Chapter Text
Rebecca hadn’t meant to step into Ted’s old office that morning. The door was only half-closed, and she’d been walking the hallway on her way to meet Higgins about something inconsequential. Sponsorship figures, she vaguely recalled. Everything felt inconsequential these days, as though the whole club had been subdued to a sort of dull grey after Ted left.
He’d been gone three weeks. Three long, quiet weeks.
And she wasn’t getting any better at adjusting to his absence.
The others had bounced back as she’d expected them to. Keeley still popped round every few days, bright as ever, though she watched Rebecca with that gentle, too-perceptive expression that Rebecca wished she’d stop using. Beard was quieter, but Beard was always quiet in his own anarchic way. Even her boys, who’d initially walked about like they’d all been dumped at the same time, were returning to their usual cheeky selves.
Only she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or didn’t know how to.
Rebecca stepped into Ted’s office before she realised she’d changed direction. She stood just inside, one hand on the doorframe. The room smelled faintly of him still. Not cologne, he wore barely any, but that warm and indescribable mixture of biscuits, cinnamon, and whatever absurd optimism lived in his pores.
Someone had tidied the space. Probably Higgins. The desk was bare except for a forgotten Richmond mug. A clean slate. Empty.
Exactly how she felt.
Rebecca walked into the small room and shut the door behind her, slowly, as if she might wake someone. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d gone in. She’d already done this too many times, wandering into his office after hours, straightening the pictures on the wall, pretending she was only checking the place was ready for the next manager. She knew it was pathetic, but grief made you do things you’d never admit out loud.
He hadn’t left anything behind. At least, not anything that mattered. He’d taken his little plastic soldiers, the remnants of the BELIEVE sign that still made her chest twist, trinkets the team had given him over the years. All gone. All packed up as though he’d never been there at all.
Except she knew better.
Part of him lingered in every corridor, in the echo of every joke someone made, in the biscuits she still yearned for every morning almost as much as she yearned for the man who’d baked them.
She walked to the desk and traced her fingers along the wood.
“I hate this,” she muttered into the silence.
She should have left. Tears were already building and she hated crying in the middle of the workday. But something kept her there. A nudge. A quiet tug.
Her hand drifted to the side drawer of the desk, her fingers curling around the handle as if by instinct.
It slid open with a soft scrape.
Empty.
Except was it? A faint line in the wood at the back of the drawer, caught her eye. She frowned, leaning closer.
Not a line. A manila envelope that almost blended in to the base of the drawer.
Rebecca hesitated, her heart thumping before reaching in and pulling out the paper, certain it was a forgotten invoice or something. But hoping, oh how she hoped…
And there it was. Rebecca, written in his unmistakable scrawl.
A date was scribbled beneath her name. Nearly a month ago. Before he left.
He’d hidden it. On purpose.
Rebecca closed her eyes, steadying herself. For a terrifying moment she thought she might not be able to open it at all. What if it made everything worse. What if it was simply a polite thank you for everything, kind but distant and final. What if it was nothing she needed it to be?
She slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope.
The letter was several pages long. Handwritten. Her throat tightened again. Ted’s handwriting was messy but expressive, like someone had taught him cursive once and he’d promptly forgotten half of it.
She unfolded the first page.
Hey Boss,
Of course he’d started that way.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve been a sneaky snooper and been checking my drawers - not for streaks, obviously! Beard says I shouldn’t count on you coming in here for a while, on account of you being so busy. And he’s right. But I figured sooner or later, curiosity would win out. It always does with you.
Rebecca let out a small, broken laugh.
I’m writing this because talking to you before I left just didn’t feel right. Not because I didn’t want to. Believe me, that was one of the hardest goodbyes I’ve ever had to rush through. But because if I’d said everything on my mind, I’m not sure I’d have made it to the airport.
Her chest clenched.
He'd obviously written this before she’d shown up at the departure gate. She’d known that something unsaid hung in those last minutes together. Something heavy.
She continued reading.
You and me, Rebecca. Well. We never said the big things, but we said a whole lot of the little ones. And sometimes those matter more. Sometimes the little things fill up the cracks where the big things don’t fit.
She pressed the page to her chest for a moment, breathing through the ache.
I don’t know when exactly it happened. When I started looking at you and thinking, God help me, Ted, do not go catching feelings for your boss. Maybe it was the day you tasted my biscuits the first time. Or the look on your face when I beat Rupie at darts. But more likely it was every time you just let me be me. You don’t know what that meant.
But whenever it was, it stuck. Stuck harder than a popcorn kernel in a molar. And I tried. I really did. Tried to tuck it away somewhere safe, somewhere out of the way, like you do with a fragile bit of china you know you shouldn’t be using every day. Because I had Henry to think about. And you, you had a whole life you were rebuilding. You didn’t need me barging in with my messy feelings.
Rebecca heard before she saw a tear fall onto the page, blurring a few words where it landed. She wiped her cheeks and sat in Ted’s old chair and let it creak beneath her. Somehow it felt comforting, as though the chair itself allowed her to feel closer to him.
There were more pages.
Thing is, Boss, I don’t regret a single second. Not the feelings. Not the hiding. Not any of it. Because caring about you, quietly and stupidly and more than I had a right to, helped me remember parts of myself I thought I’d lost.
And I don’t know if you ever felt the same. Truth is, I don’t need to know. Maybe one day we’ll talk about it properly. Or not. Life is odd like that. Maybe we won’t speak of anything again.
She froze, the page trembling slightly in her grip, horrified at the thought she may never speak with him again.
She’d felt the same. Had buried her feelings so deep she was certain no one would ever find them.
But Ted had felt it too.
She turned to the next page.
I guess the real reason I’m writing this is because leaving like that, leaving you, hurt in a way I didn’t expect. Took me by surprise. Like stepping off a kerb you thought was solid ground.
But going back to Henry, that wasn’t a choice. That was a promise. And as much as Kansas feels like stepping backwards after everything we built here, I know it’s where I have to be right now.
So here’s the part I hope you hold onto, even if you forget all the rest.
You mattered to me.
More than you know. More than I wanted to admit while I was still in Richmond, tempting myself to stay.
She pressed a hand to her mouth.
And if there ever comes a time when our paths cross again, when Henry is older, when your life is steadier, when the universe stops throwing curveballs like it has money riding on the outcome, I hope we’ll sit together with none of the unsaid things between us anymore.
Until then, thank you. For every laugh. Every kindness. Every time you looked at me like I was worth believing in.
Take care of yourself, Rebecca. Please. Because someone in Kansas is really going to miss knowing you’re out there, rolling your eyes at me whenever I make a joke that doesn’t land.
Which is most of them.
Yours, probably more than I should have,
Ted.
Rebecca didn’t realise she’d stood until her legs began to wobble. She paced the room once, then again, the letter clutched tightly in her hand like a lifeline.
He’d felt everything she’d tried so hard to hide.
And he’d left anyway. Because he had to. Because he was a father first.
She respected it. She admired it.
She hated it.
The grief she’d bottled for weeks cracked open and spilled through her in one long, shaking wave. She leaned over the desk, not collapsing but bracing herself, breathing slowly until she could see straight again.
When she finally stood upright, the letter gripped in her fist, she looked around the room differently.
It wasn’t empty.
His kindness hung in the air like dust motes in sunlight. His optimism clung to the walls like it had been painted on. And now, his words lay in her hands, warm despite everything.
She folded the pages carefully and slipped them back into the envelope. Her fingertips lingered for a moment.
She tucked the envelope into her handbag, close to her side.
When she stepped into the corridor again, everything looked the same, but she felt different.
The pain was still there, sharp and persistent. But now there was something beneath it, something steadier and warmer.
She walked a few steps, then slowed. Higgins would be waiting in his office, ready to go through their endless list of practical matters. But she found herself stopping in the middle of the hallway, one hand resting lightly on her bag where the envelope sat.
She could hear Ted’s voice in her mind, soft and teasing and impossibly sincere.
You mattered to me.
She closed her eyes for a moment. The words settled inside her like a small flame.
He’d written all of that with no expectation of reply. He’d written it simply because he needed her to know.
She opened her eyes.
A quiet thought rose up inside her, one she couldn’t push away. She could write to him. She could ring him. She could choose not to let an airport goodbye be the end of their story.
The idea felt terrifying. It also felt inevitable.
Rebecca drew a slow breath and continued down the hall. Work awaited her, and responsibilities rarely cared for the chaos inside a person. But her hand brushed her handbag again as she walked.
The letter was still there. And the possibility that came with it moved quietly beside her, steady and insistent.
By the time she reached her office door, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.
Not today. Not tonight.
Not until she did something about it.