chapter twenty
freya
I don’t notice it straight away. At first, I think I’m imagining it, or projecting something that isn’t there, because the human brain is very good at rewriting events to fit whatever narrative feels safest. But by the end of the week, there’s no denying it.
Rory is different. Not colder. Not unfriendly. Just… careful.
The morning after the playdate, I expected something to have shifted between us.
We’d survived being in my kitchen without combusting.
He’d been inside the house properly again.
He’d found out about James. We’d even laughed and reminisced a bit.
It had felt, strangely, like a breakthrough.
And yet at pickup, he stands a fraction further back than usual, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his jacket as though he’s physically preventing himself from reaching out.
When I joke about Isla refusing to leave because Theo’s snacks are apparently superior, he smiles, but it doesn’t linger.
It passes over his face and disappears before it can settle into anything warmer.
“I’ve got to head off,” he says, glancing toward the gate as though he’s just remembered something urgent. “Training block.”
It isn’t what he says. It’s how he says it. Like he’s drawing a boundary line I didn’t ask for.
“Right,” I reply, keeping my voice light.
He nods once, brief and polite. “See you.”
And then he’s walking away, long strides, shoulders squared, not looking back. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, Theo tugging at my hand, and try to ignore the small, irrational sting blooming under my ribs.
It shouldn’t bother me. If anything, this is better. Cleaner. Less volatile. Except it doesn’t feel better. It feels like we had broken through the awkward phase, and he’s deliberately stepped back to it.
Over the next few days, the pattern holds.
He doesn’t linger at the school gates. He doesn’t lean in close when we’re talking.
He doesn’t let his hand brush mine accidentally or otherwise.
If anything, he seems almost hyper-aware of maintaining space between us, like proximity is suddenly something to be managed rather than drifted into.
It’s subtle enough that no one else would notice.
But I do. I know this is probably for the best but having Rory back in some kind of friendship was nice and was a welcomed change to the awkwardness that came before it.
I hadn’t hoped for anything romantic but I was enjoying laughing and feeling at ease with him again.
On Thursday afternoon, Hannah finds me in the staff room staring at my laptop screen without typing a single word.
“You look like someone’s just cancelled Christmas,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me and stealing a biscuit from my desk.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
I close the lid of my laptop and exhale slowly. “He’s being weird.”
Hannah’s expression shifts instantly from amused to alert.
“Who is? And define weird.”
“Rory. Polite,” I say.
She recoils theatrically. “Oh God. Not polite.”
“Exactly.”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with interest. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Then what happened?”
I hesitate, because the truth sounds ridiculous when I try to frame it out loud. “He found out I’m single,” I say finally.
Hannah blinks. “And?”
“And ever since, he’s been… distant.”
She studies me for a second. “Wait,” she says slowly. “So he thought you were taken, was borderline feral about Scott, then discovers you’re single and suddenly goes all weird?”
“Yes.” She sits back, clearly delighted. “That man is spiraling.”
I frown. “Or he’s not interested.”
Hannah laughs outright. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” I insist. “Maybe the tension was only there because it was forbidden. Maybe now that it’s not, he’s realised there’s nothing there.”
Even as I say it, I don’t quite believe it. Because the look on his face in my kitchen when I told him about James had not been indifferent. It had been… something else entirely. Something tight and almost disorientated, like the ground had shifted under him. But since then, he’s been distant.
“He’s not uninterested,” Hannah says firmly. “He’s recalibrating.”
“Recalibrating what?”
“His entire nervous system, probably.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a flicker of something in my chest that refuses to settle.
That evening, I see him again at pickup. Theo runs toward me, breathless, mid-sentence about spelling tests, and Isla is close behind him. Rory stands next to me, slightly behind, hands in his pockets again, that same careful distance between us.
“How was training?” I ask casually.
“Fine.”
“Just fine. Sounds… exhilarating.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s work.”
We stand there for a moment, the kids circling our legs, and I wait for him to fill the silence the way he used to. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes a deep breath and nods once.
“See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. I watch him walk away again, shoulders broad under his jacket, posture steady, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something unfamiliar where he’s concerned.
Not longing. Not heartbreak. Not even anger.
Uncertainty. I thought we’d broken through something in that kitchen.
I thought once we’d established that we could be alone together, whatever this was between us would settle.
Instead, it’s gone completely quiet. And quiet, with Rory Bennett, has never meant simple.
It means he’s thinking. And I have no idea what conclusion he’s coming to.