ELLIE
He said he was settling.
His words play on repeat in my head—not because I’m shocked, but because they ring true.
I’ve spent my life settling too.
Second best.
No one’s first choice.
But I try not to think about that.
And that thing he said about attention—when you don’t get it from the people you want it from, you take it from whoever offers. God. If that isn’t a mirror held up to my own choices, I don’t know what is. I want to stay mad at him, I really do, but I’ve never related to anyone so much.
Maybe we’ve both been doing the same thing all along: pretending we’re fine, patching the cracks with people who were never meant to hold us together.
“You okay, Kitch?” he says.
His voice is calm, easy—like he actually cares. Like the question isn’t just filler, but real.
And I don’t know what to do with that. I’m not used to it.
It’s unsettling. It makes me feel exposed.
“Fine,” I say, eyes locked on the road ahead.
We ride in silence for the rest of the journey, save for a few directions. And when Mike finally pulls into my street, I feel the relief hit me hard—like I’ve just stepped out of something heavy.
“Just here?” he says.
“Yeah, wherever you can find a spot. Parking is a nightmare,” I say.
Mike finds a spot big enough and parallel parks into the space with ease .
“It looks like a nice place,” he says, cutting the engine.
“It was all I could afford so?—”
“But it’s yours,” he says. “I’d love to have my own place.”
“Well, I panicked, didn’t think through the costs and now I’m borderline needing a new boiler, which I can’t afford. I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
“It’s—”
“You don’t need to do this, Mike.”
“Do what?” he says.
But I’m reaching for my keys, half-held out in his hands, clutching onto them before I climb out of the car.
“Thanks, again. I really appreciate your help,” I say.
He hops out of the car and hurries around to the pavement where he studies me for a moment then opens his mouth like he’s about to say something.
But he doesn’t.
We stare at each other for a moment, then he nods firmly.
I lock my car, then turn away, walking the short distance to the front of my house, leaving Mike’s eyes burning into my back.
It’s only when I get to my front door that I realise he’s still loitering on the pavement, phone in hand and screen lit up like a Christmas tree.
I unlock my door and take a breath, then I look at him one last time before I slip inside.
I’m barely two steps into the hallway when there’s a knock.
When I open the door, Mike’s standing there, eyes fixed intently on the toe of his shoe.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sorry—bit awkward, but I don’t suppose I could take a leak, could I?”
I hold the door open for him to step inside, shifting over enough so he can pass.
“Toilet is upstairs,” I say .
But Mike isn’t listening. He’s craning his head into my front room.
“Nice place,” he says.
“It needs some work. I know it’s not much…” I say, flicking on the light switch to the living room, in a depressing ‘ta-da’ moment.
“I love it. Loads of potential …” He steps inside. “You know, you could even knock this wall through and—” He runs his hand along the wall dividing the living room and a small reception room.
“I wanted to keep that separate and make a treatment area. Out of hours sort of stuff … I want to grow a little outside of my sister’s business.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” he says. “Mam mentioned you’ve got a decent set-up there, though.”
I shrug.
“It’s okay. I’d just like more time to…”
I snap my mouth closed, wondering why I’m telling him any of this stuff.
“The bathroom’s upstairs on the right,” I say.
But Mike doesn’t move. He stands glued to the spot, looking around like he’s surveying the place to give me a quote for decorating or something.
“Can’t your boyfriend help you?” he asks, his tone teasing, but a knot forms in my chest. “You know, get it to how you want it?”
“I don’t have a—I told you, it’s early days.”
I move through into the kitchen, flicking the light on before dropping my bag and coat onto the table in the corner. Then I turn to assess the kitchen—one I fell in love with when I viewed the house that quickly showed its faults when I moved in.
The Belfast-style sink was a selling point when I viewed the place, but now it reminds me of a dream I can’t ever see coming true. And there’s an enormous crack on the edge that definitely wasn’t there when I viewed the house .
“I love the sink,” Mike says, moving into the room. “The worktops would look so good in like … a rustic oak or something.” He runs his hand along the surface.
“Well, if you want to make me an offer, this place is yours,” I say.
He grins.
“Are you forgetting something, sweetheart? We’re married. It’s already half mine.”
Sweetheart? Typically patronising from anyone else, but he pulls it off, causing an involuntary shiver to run down my spine.
“We don’t know that for sure yet…” I say, but I can tell he’s not listening.
“Honestly, this is a nice place. And getting things in a good shape takes time. One of my buddies on the team is renovating at the moment and—” Mike cuts himself off, then pulls at the collar of his shirt.
“Well, yeah, but I have little spare cash at the moment. And with this marriage stuff … I’m not sure how much that’s going to set me back.”
“What does it matter?” Mike says, leaning against the kitchen counter, clearly forgetting about his visit to the bathroom again. “I mean, eight years and we didn’t know, so what does it actually matter if we don’t get it done for another few years?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It makes perfect sense,” he says, moving towards the table.
“It does not. What if I meet the love of my life and he plans an extravagant proposal, and I have to stop him mid-taking a knee to drop the bomb that I’m already married, and I need to get divorced first?”
Mike rubs his beard. “Okay, well, yeah, I guess that could be a tad awkward. Maybe just tell anyone you’re dating that you’re married when it kicks off—hey have you told this boyfriend of yours? You know, given him a heads up so he doesn’t get the wrong idea or whatever. ”
“The wrong idea?”
I raise a brow.
“Yeah. He may assume that you’re still in love with me or something—but don’t worry … I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks and I roll my eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Hey—I’m just being realistic.” He glances at me. “How do you think I feel, anyway? This isn’t ideal for me either. I’m abstinent. At this rate, I’ll never have sex again.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“Honestly, after all that shit with—forget it. I can’t handle it. I’m not having sex until I’m married now—or, you know what I mean.”
I stare at him in complete disbelief, but his attention has waned.
He moves around me and makes a beeline for the small drinks cabinet tucked in the corner of my kitchen.
“Wow, this is some collection you have,” he says, picking up a bottle of ruby port and rolling it in his hands.
“Please don’t touch,” I say, moving towards him and reaching for the bottle. “That one is special.”
My fingers dance over his as he hands me back the bottle and the physical contact causes me to shiver; probably because it’s been a long time since I’ve touched anyone who wasn’t a client.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise—I didn’t have you pinned as a drinker.”
“I’m not really. It’s all stuff I’ve sort of accumulated, and this bottle is something of a rare find, apparently.
The other stuff, well, I’ve had one glass here and there and then …
I guess I didn’t want to throw them out.
I always wanted one of those globe-shaped drinks cabinets—but then I … I don’t know.”
“Oh yeah? That sounds cool—shit…” He pauses. “This is special. Where did you get it from?” He points towards a bottle of Macallan ten-year-old oak whisky. “If this was sealed, it’d be worth a fortune. ”
I shrug. “That one you can touch.” I move towards him, peering over his arm at the bottle. “I won it in a raffle a few years ago, and honestly, it wasn’t even that nice.”
Now it’s his turn to gape at me. He picks up the bottle and turns it over, reading the label.
“You’re kidding? I bet this is like … I don’t know, liquid gold? Here…”
He pops the cap off and holds the bottle to his nose, breathing deeply and sighing blissfully before stepping towards me and crowding me completely.
Naturally, I’d step back to regain my personal space, but I edge closer, more interested in the smell of his aftershave at this proximity than the bitter scent of the whisky.
“Good, don’t you think?” Mike says, lowering his voice.
His eyes lock onto mine and my head spins; the fumes of the whisky mixed with the wine already swimming around my stomach.
It makes me delirious.
I shake my head. “More like gasoline. Honestly, it smells like varnish. Whisky isn’t my thing.”
Mike moistens his lips before peering back at the bottle.
“I wish I wasn’t on a drinking ban because I’d be begging for a taste of this. Honestly, Macallan whisky is…”
He chef kisses the air, then ponders over the bottle for another moment before speaking again.
“Actually, since I’m getting a cab back to my folks’ place—do you mind if I have a quick glass? I mean—one won’t hurt, will it?”