2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Owen
H eathrow is as chaotic as ever. The arrivals board flickers with updates, and the murmur of overlapping conversations is punctuated by announcements in clipped, professional tones. People move around me, rushing to greet loved ones or dragging tired feet toward taxi queues, but I’m rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on the sliding doors ahead.
I check my watch again, my foot tapping against the polished floor. Mel’s flight landed twenty minutes ago, and I know it’s just a matter of time, but patience has never been my strong suit.
I feel like I’ve been holding my breath ever since I got the call about the accident. A landslide, they said. One team member medevaced, but she and the doctor stayed behind to finish what needed to be done before they were sent home earlier than the mission was supposed to end. I’d pieced the rest together from Mel’s carefully-worded texts and the sparse updates from GHHI.
“Everyone’s fine,” she’d said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Except I do worry. Because Mel doesn’t say “nothing to worry about” unless there’s plenty to worry about.
She’s good at pretending, always has been. When we were kids, she’d come to school with that same unreadable mask after her mum passed, smiling like everything was normal. She’s strong, sure. Resilient. But I know her too well to buy the act completely.
We’ve been best mates since school, ever since we were thrown together as the odd ones out. Mel was the only dark-skinned girl at a posh private school full of kids who didn’t know what to do with her frizzy curls or her Midlands accent. I was the scholarship boy whose hand-me-down uniform never quite fit and whose lunchbox was never the right brand.
The other kids made sure we knew we didn’t belong, but we found each other anyway. I still remember the day it happened. I was sitting alone in the corner of the dining hall, picking at my sandwich after some posh twat had called me "charity boy."
Then Mel plonked herself down across from me without so much as a hello.
"You don’t have to sit here," I said, not even looking up. "I’m fine."
"I’m not," she replied. "I’m avoiding the Barbie squad over there."
That made me look up. I didn’t smile much back then, but I couldn’t stop from giving her a reluctant grin. That was all it took. Since then, she’s been my best friend, the one person I know I can always rely on.
We house shared all through Uni, having the best of times. When my company finally made some money, I bought a flat from my first big payout. Mel was thrilled for me but gutted at the thought of losing me has a housemate. Like I would have let that happen! I had always intended for her to move in with me. I didn’t even ask, just showed her the room that was meant to be hers from the start.
I always thought nothing can tear us apart but since the accident, there’s been a distance between us. Not in words—her emails and texts are still filled with the same sarcasm and ridiculous observations—but in the way she avoids saying anything real. Anything about how she’s feeling.
The messages are just a little too chipper, the humour a little too forced. She’s fine, she says. It wasn’t a big deal. She’s fine, fine, fine.
And maybe she’s convinced herself of that, but I’m not.
I glance at the arrivals board again, then back to the doors. Every time they slide open, my chest tightens, but it’s never her. Families stream out, couples, business travellers looking knackered, but not Mel.
The doors slide open again, and this time, there she is.
Mel, with her worn rucksack slung over one shoulder dragging a suitcase alongside her. She looks... tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with a good night’s sleep, but the kind that settles deep in your bones.
But then she sees me, and her face breaks into a grin, bright and familiar, like nothing’s wrong at all.
“There you are!” she says, walking toward me like she hasn’t just spent weeks halfway across the world dealing with God knows what. “What, no welcome banner? No brass band?”
I let out a shaky laugh, pulling her into a hug that’s probably a bit too tight. “Budget cuts,” I say into her hair.
She laughs, but it’s not the same. There’s a hollowness to it, a weight she’s not letting me see.
“You look like you’ve been living in this airport,” she says, pulling back and giving me a once-over. “Honestly, Owen, when was the last time you slept?”
“Don’t deflect,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who just got back from an actual landslide.”
Her smile falters, just for a second, before she waves me off. “It wasn’t that bad,” she says, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Mel—”
“I’m fine,” she cuts in, her voice light but firm. “Really.”
I don’t push; not here, not now. But as we walk toward the exit, her laughter ringing a little too loud and her steps just a little too quick, I make a quiet vow.
She can pretend all she wants, but I’m not letting this go. Not until she knows she doesn’t have to pretend with me. Not until she knows she doesn’t have to carry it all on her own.
The flat smells of thyme and garlic, the chicken casserole bubbling gently in the oven. I slide the dish out and place it on the counter, wiping my hands on a tea towel as I hear Mel’s footsteps padding across the floor.
She appears in the doorway, barefoot, her curls damp and frizzing at the edges. She’s wrapped in her usual oversized hoodie, her joggers hanging loose, as comfortable and familiar as she’s ever looked.
“Smells decent,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smirk. “So, what are we having? Homemade or Tesco’s finest?”
“Homemade, thank you very much,” I reply, pulling out two plates and setting them down. “Hours of effort went into this masterpiece.”
“Masterpiece, huh?” She wanders into the kitchen, grabbing cutlery from the drawer. “What was it? Fifteen minutes and a recipe on TikTok?”
“Forty minutes, and I didn’t even look at my phone once,” I shoot back, my grin widening as she gives me an approving nod.
She pulls a seat out at the table as I serve the casserole, and for a while, the kitchen fills with the soft clatter of plates and some easy conversation. She takes her first bite and hums in approval, the sound small but enough to make my heart beat faster.
“Alright, I’ll admit it,” she says, pointing her fork at me. “You’re not completely useless in the kitchen.”
“High praise,” I reply, pretending to tip an imaginary hat.
She laughs, and it’s almost enough to make me forget the tension that’s been lurking since I picked her up. Almost.
The banter flows as smoothly as ever—Owen-and-Mel things, the kind of conversations that dance between ridiculous and comforting. She teases me about my inability to keep plants alive, and I remind her that it was she who let my Philodendron die a tragic death when I went to Greece last year.
But as the plates empty and the conversation slows, the silence between us shifts. It’s heavier now, the kind that isn’t comfortable.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair and keeping my tone casual. “What really happened out there?”
Her fork pauses midair for a fraction of a second, but she recovers quickly, setting it down with a faint clink against the plate. “I told you already. There was a landslide, but everything’s fine,” she tries to cut of the conversation.
“Mel,” I say, leaning forward slightly, resting my arms on the table. “You pulled your security guy and the driver out of a wreck. The driver died. That’s not nothing.”
Her lips press into a thin line, the faintest flicker of something—irritation? pain?—crossing her face. “I know! Thanks for the recap,” she says, pushing her chair back. The scrape of wood against the floor makes me wince. “It was a tough day, but it’s over. I want to move on. Can we leave it?”
The words hang in the air like a wall between us. I watch as she stands, her shoulders stiff and her movements just a little too precise.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say quietly, my voice low enough to soften the edges of the statement.
Her back stiffens, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she picks up her plate, carries it to the sink, and places it down with a deliberateness that feels louder than any shout.
“I’m tired,” she says finally, her voice too calm, too measured. “It’s been a long couple of days, and I just need some sleep. We can talk later.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she’s already moving toward her room, her steps quick, determined, like she’s running from the conversation.
“Mel—”
“I’ll clean up tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder, her hand already on the doorknob. “Goodnight, Owen.”
I scrub a hand down my face, fingers dragging over my skin. A heavy breath escapes me, my shoulders slumping with it. She’s shut me out before. She thinks she has to carry things on her own, that being fine is the only option. But I know she needs me. And I will be there for her, whenever she is ready.