CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAN
The Old Oak smells the same as it always has.
Wood polish. Spilled lager. The kind of laughter that sinks into Tudor beams and refuses to leave.
It’s early evening when we walk in, the sky outside fading into that dusty blue Oakwood does so well. Fairy lights are already glowing behind the low windows, golden against the black beams.
Rowan looks up from behind the bar as the door swings shut behind us.
He clocks us immediately.
“Ah,” he says, wiping down the counter with exaggerated calm. “Team Us.”
Emma laughs beside me. “That’s not our official name.”
“It absolutely is,” he replies. “Been unofficially reserving your booth under that title for months.”
I glance at her.
She squeezes my hand.
The booth is ours. It always has been. Raised slightly on that uneven wooden platform near the stage, close enough to the bar, close enough to the toilets, dangerously close to karaoke.
Freya’s already there, curled into the corner with a large glass of red.
“Finally,” she says. “You’re late. I’ve nearly had to socialise without you.”
“You’re welcome,” Emma says, sliding in beside her.
Hannah’s at the end of the table, aggressively judging the playlist. “If this DJ plays one more Ed Sheeran song I’m walking out.”
Clara waves at us with tequila in hand. “We’re on our third emotional spiral already. You’ve missed very little.”
Harry and Mark are at the bar talking to Rowan and Rory about rugby, something about The Ravens and a suspicious refereeing decision last weekend.
It feels… normal.
Not performative. Not fragile.
Just ours.
Emma slides in beside me. Her knee presses against mine under the table. I feel it all the way up my spine.
She looks good tonight. Not Milan red-carpet good. Not styled-for-a-camera good. Just her.
Jeans that fit perfectly. Hair loose. That soft glow she gets when she’s tired but content.
“How did Milan feel?” I ask quietly.
The noise of the pub hums around us, glasses clinking, someone laughing too loudly, the mic screeching in warning before karaoke starts.
She thinks about it properly.
“Big,” she says. “Scary. Mine.”
Mine. I nod. “And us?”
She doesn’t hesitate this time. She laces her fingers through mine beneath the table.
“Steady.”
That word hits deeper than fireworks ever could.
Drinks arrive. Hannah orders shots we don’t need. Clara insists on a toast.
“To women who refuse to shrink.”
Freya adds, “And men who learn.” She looks briefly at Dan then glares over at Rory who has come to join the celebration.
The girls decided that after my huge Milan gig, we should all head to The Oak to celebrate. Whatever reason they can come up with to get down the pub.
Harry salutes me with his pint. “Growth kings.”
Emma smiles, resting her head briefly against my shoulder.
A year ago, I would’ve felt defensive. Now I just feel grateful.
Karaoke starts. It’s chaos. Someone murders a ballad from 2003. Clara gets up and absolutely devastates an Adele track like she’s mid-divorce even though she’s been happily married for twelve years. Freya shouts commentary like a sports pundit. Emma turns to me mid-song.
“You’re up next.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I don’t sing.”
“You do when you’ve had two beers.”
“That was one time.”
She’s already dragging me up.
The pub cheers because Oakwood thrives on humiliation disguised as community bonding.
“What are we doing?” I hiss.
She grins wickedly. “90s. Always 90s.”
We butcher it. Completely. I forget half the lyrics. She sings loudly and off-key on purpose. At one point she throws her arm around my neck and shouts the chorus directly into my face. Freya is filming. Harry is booing theatrically. Rowan is laughing behind the bar.
And Emma…
Emma laughs like she did when we were twenty. But softer. Grounded. Not desperate. Not trying to prove anything. Just happy.
The pub settles into that late-evening warmth. The volume dipping slightly, the fairy lights feeling softer, conversations more intimate.
Freya’s arguing about rugby statistics with Harry.
Hannah’s telling Rowan she could run this place better.
Clara’s trying to organise a girls’ trip that will absolutely never happen.
Emma rests her head on my shoulder.
“You know what the best part was?” she says quietly.
“What?”
“Milan was incredible. The clothes. The interviews. The chaos.” She pauses. “But the best part was coming home.”
My hand tightens around hers.
She tilts her face up to look at me. “Not because I had to,” she adds. “Because I wanted to.”
There’s something about the way she says it. Not dependency. Not relief. Choice. That’s the difference now.
“I don’t ever want you choosing smaller,” I say quietly.
She studies me. “I don’t,” she replies. “And I don’t want you choosing silence.”
I nod. Deal
Rowan brings over another round we absolutely did not order.
“On the house,” he says. “For surviving your dramatic era.”
Emma laughs. “We were not dramatic.”
Freya snorts wine out of her nose.
Mark raises an eyebrow. “Mate.”
I shrug.
“We’ve evolved.”
Emma squeezes my hand.
Later, when the pub starts thinning out, we stay seated longer than the others.
Just watching.
The Old Oak hasn’t changed much.
Same beams. Same floorboards that creak like they’re gossiping. Same booth we’ve occupied through arguments, reconciliations, flirting, near-misses, inside jokes.
But we have.
And that’s enough.
She shifts closer.
“I love that we’re not frantic anymore,” she murmurs.
“Me too.”
“I love that it’s not fireworks every five seconds.”
“Steady flame?” I say.
She smiles.
“Steady flame.”