Chapter 5
Aaron
By the time we reach the village again, the rain has turned into that fine, soaking mist that clings to everything. My waterproof’s holding up, but my face feels raw, and my boots are carrying half the Dales with them.
Nancy’s voice cuts through the chatter ahead. “Come on, you two! Apple crumble and hot chocolate are in here!” She’s standing in the doorway of the pub, waving like a tour guide trying to herd stragglers.
Eve hesitates beside me. It’s barely noticeable, just a tiny pause before she moves, but I catch it. Most wouldn’t.
Over the years, I’ve gotten used to spotting that kind of hesitation—people who’d rather fade into the background than walk into a crowd. The army was full of them. Some loud to hide it, some quiet because they couldn’t help it.
There was one lad, years ago. Good bloke, but the noise and pressure got to him.
He came from the same kind of place I did, where you took whatever work was going, and being shy wasn’t an option.
He tried his best to fit in, but the army doesn’t make space for quiet people.
I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough.
He took his life on his birthday. I was on my way to take him to the pub.
That stayed with me.
Since then, I’ve learnt to notice the signs—the tightening of a jaw, the way someone’s shoulders lift as if bracing for impact.
And right now, Eve’s standing there with that same look.
I glance from her to the pub entrance, where laughter and steam are spilling through the open door, then back again. The noise will be too much for her. I can tell.
I spot something off to the side—three small wooden shelters tucked beside the building, each with a table and an outdoor heater.
The smokers’ corner, by the looks of it, though even they’ve abandoned it in this weather.
The space is sheltered from the worst of the wind, and the rain hits the roof in a soft, steady patter.
I turn to her. “If there are no other people, would you like some crumble and hot chocolate?”
She hesitates, then gives a small nod. “That sounds nice.”
“Good,” I say, and lead the way around the side of the building.
The air’s damp and cold, but it’s quiet here. The noise from the pub fades to a gentle buzz. I guide her to one of the benches and press the button for the heater. It clicks and hums before glowing faintly red, the warmth just enough to chase off the chill.
“Wait here,” I tell her. “I’ll get us the good stuff.”
She looks up, half smiling. “You don’t have to—”
“I insist,” I say lightly, already stepping back. “Trust me, you don’t want to fight Nancy for dessert. She’s competitive.”
That earns the smallest laugh, but it’s real.
I head for the door, feeling the sting of the rain on my face and the warmth of that laugh following me inside.
It takes me ages to get to the front of the queue. The pub’s packed, every table full of damp walkers steaming gently in the warmth, and the air smells of cinnamon, gravy, and wet wool.
By the time I reach the bar, my jacket’s half-dry again. Thankfully, there’s still plenty of crumble left—golden and bubbling—and the hot chocolate’s being poured from one of those big silver urns that promise sweet deliciousness.
Alexandra, who’s working behind the bar, spots me and grins. “You’re cutting it fine, love. We nearly had a mutiny when the cream ran low.”
“Then it’s my lucky day,” I say. “Any chance I can get a tray? We are sitting outside.”
She slides one across, then adds two spoons and a napkin that sticks to my wet glove. “You’re braver than me, eating outside in this weather.”
I smile. “We’ve found the shelters with the heaters. It’s practically luxury.”
She laughs and waves me off, already turning to the next customer.
Balancing the tray carefully, I weave back through the crowd and push open the side door. The wind hits me straight away, colder after being indoors, as I rush from the entrance to the little shelter.
For a second, I think she’s gone. The bench looks empty in the half-light. But then I see her—still there under the heater, hood up even though it’s dry beneath the cover. She’s sitting quietly, hands clasped, shoulders slightly hunched as if she’s trying to take up less space.
But she stayed.
Something about that surprises me more than it should.
I step forward, the gravel crunching under my boots. “You’re still here,” I say lightly. “I was worried I’d have to eat your share.”
She looks up, just enough for me to see the faint curve of a smile beneath her hood.
“Bar’s a battlefield,” I say, setting the tray down and sliding one bowl across to her. “But worth it.”
Steam curls up from the crumble, sweet and warm, and for a moment it feels like the world outside this little shelter doesn’t exist.
She shrugs back her hood, and for the first time I see her properly.
Her hair is dark brown, tied up in a loose knot at the back of her head. By the thickness of it, I’d bet it’s long when it’s down. Stray wisps have escaped, curling slightly in the damp air.
Then there are her eyes. Piercing blue, the kind that catch you off guard because you don’t expect them. The contrast against her hair is striking, unusual, and for a second, I almost forget what I was about to say.
Her face is difficult to place. Ageless in that way some people are, calm and self-contained. There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the kind you get from squinting at sunlight rather than smiling, and a faint band of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She’s not wearing any make-up, or if she is, it’s subtle enough that I can’t tell. Just her, exactly as she is.
It’s a face that doesn’t demand attention but somehow keeps it.
“Here,” I say quietly, pushing the bowl of crumble a little closer to her. “Still warm.”
She nods, murmuring a soft thank you, and takes the spoon.
We sit there in the soft glow of the heater, the smell of apples and cinnamon between us, rain pattering steadily on the roof above.
After a few bites, she looks up. “How did you know I wouldn’t want to go in?”
I set the spoon down and meet her eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that some people don’t like walking into noise. You can spot it if you pay attention.”
Her gaze lingers on me, curious, thoughtful. “You pay attention a lot?”
“Only when it’s worth it,” I say softly.
Something shifts between us then, small but certain, like the air tightening just enough for me to notice. She glances down, pretending to focus on her crumble again, but not before I see the faint colour rising in her cheeks.
I clear my throat. “I don’t always get it right,” I mumble, half to myself.
She looks up, spoon paused midway. “What do you mean?”
I lean back slightly, the bench creaking under my weight. “Reading people. Thinking I understand them.” I let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “My ex-wife would probably say I was terrible at it.”
Her brows lift a little. “You’re divorced?”
“Four months now.” I swirl the spoon absently in what’s left of my crumble. “Nicola and I were together for years. She’s a good person, just… not meant to be with me, as it turns out.”
Eve tilts her head, her voice gentle. “That sounds difficult.”
“It was,” I admit. “Still is, some days. We tried to make it work. I gave up the travel, spent more time at home, thought that was the problem. It wasn’t.”
She stays quiet, not rushing me, and I find myself continuing. “Turns out she’d fallen for someone else. A woman, actually. Took her a while to figure that out herself.”
There’s no judgement in Eve’s expression, just quiet understanding.
“I was angry at first,” I say. “Not because of that, just because I thought I could fix it. Like if I worked hard enough, I could make us right again. But some things aren’t broken—they’re just finished.”
Eve nods slowly. “That’s… quite wise.”
I smile faintly. “Feels less wise and more like hard-earned hindsight.”
She gives the smallest smile in return, soft and sympathetic, and for a moment, the rain, the cold, the long day—all of it fades.
It’s strange how easy it is to talk to her.