Chapter eighteen
Rory
I only went in for milk, which in hindsight feels like a ridiculous thing to tell myself, because nothing involving Oakwood is ever just milk anymore.
I see her before she sees me. She’s halfway down the bakery aisle with Theo, basket hooked over her elbow, arguing about biscuits like it’s a high stakes negotiation.
Her hair is loose, falling over one shoulder, and she’s got that slightly frazzled end-of-day energy that makes her look even more like herself, not polished or careful, just real.
I should turn around. I absolutely should.
Instead, I stand there pretending to read bread labels.
Then she turns the corner too quickly and walks straight into me.
I catch her automatically. It’s instinct. Always has been with her.
“Careful,” I say, and immediately hate how close my voice sounds in the quiet hum of the aisle.
She steps back, but not far enough to make this comfortable.
“You were blocking the aisle,” she says, as if she didn’t just walk into my chest. Her mouth curves, and I feel that stupid, familiar tightening low in my stomach.
Then Theo spots Isla and the whole moment fractures into excited six-year-old chaos, which is probably for the best because I’m standing far too close to Freya in a public supermarket and my brain and dick are doing things they most definitely shouldn’t be doing in the bread aisle.
We both bend for something at the same time and my hand slides over hers where it’s resting on a packet of wraps.
I could move. I don’t. It’s half a second.
Maybe less. But it’s enough. Her skin is warm.
Softer than I remember. She doesn’t pull away immediately either, which is dangerous information for my ego to receive.
“Sorry,” I say eventually, though I don’t sound particularly sorry.
“It’s fine,” she replies, and it absolutely isn’t.
She tells me I’m standing too close. I tell her I am.
She says I could move. I say I could. I don’t.
It’s childish. It’s deliberate. It’s also deeply irresponsible considering she’s unavailable and I have absolutely no business testing invisible boundaries.
She accuses me of flirting. I deny it, which is technically a lie.
She calls it suggestive. I tell her she’s the one suggesting things, which is reckless and lands heavier than I intended.
The look that flickers across her face tells me I’ve stepped half an inch over a line neither of us has formally drawn.
And then Theo asks about the playdate.
I feel the ground shift slightly because this has been coming for days. Isla’s been asking, Theo’s been asking, and I’ve been conveniently “forgetting” to bring it up because I do not trust myself to sit in Freya’s kitchen.
I open my mouth to stall. She beats me to it.
“Bring her round tomorrow after school.”
Tomorrow. Just like that. No hesitation. No consideration that maybe I’d prefer not to voluntarily insert myself into her domestic setup and test my self-control like it’s some kind of Olympic sport.
Theo beams. Isla practically vibrates. And I am trapped. Because there is absolutely no version of events where I say no to that in front of both of them without looking like a villain.
“I don’t have to stay,” I hear myself say, as though that will somehow make this safer.
“It’s a playdate,” she replies lightly. “You can drop her off or you can stay, its up to you.”
Rory, you are dropping her off. Do not enter that house.
So that’s the plan then. I will deposit my child at the Collins residence, smile politely at Freya’s partner, who will almost certainly be there, and then I will retreat with whatever dignity I have left.
“Four?” I say, because apparently I enjoy self-inflicted suffering.
“Four’s fine.”
And that’s that. I nod like this is entirely normal, like I haven’t just agreed to spend tomorrow afternoon pretending I’m unbothered while she plays happy families with the man who actually shows up for her while my daughter is in their house.
I should have walked away when I saw her in this aisle.
I should have moved my hand. I should have remembered that she is not available, not mine, not something to circle like a territorial idiot.
Instead, I’m heading towards the tills thinking, I cannot avoid this now.
I have said yes in front of both kids. There is no dignified exit strategy.
Fantastic. Tomorrow, I get to stand at her doorstep, make polite conversation with Freya without eye fucking her in front of her partner.
And I will behave. I will be civil. I will not step inside that house.
I will not let my eyes linger. I will drop Isla off, make an excuse about training or errands or literally anything, and I will get out before my brain starts rewriting history.
This is fine. This is mature. This is me not being that guy.
Even if every part of me already knows tomorrow is going to test that theory.