CHAPTER EIGHT
DAN
Emma thinks I don’t notice.
That’s the first thought in my head as wake.
She thinks I don’t see the way she goes quiet at night. The way she turns onto her side and folds into herself. The way she hesitates before touching me.
I notice.
I just don’t know what to do with it.
She looked beautiful last night.
That’s the inconvenient truth.
Exhausted, yes. Hair scraped back. No makeup. But there’s something about her like this, soft and unguarded, that still does something to me. Truthfully, she still gives me that deep feeling in the pit of my stomach like she always has.
And I want her. Not just in the marriage sense but physically too. I just can’t tell if she wants that and I don’t want to be a pushy dick by asking.
I roll onto my back and rub my face.
I haven’t got a clue what she wants.
That evening, I do something I haven’t done in weeks.
I text Harry.
Dan: Pint? Old Oak.
He replies almost instantly.
Harry: Already there.
Of course he is.
The Old Oak sits on the edge of Oakwood village like it’s grown out of the ground itself.
It’s a proper Tudor building; dark wooden beams crossing whitewashed walls, low ceilings, uneven floors that creak under your feet. The kind of place that looks like it’s survived at least three plagues and a few questionable karaoke nights.
It used to be run by an elderly couple who closed at nine sharp and only ever hosted the regulars.
Rowan took it over two years ago.
Local farmer. Broad shoulders. Always looks faintly windswept, even indoors.
He knocked down the dusty back room, put in fairy lights and long wooden tables, started quiz nights, live music, curry Wednesdays. Turned it from a sleepy relic into something that hums.
Now it’s full most nights.
Tonight, it’s warm and loud and smells faintly of beer and wood polish. Rowan is behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, forearms solid as fence posts.
“Dan,” he nods as I step up.
“Alright.”
“Usual?”
“Yeah.”
He pulls the pint with practised ease. Harry is at a corner table, nursing his second lager.
“You look tragic,” he says by way of greeting.
“Cheers.”
He grins. “Marriage?”
I sit down heavily. “Something like that.”
Harry leans back in his chair. “Emma bite your head off again?” He snorts.
“She doesn’t bite. She… evaluates.” I laugh.
He studies me for a second. “What’s up?”
I hesitate.
This is the bit men are bad at.
We’re good at complaining about work. Good at football analysis. Less good at: I think my wife is slipping away from me and I don’t know how to stop it.
“I think Em’s unhappy,” I say finally.
Harry doesn’t laugh.
He nods slowly. “About what?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”
I take a drink.
“She’s tired all the time. Snappy. Quiet at night.”
Harry arches a brow. “She’s got three kids.”
“I know that.”
“And a toddler.”
“I know.”
He watches me carefully. “So what’s the actual problem?”
I run a hand through my hair.
“She looks at me like I’ve missed something,” I admit. “Like I’m not seeing the whole picture.”
Harry considers that.
“Are you?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Rowan appears beside the table, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“You two solving the world’s problems?” he asks.
“Just marriage,” Harry says lightly.
Rowan snorts. “That’s harder.”
He leans his hip against the table.
“Farm’s easier than relationships,” he says. “Cows are honest. If they’re unhappy, you know about it.”
“Emma’s unhappy,” I say before I can stop myself.
Rowan tilts his head slightly.
“Does she say that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
I hesitate.
“I can feel it.”
Harry nods. “That’s usually accurate.”
Rowan gestures toward the bar. “You helping enough?”
“I do stuff,” I say quickly. “School runs. Baths. Vacuuming.”
Harry smirks. “Ah yes. The Holy Trinity.”
I glare at him.
Rowan shakes his head.
“Helping’s not the same as carrying,” he says calmly.
That lands harder than it should.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Rowan says, “if she’s the one thinking about everything before it happens, you’re always going to feel like you’re playing catch-up.”
I frown.
How in the bloody hell is Rowan. Farm boy, womanizer, Rowan so insightful about married life?
“I work,” I say.
“So does she,” Harry replies.
I bristle. “I didn’t say she doesn’t.”
Harry leans forward.
“Mate. Lou nearly left me after we had the baby.”
I blink. “What?”
“Didn’t pack a bag or anything dramatic. Just… emotionally checked out. I thought I was doing loads. Turns out I was doing tasks. Not responsibility.”
There’s a difference.
I stare at my pint.
Emma did say something once about “the thinking.”
I thought she meant chores.
Maybe she meant something else.
Rowan pushes off the table.
“Look,” he says, not unkindly. “Women don’t usually want grand gestures. They want to feel like they’re not alone in it.”
Harry nods. “And they want to feel wanted.”
I think about last night.
The way she turned toward me in the dark.
The way I didn’t reach.
“I still fancy her,” I say quietly.
Harry grins. “Good. That helps.”
“No, I mean…” I shake my head. “I still really fancy her. Even now. But it’s like there’s this wall.”
Rowan studies me for a moment.
“Walls don’t usually build themselves,” he says.
That one stings.
Bloody Rowan and his bloody wise words.
The pub hums around us. Laughter. Glass clinking. The low murmur of Oakwood living its small, busy life.
Harry claps my shoulder.
“Talk to her,” he says.
“I do.”
“No. Not logistics. Her.”
I nod slowly.
When I get home, the house is quiet. Lights off downstairs. Dishwasher humming. Emma’s already in bed. She’s on her side, facing away, curls spilling over the pillow. I stand in the doorway for a moment.
I still want her. That hasn’t changed.
I slip into bed carefully. This time, I don’t hesitate. I slide my arm around her waist. She stiffens for half a second. Then softens.
It’s small.
But it’s something.
In the dark, I press my face into her hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
I don’t know if she believes me. I’m not sure I know how yet. But I’m starting to realise that if I don’t learn, properly, I might lose her.
And I don’t think I could survive that.