Chapter 20
By day five, Dorian was giving up hope. The townsfolk had him on a wild goose chase. Days of circling the town, of clipped refusals and doors closed in his face, had gotten him nowhere. Rune's people had built a wall around her, and he hadn't found the crack in it.
That night, sitting in the dimly lit B&B, he finally asked, "What the hell do I do, Eli?"
Eli, sprawled in a chair with a pint balanced on his stomach, didn't even blink.
"You swallow your pride and go to her house.
Time it right and get to her mum before her dad gets there.
Take something that Rune would like to show you are sincere.
Maybe a onesie that says mummy is always right.
Beg if you have to. Women'll listen if you sound half-human. Fathers... less so. I would know.".
Dorian looked like he was chewing on rocks "Beg..."
"Novel, I know," Eli said, looking like he was really enjoying Dorian's pain. "Might even suit ya."
He closed his eyes, listening to the heavy breathing in the room. Any minute now...
"Alright"
"Huh??"
"Just one question. What is a onesie?"
At exactly 10:00 a.m., Dorian stood at the O'Connor's front step.
He had timed it down to the minute, Rune's father left at nine sharp, and he wasn't risking another door slammed in his face.
In one hand, he carried a neat bunch of roses, de-thorned by the florist at his curt request. In the other, a glossy box of chocolates.
And tucked into a small bag, folded so precisely it might have come from Savile Row, was a baby onesie.
The words emblazoned across the front made his jaw tighten every time he looked at it: If you think Mummy is scary, you should meet my Nana.
The shop assistant had smiled at him so knowingly that it had taken every ounce of control not to walk out.
The door opened. Gracie stood there, apron dusted with flour, eyes narrowing at the sight of him. Rune's mother looked him over from head to toe – an immaculate suit, hair damp from the mist, the ridiculous bag dangling from his hand like a peace offering. Her brows arched.
"Mr. Albury," she said slowly, "Back again."
He cleared his throat. "Yes."
"It's Dorian." He held out the flowers and chocolates like a man surrendering weapons. "For you." Then he lifted the bag. "For the baby."
She took the roses, sniffed them, and set them aside with a raised brow. The chocolates followed, met with a faint smile that she tried and failed to hide. But when she peeked into the bag, her lips twitched outright.
"A onesie?"
For the first time, Dorian listened to her laugh short, incredulous, yet genuine. She folded it back carefully, then levelled her gaze at him. "Alright come in. You must be desperate."
He forced himself to meet her eyes. "It seemed... appropriate. Symbolic, even."
"Symbolic," she repeated, amusement creeping in. "You? Buying baby clothes? Or were you planning to use it as a white flag of surrender"
"I don't expect it to make up for anything," Dorian said stiffly. "But I... I was wrong about how I handled things. And I won't hurt Rune again. I want to do right by her. I swear I’ll take care of her. "
Gracie studied him for a long moment, weighing every word. "Why?"
"Because it's the right thing to do."
Her brows lifted. "Try again. Dig deep"
He seemed to grapple with unfamiliar words before they came out in a rush, a raw honesty scraping out. "Because being without her..." He exhaled, the words reluctant but true. "I feel empty."
Gracie's expression softened, but only slightly.
"Think less about you and more about her, yeah?
" Dorian nodded once, like he was taking mental notes.
Gracie studied him carefully, the smile fading.
Finally, she snorted softly as if she had come to a decision.
"You are bloody useless at this. God help ya. "
Dorian inclined his head slightly, as though she'd just confirmed something he already knew.
"But," she continued, her tone softening, "a child deserves to know his father. Even if he is a dickhead."
Something in his chest moved at that, not relief, not quite shame. He opened his mouth to speak again, but heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
"What's he doing here?" Rune's father growled, filling the hallway with his presence.
"Finn," Gracie said warningly.
"I told you-"
"At least for closure," she cut him off, firm but calm. "Let him have his say."
Finn scowled, but didn't argue further. His glare lingered on Dorian, promising this was temporary, and then he turned away.
Gracie looked back at Dorian, eyes steady.
"She's at the farm. If you're serious, that's where you'll find her.
But you'd better have more to say than 'I'm sorry' and a bit of cotton. "
As he stepped off the porch, he knew the truth: finding Rune was only the first step. Getting her to listen to him was going to be an entirely different story.
***
The trip to the farm was fraught with tension.
For the first time in his life, Dorian was walking into a situation where the outcome was utterly unknown.
Everything usually was in place before the encounter.
Scripts rehearsed, leverage calculated, outcomes secured.
But here? Rune held all the cards, and he had none.
The yard opened up before him, stone walls and slate roofs slick with last night's rain.
Her grandfather appeared in a flat cap and wellies, flanked by a pair of sheepdogs which immediately bounded forward, circling with joyous enthusiasm.
Dorian froze, every muscle stiff, the hem of his trousers already damp with mud.
"Dogs can smell fear, you know," the old man said, voice amused. "Best not stand so stiff, lad."
Before Dorian could answer, Gracie called from the gate. "This is-"
"I know," Gramps interrupted, eyes narrowing on him with the shrewdness of age. "Dorian, isn't it?"
Gracie blinked. "How do you know him?"
The old man's smile was knowing. "You don't know? Well, I reckon he'll tell you when the time's right."
"You here for our Rune bach?"
"Yes," Dorian said simply.
"She's by the barn, round the back. Bit of a walk. Go on, I'll follow." He cocked his head. "Want a pair of wellies?"
"I'm fine," Dorian muttered, already regretting it as he stepped into the muck.
The dogs padded along behind, Gramps with them, and tension gathered around Dorian's shoulders as the outline of the barn grew closer.
The air smelt of hay and manure, of damp earth and livestock, and every nerve in his body recoiled.
His polished shoes squelched with each step, flecks of mud climbing higher up his trousers.
The smell clung, pungent and inescapable.
His skin itched with the thought of contamination, his every instinct screamed to run.
And then he saw her. Rune emerged from the barn in loose drawstring pants, an ancient T-shirt, and oversized wellies.
A metal pail swung from her hand. She paused to rub at her back, then turned slightly, distracted by something he couldn't see.
For a moment, he simply took in her glowing skin, her familiar features that braid of long brown hair down her back.
The world shrank to the sight of her. He realised, with a jolt, that he had been holding his breath for days, weeks even, and only now, seeing her, did it feel like he could finally let it out.
She turned, her blue-grey eyes colliding with his dark ones.
She froze, stunned, the pail tilting in her hand.
He moved closer, the muck sucking at his feet, the smell pressing in.
Every nerve in his body shrieked in protest, but none of it mattered.
He lifted a hand, hesitant for the first time in his life, and reached toward hers.
"Rune..." His voice cracked with tension. He swallowed, eyes flicking away and back again, chest rising and falling with deep, steadying breaths.
"I need to talk to you, Rune," he said hoarsely. "Just... hear me out."
There was a pause, the burden of all the mistakes and wrong choices over the years hanging between them. He managed a faint, pained smile, mud streaked up his trousers, hair damp from the mist while his hands were white knuckled fists from holding onto control.
"But first," he admitted, breath shuddering, "I need a bath."