Chapter twenty- two
Rory
I should not have agreed to this. That thought has been circling my head since Freya texted me about the tap, and it has only grown louder the closer I get to her house.
It’s a school day. No kids. No buffer. Just her.
I tell myself this is fine. It’s just plumbing, just a tap. It’s not a candlelit dinner or a declaration of undying anything. I’m doing a favour for a friend. That is all. Except it’s Freya. And nothing with Freya has ever been simple.
I knock. Not the old double-tap. A normal, adult knock. Shit. How am I overthinking a door knock? I’m fucked. The door opens. And I genuinely forget why I’m here.
She’s wearing leggings and one of those oversized knit jumpers that hang slightly off one shoulder like it wasn’t designed to be sexy but somehow is anyway.
Her hair is down, loose, softer than usual, like she’s not bothered to tame it into anything presentable for the world. No heavy makeup. Just her. Christ.
“Hey,” she says, stepping back to let me in. “Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah,” I manage, because apparently my vocabulary has reduced to caveman levels. “I err.. I’m here”
I’m here. Brilliant, Bennett. Smooth.
“So,” she says, leading me toward the kitchen, “it’s under the sink. It’s been dripping for weeks and it’s driving me mad.”
“Right,” I nod, crouching down already, grateful for the distraction of pipework and cupboards and anything that doesn’t involve eye contact.
It’s awkward at first. Not hostile. Just… careful. Like we’re both aware of each other.
I open the cupboard doors and peer inside, trying very hard not to think about how domestic this looks. Me in her kitchen. Midday light. No noise but the hum of the fridge and her shifting her weight behind me.
“You look…” I say before I can stop myself.
Shit. Shut up Bennett.
I sit back slightly on my heels and glance up at her. “You look nice.”
Understatement of the year. Her mouth twitches. “I’m in leggings.”
“Yeah,” I say, because apparently today I’ve chosen honesty over self-preservation. “I noticed.”
Her eyes flicker and her lips curl into a slight smile as her cheeks flush.
Focus Bennett. Tap. Plumbing. Metal things.
I reach further into the cupboard, tighten the fitting that’s clearly loose, and try not to be hyper-aware of her standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of her legs near my shoulder.
Then I notice something else. She’s quiet.
Not her usual quick-witted, dry-commentary self.
There’s a weight to her that wasn’t there in the supermarket, or the school playground.
“You okay?” I ask, still half under the sink.
She hesitates. “Yeah,” she says automatically. Then softer, “Just… Christmas.”
I pause. “What about it?”
She exhales through her nose and folds her arms loosely. “It’s Theo’s dad’s year this year. Christmas Day. So I won’t have him.”
I sit back properly now, wiping my hands on a cloth and looking at her fully.
There’s no dramatics in her face. No tears.
Just that steady ache of someone who has already accepted something hard but hasn’t quite figured out how to make it hurt less.
“Oh,” I say, and for once the word carries weight. “Right.”
“I’ll see him Christmas Eve and Boxing Day,” she adds quickly, like she needs to justify being sad. “It’s just… the morning. The presents, the chaos. It feels strange not to have it.”
Of course it does. The idea of Isla waking up on Christmas morning somewhere that isn’t within reach of me makes something primal and uncomfortable twist in my chest. Before I can think it through, before I can apply logic or restraint or any of the sensible filters I keep promising myself I’ll use around her, I hear myself say, “You could come to ours.”
She blinks.
“My parents’ house,” I clarify, because apparently I enjoy digging my own grave. “For Christmas Day. If you don’t want to be on your own.”
What are you doing? I am actually insane.
I can feel the moment I’ve overstepped even as the words are still settling between us.
Her expression softens first. Then it shifts. “That’s… really kind,” she says carefully. “But I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Not without Theo.”
I nod immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. I didn’t mean… I just thought…”
“It’s sweet,” she says, offering me a small smile. “But I think I’ll just… wallow. Chick flicks. Ice cream. Possibly wine.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Living dangerously.”
“Oh, completely.”
There’s a flicker of ease again. A thread of something that could be comfortable if we weren’t both standing on the edge of something much bigger.
“Right,” I say, turning back to the cupboard. “Let’s fix this before I make any more festive invitations.”
I tighten the final fitting, turn the tap from below, and test it. No drip.
“Sorted,” I announce, shifting to sit up. And promptly smash my head into the sink unit. “Shit!” I recoil, hand flying to my forehead.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, dropping down instantly. “Are you okay?”
She kneels beside me, one hand already on my arm, the other reaching for my head. It happens in slow motion. Her face close. Eyes scanning my forehead for damage. Her fingers brushing my hair back. The warmth of her breath against my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I start to say. But neither of us moves.
Her hand is still in my hair. My palm is braced on the floor beside her knee.
The space between us is barely there. I can see the faint freckles across her nose.
The way her lips part slightly as her eyes drop to my lips.
She inhales. I feel it. And for one reckless, stupid, inevitable second, we both lean in.
Her mouth is right there. Our eyes meet, both full of fire and need.
My tongue darts out and wipes across my bottom lip as my eyes drop to hers.
I lean a little further. And then she pulls back with a sharp, deliberate withdrawal.
She stands up first. I stay kneeling, heart thundering, feeling like I’ve just missed a step on a staircase.
“I… You don’t get to do that,” she says quietly.
I look up at her. “Do what?”
“Disappear for years,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “and then come back and look at me like that. Like I’m just… there. Waiting.”
The air shifts. “That’s not what I…”
“Isn’t it?” Her arms fold now, protective. “You don’t get to just reappear in Oakwood and act like I’m some kind of back-up plan. Some safe option when the city didn’t work out.”
That hits harder than the cupboard did.
“I don’t see you like that,” I say, standing now, frustration bleeding through. “You know that.”
“Do I?” she challenges. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you only look twice when someone else does.”
Scott. This is about Scott.
“This isn’t about him,” I say.
Her laugh is brittle. “Then what is it about, Rory?”
About you. Always you. I rake a hand through my hair, pacing once because I can’t seem to stand still. “You think I didn’t feel it? Back then? You think I just… forgot?”
Her eyes flash.
“I loved you,” I say, and even to my own ears it sounds rough, unfinished.
“I did. I just…I had things happening. Rugby. Contracts. I thought there was time. I thought you’d…
” What? Wait? Stay where I left you? I falter.
“I handled it badly,” I finish instead, which feels like the most cowardly version of the truth.
She stares at me. “That’s it?” she asks. “You loved me but you were busy?”
It sounds ridiculous when she says it.
“I was twenty,” I snap back, defensive now because I can feel this slipping out of my control. “I didn’t know how to balance everything.”
“And I did?” she shoots back. “I was here. Watching you build a life that didn’t include me.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because she’s not wrong.
“And now you’re here,” she continues, voice shaking slightly, “and you look at me like that and offer me Christmas and nearly kiss me under my sink and expect me to just… what? Slot back into place?”
“I don’t expect anything,” I say, but even I can hear the lie in it.
Silence. The kind that presses on your chest.
“I’m not your safety net,” she says finally, softer now. “I’m not the girl you come home to when the rest of the world doesn’t work out.”
“That’s not…”
“Then what is it?” she demands.
And this is the moment. The one where I could say it properly. The whole thing. The fact that she never stopped being the baseline in my head. That every relationship since has felt slightly off because it wasn’t her. Instead, I do what I’ve always done. I pull back.
“I shouldn’t have come,” I say.
Her face changes. Not angry now. Just tired. “No,” she agrees quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
She looks away, blinking what looks like tears springing up in her eyes. I look at her differently now. She’s not waiting. She never was. And if I want anything here, I’m going to have to stop half-saying it and start risking it. Even if that means losing her completely.