Chapter 13
Christina
“Idon’t ever want you to think I’m ashamed of you,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside me, displacing something that had been sitting there longer than I wanted to admit.
Shame.
It had never felt like the right word. Too heavy.
Too deliberate. And yet it had lingered anyway, unwelcome and persistent, attaching itself to moments I hadn’t known how to interpret.
The space he created when other people appeared.
The way his hand would leave me without explanation. The carefulness.
Not rejection.
Not quite distance.
Just enough absence to make me question what had been there before.
Now, hearing him say it aloud, I realise how much weight I’d given to something that had never actually been spoken.
He isn’t ashamed of me.
The certainty in his voice hadn’t sounded rehearsed or defensive. It hadn’t sounded like reassurance offered out of obligation.
It had sounded like truth.
I lean back against the counter behind me, staring at nothing. My fingers rest loosely against the wood, grounding myself in something solid while everything else shifts into new alignment.
I think about the way he’d said my name the first time he kissed me. Like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I think about him standing in the garden at the Manor, sleeves rolled up, hands steady on something broken until it worked again.
I think about the quiet way he exists in the world, never asking for space but never quite believing he’s entitled to it either.
He had told Arthur.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
Because Phil doesn’t offer pieces of his life lightly.
The doubt I’d been carrying doesn’t disappear all at once. It loosens. Unravels slowly, like something that had never been tied properly in the first place.
I realise he’s still waiting.
He hasn’t spoken again.
He’s given me the truth and stepped back from it, the way he always does. Never forcing. Never demanding.
Leaving the choice with me.
My throat tightens.
Because I understand now what it cost him to say those words.
“I know,” I say quietly.
My voice sounds different. Stronger.
I swallow.
“I believe you.”
The silence that follows isn’t fragile anymore. It’s full. Steady.
There’s something else I need to say.
Something I’ve been holding back, not because I didn’t know it was true, but because saying it would make it real in a way I couldn’t undo.
I close my eyes briefly.
“I think…” I stop, correcting myself. Honesty deserves precision. “No. I know.”
I exhale slowly.
“I’m falling for you too.”
The words leave without resistance.
Without fear.
Because they’re no longer a question.
“More than before,” I add quietly. “Even with all of this.”
Maybe because of it.
Because love isn’t built in perfect moments.
It’s built here, in the truth of things, in the uncertainty, in the decision to stay present even when it would be easier to retreat.
He exhales softly, and I can hear the smile in it.
“I want to prove it,” he says.
I frown, even though he can’t see me.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I want to,” he repeats, and there’s no urgency in his voice. Just quiet certainty.
“Come to dinner with me. Tonight.”
The offer doesn’t feel like repair. It feels like continuation. Like he’s stepping forward instead of standing still.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I mean it. “But I can’t. I have to go to Manchester in the morning. Flower market. I need to leave at four.”
He makes a small sound of understanding.
“That’s early.”
“It’s awful,” I confirm. “If I go out tonight, I’ll regret it before sunrise.”
He accepts it immediately, without argument, which somehow makes it harder to refuse him.
“So,” I continue, “separate evenings today. But I have the gig tomorrow night.” The Crazy Dogs were happy with my audition, but before they confirm me they want to see me perform live, so I’m joining them for one of their gigs.
He goes quiet for a moment.
“Where?”
“At the Devil’s Barrel.”
He exhales.
“That’s a rough pub.”
It isn’t criticism. Just recognition.
“It can’t be helped,” I say. “The Crazy Dogs play there regularly, and if I want in, I need to sing there.”
“You’ll get in,” he says simply.
I smile, even though he can’t see it.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The certainty in his voice makes something inside me settle.
“You don’t have to come,” I add automatically.
“I want to,” he says.
He pauses, then adds, “I’ll bring the others.”
“The others?”
“Mountain Rescue. We’ll make enough noise that they won’t have a choice but to hire you.”
I laugh, the sound lighter than anything I’ve felt all day.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He pauses again.
“But I want them to see you.”
The words land gently, but their meaning is unmistakable.
He isn’t hiding me.
He’s choosing to stand beside me where everyone can see.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply.
And this time, there’s no doubt in it.
By the time he knocks on my door, the last of the daylight has already drained from the sky.
I know it’s him before I open it.
Not because I’ve been watching for him, but because he said he would come, and Phil doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
I open the door.
He’s standing on the step with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling faintly at the edges.
He looks up when the door opens, and something in his face shifts.
Not surprise. Recognition. Like he’d been holding himself in suspension and can finally stop.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
He looks at me carefully, his eyes searching my face in a way that makes it clear he hasn’t quite trusted this moment would happen exactly like this.
“You look tired,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Thank you.”
His eyes widen slightly.
“No. Not—” He stops, searching for the right words. “You don’t look… bad.”
I wait.
He exhales softly, clearly dissatisfied with that attempt.
“You look like yourself,” he says finally. “Just tired.”
There’s a pause.
“You still look…” He hesitates, then commits to it. “Beautiful.”
The word lands quietly between us, unpolished but completely sincere.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
“Good recovery.”
He huffs a small breath, half relief, half embarrassment.
“I meant it the first time,” he says. “I just said it wrong.”
I smile, and something in his expression shifts when he sees it. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction without realising it.
His hand lifts, hesitates briefly, then settles against my cheek. His fingers are warm from his pocket, his thumb brushing lightly along my jaw like he’s memorising the shape of it.
He leans in.
This time, the kiss isn’t careful.
It’s certain.
His mouth finds mine with a quiet urgency that makes it clear he isn’t second-guessing himself anymore.
His other hand comes to rest at my waist, drawing me closer, not forcefully but with unmistakable intent.
I feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him, the absence of distance.
I kiss him back without hesitation.
Because there is nothing left to hesitate about.
When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests briefly against mine, his hand still at my face like he isn’t ready to let go completely.
Then, slowly, he lowers it.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
We step away from the door together, and as we reach the pavement, his hand finds mine. His fingers slide between mine naturally, like they’ve learned the shape of each other already.
We start walking toward the pub, our pace unhurried.
“So,” he says after a moment, glancing at me. “This gig.”
I laugh softly.
“Yes.”
“What happens?”
“I sing,” I say. “They listen. Check out how the crowd reacts to me.”
He smiles faintly.
“And you'll meet them there?”
“Yeah. They’ll already be at the pub,” I explain. “They’ve been playing together for years. I’m the unknown variable.”
He squeezes my hand slightly.
“You won’t be for much longer. The'll love you.”
I glance at him.
“I'll only need to sing a few songs tonight,” I continue.
The Devil’s Barrel comes into view ahead of us, its windows glowing amber against the dark.
He follows my gaze.
“You’ll be good,” he says.
Not encouragement.
Certainty.
I feel it settle into me as we walk the rest of the way there, his hand steady in mine, his presence unmistakable beside me.