Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
SOPHIE
There’s a box of old mugs on the passenger seat of my car and a suspicious rattle every time I brake, which I’m choosing to believe is the spirit of domestic responsibility whispering, you’re doing amazing, sweetie.
I’ve got half a dozen voicemails from my mum asking if Murphy’s “properly house-trained”, he’s not, one overly enthusiastic group chat message from my cousin who wants to do a full “moving in together” tarot reading; absolutely not.
The flat isn’t even officially ours yet, but somehow, I already have a Pinterest board labelled ‘our ridiculously impractical but adorable life.’
Naturally, the first thing I do is drag my anxious, commitment-dodging arse to the one person who’s been putting up with my chaos for years; Mia.
She’s on her break, perched on the edge of the treatment room couch with a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other. I crash through the door like a hurricane with overfilled tote bags, plonk myself down dramatically, and say, “Emergency. Domestic. Drama.”
Mia doesn’t even blink. “Did Murphy try to cook again?”
“No, worse. He found a place with natural light and sensible storage. I think I’m dying.”
Mia raises an eyebrow. “You’re moving in together?”
“Technically, we’ve found a place. Haven’t signed yet. But the fridge has a wine rack and I’m pretty sure the bathroom was designed by someone who understands the female experience.”
She smiles slowly, knowingly. “So you love it.”
“I want to marry it. I want to throw it a party and write sonnets about its laundry cupboard. It has a second bedroom, Mia. Like a real grown-up. Like someone who pays council tax on time.”
Mia leans back, crossing her arms. “So what’s the problem?”
I flop onto my side, one hand pressed to my forehead resembling a Victorian widow.
“I don’t know! It’s… real. Suddenly everything’s real.
Murphy and I have been this sort of chaotic, beautiful, low-commitment circus.
Now we’re talking cohabiting. Joint cleaning schedules.
Possibly plants that don’t die within a week. ”
“You’re scared,” Mia says gently.
“I’m terrified.” I sit up, legs folded beneath me. “He’s so normal about it. Like, of course we’ll move in together. Of course we’ll split the bills. Of course we’ll argue over what colour the tea towels should be. Like it’s not even a thing.”
Mia watches me for a moment. “Because for him, it’s not. Because he’s all in.”
“Yeah, but what if I drop the ball? What if I can’t hack it? What if he realises living with me is just chaos and crumbs and weird late-night online purchases?”
Mia snorts. “He already knows that. He loves that.”
I glance sideways at her. “Do you think it’s too fast?”
“Do you think it’s too fast?”
I groan. “Don’t do the therapist thing. Just tell me what to do.”
“I think you’re overthinking. Again. As usual.” Mia leans forward. “But I also think you wouldn’t have said yes unless part of you was already sure.”
I pause. “I didn’t say yes. Not out loud. I sort of nodded into his chest while he was hugging me.”
Mia’s lips twitch. “That counts.”
“Does it?”
“Definitely.”
We sit in silence for a moment while I unwrap a granola bar from my bag and eat it like someone who has never used their molars before.
“You know,” I say after a second, “I’ve lived alone for so long I forgot how to share space. I forgot what it’s like to fall asleep with someone beside you. To argue over stupid things like who gets the last spring roll.”
Mia sighs. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Where you pretend you’re not completely smitten because it terrifies you.”
I blink. “I don’t do that.”
She gives me a look. A long, slow, unimpressed look.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I do. But it’s self-preservation. He leaves socks in weird places. He eats cereal as though he’s being chased. He thinks Die Hard is a Christmas film.”
Mia grins. “So do you.”
“Shhh. No one needs to know that.”
I glance down at my hands, where my fingers are picking at a thread in my jumper.
“Have you told him?” Mia asks softly.
“Told him what?”
“That you’re scared.”
I exhale. “He knows. He always seems to know.”
Mia stands and comes over to sit beside me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Then maybe stop trying to out-run your own happiness and let yourself enjoy it for five minutes.”
I lean into her. “Is this what mature emotional growth feels like? I don’t like it.”
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” she deadpans. “Next you’ll be meal planning.”
“I draw the line at meal planning.”
“Uh-huh.”
We both laugh, the kind of laughter that comes from years of knowing each other’s faults and still showing up anyway. It’s the best kind.
I dig into my bag and pull out my phone. “Want to see a photo?”
“Obviously.”
I scroll through until I find it, the one of me and Murphy standing in the flat’s living room, grinning like idiots. He’s got one arm around my shoulders and I’m pointing at the giant window as if I discovered electricity.
Mia studies it, her smile soft. “You look happy.”
“I am. God help me, I really am.”
She hands the phone back. “Then go for it. Stop questioning it to death and let yourself have this.”
“I’m going to be insufferable, aren’t I?”
“Oh, one hundred percent. But you already were.”
We both dissolve into snorts.
After work, I head over to Murphy’s. He’s sprawled on the sofa in trackies and a hoodie, flipping through delivery options.
“Thai or Indian?” he asks without looking up.
“Whichever one lets me drown my feelings in carbs.”
He pauses, eyes narrowing. “That’s a worrying statement. Are we okay?”
I toss my coat onto the chair and drop beside him. “We’re good. I just had an emotionally productive day and now I need rice.”
He wraps an arm around me. “I like emotionally productive Sophie. She’s hot.”
“You say that about me in all moods.”
“True. You’re wildly attractive when you’re yelling at parking meters.”
I grin and burrow into his side. “We’re doing this, huh?”
He kisses my temple. “Yeah. We are.”
“I talked to Mia.”
“That’s either very good or very bad.”
“She said I should stop sabotaging my own happiness and let myself enjoy this.”
He tilts his head. “Sounds about right.”
“So, I’m going to. I want to make this work. Actually work.”
Murphy sets the phone down and pulls me fully into his lap. “Sophie Hart, are you telling me you’re ready for joint spice rack ownership?”
“Don’t push it.”
He laughs, warm and soft. “You and me, we’ve got this.”
And somehow, I believe him.
Even if he does leave his socks everywhere.