Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SOPHIE
It’s midweek, mid-evening, and my brain is mush.
I’ve spent the whole day wrangling graphic layouts for a children’s health campaign, fighting with fonts, and trying not to snap a pencil clean in half when Linda from Comms insisted for the fourth time that Comic Sans is “fun.” I love my job.
I really do. But some days, it tests me like I’m on a sadistic reality show.
So, when Murphy texted to say he was taking me out for dinner, I nearly wept with relief.
Murphy: Fancy food and me in a shirt? Say yes.
Me: Are you wearing the shirt with buttons or the one with ketchup stains?
Murphy: Bold of you to assume it’s not both.
He rings the buzzer at exactly seven, and I open the door to find him grinning, hair manicured to perfection, wearing jeans, boots, and a button-down that’s miraculously wrinkle-free. It’s even tucked in.
I blink. “Who are you and what have you done with the goblin man I’ve been dating?”
He smirks. “He’s in the boot of my car. Thought I’d try being respectable for once.”
“Terrifying. But I support your bravery.”
The restaurant he’s picked is classic Murphy; not fancy, not flashy, just cool and a little quirky.
Fairy lights dangle over the garden terrace, the air smells of garlic and warm dough, and the menus are shaped like vinyl records.
Our table’s out back under a heater, tucked in the corner where we can people-watch without being watched ourselves.
He orders for us with casual confidence, garlic prawns to start, then a spiced lamb thing that smells so good I nearly tear into the bread basket like a feral raccoon.
“Didn’t you have lunch?” he asks, pushing the butter toward me.
“I did,” I say, buttering a slice with something close to reverence. “Linda gave a talk about financial consistency. It was emotionally draining.”
He laughs. “Poor thing. Want me to punch Linda?”
“I’ll get you a T-shirt that says Sophie’s Emotional Support Athlete.”
“Sexy.” He winks and tops up my wine glass.
We eat, we flirt, we argue gently about the best Marvel movie; he’s wrong, it’s not Iron Man 3, and by the time dessert rolls around, I’m relaxed. Warm. A little tipsy. Happy. He leans back in his chair, eyes soft, that smile he saves just for me hovering on his lips.
And then he drops it.
“So,” he says, casually as anything. “What would you say if I asked you to move in with me?”
I blink, mid-mouthful of chocolate mousse. “I’d say, ‘Dude, warn a girl before you try to kill her with a surprise cohabitation bomb.’”
He grins. “That wasn’t a no.”
“It wasn’t a yes either. You’re asking me to give up my sacred bath rituals, the ones that involve ten candles and a podcast about murder.”
“I have a bathtub.”
“You have a bathtub that’s seen more ice packs than soap. And don’t get me started on your fridge.”
“I cleaned it.”
I arch a brow. “What’s in there now?”
He counts on his fingers. “Half a lime. A bottle of barbecue sauce. And the souls of a thousand takeaway containers.”
“Romantic.”
“Hey,” he says, leaning forward, his foot nudging mine under the table. “I’m not asking because it’s convenient. I’m asking because I want to wake up next to you every morning, and I want to fall asleep knowing your weird little face is two feet from mine, breathing audibly like a pug in a hoodie.”
I snort. “You make domesticity sound deeply unsexy.”
“You love it.”
God help me, I do.
We leave the restaurant hand in hand, the night crisp and full of possibility.
There’s no pressure, not really. Just this warm, slow thing building between us.
The kind of thing that makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, home isn’t a flat full of candles and murder podcasts.
Maybe it’s a loud, messy hockey player who makes me laugh until I can’t breathe.
Back at his place, we’re halfway through unbuttoning each other when I pause and murmur against his jaw, “You really want this? Me, permanently invading your space, leaving hair grips in your bathroom and demanding you recycle properly?”
He kisses my temple. “I want all of it. Even the part where you yell at me for using the good tea towels on spilled ketchup.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “Okay. Maybe. I’ll think about it. But just so you know, I would be keeping my flat for now. A girl needs options.”
His grin is immediate, crooked and smug. “So, you’re saying there’s a chance.”
I roll my eyes and push him back onto the sofa. “You better make room in your wardrobe, hockey boy. Just in case.”
He laughs, breathless as I crawl over him. “I’ll build you a whole new one. Gold handles and everything.”
“Gold?”
“You deserve the best.”
“You know what’s mad?” I say, pacing across Murphy’s living room later, wine glass in hand and a frown tugging at my forehead.
“I’m mentally redecorating your flat, trying to imagine where my bookshelf would go and if I can convince you to throw out that godawful beanbag.
And then I’m wondering, why am I the one moving? ”
Murphy, sprawled on the sofa with one leg flung over the armrest, blinks up at me. “Because you like my beanbag?”
“Murph.”
He winces. “Okay, maybe not the best argument.”
I point at him with my glass. “Exactly. Why do I have to give up my flat? It’s a good flat. Spacious. Decent water pressure. Walking distance to my office. It’s got character!”
“You mean the creaky floorboards and the cupboard that opens by itself when it rains?”
“Yes. It’s charming. Haunted, maybe. But charming.”
He sits up a bit straighter. “Babe, I’m not kicking you out of yours. I just figured mine makes more sense? I’ve got the driveway. The bigger telly. The spare room we could turn into an office-slash-yoga-studio-slash-storage-for-whatever-weird-thing-you’re-into-that-week.”
“I am not giving up an entire lease and my independence just for a yoga-slash-weird-stuff room.”
His brows lift. “So you’re saying I should move into yours instead?”
I stare at him, arms folded now. “Why not?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Scratches the back of his neck. “Because my place has the vibe. The history. The guys know it. It’s got my jersey framed in the hallway, for God’s sake.”
I snort. “Exactly. It’s your shrine. You’re basically living in a hockey-themed bachelor museum.”
“Which I was hoping to convert into a couples’ exhibit?”
“Then why is it me packing up my life and relocating to the shrine? Why not a fresh start for both of us?”
Murphy drags a hand through his hair and exhales like I’ve just suggested burning his skates. “I dunno. I guess I always thought if we did this, it’d be you coming to mine. That was the picture in my head.”
I soften, just a little. “Well, in my head, I keep my flat. At least for now. You’re great, but I like knowing I’ve got space that’s just mine. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you. It just means I want to feel like I’m choosing this because it fits, not because it’s the only option.”
He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. Completely fair.”
I sit beside him, nudging his knee with mine. “It’s not a no. It’s a let’s figure it out.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “So long as you’re still bringing your murder podcast voice into my home now and then, I can be patient.”
I grin. “And you’re keeping that haunted cupboard energy on standby in case I change my mind.”
“Done.”
We sit for a moment, the air full of all the stuff we haven’t figured out yet. But it doesn’t feel like a fight. It feels like the messy, honest middle part of something worth working out.
I kiss him then, long and slow, and for once there’s no noise in my head. No overthinking. Just him, just me, just this.