61
Claire sat alone in front of the great stone fireplace at her parents’ house, knees pulled to her chest, a wool tartan draped loosely over her shoulders. The fire snapped and hissed, sending sparks skittering upward like fleeting stars. Outside the London night pressed gently against the glass.
Her hair was twisted up at the nape of her neck, secured with the Māori hairpin Noah had given her at Christmas. He had told her it symbolized strength, connection, protection, and love.
She twisted the blanket between her fingers, feeling the fibers.
London. Auckland. London. Auckland.
White corridors. Familiar faces. The hustle and bustle of the NHS.
A career that promised stability, prestige, a return to the life she had once mapped so carefully.
The girl who had walked those streets in heels and purpose still existed somewhere inside her.
The doctor who knew every Underground line by heart. The woman who belonged to that world.
And then there was Auckland.
Mud and blood and brotherhood. To beautiful nature and outdoors. A team that had become her family. A country that healed her in a way she hadn’t known she needed. A man who looked at her like she was home.
Noah.
She could still feel his hands on her waist when he lifted her in victory. The way his eyes searched for her before every match. The way he said her name as if it meant future.
Claire stared into the fire, watching the logs collapse inward, reshaping themselves.
England meant certainty.
New Zealand meant choice.
It meant risk.
The flames danced.
Claire closed her eyes, let the fire’s warmth sink into her bones, and made a choice she wasn’t ready to say aloud.