Ellie hadn’t meant to start texting Hardy every day.
It had started small. A sarcastic comment about a botched traffic stop outside the Co-op. A photo of Fred’s “abstract” painting that looked suspiciously like a coffee stain. An autocorrect mishap that turned “you’re a menace” into “you’re amazing” — which Hardy hadn’t let go of for an entire day.
She hadn’t planned to make it a habit. But somehow, it had become one.
Somehow, she started expecting that buzz from her phone mid-morning. A dry comment about Daisy. A grumbled complaint about the station’s latest IT update. A picture of the world’s saddest sandwich wrapped in clingfilm.
She’d respond with her own daily dose of misery: difficult clients, Fred’s latest drawing of a dinosaur with seven legs, Tom’s football coach being late again.
Hardy, to her surprise, actually played along.
—
Monday
Hardy: Daisy says I snore. I don’t snore.
Ellie: You 100% snore. Like a chainsaw trying to recite Shakespeare.
Hardy: Rude.
Ellie: Accurate.
Hardy: I might sue for defamation.
Ellie: I’ll represent myself and win on charm alone.
—
Tuesday
Ellie: Fred asked if you’re my “work husband.”
Hardy: What did you say?
Ellie: I said I wouldn’t marry a man who makes tea like he’s punishing the mug.
Hardy: I use one sugar.
Ellie: It’s the vibes. The mug looks afraid.
Hardy: Next time I’ll serve it with a lemon wedge and a tiny umbrella.
Ellie: Fancy. You trying to impress me?
Hardy: Too late. You’ve already seen my terrible ties.
—
Wednesday
Hardy: Daisy has a group project. Apparently I’m “banned” from helping.
Ellie: Because you give lectures instead of advice.
Hardy: It was one PowerPoint.
Ellie: On the ethics of surveillance??
Hardy: It was relevant.
Ellie: To a sociology class??
Hardy: They used CCTV data!
Ellie: I rest my case.
—
By Thursday, the texts had shifted again. Softer edges. Playful insults with a fond undertone. Ellie wasn’t sure when it had stopped being just banter and started feeling like something more — like company. Like comfort.
That night, Hardy texted her while she curled up on the sofa, a cup of tea in hand and Fred finally asleep upstairs. The telly droned in the background as her phone buzzed.
Hardy: Daisy wants me to take her to the carnival this weekend.
Ellie: You hate crowds.
Hardy: I know.
Ellie: And overpriced food.
Hardy: I know.
Ellie: And joy.
Hardy: That one’s slander.
Ellie: You’re going anyway, aren’t you?
Hardy: Of course.
Ellie: Softie.
Hardy: Don’t tell anyone.
Ellie: It’s already in my autobiography.
She grinned, typing—
I’d go just to watch you suffer, but Tom’s got football.
Hardy: Tragic. No one to mock my misfortune in person.
Ellie: I expect photos.
Hardy: Of my despair or the rides?
Ellie: Both.
Hardy: I’ll see what I can do.
—
That Friday night, they exchanged a few late texts.
Ellie: So. What’s your carnival plan? Funnel cake and judgment?
Hardy: Judgment is always free. But yes, I may buy her overpriced fried sugar.
Ellie: Take a photo. I need blackmail material.
Hardy: You are relentless.
Ellie: That’s what keeps our friendship alive.
Ellie watched the three dot "typing" bubble floating under that text, then it disappeared, then after what it seemed like a whole minute:
Hardy: Friendship, is it?
Ellie paused, thumb hovering over her screen. The message hung there—short, teasing, a little too close to something else. She considered replying something equally glib, but ended up locking her phone instead.
She didn’t reply that night.
~~~
Saturday came with drizzle and heavy clouds, but by noon, the skies had cleared enough for the carnival to go ahead. Ellie spent most of the morning ferrying Tom to football practice and then trying to coax Fred into eating a carrot shaped like a dinosaur.
She checked her phone more often than she’d admit.
No new texts.
No photos.
No updates from Hardy.
Which was fine. He was busy with Daisy, who—by all reports—was thoroughly unimpressed with most things in Broadchurch, and probably even more unimpressed by her dad trying to chaperone her and her new college friends through the rickety rides and overpriced games.
Still, around 3 p.m., she texted.
Ellie: Dead from the carnival yet?
Nothing.
At 5:30 p.m.:
Ellie: I ’m going to assume you got eaten by a clown.
Still nothing.
By 8:15 p.m., she was pacing her living room. Fred had gone down early, Tom was glued to a video game, and Ellie was staring at the last message she’d sent.
A dozen responses went through her head. Annoyed. Joking. Concerned.
She settled on none.
Instead, she opened their chat, stared at the little “Delivered” tag, then tossed her phone onto the couch.
This was ridiculous.
It wasn’t like she was his keeper.
But she also knew Hardy. He always replied. Even if it was just a snarky “Busy” or “Don’t start.”
And that’s what unsettled her.
Sunday morning, still no word.
She was halfway through unloading the dishwasher when her phone pinged.
Unknown number: Sorry.
Ellie nearly dropped a plate.
She grabbed her phone, heart thudding.
Unknown number: Dropped my phone at the carnival. It landed in a puddle. Dead as a doornail.
Unknown number: Daisy made me get a new one. Well, her old one. It has a purple case with fluff on it. I’m suffering.
Ellie exhaled, fingers flying.
Ellie: I knew you wouldn’t survive a day of joy. Technology rebelled.
Unknown Number: I take one day off and the universe punishes me.
Ellie: Glad you’re alive. I was about to file a missing persons report.
Hardy: Would’ve been ironic. Detective goes missing. Partner left to solve it.
Ellie: I’d have cracked it in an hour.
Hardy: Would’ve been nice to know someone was worried.
Ellie paused, thumb floating over her phone. She typed soemthing, staring at the screen for a moment, then hit the "send" button.
Ellie: Don’t flatter yourself. I was worried about Daisy. She shouldn’t have to ride the ghost train alone.
There was a pause. Then:
Hardy: She dragged me onto it.
Ellie: You? On a ride? Please tell me there are photos.
Hardy: Unfortunately, yes.
Ellie: I want them all.
Hardy: I’ll consider it. If you’re nice.
Ellie: Define nice.
Hardy: …I’m beginning to regret texting again.
Ellie smiled, the tightness in her chest easing.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this. Him.
Tomorrow, there’d be another snarky complaint. Another thread of texts while waiting at the doctor’s, or in line at the café. Another tiny window into each other’s lives, stitched together message by message.
They hadn’t said what this was.
But they were saying something.
Almost.
~~~
Monday morning, the rhythm returned.
Ellie: Tom’s coach made them run laps in the rain. He’s revoltingly cheerful about it.
Hardy: That’s what happens when you still have cartilage in your knees.
Ellie: Don’t be bitter.
Hardy: I’m not. I’m weathered.
Ellie: You sound like a shipwreck.
—
Later:
Hardy: Daisy asked if I liked working with you.
Ellie: And what did you say?
Hardy: That you’re intolerable but efficient.
Ellie: That’s going on my CV.
Hardy: I left out “relentless.”
Ellie: That’s the tagline.
She caught herself grinning.
The kind of grin you didn’t mean to wear when sitting alone on your lunch break, scrolling back through a conversation just to reread a snide comment about soggy chips and inadequate umbrellas.
That night, she paused longer than usual before replying.
Her thumbs hovered, hesitated.
Ellie: You ever think we… talk more now than we did?
The three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then reappeared.
Hardy: Yes.
Ellie: That’s not a bad thing, is it?
Pause.
Hardy: No. Not bad.
Then, a beat later:
Hardy: Surprising. That’s all.
—
Tuesday was quieter. But not silent.
She got a photo around mid-morning—a blurry shot of a seagull perched smugly on top of Hardy’s car.
Hardy: This bastard stole Daisy’s chips. She’s traumatized.
Ellie: I’m sorry, Daisy’s traumatized?
Hardy: I fought a bird for my daughter’s honour.
Ellie: Tell me you screamed.
Hardy: I maintained my dignity.
Ellie: So… you screamed.
Ellie smiled to herself, tossing her phone on the kitchen counter to grab the mug. She could almost picture it: Hardy, with his face flushed and hair ruffled from "fighting" the seagull, looking unimpressed. Daisy standing beside him, doubling over from laughter. This thought sent warmth to her chest, making her suddenly realize that, at some point, they’d all slipped into something closer than friendship.
Not romantic—not yet, not exactly—but steady. Familiar. Something she’d come to count on, like the thrum of the kettle or the faint squeak of Fred’s door when he got up too early.
And that was the trouble with steady things. You didn’t notice how much you relied on them until they paused, even for a day.
—
Wednesday evening, Fred was asleep, and Ellie was watching an old episode of MasterChef while half-distractedly folding laundry. Her phone buzzed.
Hardy: You ever think about moving?
She frowned at the screen.
Ellie: What, like out of Broadchurch?
Hardy: Not necessarily. Just… wondering. New starts. Different places.
Ellie: You thinking of moving?
Long pause.
Hardy: Just… thinking. Not planning.
Ellie: Daisy’s leaving, isn’t she?
Hardy: Yeah.
Ellie: That’s hard.
Hardy: Yeah.
They left it there.
Not everything needed to be picked apart.
But the thought stayed with her longer than expected—lingering even after the credits rolled and she’d shut off the telly.
She couldn’t imagine Broadchurch without Hardy in it.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
—
Thursday morning came with grey skies and Fred’s refusal to eat toast unless it was cut into dinosaur shapes.
Ellie texted Hardy while pouring herself a lukewarm cup of coffee she no longer remembered brewing.
Ellie: You ever have one of those mornings where everything’s slightly wrong?
Hardy: Yes. It’s called “a morning.”
Ellie: Fred wants his toast to be a triceratops. I’m failing as a parent.
Hardy: Is he eating it?
Ellie: Begrudgingly. It’s more of a pterodactyl, if I’m honest.
Hardy: You’ve got range.
Ellie: You haven’t seen my stegosaurus. It’s like Picasso got a head injury.
She sent a blurry photo of the toast plate. The dinosaur had one leg and a jam smile that looked vaguely threatening.
Hardy: I miss having a kid that age. Daisy used to put cereal in her shoes and call it breakfast.
Ellie smiled into her mug.
Ellie: She turned out alright.
Hardy: No thanks to my parenting.
Ellie: Nah. You did good.
The typing bubble lingered for a moment. Then stopped.
Then started again.
Hardy: She’s packing. I found a box labeled “DO NOT TOUCH OR I’LL CRY.”
Ellie: That’s the college spirit.
Hardy: She wants to leave Broadchurch with “good memories.” Hence… the carnival.
Ellie: You mean you being dragged around by teenagers while trying not to scowl at cotton candy.
Hardy: Exactly.
Ellie: You’re a good dad.
Hardy: Stop that.
Ellie: Never.
He didn’t reply for a while. Ellie put her phone down, thinking that might be it for the night.
Then it buzzed.
Hardy: I hope you know I value this.
She blinked. Read it twice.
Ellie: This?
Hardy: Our… whatever this is. Friendship. Chatting. You being annoying. All of it.
Ellie: I know. Me too.
—
That Friday, the station was chaos. One teenager had been caught trying to shoplift five cans of whipped cream “for science,” a local drunk got belligerent in front of the town hall fountain, and someone filed a noise complaint about a caravan blasting ABBA on loop.
Ellie didn’t get a proper break until after 3 p.m., when she ducked into the kitchenette with a stale cup of tea and sat heavily on the bench beneath the window.
Still no messages from Hardy that day.
She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was on vacation this week—taking time off to help Daisy get ready for uni—and she knew, logically, that he was busy. But that didn’t stop her from missing him.
It had been quiet without him. Quieter than she liked.
She unlocked her phone and scrolled through their texts from earlier in the week, then tapped out:
Ellie: Sooo. How many storage bins have you argued with today?
Then she added:
Ellie: Also, how come you haven’t sent me any carnival photos? I need visual proof of your suffering.
A few minutes passed. Just when she was about to pocket her phone again, it lit up.
Hardy: It happened. I have documentation. I’m simply withholding it to protect what’s left of my dignity.
Ellie: That sounds like someone who wore something awful.
Hardy: Daisy made me wear a sun visor. It was orange. I looked like a traffic cone.
Ellie: Pics or it didn’t happen.
Hardy: Ellie—
Ellie: You brought up dignity. You know that doesn’t work on me.
Another pause. Then a photo came through.
Hardy, flat-faced and grumpy, in an offensively bright visor, holding a giant bag of popcorn and a sad-looking teddy bear. Daisy, beside him, was grinning like she’d just won the lottery.
Ellie laughed so loud that DS Clark looked in through the kitchenette window with raised eyebrows.
Ellie: Oh this is GOLD.
Hardy: I regret everything.
Ellie: No, you regret letting Daisy choose your accessories.
Hardy: She said I looked “approachable.”
Ellie: You looked mug-able.
She saved the photo anyway. Later that night, when she finally got home and kicked off her boots, there was one more message waiting for her:
Hardy: Thanks for nagging me. I wouldn't have taken any photos if you hadn’t mentioned it. She looked… happy.
Ellie felt her heart softened.
Ellie: You’re a good dad.
Hardy: Trying to be.
Ellie: You are.
There was a long pause. Then:
Hardy: I missed talking to you today.
She blinked.
Ellie: Me too.
~~~
They sat on a bench just past the station entrance, where the wind still carried the weight of train tracks and salt air. The platform was mostly quiet now, and Hardy hadn't said much since Daisy's train disappeared down the line.
Ellie kept her voice light. “She remembered everything, yeah? Charger, student ID, too many shoes?”
“She’s organized,” Hardy said, though his hands were fidgeting with the seam of his coat. “Always has been. Just—feels like yesterday I was dragging her to school in mismatched socks. Now she’s off.”
Ellie nodded. “I get it. One minute they’re tiny. The next… they’re taller than you and mocking your taste in cereal.”
He huffed a laugh. “She still does that.”
They lapsed into silence. Not an awkward one—just full. And when Hardy finally broke it, his voice was quieter.
“Feels strange. House’ll be different.”
Ellie turned to look at him. “Yeah. It will.”
He didn’t look back. “I know she’ll be fine. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself now.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Ellie said. “And anyway… you’ve got people.”
That made him glance over. “People?”
She shrugged, suddenly unsure. “Well. Me.”
He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at her—searching, maybe. Or just seeing her properly for the first time all day.
“I do.” he said, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite gratitude, wasn’t quite affection, but lived somewhere between the two.
It would’ve been easy to say more. To follow that moment to its edge.
But Ellie didn’t.
She just nudged his shoulder gently and murmured, “Also, you still owe me more carnival photos.”
He smirked faintly. “I’ll dig them up.”
Later that evening, Ellie kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa, Fred asleep upstairs, the house unusually still. She opened her phone, hesitated, then tapped out a message.
Ellie: So. About those carnival photos.
She got a reply almost immediately.
Hardy: I sent you one already.
Ellie: One. Singular. Of you looking like a sad clown with candy floss. I want the full collection.
Hardy: I don’t have a full collection.
Ellie: Daisy does. Don’t lie. She’s got a better eye for blackmail material than I do.
Hardy: She took a few. They’re… unflattering.
Ellie: Hardy, you literally exist unflatteringly. Just send them.
A few moments passed. Then her phone buzzed again—three new images.
The first: Hardy mid-bite, frozen in the act of glaring at the deep-fried Mars bar like it had personally betrayed him. Sugar clung to his fingers, his brow furrowed with suspicion. Ellie snorted aloud.
The second: Daisy perched on Hardy’s shoulders, both slightly blurred from motion. Her braids flapped in the wind while she grinned at the camera, peace sign in full glory. Hardy tried to look serious, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
The third: A wide shot of the carnival. Twinkling lights overhead, the Ferris wheel turning in the distance. In the foreground, Hardy and Daisy walking side by side—her animated, pointing at something, him half-smiling, listening.
Ellie: These are perfect.
Hardy: Daisy says I should’ve smiled more.
Ellie: You are smiling. In your own constipated way.
Hardy: Flattering.
Ellie: They’re lovely, though. Really. You and her.
There was a longer pause this time.
Hardy: It hit me all at once, today. One minute she’s my little girl trying to ride the bumper cars, next she’s heading off to uni. Thought I’d have more time to prepare for it.
Ellie stared at the message, the quiet ache of it.
Ellie: You did good, Hardy. She’s happy. She’s ready.
Hardy: Doesn’t mean I am.
Ellie: No. But you’ll be okay.
Another pause.
Hardy: Thanks for checking in. Always.
Ellie: 'Course I did. I’ve got your back. Even when you’re being a moody sod with sugar on your shirt.
A beat. Then:
Hardy: I like talking to you, you know.
Ellie blinked. Then smiled faintly, typing slow.
Ellie: Yeah. Me too.
END
2025.9.4
