained gently interlocked, the touch effortless and tender. There was no more grasping, no more tension. Just quiet closeness, a calm that radiated from them like warmth.

The scene wasn’t meant for an audience. It was a private thing, fragile and unspoken.

But Betsy didn’t move.

She lingered in the doorway, blinking once, as if blinking might somehow freeze the moment in place. The crisp paused midway to her mouth, held motionless, the usual spark of her playful smirk nowhere to be seen. Instead, her expression softened, shifting into something almost reverent, like she was looking at something precious, something rare.

It was clear she didn’t want to break this. Like seeing them like this, unguarded, connected, at peace, meant more than words could say. And then, slowly, a small smile curved the corners of her lips. It wasn’t the teasing grin she often wore. Nor was it smug or mocking.

It was satisfied.

Deep-down glad.

They’d worked it out.

Whatever “it” was. Whatever the storm had been. Betsy didn’t need to know all the details to understand this was different now. She could feel the shift. The brittle tension she’d sensed earlier, that sharp, crackling energy in the hallway, it had softened, melted away.

In its place was something warmer. Something real.

The very air seemed to hold a gentler tone, as if the house itself was breathing easier.

Without a word, Betsy took a careful step back, her socked feet silent against the wood. She gave them one last lingering look, like she was etching the image into her memory, before turning away.

As she slipped out of sight, she tugged the sleeve of her hoodie up over her face, hiding a grin she clearly didn’t want either of them to see.

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked once more, a soft echo in the stillness. Then came the quiet click of her bedroom door closing gently behind her.

Down in the living room, neither Lisa nor Carla noticed a thing. They were too lost in each other. Carla let out a long breath. The kind that had been held, tangled in her chest all evening, trapped beneath layers of tension and fear. It escaped her in a slow, steady exhale, like steam rising off something hot finally cooling down. The release was subtle but profound, as if letting go of a weight she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying.

She shifted slightly against Lisa’s side, a small movement but one full of meaning. It was grounding, a quiet claim of space and presence. Her fingers tightened around Lisa’s hand. “We’re definitely okay, right?”

Her voice was soft, almost fragile, delicate in the way of someone whose heart has just been stitched back together after cracking open. It was the kind of question that needed to be said out loud, even if part of her already knew the answer deep down.

Lisa’s gaze dropped to her, eyes heavy from the weight of the night’s emotions but still soft, still steady, still wholly hers. “Yeah,” she murmured. Her voice carried more than reassurance. It was a promise. We’re okay.”

Her thumb brushed slowly along the inside of Carla’s arm. A touch so gentle it felt like an instinct, absentminded but deliberate. Like she was memorising every inch of her, committing it to memory all over again. Carla nodded, her cheek resting lightly against the soft fabric of Lisa’s shirt. She closed her eyes again, savouring the moment, the quiet warmth pressing in around them.

Lisa didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have to. There were words hovering just beneath the surface. Words too big to unpack in the fragile silence of the moment. They sat behind her teeth, resting just at the back of her throat, waiting for another time.

Instead of speaking them, Lisa leaned in and pressed a kiss into Carla’s hair: soft, lingering, full of unspoken promises. Then she pulled Carla a little closer, holding her tighter, as if trying to keep the fragile peace between them from slipping away. Like she didn’t want to let go for a long, long while.

And in the silence that followed, they didn’t speak.

They just breathed. The slow, steady rise and fall of their chests synced in time, a quiet rhythm anchoring all the uncertainty that had swirled around them earlier.

The world outside, the press, the whispers, the endless what-ifs, could wait.

For now, they had this.

And this was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Carla woke slowly, like she was rising through layers of thick, warm water. She was suspended somewhere between sleep and consciousness, her body heavy and reluctant to surface. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was. There was only stillness. Then, gently, her senses began to return, one by one.

The soft, muffled trill of birdsong filtered through the double-glazed windows, distant and dreamy. The air was cool on her face, but her body was wrapped in warmth. The duvet tucked around her waist in gentle folds, dense and comforting, like being held. Her skin tingled faintly with the shift in temperature; bare legs tangled in sheets that were still rumpled from sleep.

The scent hit her next. Lavender, subtle but lingering, clinging to the pillow beneath her cheek. Lisa’s pillow. The smell was soothing and achingly familiar, a blend of fabric softener and whatever scent shower gel Lisa had bought that month. It was the kind of smell that could only come from shared routines and closeness. Intimacy.

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, blinking herself awake in small, slow blinks. There was no urgency pulling her into the day, no sharp sound or cold alarm. Just the soft weight of morning pressing against the edges of her awareness. Her mind was groggy, but her body remembered. Her body ached the way it always did after too many emotions and too little rest. It was the ache that came from too much feeling, too little peace. Emotional soreness. Her limbs felt heavy. Her breathing shallow. It lived in her chest and behind her eyes. A kind of emotional hangover that settled in her bones.

Beside her, Lisa was still asleep.

She was lying on her side, turned toward Carla, the duvet pulled halfway up her torso. Their faces were close. Just a few inches apart. Close enough that Carla could feel the soft puff of Lisa’s breath against her own skin. Each exhale was warm and slow, like the rhythmic ebb of waves on a shore.

Lisa’s face, normally so composed and reserved, had been stripped of all its usual guardedness. There was no trace of sarcasm or intellect sharpened to a point, only softness. Her brow was smooth, uncreased by thought. Her lips parted just slightly, pink and slack in sleep. One cheek was buried in the pillow, the other turned upward, catching the light. A faint crease ran from the corner of her mouth up to her temple where the fabric had pressed into her skin overnight.

Her hand, the one closest to Carla, was curled gently between them, palm up. Fingers slightly splayed, as if they had reached out at some point during the night and simply never found what they were looking for. There was something heartbreakingly tender in the way it rested there. Unclenched. Unafraid.

Carla couldn’t look away.

Sunlight had crept in through the gap in the curtains, slipping through in delicate slants that painted the duvet in soft gold. One of those sunbeams caught in Lisa’s hair, turning the blonde strands into something burnished and warm as if they were spun with light. Carla watched the way it glowed. Her chest ached.

Last night clung to her like the lingering residue of a storm. Sticky and weighty, as if it had soaked into her skin and dried there. They had peeled each other open in the dark, word by word, fear by fear. They hadn’t fought. Not really. It had been worse than a fight in some ways. It had been honesty. Raw, uncomfortable, exposing. It had hurt. They’d unravelled in front of each other with tears, and shaking hands, and the kind of silence that leaves bruises. They had held each other, not like lovers but like lifelines.

And eventually, when the vulnerability had become too much to sit in, they’d gone to bed together. Quietly. Carefully. With nothing more than the soft press of bodies beneath the covers. That mattered. They were still together. They hadn’t split up. But that didn’t mean everything was fixed.

It still felt fragile. Like if she breathed too hard, it might all come undone.

Her eyes drifted downward, past the edge of Lisa’s jaw to where the duvet had slipped slightly down her shoulder. One of the thin straps of her pyjamas had fallen off, revealing the slope of her collarbone. A graceful line of pale skin marked by a small, irregular freckle Carla had never noticed before. It made her smile. Just a little. A soft, involuntary thing.

And then she caught herself.

 The smile faded.

You’re pathetic, she thought, not unkindly. How can just looking at Lisa sleeping make you smile? Pull yourself together, Carla.

 She shifted slightly, careful not to jostle the mattress. The springs barely groaned beneath her as she adjusted her position, gaze drifting away from Lisa’s face and across the room. Her clothes, yesterday’s jeans and jumper, had been folded neatly on the chair by the wardrobe. Carla was certain she hadn’t done that. She always draped her clothes over the back haphazardly, too tired or distracted to bother with neatness. Lisa must have folded them after she’d fallen asleep. Quietly, without making a fuss. Without even mentioning it.

 They’d joined the growing pile of “Carla’s things” that seemed to be slowly overtaking Lisa’s house. A pair of socks in the laundry basket. Her favourite hoodie hanging on a hook behind the door. She had her own toothbrush that sat in the cup beside Lisa’s. She practically had a drawer at this point. Unofficial, but unmistakable. Her laptop bag was leaning against the dresser nearby, looking stiff and formal in this lived-in room of tea mugs, bookshelves, and the faint scent of rosewood from Lisa’s candles. It didn’t belong here. Or maybe it did now, in some strange way.

 Still, for all the softness around her, the weight of the duvet, the quiet hush of the flat, the slow rhythm of Lisa’s breathing, Carla knew she wasn’t going back to sleep. She could feel it already. Could feel the familiar thrum of energy that had nothing to do with rest or waking. It wasn’t her body that was tired or restless. It was her mind. Buzzing. Picking at threads. Turning things over like puzzle pieces she couldn’t quite connect.

She closed her eyes again, trying to will herself back under. But the silence wasn’t comforting. It was loud. All she could think about was how insecure Lisa had looked last night. How she’d sat on the edge of the bed, hunched in on herself like she was waiting for Carla to say she was leaving even after their conversation in the living room. How her voice had wavered. How she’d questioned, in careful words, whether Carla really wanted her in her life. Lisa, who usually radiated a quiet, anchored confidence, had looked so unsure. So small. And the worst part? Carla had been the reason. The one who’d made her feel that way.

 And then the forgiveness. Lisa’s forgiveness, offered not like a blanket but like a hand held out, open and trembling. It hadn’t come easily. It had been raw and messy and halting. But she had given it anyway. She had reached for Carla’s hand and said: “Let’s be brave together.”

Carla had nearly cried when she said it. Had felt something deep inside her crack open. Did she even deserve that kind of grace? That kind of love? Did she deserve her? She shook her head, trying to scatter the thought before it could settle. They were okay now. They were fine. There was no point in spiralling.

And yet the thoughts didn’t stop. They never did. Not really.

She lay there for another long minute, buzzing beneath her skin. Her heartbeat loud in her ears. Too loud. Like the quiet around her only amplified everything inside. The stillness of the morning made everything feel sharper. Too raw. Like being under a microscope. Her own thoughts flashing too bright behind her eyes.

If she was going to be wide awake like this, she might as well do something useful with it.

With slow, deliberate care, Carla began to move inch by inch, as though the bed itself might protest. She shifted her weight with practiced precision, careful not to wake Lisa. The duvet peeled back noiselessly, cool air rushing in to meet her skin. She slipped her legs free from the tangled sheets, her muscles still stiff with sleep and yesterday’s emotional weight. Her feet hit the wooden floor with a soft, dull thud feeling the cold floor beneath her skin. It was a grounding sort of cold that reminded her she was real, here, now. Not floating in the fog of memory or emotion. Not trapped in the spiral.

She glanced back instinctively, gaze drawn to the still form behind her. Lisa hadn’t moved. Her body remained curled in sleep, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting loosely against the duvet. Her lashes fluttered faintly, chasing dreams, maybe, but her breathing was steady. Peaceful.

Carla’s chest tightened. A knot of something she couldn’t name. She let out a breath, barely audible, and moved across the room with quiet feet. The light was soft, slanting in through the gap in the curtains brushing the floor in long, sleepy stripes. It turned everything pale gold and dust-swept, like a room caught between night and morning. Caught between what was and what could be.

She reached for the first jumper she could find without having to scramble through Lisa’s wardrobe. She found something oversized and familiar folded next to her clothes. It smelled faintly of Lisa’s fabric softener, that clean cotton scent that clung to everything Lisa owned. Carla pulled it over her head without thinking, sleeves slightly too long even for her, the collar brushing the curve of her collarbone. It didn’t belong to her. But it felt like it could.

She grabbed her laptop next. The weight of it solid, known, a small anchor in the quiet. The door clicked softly shut behind her as she stepped out of the bedroom. The sound seemed louder than it was, echoing in the hush like a stone dropped into still water. She winced, instinctively pausing, but no movement came from the bedroom. No stirring. Just silence. Relieved, Carla moved down the stairs and padded into the kitchen.

The light in here was different. Wider. More open. The kind of morning light that seemed to smooth out the edges of things and made countertops and coffee mugs and crumpled tea towels look like set pieces in a still life painting. The kind of light that asked nothing of you but to notice it. She set her laptop on the kitchen table, flipped it open, and sank into a chair with a long, slow breath. Her body folded in on itself slightly. The cold white glow of the screen lit her face from below, casting quiet shadows along her jaw and beneath her eyes.

The blank page stared back at her. The cursor blinked. Patient. Expectant. Inescapable. She hated that. Always had. That little blinking line felt like judgment. It was pressure. It was like a dare she wasn’t always sure she was brave enough to take. Write something, it seemed to whisper. Anything.

Carla cracked her knuckles slowly, one by one. A nervous ritual more than a release. She exhaled through her nose and placed her fingertips on the keys. She started typing. Not fluidly. Not confidently. But she typed. Slowly. Hesitantly. Fingers hovering for a heartbeat too long before pressing down, one after the other. The words came in a trickle. Uncertain but real. Maybe not the right words, maybe not the perfect ones. But they existed. They formed something. A shape. A beginning.

The cursor blinked again. But this time, Carla blinked back. She wasn’t going to let the blinking cursor win. Not today.

She didn’t want to wake her. Not when she looked like that. Arms loose around the pillow, mouth parted slightly, the early light turning her hair to something impossibly soft. She looked safe, she thought. And somehow, that made her feel safe too. Safer than she’d felt in years. Even in the middle of the worst storm of her life. Literally and metaphorically.

Safe.

Lisa made her feel that. And that wasn’t something Carla let herself feel often. In fact, maybe ever. Not really. Not when it mattered. Especially not with people who had the power to leave. Because that kind of safety, the soft, skin-warmed kind, the kind that wrapped around you without needing to be earned, was dangerous. Addictive.

Carla had always been more comfortable with the illusion of control. Detachment. Guarded edges. It lowered her guard, and when her guard was down, everything else came rushing in. She’d spent years learning how to keep herself buttoned up and at arm’s length. But with Lisa, there was no performance. No need to shape herself into something more convenient. Somehow, the defences that had taken years to build just didn’t hold. They didn’t even crack dramatically. Not like you see they do in the romcoms. No here’s simply softened. Quietly. Gradually. Like sandcastles in the tide. How could her defences stay up when Lisa looked at her like that. When she touched her without expectation. When she spoke softly and meant every word she said.

Carla’s thumb grazed the spacebar, almost unconsciously. Like maybe touching the keyboard would untangle something in her chest. Like the act of writing might let her name this thing growing inside her. This ache that wasn’t quite pain and wasn’t quite joy, just something large and alive and unfamiliar.

The blinking cursor pulsed back at her, steady and maddening. Waiting. Expecting. Mocking, almost. She leaned back a little in the chair, the wood creaking softly beneath her, and stared at the screen. The light it cast was cold against the early warmth of the kitchen: sterile and a little too sharp. It made the room feel more distant, as if the moment had cracked slightly and she was falling through. She squinted at the blank page like it had offended her.

It was too early for this kind of emotional honesty. Too early to be writing truths disguised as fiction, the kind of truths she couldn’t even say aloud yet. Her characters weren’t ready for the weight she wanted to give them. And maybe she wasn’t ready to admit that she was writing about herself. That she always had been. That the girl in chapter seven who flinched from kindness was her. That the love interest who kept showing up with patience and kindness was Lisa in everything but name.

She tried to pull herself out of it. Tried to find that quiet space she used to go to when writing. The one untouched by real life. But it was gone. Or maybe just out of reach. Everything felt too close now. Too exposed.

It’s not about you and Lisa, she reminded herself again, for what felt like the fifth time since she had started the writing process. This story is fiction.

She let out a breath (part laugh, part sigh) and tilted her head back until it rested against the top of the chair. The ceiling above her stared blankly in return. She imagined it whispering, you’re not fooling anyone. “Just focus, Carla,” she muttered aloud, as if saying it would summon the version of herself who could. “You used to be good at that.”

The cursor blinked again. Unbothered. Patient. Like it knew she'd be back eventually.

She rolled her neck slowly, stretching out the tension that had gathered between her shoulder blades like it always did when she was trying too hard to keep things inside. Then she leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers finding the keys once more.

The words came slowly. As if her body had to coax them out before her mind could interrupt. A sentence. Then another. A metaphor that didn’t feel forced. A rhythm that carried her through the next line. And then, something that caught. A line she didn’t hate. It was something.

She made it through three sentences before she heard the soft, unmistakable rhythm of footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Lisa padded in, still barefoot, her steps quiet against the old wooden floorboards. Her hair was pulled half-heartedly into a loose bun, strands already falling out, catching the early morning light in gentle gold streaks. The sleeves of her hoodie hung past her hands, and her eyes were still puffy with sleep.

“Hey,” Lisa said, voice rough with it: hoarse, soft, like she had got out of bed before she had woken up properly. Like she got out of bed as soon as she realised Carla wasn’t there. “How long have you been up for?”

Carla looked up from the screen, her fingers hesitating just above the keyboard, the faint glow of the laptop casting pale blue light across her face. Her expression softened the second she saw Lisa standing there. “Not that long, love. It’s still early. Didn’t expect you to be up.”

Lisa gave a sleepy shrug, eyes still heavy-lidded as she moved toward the kettle with the slow, sure steps of someone who hadn’t fully returned to her body yet. She paused at the counter, leaning into it with one hand and scrubbing the sleep from her eyes with the other. “Bed felt cold without you in it,” she murmured, her voice still scratchy from sleep, almost shy.

That made Carla pause. The words caught her off guard. Not because they were new, Lisa was always honest with her, but because they were true. And gentle. And heavy in the way only simple honesty could be. Her fingers stilled on the keys as something in her chest gave a soft, involuntary tug. A twinge of something that was part ache, part affection. Soft and sharp all at once.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, aiming for casual so that Lisa wouldn’t ask too many questions. “Thought I might as well try to write.”

Lisa hummed in response. She reached up into the cupboard, grabbing two mismatched mugs without looking. It was a small thing, but it hit Carla in that vulnerable place. Lisa didn’t have to ask what mug she wanted to use or how she liked her tea anymore. She could just do things like they were muscle memory. Like they had been seen each other for years and not just a couple of months. It scared her a little, how quickly comfort could start to feel like permanence.

“Any luck?” Lisa asked, flicking the switch on the kettle with a soft click. The hum of electricity joined the stillness, barely audible under the silence that wrapped around them like a blanket.

Carla shook her head, her lips twitching into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Some sentences,” she said, her voice dry. “Some better than others.”

Lisa leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. The sleeves of her hoodie slipped down slightly, bunching around her elbows. Her body moved slowly, but her gaze was steady now, fixed on Carla, warm and calm in the golden wash of morning light filtering through the window above the sink. Her face was still soft with sleep, but her eyes held a quiet attentiveness that always seemed to catch Carla off guard.

“You should’ve woken me,” she said “We could have suffered this early start together”

Carla exhaled through her nose, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a half-smile, soft and tired. “You looked peaceful,” she murmured. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

Lisa tilted her head slightly, her mouth quirking with something unreadable. “You wouldn’t have ruined it.”

The words landed between them, gentle but weighted. Carla looked away, back at the blinking cursor on the screen. The kettle behind Lisa had started to rumble now, a low, growing sound that filled the kitchen with a kind of fragile tension. Carla welcomed it. The distraction. The noise. The excuse to retreat from the place where the conversation was clearly headed; someplace more vulnerable than she was ready for. Last night still lingered at the edges of her mind, murky and unsettled. She wasn’t sure she was ready to unpack what that all meant.

Lisa turned back to the mugs, her movements suddenly more efficient, sharper with focus. Two teabags in, the string ends hanging limply over the edges. One spoon of sugar in both. It was the way Carla liked it, even if she insisted she was trying to cut back. The water hissed as it poured, curling steam rising in slow, elegant spirals. Lisa cradled both mugs carefully in her hands, walking them to the table with the silent grace of someone who knew exactly where they were going.

She set one down beside Carla’s laptop with the quietest thud, then brushed her knuckles gently along Carla’s shoulder as she passed. “Here,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Fuel.”

Carla looked up, eyes catching on Lisa’s face, on the quiet thoughtfulness etched there. Something in her chest unknotted just a little. “You’re too good to me.”

Lisa didn’t answer right away. She simply folded into the chair across from her, drawing her own mug close and cupping it with both hands like it was something sacred. “Only because I like you.”

That earned the smallest laugh from Carla. It was barely more than a breath, but it was real, honest. For a while, they just sat in the soft hush of morning. Carla tapped absently at the keyboard, not quite writing but not quite ready to stop pretending either. Her fingers moved, pausing now and then, the screen filling slowly with lines she already knew she’d delete. Still, it felt like something. Like motion.

Lisa, meanwhile, cradled her mug between both hands, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into her palms. She sipped slowly, deliberately, savouring the tea as if it were a small ritual to anchor her to the morning. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where the sky was gently shifting. Pale morning light bled across the glass, tinged now with soft gold at the edges like the sun was hesitating before fully waking the day. Outside, tree branches caught the light, their leaves trembling in a faint breeze that stirred the curtains just enough to cast dancing shadows on the kitchen floor.

After a few minutes of quiet, Lisa reached across the table and picked up her well-worn sudoku book. The edges of the pages were curled and faintly smudged with pencil marks. She flipped it open to a half-finished puzzle and slipped into the familiar routine, her pencil tapping lightly against the paper as she picked up where she’d left off, brows furrowed in quiet concentration.

Eventually, she glanced up at the clock mounted on the far wall. Its second hand sweeping steadily in that slow, inevitable way. She sighed, long and theatrical. “I should get dressed,” she said, stretching her arms above her head with a groan that was half playful complaint. “Open the shop on time, make a very dramatic point of being a responsible business owner.”

Carla looked up, surprised by how quickly the time had slipped away. “Right. Probably for the best. Can’t keep the people waiting”

Lisa stood, the hoodie shifting and riding up slightly as she moved from the kitchen table. “You coming with?” she asked, voice light but hopeful. “Should be a slow day. You can sit in your favourite chair, judge people for their reading choices.”

Carla hesitated. That twisting feeling had returned, lodged deep in her ribs and refusing to be ignored. Carla had no idea what it was. It wasn’t anxiety. Not exactly. And it wasn’t quite guilt. Maybe it was an unsettling mixture of both. She wasn’t sure. What she did know was the quite unease was tightening around her like a knot.

“I think I’ll go home to write today,” she said softly, the words hanging between them.

“Oh.” Lisa blinked once, the hope in her voice dipping just enough to sting. “You sure?”

Carla hated the disappointment flickering in Lisa’s eyes. She hated even more that she was the one causing it. She nodded. “Yeah. I need to finish this chapter, and you are kind of distracting.” Her voice stayed light, teasing. A deliberate shield against the weight of what wasn’t said. Of what she had no idea how to articulate.

Lisa’s brow lifted, amused. “Distracting?”

“Yes, distracting.”

“Just to clarify, we are talking about me?”

“Yes, you,” Carla said, mock serious now, letting herself fall back into the familiar comfort of banter. “With all your restacking shelves and organising books. Oh, and don’t get me started on how you help people so calmly despite the ridiculous books they want to buy.”

Lisa let out a short laugh, breath catching in amusement. “So… you mean me doing my job?”

“Exactly. Very distracting,” Carla said, sticking her tongue out in childish defiance.

“You are ridiculous,” Lisa said, shaking her head but unable to hide the warmth behind the words. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, genuine and bright.

Carla leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug little satisfaction. “And yet, you still like me.”

“Unfortunately,” Lisa muttered, taking a final sip from her mug.

Carla smirked, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Admit it. I’m your favourite nuisance.”

“You’re definitely a nuisance,” Lisa replied, setting her mug down on the table with a soft clink. “But I’m withholding judgment on the favourite part.”

Carla gasped, mock offended. “Rude.”

Lisa shrugged one shoulder, the motion causing the sleeve of her hoodie to slip further down her arm, exposing the soft curve of her forearm. “You’ll survive.”

Carla scoffed, crossing her arms in playful indignation. “You’re lucky I don’t walk out right now after that.”

“You already are walking out,” Lisa practically whined, raising an eyebrow. “Apparently, I’m too distracting to work around.”

Carla gave an exaggerated sigh, leaning back in her chair again, the worn fabric creaking softly under her. “See, this is what I get for being honest. Emotional sabotage before 9 a.m.”

“Careful,” Lisa called from the doorway, her voice teasing as she turned away. “You’re dangerously close to sounding sentimental.”

Carla’s voice followed her, full of smirk and sass. “I am sentimental. Just in a cool, emotionally stunted sort of way.”

Lisa laughed properly this time. The sound was warm, deep, and a little husky from sleep. It hit Carla right in the ribs like a sudden burst of sunlight through the kitchen window. She wanted to hold onto that laugh, pocket it like a lucky coin, replay it again later when the world felt too quiet and heavy. But instead, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Right then, missus. You should get ready for work. Can’t turn up in your pyjamas. Mrs Wilson wouldn’t appreciate the lack of professionalism.”

Lisa scoffed, glancing down at her oversized hoodie and faded sleep shorts. “Excuse you. I’ll have you know this is high fashion.”

Carla gave her a slow, deliberate once-over, drawing it out just to be obnoxious. She leaned back slightly in her chair, one eyebrow raised, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Mm, yes,” she said, nodding solemnly. “Very runway chic. The sleepy librarian look is really in this season. But Mrs Wilson once accused a teenager with purple hair of witchcraft. Not sure you should risk anything love.”

Lisa snorted, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mrs Wilson loves me. I’m her favourite.”

Carla smirked, her fingers hovering above the keyboard again, though she wasn’t typing. “She called you ‘that one with the suspicious smile’ last week.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, but the amusement tugging at her mouth gave her away. “And yet,” she said stretching her arms dramatically, “she still brings me those boiled sweets that have probably been in her handbag since the early nineties.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, playful. “That’s not love, that’s a threat.”

Lisa made a noise of mock outrage, already turning toward the stairs. “You’re just jealous,” she called over her shoulder.

“Oh yeah, So jealous. I really wish I could get some of those teeth breakers” Carla said, watching her go with barely restrained affection, biting her lip to keep the smile from spreading too far. “Go on then. Go become respectable.”

Lisa glanced back over her shoulder, hoodie slouching to one side, the soft fabric catching the morning light. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Without looking up, Carla murmured, “I’ll manage. Barely.”

Lisa’s chuckle echoed softly as she disappeared upstairs, the sound mingling with the creaks and groans of the old wooden steps. It was one of those familiar household sounds that had woven itself into Carla’s idea of comfort.

Carla didn’t move at first. She just sat still, fingers curled loosely in her lap, letting the house settle around her again. She turned her gaze slowly back to the screen, blinking once, then again, as though trying to wake her brain from a dream. It was hard to reorient herself. Her mind still carried the shape of Lisa’s presence: her voice, her scent, her easy closeness.

The room felt quieter now, though not empty. Lisa was still here in the small, tender remnants of her morning routine. The half-finished sudoku book lay open on the table, a pencil tucked neatly between the pages. The faint scent of lavender and coconut from the mix of scents Lisa wears throughout the day lingered in the air, sweet and familiar, curling around Carla’s senses like a memory. And warmth still remained on her shoulder where Lisa had rested her hand.

Carla exhaled slowly. Rolled her neck until it gave a soft, satisfying crack. Then she turned back to the task she’d been wrestling with since before the sun came up: the page. The blank space that wasn’t so blank anymore. She had made some real progress this morning. Progress she was actually happy with. Lines she didn’t hate and would want to get rid of in an hours time.

A few more lines came; tentative, but real. It didn’t feel like revelation. Not quite. But it landed differently. It had weight. It settled into the page like it belonged there. Like maybe, just maybe, the voice she’d been chasing all year was finally starting to come through. She could definitely work with it later. Could give it shape, carve out the edges, add breath and texture. Make it sound like something her characters would actually say, instead of something she needed to get out of her chest and onto the screen.

The cursor blinked, steady and silent, less like it was mocking her now. It was less cruel and more like it was waiting. Watching. Ready.

She managed a decent stretch of dialogue after that. Messy, sure. First-draft ugly. But promising. There was rhythm in it. An undercurrent of tension that almost, almost, felt like truth. It surprised her, how quickly she lost herself in it again. How the rest of the room fell away. Until the sound of footsteps returned breaking her spell. Carla looked up just in time to see Lisa stepping back into the room.

She was fully dressed now, in the quiet kind of way that made Carla’s heart ache a little. No drama. No fuss. Just jeans that hugged her hips like they were made for her, and that lilac crewneck jumper that Carla had always secretly loved. The colour did something to her. It made Lisa look so soft around the edges, like something you’d want to keep safe. Her hair was half-tamed now, brushed into a low ponytail, but a few stubborn strands still framed her face.

She pushed one sleeve up absently as she walked, fingers fiddling with her keys, and Carla’s chest pinched with something tender and inexplicable. “You really not coming?” Lisa asked, her voice softer now, gentler. She stopped just short of the table, as if uncertain about whether she was interrupting. The keys in her hand gave a quiet jingle that seemed too loud in the stillness.

She closed the laptop gently, fingers lingering on the lid for a second longer than necessary. “Not today,” she said, carefully like the words might bruise if spoken too hard. She really didn’t want Lisa to feel rejected. “I really do need a full day of undisturbed writing.” Then, trying to ease the shift, she added with a faint smile, “Sorry, love. I’ll text you later to make sure Mrs Wilson hasn’t kidnapped you. Since she loves you so much.”

Lisa gave a soft laugh, barely more than an exhale, but there was fondness in it. “I appreciate the concern.”

She stepped closer. Just one stride but it brought her within reach. Her hand rose, and her fingers found Carla’s shoulder again, warm and familiar. She gave no warning, no preamble, just leaned down and kissed her. It was a quiet thing. Not rushed. Not possessive. Not even dramatic. Just them. Just natural. Contact. Comfort. Something gently grounding in a world that sometimes felt too fast, too uncertain.

When Lisa pulled back, she didn’t move away entirely. Her fingers stayed, thumb brushing softly once against Carla’s collarbone before letting go. “Enjoy your day of writing, darling,” she said, her voice still low, like she didn’t want to break the quiet between them. “Don’t work yourself too hard.”

Carla nodded, her voice nearly catching. “Same goes for you too.”

Lisa smiled faintly, adjusting the strap of her crossbody bag so it sat better on her shoulder. The keys shifted again in her hand, chiming like a quiet bell. “No promises,” she said, playful again now, winking as she turned toward the hallway.

Carla watched her go, her footsteps fading into the corridor with that same easy rhythm against the floorboards she now associated with safety, with home. Something twisted low in her chest, something warm and unsettled at the same time, but she didn’t speak. Just listened.

The latch clicked. Then the front door closed with a soft, final thud. And just like that, the house changed.

The quiet that followed was sudden. The house was undeniably still. Like everything had paused. The air seemed to settle differently without Lisa moving through it. Carla didn’t realise how much space Lisa filled until it was just her, alone with cooling tea and a silence that wasn’t quite restful.

She didn’t move at first. Just sat there, shoulders slightly hunched, the laptop closed in front of her like a sealed box she wasn’t ready to open again. Her tea sat untouched, the steam long gone, the rim of the mug faintly smudged with lip balm.

Eventually, she stood. Her body moved before her mind caught up, slipping into a quiet rhythm. She reached for her canvas bag, frayed slightly at the edges where she'd always overpacked it, and slid her laptop inside with practiced care. Then she crossed to the door, fingers brushing the sleeves of her coat as she took it off the hook. It still smelled faintly of yesterday’s choice of perfume.

She hesitated for half a second before pulling it on. Being in Lisa’s house without Lisa felt strange. The walls were the same, the furniture unmoved, but the atmosphere had shifted, thinned out. The light through the window felt colder now. The quiet was sharper.

And then there was Betsy.

Carla’s eyes flicked toward the teenager’s bedroom door down the hall. It was still closed, silent. For now. But she knew that could change at any second. And when it did, there’d be questions. Cheerful, nosy, well-meaning ones but questions all the same. About last night. About this morning. About how her and her mum were. Normally, Lisa would be there to deflect, to soften the edges of things. But now it was just her.

It made her stomach twist a little. She wasn’t even sure why she felt unsettled. Objectively, she and Lisa were fine. They’d sorted everything out. Talked it through. This morning had felt light, familiar. It had felt like them again. But the knot in her chest hadn’t fully gone. It curled there, stubborn and low, ignoring every logical reassurance she tried to throw at it.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the feeling before doing one last sweep of the house to ensure she didn’t forget anything important. She didn’t have a key to just let herself back in. Phone. Check. Keys. Check. Purse. Zipped and ready.

Only when she slipped her arms into her coat did she remember she was still in her pyjamas. Her top clung to her back where the coat and hoodie weren’t sitting together properly, and her loose cotton shorts barely brushed her thighs under the hem. A laugh puffed out of her nose. It wasn’t like she didn’t have clothes to get changed into. Her clothes from the day before were still folded neatly on the dresser in Lisa’s room, but she didn’t want to go back upstairs. She just wanted to get home. To write. To exhale properly.

It was only a ten-minute walk. Who cared if she wasn’t dressed to societies standard of a normal person.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she reached for the door handle. She could hear Lisa in her head already, smug and amused calling her a hypocrite for walking out in pyjamas after making her change for work not half an hour ago.

She opened the door, the morning air rushing in cool against her cheeks. The sky was brighter now; a washed-out blue still smudged at the edges with gold. A few early walkers passed on the other side of the road, bundled in coats, coffee cups in hand. None of them looked at her twice. She was ready, or at least willing, to face the words waiting for her at home.

Chapter Text

The morning outside was crisp, bright in a way that made her squint as soon as she stepped onto the pavement. The air held that particular bite that always came with an early morning but was sharper than a May morning had any right to be. Sunlight spilled onto the narrow street, catching on the edges of windshields and curling around lampposts. The quiet hum of Willowbrook waking up stirred behind her: distant murmurs of radios, the occasional bark of a dog from a garden down the road. It was still quite early. The minimal amount of noise was peaceful, almost sacred, like the world hadn't quite decided to start yet.

She tucked her hands into her coat pockets and walked without rushing. The route was familiar. Muscle memory more than decision. Her boots knew the pavement’s little dips and rises and the way the path narrowed slightly after the flower shop. Her feet knew the way home even if her mind was still tangled up back at Lisa’s. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag as she walked, pinching it, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to untangle, exactly. Just that something in her still felt unsettled.

Carla was glad that she was on her own. It gave her a chance to try and get rid of the weird feeling in her gut before she arrived home. There was something comforting about walking alone. No conversation to navigate, no facial expressions to interpret, no need to be anyone in particular. Just the steady rhythm of her footsteps on stone, the cool air brushing her cheeks, and her breath fogging faintly in front of her with each exhale.

Carla crossed the little junction by the bakery. The shutters were still down, pale blue paint flaking at the edges, but the smell of flour and yeast was already seeping out through the small gaps. It floated into the street like a memory, warm and faintly sweet. She breathed it in without thinking. Something about it reminded her of rainy Sundays with Lisa, of shared pastries in paper bags, cinnamon-sugar on their fingertips, crumbs scattered on Lisa’s sofa while some slow film played in the background and neither of them really watched it.

She shook her head sharply. No. No more thinking about Lisa. That was the whole point of coming home. She needed space, clarity, focus. She needed a room of her own, a roof without echoes, a day without distraction.

A pigeon flapped too close overhead, wings loud in the quiet, and she startled, ducking slightly with an involuntary jolt. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath, half-laughing as she glanced around, as if someone might’ve seen her flinch. No one had. Still, the sudden burst of adrenaline left her feeling oddly grounded, more present in her body. More here than she’d felt all morning. Maybe that was a good sign.

Carla turned the corner and was met with the familiar sight of the slightly crooked fence that surrounded her house. The gate leaned just a little to the left, like it was tired. She pushed it open. It creaked the same way it always did, a soft, aching sound that somehow felt like part of the welcome. It was one of those odd comforts, a thing she would have hated in anyone else’s home but somehow found perfect in her own temporary home.

The path leading up to the house was scattered with leaves that didn’t belong to any of the trees surrounding her street. Probably blown in from the park or someone else’s forgotten garden. She stepped over them without much thought, her boots making soft, satisfying crunches on the stone slabs as she moved toward the door.

Inside, the house was cool and still. The kind of stillness that sinks into the floorboards and walls when a place has been left alone overnight. She hadn’t been home since this time yesterday having spent the whole day yesterday with Lisa and Betsy. The faint, stale air carried the scent of old coffee grounds and lavender dish soap. Carla shrugged off her coat and hung it on the peg by the door, careful to straighten it after.

She took off her shoes, nudging them neatly beside one another near the front door. One shoe tapped lightly into place against the other, forming a quiet symmetry she hadn’t realized she needed. She stood there for a moment longer than necessary, toes wiggling against the cool floorboards, allowing the house to settle around her again. It felt like exhaling after holding her breath too long.

She padded into the kitchen, her steps soft and deliberate. Her bag landed on the table with a soft thud, the worn canvas sighing as it gave up its weight. The strap slid off the side and hung there limply, brushing against the chair leg.

She moved to the sink, the cold metal of the faucet biting against her fingers as she filled a glass with water. The water was colder than expected, and she drank it slowly, tipping the glass back one measured sip at a time. As she drank, her eyes drifted to the kitchen wall noting the pale tiles with faint floral patterns fading from age. The sunlight was creeping across them now, stretching long fingers over grout lines and corners, warming the room with a soft, sleepy kind of glow.

Then, with the ease of a well-worn routine, she turned and returned to the table. She lowered herself into her favourite seat; the one she’d claimed early on through trial and quiet error. It was close enough to the window to catch the occasional breeze when it slipped through the gap in the frame, but just far enough that the morning sun wouldn’t glare off her laptop screen and force her to squint or shift. She had tried the others. The chair across from this one wobbled ever so slightly. The one on the end made the glare on her laptop unbearable. When she wasn’t at the bookshop this chair at the kitchen table was her favourite place to write. Minimal distractions and a place that just fit. 

Her head felt clearer now. Not perfect. Not untangled. But clearer. Like the static that had followed her home, the residue of too many unspoken words at Lisa’s, the closeness that had felt slightly suffocating, the mental loop of what ifs and should she have said more, had finally begun to fade. Softened. Like background noise she could tune out. Something she could write through.

She cracked her knuckles, one by one, a small ritual she hadn’t meant to pick up but had come to rely on. The soft pops were tiny, satisfying releases of tension, grounding her in her body in a way she didn’t often admit she needed. She flexed her fingers, reached for the laptop, and opened it.

The screen blinked to life. The familiar startup hum followed. A low, soft whir she had grown to find comforting, like the laptop was stretching awake beside her. The glow of the screen lit her face faintly in the morning hush.

Carla shifted in her chair, curling one leg beneath her, drawing her knee up into the crook of her arm like she always did when settling in for a long stretch. She tucked one hand beneath her chin, elbow resting on the table’s edge. Just breathing. In. Out. The house around her was still, unmoved, a silence that didn’t press or weigh. It invited. It gave permission. The kind of stillness that felt like an open page.

She opened her document. The words from last week and this morning blinked back at her. A half-finished scene mid-thought, characters paused in the middle of a sentence that no longer sounded quite right. A patchy paragraph. A line of dialogue that made her cringe slightly. But she didn’t wince like she used to. No frustration, no judgment. Just acknowledgment. These words were a place to start. They didn’t need to be beautiful yet.

She could fix them later. Tomorrow. Next week. Or never. They didn’t have to carry all the weight right now. So instead, she scrolled down. Past the bits that didn’t sit right, past the rough patches she wasn’t ready to look at and down to a blank line. Then another. Then space. Clean, untouched space.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. Then moved. Slowly, at first. Hesitant, exploratory keystrokes. A phrase here, a fragment there. The kind of words you don’t try to shape yet, just scatter like breadcrumbs, hoping they’ll lead you somewhere you hadn’t been before. The sentences hadn’t formed yet. But something had. A direction. A flicker.

She typed. Deleted. Paused. Typed again.

There was a rhythm to it. A gentle back-and-forth. It always started this way. It was like easing into a cold lake. You couldn’t just dive in. You had to let your body adjust, let the chill become tolerable. Let yourself wade in slowly, until the water wrapped around you and stopped feeling foreign. And then, somewhere in that shifting quiet, the current would take her.

Eventually, the character began to return to her in pieces. Familiar movements coming back into focus. The way she fidgeted with her sleeves when she was nervous. The half-smile she wore when she wasn’t sure what to say. How her voice lifted at the end of questions, like she was always reaching, always asking to be understood.

Carla could see her again, in flashes. The slope of her shoulders, the way she stood when she was trying not to seem vulnerable, the way she glanced sideways when she didn’t want to be caught looking. It was like watching someone step out of fog and become whole again, one detail at a time.

Carla leaned in slightly, fingers beginning to move more freely now. The hesitation softened. The story started to unfold. It still wasn’t in neat, polished sentences, but she had imagery and rhythm and feeling. That’s how it always came first: the emotional undercurrent before the language to describe it.

The scene found her. It began in the little town square. Quiet and damp. Her main character and the woman from the café were walking side by side beneath a shared umbrella, their steps slow and slightly uneven. Their conversation didn’t matter, not really. It was soft, idle, little things about nothing. The square around them was empty, hushed by the recent rain. Most of the shops were closed for the evening, lights off, blinds drawn. Water pooled in the dips of the cobblestones, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps in rippling fragments.

A thin mist still hung in the air, softening the edges of everything. The kind of mist that made the world feel quieter, smaller, like it belonged only to them. Most people had already gone inside, worried the storm would return. But not her characters. They lingered. Walked slowly, as if time didn’t apply to them in that moment. They weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere. Being beside each other was enough.

Carla let the scene breathe. Let the dialogue emerge naturally, pauses and all. She didn’t force anything. No need for a plot twist or dramatic revelation. Just presence. Casual glances, unspoken meanings tucked into the silence between words. Arms brushing occasionally, sending small sparks of awareness neither character addressed out loud.

There was a safety in the quiet. Safety that came from being seen without needing to explain yourself. The kind that made people linger, not because they were stuck, but because they didn’t want to leave.

Her protagonist turned to her companion, mid-step, and said something about astrology. Something ridiculous. Something about Mercury being in retrograde, maybe, or their star signs being incompatible. Some half-joking nonsense she didn’t actually believe. But it made the other woman laugh a real laugh, startled and warm, like it had caught her off guard and she liked it.

Carla wrote it down. Then frowned, hesitated, and deleted it. The rhythm hadn’t been right. The timing was off. She stared at the blinking cursor again. Let the moment replay in her mind. How it would’ve sounded aloud. How the character would’ve said it. What she would’ve done with her hands. Then she wrote it again, cleaner this time. Simpler. More honest. And there it was, the right words, finally catching up to the feeling.

Carla flicked back up to the scene she had started earlier at Lisa’s place, the one that had been giving her trouble. Her fingers hovered over keys for a moment, catching that familiar tension that appeared throughout her writing process – the hesitation before the leap. Then, as though waking from a dream, she found her rhythm. Words came more easily, the tap-tap of her typing smoothing out. She felt herself sliding into flow. The scene that had felt stuck moments ago now seemed within reach.

In her mind, the two characters were back in that café. Rain pressed insistently against the windows, a constant drum of droplets beating on the glass and blurring the world outside. The street beyond looked muted, washed-out, ghosted by the downpour. Inside, the lights were dimmed low; soft pools of glow hung over the wooden tables and cast deep shadows in the corners. The café was empty except for those two. Just two cups, two spoons, two slow breaths hung in the quiet, suspended between them. The hush was heavy, as though everything outside had been paused.

Everything slowed down in that moment. The conversation shifted. The air grew thick between their words. They sat close, leaning toward each other across the small table, hunched over their mugs as though protecting them. Their knees were nearly touching beneath the tabletop, a delicate choice of proximity that spoke more than any dialogue.

Carla felt that tension in her fingers as she typed. Each word measured, clipped, the pauses deliberate. She sensed the weight of their eye contact even though she wasn’t watching them directly. It pressed across the screen, pulling the scene taut with emotion.

“If you ask me, I think you’re afraid of letting go of control.”

She imagined the café woman’s response before typing it: gentle, caring, never harsh. The voice she gave her was soft and steady, someone who’d spent years comforting others, someone who knew the quiet edges of pain.

“I’m not. I’m literally leaving my life behind and going to Milan.”

Carla felt that line tremble under her fingers. The defensiveness, the negotiation in the words.

“Which has been planned down to the hour. Slightly ruined by this storm but still.” The café woman didn’t relent. “Control doesn’t mean bravery. If you can’t let go, then you let fear win. You shouldn’t let fear win.”

Carla paused. Her eyes rested on that line. She sensed the pulse in her throat, the slight catch in her gut. That weird restlessness she’d been ignoring all morning was returning, but she pushed it aside. She was on a roll. The words were sliding out of her like water. She believed she could finish this section tonight, maybe finish the first draft of the book at this rate.

She leaned back in her chair, stretching her fingers, letting them uncurl before guiding them again back toward the keys. The café scene still glowed on the screen, waiting. Two characters caught in the quiet of almost saying things. She nudged the cup in the margins of her vision, took a quick sip of her own drink, then leaned forward again, ready to plunge deeper.

She let the rain outside fill the silence in the scene. Let it be more than backdrop. Let the drops between words speak. Let them mark the pauses, fill what was unsaid. The protagonist, cautious, precise, wrapped her fingers around her mug, drawing warmth into them. She was trying not to look directly at the café woman. Her shoulders were angled slightly away, as though she believed honesty was possible only from a sideways glance, not full confrontation.

Carla knew that feeling of wanting to hide, wanting to lean in.

The main character watched her carefully. Noticed how her companion suddenly seemed more guarded, how she skirted direct eye contact, how she pretended not to see those steady gazes. Carla felt the scene pulse with the tension between them.

She typed slowly.

“You keep looking at me like you feel something.”

She backspaced. That phrasing sounded weak.

“You keep looking at me like I matter.”

Backspaced again. She needed something deeper. Something that hit harder. Her heart thumped. She paused, then typed.

“You keep looking at me like you love me.”

Carla stared at the sentence. She didn’t move. Didn’t touch the keyboard. The blinking cursor sat there beside it as if daring her to keep going. That sentence hovered on the screen like a challenge. No flourishes, no metaphors. Just bare, unflinching honesty. It didn’t hide behind subtext. It didn’t soften the edges. It was too raw. Too much. Too true.

Her chest was doing that thing again. That tight, locked feeling, like her ribs had forgotten how to loosen. Like something inside her had recoiled from the words even as another part leaned in. The air felt thinner suddenly. Like her lungs didn’t trust her with too much oxygen, as if breath itself might pull too many memories to the surface.

But Carla didn’t delete it.

“You keep looking at me like you love me.”

She read it again, this time more slowly, softer, like the words were something delicate and wet with meaning. The kind of truth you didn’t say out loud unless you were willing to sit in the echo of it.

Carla pictured the main character frozen in that moment. Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat; lips parted like she hadn’t expected the words to actually leave her. She could see it. Could see the way the sentence lingered in the air between them, not demanding an answer but refusing to be ignored. One of those moments where silence said just as much as speech. Where the stillness itself became part of the conversation.

She let her fingers go still again, resting lightly on the keyboard. Her breath was shallow now, measured, like she was afraid that breathing too hard would scare the scene away. She could feel her pulse thudding gently at her temples, low and persistent, like a distant drumbeat guiding her forward. The moment felt real and she didn’t want to lose it. So, she continued, cautiously, as though threading her way through the dark.

“You keep looking at me like you love me,” the main character said, voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be heard. “But you never say it.”

She paused after typing it, holding her breath again. Letting the weight of those words do their work. She imagined the café woman across the table. Imagined the shift in her posture, the hesitation behind her eyes. The way her lips might part slightly in surprise, then press into a line as she fought not to let too much show. Carla pictured her expression: still and unreadable. Like someone trying to keep a mirror from cracking.

The café woman met those words with a stillness that felt like glass. They were fragile and strong at once. Her expression muted. She didn’t rush to respond. “How can I tell someone I love them when I know they’ll leave?”

The rain had picked up. Outside, the streets vanished further into a soft blur. The windows were no longer just streaked, they were fogged, like breath on glass. Inside, time moved differently. The café had become its own sealed-off world. Nothing else existed outside the table, the two mugs, the warm ceramic clutched between tense fingers.

Carla leaned in, her eyes sharp now, following the thread.

“Because I’m here now,” the main character said with a steadiness that trembled just beneath the surface. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was certain. A quiet offering. “I want to know how you’re feeling now.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence. The protagonist fidgeting with her hands while she gathered her thoughts, carefully trying to keep her cards close to her chest.

“You know how I feel. You don’t need me to say it.”

Carla didn’t move. Her hands remained above the keys. She imagined the hesitation in that reply, the deflection. The way it barely passed as reassurance, and how it wasn’t enough. She typed slowly.

“How am I meant to believe it’s real if you don’t let it out of your mouth?”

That line. That plea. The space between them lengthened again. Carla could feel it. Not just in the scene, but in her own body. That stretch of silence. Like elastic pulled just to the edge of snapping.

Then the café woman’s reply came, cautious, cracked open just enough. “Maybe I don’t want it to be real. It means I can’t control it. If it’s real, that means I’ll get hurt. Everything you do, everything you feel, it’s out of my hands. And one day, you’ll leave. You’ll leave and I won’t be able to stop it. And I’ll get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt.”

Carla typed that slowly, each sentence like stepping out into deeper water. She could feel the vulnerability of it. Could see the café woman’s hands trembling around her mug, knuckles white from gripping too tightly, as if holding something in place. As if the words alone might undo her.

The sentence sat there like a held breath. She could see the two women, one cracked open, the other trying to stay whole. Lamps overhead flickering slightly, rain against the windows whispering a kind of sympathy. Everything outside blurred, smeared. But inside, it was sharp. Focused. The main character wanted to reach out, wanted to touch her, anchor her, undo the damage. But Carla didn’t write that. She knew that sometimes words mattered more than gestures.

“You’re letting your fears win.”

She paused, letting the moment rest, letting the weight of it build. Then added:

“You know, someone wise once told me that control doesn’t mean bravery. And that you shouldn’t let fear win”

Carla sat back, just a little. Enough for her spine to realign, enough to feel the way her body had gone rigid without her even realising. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. Her neck gave a soft pop. Her body had been clenched, locked in position for who knew how long (hours maybe) as if holding still could keep everything else from slipping out of place.

Her finger hovered over the full stop. One tap. The sentence was finished. She added it. Then blinked at the sentence.

“You know, someone wise once told me that control doesn’t mean bravery. And that you shouldn’t let fear win.”

It echoed in her head. Like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension, just on the edge of snapping.

She’d typed it because it made sense in the scene. It was a callback, a moment of symmetry. A line from earlier in the book, spoken by the protagonist herself. Her own words being used against her. A line she’d written half out of instinct, half out of memory. But now, seeing it there, the words staring back at her in her own damn font, it didn’t feel like fiction anymore.

Carla swallowed. Slowly. Thickly.

The twisting feeling she’d carried with her all morning pulled tight again, right beneath her ribs. Like a hand curling inward. Like something bracing. It was sharper now. Not quite pain, but more than tension. A pressure that wouldn’t leave. It was like her body was trying to tell her something her brain couldn’t figure out. Something important.

She looked away from the screen. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe. Her chest rose, shallow and uneven. She didn’t even try to count the breaths. The grounding tricks, the mindfulness techniques she had learnt over the years, all of them felt too clinical, too far away. Her eyes moved around the room, anywhere but the laptop. She needed to try and ground herself before she lost her nerve and gave up on writing. Again.

The faint morning light had shifted across the floorboards, casting long lines through the curtains. The slats cut the gold into ribbons, stripes of warmth and shadow stretching from the window to the centre of the room. Dust floated lazily through the air, catching the light in soft, glittering specks. Everything looked golden and fragile. Like the world might shatter if she moved too quickly.

She followed the line of the wall, her gaze tracing the soft imperfections: a faint scuff near the doorframe from someone’s shoe, a pinhole above the radiator where a photo used to hang. The curved baseboard that peeled slightly in one corner, just enough to snag the vacuum. The rug in the middle of the room had curled at the edge again (the way it always did) and the corner had become a tiny trap for lint and crumbs. She made a mental note to fix it. She wouldn’t. It was like that when she moved in so why should she spend her money on it. The owner might not even want it fixed.

Then her eyes moved to the chair across from hers. I was angled with purpose, like someone had left mid-conversation and forgotten to return. The dent in the cushion was still visible, shallow but there. A trace. A memory in fabric. The last time Lisa had sat there, she'd kicked off her shoes and pulled her knees up to her chest. Carla could almost see her still.

She moved her gaze onto the living room. Onto the TV, its screen a dark mirror, catching fragments of light and shapes. Her own reflection ghosted faintly back at her, barely there. The sofa sat in silence, its cushions slouched just enough to look tired. Lived in. Familiar. And that’s when she saw it.

Lisa’s hoodie.

Still where she’d left it a few nights ago, draped half-over the armrest, sleeve dangling down like it was reaching for something. It was pale blue, soft, worn thin at the elbows and slightly faded at the cuffs. There was a tiny hole near the hem. The fabric stretched just enough to show it had been worn and loved and lived in. The kind of hoodie that never got folded. Only shrugged on or left behind.

It was such a stupid thing, a hoodie. Just cloth. Just cotton and thread. A factory-made thing with a stitched label and a frayed drawstring. Meaningless, really. And yet, the sight of it sitting there, in her home, like it belonged, did something to her. It pressed against a part of her she’d been trying to pretend wasn’t aching. That soft, hollow ache she carried in her chest like a phantom bruise.

She hadn’t realised Lisa had forgotten it. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe Lisa had left it on purpose. Lisa did that sometimes. Left little things behind like markers. Like clues to follow. Like she wanted Carla to know she was still here, even when she wasn’t.

And Carla wanted that. She wanted it with a desperation she didn’t want to examine too closely. She wanted Lisa’s presence like a house wants warmth in winter. Not for show, but for survival. She wanted that for the rest of her life.

Carla stared at the hoodie, at the soft sag of it, the way it had taken the shape of Lisa’s body over time. There was a faint crease along the shoulder, the memory of where Lisa’s bag strap had worn it in. The cuff was crumpled in on itself, twisted the way it always got when Lisa pushed her sleeves up past her elbows and forgot to fix them.

She could almost smell it from here. How the hoodie smelt of Lisa. Not of a concoction of different washing detergents and perfumes. Just Lisa. That quiet, clean, lived-in scent. The kind of smell you don’t notice until it's gone.

And then her mind, treacherous, vivid, began to fill. Flooded with impossible little moments: Lisa’s laugh when she was half-asleep and didn’t quite know why she was laughing, cheeks flushed, eyes still closed. The way she filled a silence like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like quiet wasn’t something to fix, but something to share. Like she could stretch out inside it without making it uncomfortable, just add her warmth to it.

The way she made tea without asking. Knew where Carla kept the good stuff that she tucked away for special occasions. Knew exactly how long to steep it. Knew which mug Carla always reached for on hard mornings, the chipped one, with the paint worn off the handle and the crack just beginning at the rim. The only mug she took from London with her to Willowbrook. And only because it was randomly in her car that day she decided to leave.

The way she said “darling.” Not casually. Not flippantly. But like it meant something. Like she saw Carla all the way through and didn’t flinch. Not once. And Carla had flinched. Not outwardly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But she’d felt it. That private jolt of fear when something real touched something fragile. But Lisa hadn’t. Lisa never had.

A warmth unfurled in Carla’s chest.  It filled the hollow places, pushed back against the pressure that had been knotting itself tighter all morning. Held it at bay. She smiled. It happened without her telling her face to move. “So much for no distractions,” she whispered, almost amused. The words were soft, just a breath, not meant for anyone but the room. The corner of her mouth curled up, but there was no weight behind it. No defence. No mask. Just quiet affection. A kind of awe. Because Carla would gladly be distracted by Lisa any day.

She exhaled, long and slow, and turned back to the laptop. The screen still glowed faintly in the dimming afternoon light, casting a pale sheen over her skin. Her fingers brushed the edge of the keyboard but didn’t press any keys. The words she’d written earlier were still there, waiting.

“You’re letting your fears win.”
“You know, someone wise once told me that control doesn’t mean bravery. And that you shouldn’t let fear win.”

She read the lines once. Then again.

The first time, they were just text, ink on a digital page, familiar cadence, a line that just fit the scene. She hadn’t thought twice about it then. It was just her job. Just part of the scene. But the second time, the second time, they were a mirror. Her breath hitched, the kind of silent inhale that felt like it stuck halfway up her throat. Her eyes didn’t move for a moment. She stared at the sentence like it had changed when she wasn’t looking, like it had rearranged its bones and opened its mouth. Like the words were staring back at her.

The words hit her like ice water down the spine. Cold, bracing, too real. Like a wind from inside herself had turned suddenly sharp. Carla’s stomach gave a sharp twist, a low tug beneath her ribs that made her blink hard and shift in her seat. It wasn’t just discomfort. It was recognition. Her hand shot out and gripped the edge of the table, fingers curling tightly around it until her knuckles whitened against the dark wood. Her palm ached from how hard she was pressing. Something about the solid surface steadied her, anchored her body even as her mind spun.

These weren’t just her characters’ words anymore. It wasn’t just a clever callback or a neat piece of symmetry. They were hers. Her fears. Her voice on the page, disguised but not hidden. Laid bare beneath the thin skin of fiction.

The knot in her chest tightened. That old, familiar tension that sat under her ribs like something coiled, waiting to be named returned. She could feel it throb between her shoulder blades, in the place where anxiety always lived when it had nowhere else to go.

She scrolled up, skimmed the paragraphs above. The protagonist’s hesitation. The café woman’s unshakable calm. The way the whole scene trembled on the edge of something fragile. Confession, admission, risk. Every line had the energy of something holding its breath. And now she saw why.

It was her.

 It was Lisa.

It had been, all along.

Every choice, every beat, every bit of subtext she’d told herself was “just storytelling” had been real. Her real. Her life, her longing, her terror stitched into the seams. She hadn’t been writing a scene. She’d been excavating herself slowly, subconsciously and now the shape of it was undeniable.

Carla shut her eyes briefly, pressing her palms flat against the cool wood of the table like she could push herself back into the moment, back into her body. Her breath caught halfway through her chest: shallow and uneven. Her ribs strained around it like they were still trying to protect her from what she already knew.

She had been so afraid. Afraid of losing Lisa. Afraid of things becoming too real, too fast. Afraid of the gravity of it all. Of how quickly Lisa had become important, essential, necessary. Afraid that if she let herself love, truly love, she’d hand over control and Lisa would leave. And Carla would be left with nothing but the echo. The echo of things unsaid. The echo of hands she hadn’t reached for. The echo of a chance she’d let slip by because she didn’t know what the next five years of her life looked like, or even the next five minutes.

But the echo was already here. The fear was already here. She’d been carrying it every day. Waking up with it. Writing around it. Dragging it behind her like a shadow, pretending it wasn’t there. And under it, deeper, quieter, but impossible to deny, something steadier. Something heavier. Something terrifyingly true.

Love.

Not the vague, shapeless kind you only admit in passing, like something you brush off with a smile when it starts to feel too close to the skin. Not the kind you tell your friends about with a half-laugh and a shrug, pretending it hasn’t actually sunk its teeth in yet. Not the safety-net crushes she used to collect like insurance policies: sweet, low-stakes, always just out of reach. Not the light infatuation she used to convince herself was enough. The kind that left before things got messy, before hearts became landscapes with fault lines. The kind that never asked anything of her but a flutter of the stomach and a few good stories to tell later.

No. This was the kind of love that rooted itself in the softest places. In the quiet pause between her inhale and exhale when Lisa looked at her for too long; in the way her hands had memorised the outline of Lisa’s shoulders without ever meaning to; in the warm spot on the couch that always felt empty without her. This love didn’t sneak in. It dug in. And it made everything louder. The silence, the memories, the ache in her chest. It sharpened the edges of the world. Suddenly she was noticing the mug Lisa always reached for, the songs she hummed under her breath, the curl of her lip and twinkle in her eye when she was pretending not to laugh. Every detail glowed. Every absence thundered.

It was bone deep. Present tense. Not something she had felt. Not something she might feel someday. It was now. Fierce and unrelenting. The kind of love that made your chest ache because it felt too big to carry and too risky to put down.

And suddenly, the twisting she’d been trying to ignore all morning, the slow churn under her ribs, the fidget in her fingers, the sharp edge beneath every breath, wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t unease. It was knowing. Knowing the weight of something she had tried, again and again, not to name.

She sat there, still, staring at the screen. Staring at her own words, now stripped of all their narrative distance. The sentence sat there, blinking with the cursor like it was alive. Like it was waiting. Like it had been waiting for her to catch up.

You’re letting your fears win.

The lump in her throat rose fast like a truth pushing up from the centre of her chest, demanding air. She swallowed hard, but it didn’t go down. Her eyes stung. Her gaze drifted to the hoodie again. Still there. Still soft. Still hers. Still Lisa’s.

It hadn’t moved. It didn’t have to. Its presence in the room was enough – heavy with meaning, thick with memory. Like it had absorbed something of Lisa and was radiating it back into the space they’d shared. Into the space she’d been too afraid to admit was starting to feel like theirs.

Carla’s chest tightened. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t the kind of tightness that told her to run or to shrink back or to shut down or to control every variable before something could hurt. It was something else entirely. A fullness. An ache that didn’t hurt so much as insist. A pressure that felt like it had been building for days, weeks, maybe longer and now that it had found its name, it refused to stay buried.

Lisa’s voice echoed in her memory. Let’s be brave together.

And that’s when it hit her. Lisa had already said everything she needed to say. Maybe not in words. Maybe not with a grand gesture or a script-ready monologue. But in every soft morning where her arm draped lazily over Carla’s waist, her breath slow and even. In every mug of tea placed beside her without asking, made exactly how she liked it. In the way she touched Carla’s shoulder gently when she walked past, like it was second nature. In how she waited patiently, without pressure for Carla to be ready to talk. For Carla to be ready to open up and share parts of her life back in London.

And especially in the way she’d been so heartbreakingly kind last night, even after Carla had friend-zoned her. Who does that? Who forgives someone for pushing them away when they know it’s a lie? Who forgives their girlfriend for pretending she’s not your girlfriend?

Lisa. That’s who.

She already had the answer. She already had Lisa’s heart. Not in the future, not when things calmed down, not once Carla figured it all out and wrapped her feelings in clean conclusions and clever metaphors. Now. She had Lisa’s heart now. And yeah, she might not know how things end up for them down the line but there was no point messing up the present because she’s scared of the future.

She closed her eyes. She let herself sit in it. The fear. The realisation. The love. It was still scary. It still felt like walking a tightrope in the dark. Hands out, no safety net, heart pounding in her throat. But something in her shifted.

The knot in her stomach, that slow, twisting pressure she’d been dragging behind her like an invisible weight loosened. Not all at once. Not in a movie moment with music swelling and that dramatic physical release of tension. But it loosened enough. Enough that her breath slid a little deeper into her lungs. Enough that her shoulders dropped just slightly. Enough that her heart, for the first time in what felt like forever, settled into its rightful pace.

“I love her,” she said aloud.

The words came quietly. No fanfare. No dramatic pause. Just quiet. Steady. Real. Not tentative. Not questioning. It wasn’t like the truth needed to shout to be heard. It only needed to be said. Claimed.

And as soon as she said it, it felt absurd she’d ever tried to deny it. Of course she did. Of course it was love.

 It was written all over the way she looked at Lisa. In the way Lisa looked back at her. In how their lives had already started folding into each other’s. Clothes left behind, routines shared, silences filled with comfort rather than absence. Like it had always been heading this way.

She looked back at the screen. At the café scene. At the characters who had tried so hard to be her substitutes, her mask, her emotional stand-ins. They weren’t protecting her anymore. They were exposing her. Telling the truth in her voice before she was ready to claim it.

Carla’s hands drifted to the keyboard. She hesitated only a moment. Then typed a single new line beneath everything else:

She wasn’t afraid of love anymore. She was afraid of what it would cost her. But for once, she didn’t care.

She stared at the words. Let them echo. Let them settle into the bones of the document and the bones of her chest. Because this time, it wasn’t fiction. This time, it wasn’t a character. It was her. It was her love. Her fear. Her truth.

And for the first time in a while she didn’t want to edit what she wrote. She didn’t want to perfect the line or soften the meaning or hide behind cleverness. She just let it sit there. Real. Vulnerable. Whole.

She didn’t touch the keyboard again.

Because for once, she didn’t need to write to understand how she felt.

She loved Lisa. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookshop door chimed as Carla stepped inside, the warm air of the store wrapping around her like a well-worn jumper. The smell of old paper and coffee grounds clung to the air, familiar and comforting, like coming home. It was quieter than usual. Only the occasional rustle of pages as someone browsed in the back filled the room, the muffled sound punctuated by the soft creak of the wooden floorboards.

Lisa glanced up from behind the counter at the sound of the bell. Her hair was pulled into a loose, slightly messy bun. The kind that suggested she’d done it without thinking, more out of habit and practicality than intention. A few strands had fallen loose around her face, catching in the sunlight, making her look effortlessly radiant. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her arms bare. She was scribbling something in quick, purposeful strokes across a notepad. The pen danced like it had somewhere to be, her handwriting fast and a little chaotic, as if she were trying to pin a thought down before it could escape. But she paused when she saw Carla. Her face lit up instinctively, that soft smile blooming without hesitation. The kind of smile that made Carla’s stomach flip every time she saw it.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” Lisa said, resting her arms on the counter, not bothering to hide how pleased she was. “Thought you were on writing lockdown.”

Carla shrugged as she crossed the shop, the soles of her boots making a low, muffled thud against the floor. “Fancied a change of scenery,” she said, trying to sound casual or at least convincing. “Thought I might work better surrounded by books I’m not personally responsible for writing.”

Lisa arched a brow, her smile tugging wider with the kind of amused suspicion that Carla always secretly enjoyed. “Uh huh. And that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I happen to work here?”

Carla leaned against the counter, arms folding across her chest. The smooth wood edge pressed into her ribs in a way that was oddly grounding, anchoring. “Pure coincidence.”

“Right,” Lisa said, clearly not buying it and clearly not minding. She let the moment stretch between them in that easy, unhurried way she always did. Like she trusted there’d always be more time.

There was a comfortable beat of quiet. Carla let her eyes drift lazily across the shelves behind Lisa, drinking it all in. The cozy disarray of the display table, the bright post-it recommendation tags in mismatched handwriting, the stack of books that leaned too far but somehow never tipped over. It looked like a room caught mid-thought. Like a place held together by someone who loved it enough not to tame it.

It all looked so Lisa: warm and lived-in and a little stubborn. It was like the shop itself had taken on her personality. As if the walls had absorbed her voice, her footsteps, her laughter, and decided that was enough to keep going.

Lisa tapped her pen once against the counter, her eyes still on Carla. “So come on then, did the words stop coming, or did you just miss me?”

Carla blinked at her, caught off guard by the ease and maybe a little by the truth of the question. Her mouth opened, then shut again. Because the answer was both. Obviously both. But the way Lisa said it, light and teasing, but with that undercurrent of real affection, made something tug deep in her chest. Carla wasn’t sure if that feeling would ever leave her. Lisa made her feel so deeply. Things she only ever imagined her characters in her book would feel.

She cleared her throat, feeling her heart beat a little louder in her ears. “Option C: all of the above.”

Lisa smiled at that, pleased. It was like she was hoping that would be the answer. Then she turned slightly, reaching beneath the counter for something (probably a stack of returns or receipts, something mundane). Carla watched her move, watched the way her hand reached, slow and practiced, her fingers curling easily around a small pile of bookmarks. A strand of hair slipped loose at the nape of her neck, curling just above the collar of her blouse. And just like that, the thought returned. The one that had been curling under her ribs since yesterday.

I’m so in love with her.

She had said it out loud last night. Whispered it into the empty room like a secret confession. The words had felt impossibly big then. Both terrifying and true in equal measure. And standing here now, watching Lisa’s hands move, her brow furrow just slightly in thought, the weight of it didn’t feel any smaller. No less enormous. And every time she looked at Lisa it bloomed a little more.

She bit the inside of her cheek, restless now, her nerves crowding in too fast for her to stand still. Her hand drifted out almost unconsciously toward the nearest display – the tall bookmark stand perched just beside the counter. Her fingers grazed a laminated one shaped like a feather, the edge of it cool and smooth beneath her touch. She turned it absently between her thumb and forefinger, reading the faded quote printed in swirling script.

She set it back with a quiet clack, suddenly too aware of her own heartbeat, of the weight of the words trying to push their way out of her mouth. She straightened up, spine stiffening slightly, palms flattening against the counter like she needed to steady herself or push herself forward. “So,” Carla said, aiming for breezy and missing it by a mile. “What are your plans tonight?”

Lisa glanced up again from the bookmarks in her hands, blinking once. Caught slightly off guard. “Tonight?”

Carla gave her a dry look, folding her arms now to mask the sudden rise of adrenaline. “Nooo, tonight in two weeks’ time,” she deadpanned. “Yes, tonight.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes slightly, suspicious but visibly amused. “Going home, probably. Dinner. Might half-watch a TV show and fall asleep before the actual plot begins.”

Carla’s lips twitched. Of course. That sounded exactly like her. Quiet and low-key and familiar. Lisa was a creature of comfort, but not out of laziness. She just knew what she liked, and what she needed to recharge.

Lisa added after a pause, “Why? Do you need something?”

Carla hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough for it to register, for the question to hang there, real and weighty in the stillness between them. Her fingers tensed slightly against the wood grain of the counter, her gaze dropping to the soft scuff marks near the till. Not long enough to answer, not with words, but enough to give it away. Enough for Lisa to see the shift in her posture. The faint tell of nerves threading through her calm. Her heart gave a thud: sharp and insistent behind her ribs. Her voice felt far away, caught somewhere between hope and fear. She tapped her fingertip once on the counter, a quiet staccato beat, then stopped.

And then she leaned forward. Just a little. Enough to close the space between uncertainty and choice. “I want to take you out,” she said, low and deliberate. “Like dinner, maybe? Drinks? Something nice.”

Lisa paused mid-reach, the stack of bookmarks still clutched in her hand. She didn’t speak right away. Her gaze lifted slowly, brows drawing together slightly as her eyes locked on Carla’s. Her expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something in her focus sharpened. Quiet, composed, attentive. Reading her. Like she always did. Like she always could. She always read her.

Lisa didn’t need grand declarations or nervous stammering to know when something mattered. She knew by the way Carla stood a little too still, by the way her fingers had stopped fidgeting and flattened on the counter like she was bracing for impact. By the way her voice had gone careful. And right now, she was reading her like a favourite book. One she already knew most of the pages to but still liked to flip through slowly.

Carla felt it again, that fluttery buzz of nerves and hope sparking just below her collarbones. She hadn’t planned to come here today. She hadn’t even been dressed for leaving the flat, not really. Her jacket was too light for the breeze and her hair still held the vague imprint of where she went to bed with wet hair last night. The plan, the actual, responsible plan, had been to hole up in her living room with her laptop, surrounded by half-drunk mugs of coffee and the kind of looming existential dread only a blank document could inspire.

She was meant to be writing. Something meaningful. Something overdue. Something that would prove she still had it. But the quiet of the house had felt wrong. Like an absence instead of a solitude. Like being far away from Lisa was suddenly unbearable. She’d stared at her screen for nearly an hour. Typed two lines. Deleted three. Then she’d stood up and put her boots on without thinking.

And now here she was, standing beneath the warm wash of the bookshop’s old overhead lights, the scent of paper and wood and the faint sweetness of whatever incense sticks Lisa had behind the counter today wrapping around her like a blanket she hadn’t realised she needed. And Lisa was looking at her. Not intensely. Not in a way that demanded anything. But seeing her. And suddenly, Carla couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought she could play it cool.

Lisa gave her a look. Curious. Careful. “Carla…” she said, her voice dipping into that warm register that always seemed to unravel Carla’s nerves without trying. “You don’t need to do an all-out apology date. We’re fine. Really.”

Carla blinked. The words didn’t register right away. It was like someone had skipped ahead in the conversation and left her behind in the middle of her own sentence. “What?” she asked, a frown tugging at her brow.

Lisa smiled, familiar in that Lisa way, like she was letting Carla off the hook without making it feel like a mercy. “You’ve got that face on,” she said.

Carla stared, incredulous. “What face?”

Lisa waved vaguely in her direction, like the details didn’t matter. “Your ‘I overthought this all morning and now I’m being weird about it’ face.”

Carla made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, equal parts defensive and amused. “I do not have a face for that.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Oh, you so do, darling.”

Carla exhaled, the air leaving her lungs in a huff that was more sheepish than annoyed. “You’re imagining things. I definitely don’t.”

“You do,” Lisa said, her eyes sparkling. “And that’s okay. Makes you easier to read.” She tilted her head slightly, leaning a little closer across the counter. “We really are okay, you know. We talked it through. I understood where you were coming from. You understood where I was coming from. You don’t have to make it up to me. Just being here is enough.”

Carla’s heart twisted a little in the best way. Because Lisa meant it. She always meant it. There was no hidden clause. No unspoken resentment waiting beneath the surface. Just that steady presence, the unwavering foundation of who Lisa was. Patient and warm and frustratingly insightful.

“I know,” Carla said quietly and honestly. She meant her words too.

She let out a breath and looked up, her gaze locking on Lisa’s again. Her mouth curved in that soft, slightly crooked smile that never showed up for anyone else. The one that felt like it lived somewhere just behind her ribs and only surfaced when Lisa was close enough to draw it out.

“It’s not an apology date,” she said, and her voice was steadier now. “Just FYI.”

Lisa didn’t say anything. Not right away. She just waited, like she knew there was more coming. Because there always was with Carla. And because she always waited for it. Carla swallowed. Her fingers drummed once on the counter, then stilled. Her heart was pounding, loud and certain. But she didn’t look away.

“It’s an I want to take my girlfriend out on a date date.”

And still no gasp. No dramatic reaction. Just a breath. Inhaled slowly, then released just as carefully. And in the space that followed, something in Lisa’s expression shifted. Not a big change. But enough. Her shoulders eased down, just slightly. Her features softened around the edges like a photo coming into focus. And when she smiled this time, it was like something blooming in the middle of a quiet spring morning: deliberate, delicate, full of light.

“Oh,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case?” Carla echoed, her voice a touch brighter now, buoyed by the softness in Lisa’s smile, the kind that could turn any ordinary moment into something unforgettable.

Lisa didn’t answer right away. She leaned forward on the till, arms folded like she was settling into something leisurely, the playful glint in her eyes not quite hiding the affection beneath. “Well,” she said slowly, “It definitely beats watching a TV show that’s just gonna put me to sleep twenty minutes in.”

Carla let out a breath. The warmth in her chest swelled, spreading out through her limbs, like her body was catching up to the moment her heart had already leapt into.

Lisa’s voice went light again. “What should I wear to this completely non-apology, incredibly romantic girlfriend date?”

Carla grinned, and this time it cracked across her face without restraint. “Something that won’t distract me too much,” she said, pretending to consider, “But still shows off your arms.”

Lisa let out a breathy laugh, eyes narrowing like she was trying (and failing) to hide her smirk. “Oh, you like my arms, do you?”

“I do,” Carla said without hesitation. “But you spend your time hiding them behind these stupidly cute sweater vests. It’s quite rude really.” She threw in a pout for dramatic effect, exaggerated and silly but her eyes were soft, earnest beneath it.

Lisa rolled her eyes with the kind of fondness that made Carla’s chest ache in that too-full, too-happy kind of way. “You are the worst,” she said, but her smile was betraying her, lips tugging upward against her will, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Carla lifted her hands in mock surrender, then folded them on the counter, leaning forward slightly. “And yet…”

Lisa held up a hand immediately, laughing. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Carla leaned in anyway, lowering her voice with exaggerated intimacy. “You still want to go on a date with me.”

Lisa groaned low and dramatic like she was being forced into something terrible, but she was grinning too wide for it to land. “Unfortunately,” she said, drawing the word out with mock despair.

And that was it. That was the moment Carla’s heart fully tipped over. She beamed, not just with her mouth but with every cell in her body. The kind of unfiltered joy that spilled out when something good finally landed. Like she’d jumped and hadn’t hit the ground yet.

Her fingers drifted back to the bookmark stand again. No longer out of nerves, but because the energy had to go somewhere. She twirled one absently between her fingers, unable to stop smiling, her cheeks beginning to ache. Lisa was still watching her with that quiet fondness she always wore when Carla got flustered and didn’t want to admit it.

 Carla ducked her head slightly, eyes cast down as she tried to keep the grin from stretching even wider. Inside, she was glowing. Giddy. Floating. She was acting like a soppy teenager, and she didn’t care. She was taking the woman she loved on a date. She straightened slowly, stepping back from the counter.

“See you later, love,” she said, casual but still breathless with the kind of affection she couldn’t quite hide anymore.

Lisa’s eyes sparkled. “Did you come all the way here to ask me on a date?”

Carla shrugged with theatrical nonchalance. “Maybe,” she said. “So… see you later?”

“See you later,” Lisa said, softer now “What time?”

Carla paused, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “I’ll text you. I, uh… haven’t actually got anything planned yet.”

Lisa laughed a warm, full sound that rolled through the quiet shop like a wind chime caught in a breeze. It was the kind of laugh that cracked open the room and made it feel bigger somehow. Carla didn’t move right away. She lingered just for a moment, letting herself watch the way Lisa’s whole face transformed when she laughed like that. So open. So unguarded. So luminous. It made Carla want to freeze time, tuck this exact feeling into her chest and carry it with her, like a snapshot in her memory she could press to her heart whenever the world got too loud or too lonely.

“Okay,” she said eventually, quietly. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” Lisa said, still smiling. “I’m expecting at least three time changes and one panic text about what to wear.”

“No panic,” Carla said breezily. Even as she was already turning, the panic was clearly brewing in the back of her mind.

The door creaked softly as she pushed it open, the familiar chime of the bell ringing above her head.

Lisa’s voice followed her out, full of fondness and amusement: “Liar.”

Carla didn’t turn back. She just raised her hand in a lazy wave and kept walking, the sound of her boots echoing softly down the pavement. But her smile stayed in place, tugging at her cheeks until they ached, refusing to fade.

Carla stood in front of her wardrobe like it had just insulted her.

She didn’t mean to glare at it like it had personally wronged her, but here she was arms crossed, shoulders tense, mouth slightly open in disbelief, staring at the open doors like she was waiting for them to explain themselves. Or better yet, apologize.

The silence in the room was oppressive, thick with the weight of indecision. Her heart had been pounding since she got out of the shower, but now it thudded in her chest like a clock running out of time. This wasn’t just outfit anxiety. This wasn’t one of those flustered moments before a night out. This was war. A personal and emotional standoff between her and a row of hangers that had never looked more useless.

The wardrobe doors were flung wide open as if they were mocking her. Clothes she owned suddenly all felt unfamiliar. Inoffensive. Wrong. Neutral tones and hopeful colours stared back at her like strangers at a party. Shirts drooped lifelessly from hangers, a few tugged halfway off like they'd tried to escape the chaos. One boot lay tipped on its side near the foot of the wardrobe, its laces knotted and defeated, like it had made a run for it and collapsed halfway through.

The bed was no better. It had completely disappeared beneath a growing mountain of “maybe” outfits. Ones she’d tried on, torn off, thrown down, and glared at as if they’d personally betrayed her. The pile was lopsided, leaning precariously like a game of fabric Jenga waiting to collapse. There were cardigans and button-downs, trousers she’d worn twice and swore looked better last month, a dress she had loved the look of in the shop window but now couldn’t stand the sight of.

She stared at it all with a helpless kind of frustration, arms slack at her sides now, chest rising and falling with the kind of quiet panic she hated admitting she felt. It was absurd standing in her own room, surrounded by her own clothes, feeling like none of them belonged to her. Like she was trying to dress someone else entirely.

And yet, buried under the piles of cotton and denim and failed intentions, she couldn’t shake the ridiculous thought that somewhere in this mess, there might be one item that made her feel okay. Stable. Brave. Like maybe if she chose the right outfit, the rest of the night would go perfectly.

Her room looked like a small tornado had passed through it, but her brain felt worse.

It wasn’t like she didn’t own clothes. Of course she did. Her wardrobe (and bed) was proof of that. But somehow, none of them felt right. Not for this. Not for tonight. These were outfits for errands, for lunch breaks, for casual Saturdays and pretending-to-be-fine Tuesdays. None of them were for baking with the woman she was in love with. None of them were for the possibility of saying something irreversible.

She pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead, as if she could physically push the anxiety away. “It’s just a date, Carla,” she muttered.

But even saying it aloud didn’t make it sound true.

Because it wasn’t just a date.

It was the first date since everything. Since the cinema. Since the moment she’d felt Lisa’s fingers just within reach and then pulled away, too fast, too obviously, when someone who recognised her walked by. Since Lisa had gone quiet. Since the low-voiced conversation that followed. The aching, breathless kind of argument that wasn’t loud but still shook something loose inside her. Since Lisa forgave her so effortlessly. Since the moment, in the absolute stillness of her kitchen, that she finally admitted what the tight, aching twist in her stomach meant.

She loved her. She was completely, disastrously head over heels in love with her.

The kind of love that didn’t leave room for denial. The kind that didn’t quietly recede. It bloomed like wildfire and left her breathless. And now she was supposed to show up like everything was normal? Like it hadn’t happened? Like she hadn’t been struck by some cosmic bolt of realisation in the middle of a random Monday afternoon in May? What was she meant to do? Laugh over measuring cups and just casually bring up that she’d fallen in love with her? When do you even tell someone something like that?

Carla couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anyone in enough to love them. Maybe when she was twenty-five and too reckless to know better. Maybe before she started confusing independence with isolation. And she definitely couldn’t remember how she’d done it back then. How she’d ever managed to let someone that close without freezing halfway. How she ever let someone know how she was feeling so easily.

She groaned, loud and defeated, and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her like it, too, had given up. “Fantastic,” she muttered, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I’ve officially forgotten how to human.” Her voice sounded flat in the room, swallowed by cotton and silence.

She let her hands fall into her lap, fingers twitching restlessly as she stared at the floor. For a moment, she just sat there, shoulders slumped, surrounded by the wreckage of her decision-making. Then her eyes drifted almost involuntarily toward the window, drawn by the soft orange light creeping in. Sunset was inching its way across the floorboards, casting long amber shadows over the chaos. The whole sky was dipped in warm pastels, the kind that made everything outside look gentle and perfect.

Willowbrook glowed like a town in a postcard. Out there, the world looked calm. Predictable. Golden. Like nothing ever went wrong and no one ever had wardrobe-based meltdowns because they were too in love to function properly.

Somewhere out there, Lisa was probably still at the bookshop. Leaning one hip against the counter, pen tucked behind her ear, flipping through books for the second-hand return scheme while chatting to whichever customer had lingered for a recommendation. Carla could picture it so clearly: Lisa's easy posture, that quiet concentration she got when she was lost in her own head, the warm, casual confidence she wore like another layer of clothing.

Lisa never seemed to panic. Or if she did, she had the impossible ability to make it look like calm. It was probably the police training, the years of being taught how to be composed in chaos. There was a stillness to her that felt grounded, steady. A presence you could lean against when the wind picked up.

And then there were the jumpers. God, the jumpers.

Carla huffed through her nose, lips twitching into something that was almost a smile. Lisa had somehow built an entire unofficial wardrobe around soft knits and sweater vests. It was infuriatingly attractive. No one should be able to make a sweater vest look good. No one should make you want to peel it off with your teeth.

Seriously. A sweater vest. Who makes that look hot?

And meanwhile, here was Carla, sitting on the edge of her bed, a pair of trousers wrapped around one ankle like a fashion crime scene, talking to her bloody wardrobe like it might start offering advice.

She let out a strangled, borderline manic laugh, fell backward onto the mattress, and flung an arm dramatically over her eyes. “Why did I think a chill date was a good idea?” she muttered into the ceiling. “What do people even wear for a chill date? Pyjamas?”

This wasn’t dinner at a fancy place with low lighting and whispered menus. It wasn’t one of those theatre nights with red wine in oversized glasses and black dresses that made her feel like she was playing dress-up. It wasn’t a rooftop bar in London with moody lighting and curated playlists, where you had to book a month in advance and pretend to know the difference between three types of olives like anyone actually cared.

This was Willowbrook.

The town that smelled like warm bread on Sundays. The town where the pace was slow enough to notice things, to see someone, really see them. This was where she'd stumbled across the most charming bookshop she had ever seen. This was where she met Lisa. Where she felt like Carla and not Carla Connor the best-selling author for the first time in a very long time. This town had been the backdrop of every small moment that had slowly, irreversibly, turned into something much bigger.

And the plan was simple. Intentionally simple. Just the two of them making the most of what Willowbrook had to offer. The community activity centre had flyers stating how the kitchen was open until 9pm for some late-night baking. When Carla looked into it earlier, she saw there were only two tickets left for the latest session starting at 6:30 and so she booked the tickets on the spot. It had felt right. Late-night baking. Just enough mess to be charming. Just enough sugar to keep things sweet.

She smiled despite herself, that soft, involuntary kind of smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth like a secret. The image of Lisa in an apron, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in mixing her batter had already begun playing like a scene in her head. She could see it like a memory waiting to happen: Lisa trying to be serious about following a recipe, reading the instructions with exaggerated concentration, while Carla inevitably mixed the wrong ingredients or spilled something across the counter. Lisa would roll her eyes, pretend to scold her, and then laugh that bright, open laugh that made Carla feel like her ribcage was too small for how full her chest got.

She could practically hear it: the clatter of baking trays, the low hum of music from someone’s old Bluetooth speaker, the way flour would puff into the air like smoke after one of Carla’s infamous ‘gentle’ stirs. Lisa’s amused expression when Carla got icing sugar on her nose. The way she might reach out to wipe it away. The way their eyes might linger after.

It would be chaos. And imperfect. And so perfectly them.

She didn’t want grand gestures tonight. She didn’t want declarations or fireworks. She wanted to create space for them. The unfiltered version. The version that didn’t need to be impressive or hide who they really were. The version that was built on shared laughter and accidental messes and soft, wordless moments that still somehow said everything.

She wanted the night to feel like them. Light. Fun. Easy. Something that could soften the edges of the last few weeks where everything had felt uncertain and a little too quiet. She wanted to remind Lisa and herself that love didn’t always have to look like heavy conversations and serious expressions and dressed up dates all the time. That it could also look like a stolen kiss between making cakes. A hand held under the table. A knowing look across a flour-dusted counter.

Not that Carla didn’t love the way Lisa looked at her when she dressed up. God, she loved it. Loved the slow sweep of Lisa’s gaze when she wore heels, the way her eyes lingered on red lipstick like it had been applied just for her. The way Lisa would reach for her hand in those moments, possessive in the gentlest way, like she couldn’t believe her luck.

But tonight wasn’t about admiration. It wasn’t about dressing to dazzle or impress. Tonight was about intention. About baking something silly. About messing up the recipe and not caring. About leaning into the kind of joy that felt easy. Natural. Safe. Tonight was about showing Lisa that love, real love, could exist without fear or hesitation. That it could be soft and uncomplicated, even if just for a few hours.

Carla knew she didn’t have to make up for the hesitation at the cinema. Lisa had told her that more than once, and always with that same gentle steadiness. The kind of voice that wrapped around you like a blanket instead of a wall. “You don’t owe me perfect,” Lisa had said once, fingertips brushing Carla’s wrist. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

And Carla believed her. But still there was something inside her that couldn’t let it rest. Something soft and stubborn that whispered show her anyway. Not to prove herself, exactly, but to prove that she could love loudly. That she could choose this; she could choose Lisa without flinching.

So no, they weren’t staying in Willowbrook out of convenience or so no one would recognise her. It wasn’t just about logistics or comfort. It wasn’t because neither of them had the energy for a long train ride or a city night with overstimulating crowds and overpriced drinks. It was about grounding the moment. Rooting it somewhere that mattered. Because this sleepy little town wasn’t just where she met Lisa. It was where she fell in love with her.

Somewhere between the bakery aisle in the Co-op where they’d stood shoulder to shoulder beneath harsh fluorescent lights and argued, completely unironically, about the best biscuit for dunking (Lisa was an unshakeable hobnob loyalist, Carla held firm for buttery shortbread) and the nature trail just past the old post office, where Lisa had pointed out birds Carla couldn’t name but now couldn’t forget, she'd fallen. Slowly, like rain soaking into earth. Then all at once, like floodgates opening.

It hadn’t been a lightning bolt moment. It was worse. It was slower. Sneakier. More dangerous. It was the early morning coffee runs where Lisa always remembered Carla’s exact order and tucked an extra sugar packet in her sleeve, ‘just in case.’ It was the offhanded way Lisa said “your laugh is my favourite sound” one night, half-asleep, like it wasn’t a small act of emotional arson. It was the late-night chats on damp park benches when neither of them wanted to go home yet, prolonging their time together. It was the in-between spaces. The pauses between sentences. The smiles that lasted a beat too long. The conversations that picked back up without needing to be prompted.

Carla had fallen in love in the margins. In the background noise of ordinary life, where Lisa had carved out something extraordinary just by showing up. Consistent. Steady. Kind in ways that didn't ask for recognition.

And now, standing on the edge of something real (the realest thing she'd felt in years) Carla knew she didn’t want their first step forward to be taken somewhere anonymous or impersonal. She didn’t want to chase the illusion of romance under city lights or champagne flutes. She wanted here. She wanted familiar pavements under her boots and the smell of autumn in the air and the same old potholes on the street they always dodged with exaggerated flair. She wanted the same town that held the echo of every almost. Every not-yet. Every nearly-there. So, yes, Willowbrook was the only place this could happen. The only place that made sense. The only place where her heart had quietly, stupidly rewritten its entire vocabulary to spell one name.

Lisa.

It felt right. Unequivocally, undeniably right.

And so, while Carla was completely, blissfully happy with the date activity she’d planned, with the ridiculous, charming intimacy of it all, the soft laughter, the rolling up of sleeves and letting down of walls, she now found herself facing a slightly more immediate and deeply unromantic crisis.

What the hell do you wear to bake with the love of your life?

She sat up again, her back cracking faintly like punctuation to her misery, and scanned the war zone that used to be her bedroom. She looked around like she was trying to defuse a bomb with no instructions, just vibes and rising panic. Her eyes flicked from hanger to hanger, dismissing each outfit like they’d personally let her down.

A dress? Too formal. Too fussy. Too trying. A tracksuit? Too casual. That wouldn’t feel like they were on a date. Anything white? An automatic no. She didn’t need a psychic to tell her she’d come home looking like she’d been mugged by a cupcake. She wasn’t about to come home polka-dotted in colourful buttercream patches.

She groaned again louder this time, dramatically theatrical and dropped her head into her hands, fingers clawing through her hairline like she could somehow massage out the panic. Why was she like this?

She wasn’t fifteen anymore. She wasn’t some lovesick teenager hiding behind her locker door. She was a grown woman. A grown woman with a job, a pension and a shelf of cookbooks she never used. She pays council tax. She’s had millions of people read words and stories she’s created. She did not need to be spiralling over clothing.

It wasn’t like she had to impress Lisa anyway. Lisa already liked her. Lisa had already kissed her. Had already seen her without makeup, half-asleep, hair doing its best impersonation of a bird’s nest. Had curled her fingers around Carla’s wrist once, so gently, like she was something breakable and precious. Had looked at her across the pillow with a smile so soft it made Carla feel seen and safe in the same breath.

Lisa was already obsessed with her. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

But still, her stomach was doing that wild, traitorous, fluttery thing it always did when she imagined Lisa opening the door later. That tiny pause in her smile like Carla was the surprise, the gift, the moment. The way her expression softened, warmed, lit up like someone had handed her good news in human form.

Carla could already feel her knees threatening to betray her.

The thought alone made her jump to her feet, sudden with nerves, arms tangled in a shirt she didn’t even like, tripping over a boot and catching herself with a loud thud against the dresser. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror. She had one arm in a sleeve, one out, hair sticking up like she’d just walked backwards through a thunderstorm. She looked slightly haunted. Possibly feral.

“Okay,” she muttered, dragging the shirt off and flinging it onto the growing mountain of fabric on the bed. “You don’t need to overthink this. You don’t need to look too fancy. You just need to look like normal you. Maybe a bit nicer. Casual but cute” She stared into the mirror like it owed her answers. “You can do this, Connor,” she added flatly, sounding less like a confident pep talk and more like a woman trying to talk herself down from a ledge.

After another five minutes of chaos and one near wardrobe collapse that ended with a cascade of hoodies landing dramatically on her head, she finally, finally found it.

The outfit.

The one that struck that impossible, magical balance between effort and ease.

A black button-up she bought on a spontaneous shopping trip with Lisa. Carla had stepped out of the changing room wearing it, half-joking. She was never really sure that shirts suited her. But Lisa had stared at her, smiling before stating “You should get it. It’s very you. Honestly you look incredible.”

Carla hadn’t actually worn it yet. She actually forgot she had it. She only bought it because Lisa told her she should. But now, it slid over her shoulders like it belonged there. Soft cotton, heavy enough to hang well, light enough to breathe. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Collar slightly open, hinting just enough skin to feel like a quiet kind of invitation. Paired with her favourite dark jeans that fit like they’d been made for her and ankle boots that were just the right amount of scuffed.

Simple. Comfortable. But intentional.

It just worked.

She looked in the mirror and let her hands smooth over the shirt’s hem, then down her sides. Her mouth twitched. “Looking good, Connor,” she said softly, a lopsided grin tugging at her lips.

Her hair had air-dried into soft, loose waves. A little unruly, a little wild but she didn’t reach for the straighteners. Lisa liked it like this. Said it made her look soft. Touchable. Real. She’d tie it up once they started baking, but for now? She left it down. She added a touch of lipstick to round off her look. Nothing bold, just something warm and alive and reached for her silver rings, sliding them onto her fingers like armour. Familiar. Grounding.

And then, for one long moment, she just let herself imagine it.

The soft yellow light of the community centre kitchen. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon in the air. The way Lisa might grin at her bowl, a smudge of flour on her cheek, sleeves rolled up, taking things far too seriously. The sound of their laughter echoing off the tiled walls. The brush of hands reaching for the same spoon. The warmth. The ease. The love.

Her chest ached that tender, nervous ache that came when love wasn’t just present, but real. Something she couldn’t take back. Something she didn’t want to.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly six.

Her stomach twisted in excitement and nerves as she grabbed her phone, slung her jacket over one arm, and paused by the door. One last glance in the mirror. Her pulse was thudding like it had opinions. Her palms were warm and damp. Her legs felt like they might stage a protest. But she didn’t care.

“It’s just cake,” she whispered to her reflection. “It’s just Lisa.” Then, softer, quieter than breath, meant only for herself “And she’s worth every bit of the panic.”

She let out a short, breathless laugh, shook her head at her own melodrama, and stepped out into the dusky evening. The air was crisp, the sky streaked with soft pink and violet, and the smell of blossom carried on the breeze. Her boots tapped against the pavement, nerves buzzing, heart pounding so loud she could feel it in her throat.

Meanwhile, upstairs in her own home, Lisa was not in a rush.

Her bedroom was washed in the kind of soft, late-evening light that made everything look a little more forgiving, a little warmer around the edges. The golden hue poured in through gauzy white curtains that fluttered slightly with the breeze from the cracked window. Outside, the air was cool and fragrant, touched with the scent of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke.

A low playlist murmured from her phone, resting on the corner of her dresser. Something old-school. That perfect blend of smooth vocals and a bassline that made your hips move before your brain caught up. Lisa hummed along, her voice just a whisper beneath the rhythm, not even thinking about it. She moved around her room like someone who knew every corner of it blindfolded. She was calm, collected and half-dancing on bare feet as she pulled open her wardrobe.

Rows of hangers clinked gently as she flipped through them with practiced ease. The kind of motion that came from years of getting dressed with a purpose: for work, for weather, for getting things done. Her wardrobe was a monument to practicality: muted tones, clean cuts, no-nonsense staples. Sweaters in sensible greys and earth tones. Crisp button-downs. A rotating army of soft knits and tailored jackets. All dependable. All safe. But her hand hesitated when it landed on something else. Something quieter. Tucked near the back, half-forgotten. A sleeveless navy top.

Lisa stilled. Her fingers lingered against the fabric – smooth, almost cool, with that kind of drape that hinted at softness without being delicate. Simple cut. High neckline. No frills. But it held an understated elegance, the kind of confidence that didn’t need to announce itself.

She slipped it from the hanger and held it up by the shoulders. Her brow furrowed slightly. It was like that focused, slightly frowning look she got when she was trying to solve something. The kind of expression she used to give stubborn case files or malfunctioning coffee machines. Like the top was a riddle she hadn’t quite decided how to solve.

Because this wasn’t her usual. This wasn’t safe.

It was sleeveless, for one. Left her bare in a way she wasn’t used to being. Not flashy, not showy but revealing enough to feel deliberate. Intentional. Like a choice she’d have to own once she stepped out the door.

Her thumb brushed the seam of the armhole. She hesitated. She was going to put it back and chose something else, but Carla’s voice echoed faintly in her head. That low, amused tone she used when she was pretending not to flirt but absolutely was. “Wear something that shows off your arms?” she’d asked earlier that day, voice warm, teasing.

Lisa had rolled her eyes. Smirked. Tossed back some sarcastic reply. But the comment had stayed with her. Because Carla didn’t just say things. She noticed. She meant them. And when she looked at Lisa there was always something else beneath the surface. Admiration. Yes. But tenderness, too. A kind of awe that sometimes made Lisa feel like she was being seen and held all at once.

Carla liked her arms. Said it in a way that made Lisa feel suddenly too aware of the space between them. A little flustered. A little bold. So tonight, she wasn’t hiding behind sleeves. Her girlfriend wanted to see her arms and who was she to deny her?

She slipped the top over her head and let it fall into place, smoothing the fabric with both hands, her palms brushing down the front. It clung in the right places, loosened in others. The fabric settled neatly along her torso making her feel sculpted, confident, quietly powerful. It was the kind of top you didn't have to fuss with but still made it look like you’d made an effort.

She stepped back from the wardrobe and moved to the mirror, her reflection waiting. The sleeveless cut showed off her shoulders, the clean lines of her collarbones, the slight swell of muscle still carved into her arms, remnants of years on the force and the quiet, unspoken drive to keep moving, keep active, keep strong. She tilted one arm forward slightly, watching the way her bicep tensed and softened under the skin. A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She might’ve left the badge behind, but the body stayed.

Yeah, she thought, Carla is going to love this top.

Next came the jeans. Not new. Not fancy. But faithful. Reliable.

She stepped into them, the denim cool against her legs, and pulled them up with a practiced twist of her hips. The waistband slid into place with satisfying ease. She zipped and buttoned them, then turned to the side.

They weren’t flashy. Just a pale, faded blue, softened at the seams and knees. Fraying slightly at the hem but they hugged her hips like they’d been made for her. Sat just right at the waist. Accented the strength in her thighs, the subtle curve at the small of her back. She shifted left, then right, smoothing the fabric over one hip with a palm. Comfortable. But flattering. The sweet spot between effort and ease.

Carla had said casual, but Lisa knew better. There was an art to casual. A kind of choreography in pretending not to try too hard while trying just enough. You had to look like you’d just thrown something on even when you’d carefully chosen every piece.

This outfit struck the balance. Polished, but not polished. Just the right side of effort.

Her hair had been uncooperative all day. A little too much texture. A little too much independence. Sometime after lunch it had given up on behaving altogether, falling into loose, uneven waves with a stubbornness she knew better than to fight.

She could’ve straightened it again. Pulled out the tools, done the work. She could’ve wrestled it into shape. But the thought made her tired. So instead, she swept it up into a low bun with the kind of muscle memory that didn’t need a mirror. A few soft, wispy strands slipped free at her temples. She had considered fixing them, pulling the bun out and starting all again. But she didn’t. The strands helped to frame her face. Let the softness stay she thought to herself.

At the vanity, she reached for her makeup with quiet precision. No heavy layers. Just enough to catch the light where she wanted it. A gentle sweep of blush across her cheeks to bring warmth to her skin. A touch of mascara to darken and lift her lashes. A flick of soft liner at the outer corners of her eyes. Not to dramatize her look but to define it. Last came the lipstick. A natural, dusty pink that looked like she wasn’t wearing anything at all until you looked close enough to see the difference.

She pressed her lips together, eyed her reflection, and tilted her head slightly. Not bad. Not overdone. Just right.

Just as she capped the lipstick tube and leaned back to take herself in one last time, her phone buzzed on the dresser. A sharp vibration against the wood dulling the music for a short while.

Carla: Leaving now. You better be ready 😜

Lisa’s grin arrived before her brain registered the full message. A quick, spontaneous curve of her lips that softened her whole face. She reached for the phone, flicked off the music, and slipped it into her back pocket.

As she passed the hallway mirror on her way out, her hand smoothed down the front of her top again. Not because she needed to, but because it felt like part of the ritual now. Like a quiet way of saying, I’m ready.

There was something about Carla tonight. Something electric in her voice earlier. Something slightly unsteady behind her usual confidence. Playful, yes, but also vulnerable. As if she was nervous. As if she cared. And that did something to Lisa. Because it wasn’t just about looking good. It wasn’t even about the outfit. It was about meeting her there. Not just physically. Not just as someone to admire or flirt with. But emotionally. Authentically. Fully present. Fully seen.

By the time the knock came at the door, Lisa was already halfway down the stairs, socks bunched loosely in her hand, bare feet cool against the hardwood floor.

Her shoes sat waiting by the door, neatly side by side, untouched, as always. She had a rule. A tiny ritual, probably ridiculous to anyone else. Socks could only go on right before shoes. No exceptions. No wandering around sock-footed trying to find a particular pair of shoes. She didn’t even know when it started. Probably some relic of growing up in a house where everyone was barefoot around the house. But it stuck. All these years later, it still stuck, and it was now just one of those weird, specific things she’d never grown out of.

She didn’t question it anymore. Some rituals didn’t need to make sense. Some habits were just part of who you were.

She pulled open the door casually, her fingers tugging the hem of her top one last time, smoothing it without thinking more instinct than action. And then she froze. Because Carla had frozen.

She stood on the porch like someone caught mid-step in a dream. One foot angled back as if she hadn’t fully committed to the last stair. Shoulders squared, posture straight. It was like she'd been rehearsing a line the whole walk over and had just watched it evaporate the second Lisa appeared.

Her mouth hung slightly open. Her hands, usually animated and expressive, were still. But it was her eyes that held Lisa in place. Wide and unblinking, locked on her like she wasn’t entirely convinced Lisa was real.

And then slowly those eyes began to move.

From Lisa’s face, pausing there a breath too long, down the gentle slope of her collarbone. To the cut of her shoulders. The quiet, defined strength in her arms that bared in the evening light like a secret she hadn’t meant to share. Carla’s gaze dropped to where the navy top skimmed the soft curve of her waist, meeting the snug line of denim that sat low on her hips.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Lisa felt the silence settle between them: charged, electric, oddly vulnerable. It prickled at her skin.

She blinked first, a subtle crease forming between her brows. “What?”

Her voice was low, tentative. It wasn’t defensive. Just puzzled, curious. Like maybe she’d missed something. Maybe there was a tag on her shirt or a stain she didn’t notice earlier. Something that Carla had spotted.

Still Carla didn’t answer her.

Lisa tilted her head, brow lifting. “Have I got something on my face?” Nothing. Just silence. Open-mouthed awe. Lisa snorted gently, half amused, half confused. “Is my makeup smudged already? I haven’t even been outside.”

And then finally Carla blinked. Just once. Slow. As if her system was coming back online after a temporary shutdown. When she spoke, it wasn’t with one of her usual comebacks. No grin. No wink. No snarky little line she’d clearly been planning since leaving the bookshop earlier. It was quiet. Low. A little raw, like it had scraped its way out of her chest.

“You look” Carla took a breath. “Incredible.”

Lisa’s lips parted, caught off guard. It wasn’t the words that got her. No, it was the way they landed. Flat and unadorned. No smirk. No smoulder. No attempt to dress it up. Just the bare truth, dropped between them like a stone in a still pond.

Lisa felt the heat crawl up the back of her neck, flushing warm over her chest and ears. Her hand twitched slightly, unsure whether to brush the loose strands of her hair back or cross her arms or do anything at all. She tried to wave it off. Lighten the moment. “Carla, you said casual. I’m literally just in a top and jeans.”

Carla exhaled a noise that was part scoff, part laugh, part something else entirely. She lifted one hand and made a vague, helpless gesture, her words catching somewhere between sincerity and disbelief. “You say that like it’s not the most lethal combination I’ve ever seen.”

Lisa arched a brow, amused despite herself. “Lethal?”

Carla nodded, eyes wide with faux seriousness now. “You’re wearing a top that shows off your arms, Lisa. Your arms. Do you have any idea what that does to me?” Her voice was climbing now, animated and breathless, her hands flailing for emphasis. “And those jeans? Those jeans are criminal. They are doing unspeakable things for your arse. I’m fighting for my life out here!”

Lisa bit down on her lip, trying and failing to keep a straight face. Her laughter started low in her chest, bubbling up before she could contain it. That full-bodied, soft-edged kind of laugh that made her tilt forward just a little and drop her chin, her grin stretching wide enough to stretch to her eyes.

Lisa leaned back against the doorframe, folding her arms, still trying to look stern through the laugh. “I thought you were the wordsmith in this relationship,” she said, teasing, “and here you are, reduced to ‘arms,’ ‘arse,’ and ‘fighting for my life.’ Real poetic, Connor.”

Carla stepped inside as Lisa backed up, still slightly dazed, like she hadn’t quite recovered from the shock. Like she was seeing Lisa in a new light and hadn’t figured out how to adjust her focus yet.

“I’ll have you know,” Carla said with fake seriousness, “that ‘arms, arse, and fighting for my life’ is an excellent use of the English language. Bold. Raw. Honest. A modern classic. In fact, I’m putting it in my next novel.”

Lisa snorted. “There is no way best-selling author Carla Connor puts that in a book. If I were a betting man, I’d stake actual money on it.”

Carla shrugged, casual and cocky. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not, then. Because you’d lose. I’m already writing it in my head.” She adopted a narrator voice, half-posh, half-melodramatic: “Chapter One: I Saw Her Arms and Died.”

Lisa let out a sharp laugh. “Oh my God.”

“It’s going to be a masterpiece,” Carla declared. “Critics will weep.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth wouldn’t stop twitching. “Critics will have a field day. Your editor would end up getting fired.”

Carla shot her a look, smug and unbothered. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t self-publish that masterpiece”

Lisa shook her head, grinning. “You’re absolutely insufferable.”

“I’m charming,” Carla corrected, already leaning against the wall in her usual way. One shoulder pressed to the plaster like she’d been born there, eyes tracking Lisa’s every move. Her gaze flicked downward then, catching Lisa still barefoot. “Hurry up and finish getting ready,” she added. “We’ve got a date to go on.”

Lisa gave her a long-suffering sigh and moved to the nearest chair, tugging on her socks with practiced ease. “Some top-secret date that I’m not allowed to know anything about.”

Carla leaned one shoulder against the wall again, her usual pose, like it belonged to her now. “I contain multitudes,” she said loftily. “I can keep a secret, you know.”

“You contain drama,” Lisa countered, pulling on her trainers with a lazy efficiency. “So much drama.”

“And charm,” Carla added, grinning. “You can’t forget charming. We’ve been through this already”

Lisa stood, brushing her hands down the front of her jeans. She moved with that quiet, grounded confidence she didn’t even know she had. Carla didn’t move from her post against the wall, but her eyes followed Lisa like she was trying to memorize every inch. Not in a lustful way (though, yes, maybe a little) but more like she was trying to hold her fully in her head. Like she never wanted to forget how Lisa looked right now, casual and ready and quietly radiant.

Lisa stood, grabbed her keys from the ceramic dish near the door, and slung her jacket over one arm. Carla stepped in closer now, speaking softly. “Do we need to wait? So you can say a proper goodbye to Betsy?”

Lisa stopped mid-motion. It was such a small question. Casually delivered. No pressure. But it made her blink. Because it came from a place of knowing. Of care. Not performative. Not checking a box. Real.

Lisa turned back to her, and her smile shifted, softened into something quieter. Something deeper. There was something almost tender in the way her shoulders relaxed, in how she looked at Carla like she was seeing her all over again. “She’s out with some mates,” she said. “Arcade, takeaway, maybe a pub if she’s talked them into it. She’ll be gone for hours. I’ll check in with her later.”

Carla nodded. It was just a simple acknowledgment, but Lisa saw the weight behind it. The understanding. The respect. The way Carla made space for the people in Lisa’s life like it was obvious. Natural. Like she wanted to be part of the wider world Lisa carried with her. And that did something to Lisa’s chest. The fact that her daughter was becoming important to Carla too.

Before she even knew she’d moved, she was reaching for Carla’s hand. Their fingers laced together like they’d done it a hundred times. Like muscle memory. Like home. “Ready?” Lisa asked softly, lifting her eyes.

Carla’s grin returned: wide and dazzled. That slightly-too-big kind of smile that always made it seem like she was just a bit overwhelmed by Lisa. Like Lisa was a surprise, even now. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They stepped out into the street together, the soft hush of early evening wrapping around them like a secret. The kind you didn’t need to speak aloud to feel. Above them, the sky had started its slow, deliberate shift. It wasn’t quite sunset but that golden, suspended in-between where everything seemed touched by magic. Streaks of pale pink and honey gold stretched across the clouds, their edges soft and glowing like brushed velvet.

The pavement beneath their feet held onto the last of the day’s warmth, radiating it in gentle waves that curled around their ankles. Shadows stretched long behind them, elongated versions of themselves dancing on the cracked concrete, stretching ahead like a path already carved out.

The breeze, gentle but insistent, caught at the hem of Lisa’s top and teased strands of her hair loose from her bun. It pulled them across her cheek and over her collarbone, and when Carla caught the scent of her perfume, it nearly undid her. Carla didn’t even realise she was leaning slightly closer until their shoulders touched again. A magnetic pull she didn’t bother resisting.

Their hands swung between them, joined without a second thought, fingers laced like it was muscle memory. And it might as well have been, the way it felt so natural. Carla had been buzzing with nerves earlier, caught somewhere between excited and wrecked, but all of it was dissolving now. Each step, each laugh from Lisa’s mouth, each brush of her thumb across the back of Carla’s hand peeled it all away, like layers she didn’t need anymore.

The street was mostly quiet. The occasional bark of a dog. A car passing slow. The distant clatter of cutlery through open restaurant doors. Somewhere, someone was playing music faint and indistinct, just rhythm and memory. It all melted into the background like atmosphere.

“So,” Lisa said, cutting into the quiet, her voice easy, her tone playful. She turned her head just slightly toward Carla, lips quirking. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Carla smirked, keeping her eyes straight ahead like she hadn’t been waiting for that exact question. “It’s a surprise.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Well, it’s within walking distance, clearly, since you haven’t brought your car or ordered a taxi.”

Carla gave a soft laugh, squeezing Lisa’s hand once. “Do you always try to figure everything out?”

“Force of habit,” Lisa replied with a small shrug. “Ex-copper brain. Always two steps ahead, always scanning exits, always trying to read the clues.”

It wasn’t a brag. Just a truth. And one that Carla loved about her. Carla bumped their shoulders again, lighter this time, affectionate. “Well, for tonight, let the mystery live a little.”

Lisa gave her a side glance, eyebrows raised. “How little?”

Carla slowed her step, made a show of pretending to think about it, tapping her chin dramatically with her free hand. “Mmm like five minutes. We’re almost there.”

Lisa laughed a proper laugh, soft and open, the kind that came from somewhere deep. It curled her body slightly inward and made Carla’s heart flip with something giddy. And just like that, the last of the tension Carla hadn’t even realised she was still carrying melted away, swept up in the warmth of Lisa’s presence and the rhythm of their easy conversation.

They kept walking, the world narrowing around them in the best way. It wasn’t that the street emptied, or that Willowbrook paused. It was that none of it mattered. Not in that moment. Not with Lisa’s hand in hers, and Lisa’s laughter still echoing in her ears.

They were just Lisa and Carla. In their own little world.