Chapter twenty-nine
Freya
Theo being home again changes the temperature of the house.
It’s ridiculous how immediate it is. How the air feels warmer just because his shoes are kicked off in the hallway and there’s a trail of Lego leading from the living room to the stairs like some kind of chaotic breadcrumb path.
The silence that sat heavy on Christmas morning has been replaced with chatter and the constant thud of small feet and questions shouted from different floors.
“Mum! Where’s my green hoodie?”
“Where you left it, probably!”
“That is not helpful!”
I smile into the cupboard as I stack plates, because this is it.
This is the bit that makes the hard parts survivable.
The coming back. The noise returning. The way he curls into me on the sofa like he hasn’t been gone at all.
We’ve settled again. Or at least I have.
Christmas Day feels further away now, thank goodness.
The almost kiss at the pub feels like something that happened in a different version of December.
Even the handshake, the ridiculous, painfully adult agreement to be friends, feels strangely steady in my chest instead of jagged.
I drop Theo at school and nip into the café for a coffee fix before running more errands. It’s only fair to get a treat before running errands, right?
Rose’s Café still smells the same as it always has. Coffee and sugar and something buttery that clings to your coat long after you leave. Mark is behind the counter, arguing with the espresso machine.
“Morning,” he calls. “You look suspiciously well-rested.”
“Don’t,” I say. “It’s a trap. If I admit that, something will go wrong.”
I’m about to order my usual when I hear a voice.
“Freya, love.”
I turn before I can stop myself smiling.
Maggie Bennett is standing near the window, wrapped in her soft grey coat, scarf looped neatly at her neck, the kind of woman who has never once left the house without lip balm and mints in her bag.
Her eyes light up when she sees me, and something in me loosens the way it always has around her.
“Maggie,” I say in a cheerful voice.
She pulls me into a hug without asking, warm and solid and smelling faintly of lavender and cinnamon. For a second I am seventeen again, standing in her kitchen while she pretends not to notice I’ve been crying.
“How are you, sweetheart?” she asks, holding me on my shoulders at arm’s length to inspect my face like she’s checking for damage.
“I’m good,” I say. “Theo’s back. So yeah. Properly good.”
Her expression softens immediately. “I bet you are.”
There’s a pause. The kind that holds more than it says.
“I saw you across the road on Christmas morning,” she adds gently. “Your lights looked lovely.”
I nod, because that’s easier than saying anything else. She doesn’t push. She never has.
Instead she brightens. “Which actually brings me to something.”
Oh God. That tone. “That sounds ominous,” I say carefully.
“Not ominous sweetheart,” she corrects. “Arthur and I were thinking… since Christmas Day was a bit disjointed this year, what with Theo being away and Isla being here and everything slightly upside down… we thought we’d have a little ‘Frory’ dinner this weekend.”
I blink. “A what?”
She smiles like she’s very pleased with herself. “Frory. Freya and Rory. It’s been our thing since you were little. Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
I do remember. Second Christmases when one of our parents was working. Pancake mornings that turned into roast dinners. Maggie making it feel like we hadn’t missed anything at all.
“You don’t have to,” she adds quickly. “But we’d love you and Theo to come. Do it properly. Crackers. Bad paper hats. The whole thing.”
For a second my brain goes unhelpfully blank. I haven’t seen Rory since the pub. Since the almost kiss and the handshake and agreeing to be sensible.
“Rory said you didn’t fancy coming over on the day,” Maggie continues gently. “And I understood that. Completely. But this wouldn’t be Christmas Day. Just… dinner. Family.”
Family. The word feels complicated. I think about being ten and Maggie showing up at the school gates when my mum didn’t.
About her bringing extra sandwiches to football matches because she always packed too many “by accident.” About the way she sat beside me at Dads funeral and squeezed my hand so tightly I thought our bones might fuse.
She has never made me feel like an extra.
I swallow. “That’s really kind,” I say slowly.
And if I’m honest, a part of me wants to go.
Not because of Rory. I tell myself that firmly.
But because of Maggie. Because of Arthur.
Because of the way their house always feels like home and love.
Because with them I feel like I’m part of something bigger, the type of family I have always longed for.
I glance back at Maggie. She’s watching me carefully now, not pushing, just waiting.
“We’d love to,” I say finally.
Maggie’s relief is almost invisible, but I see it. “Saturday then. Six. And Freya?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear removable layers. Arthur insists on lighting the fire even when it’s not strictly necessary.” She rolls her eyes.
I smile properly this time. “Some things never change.”
“No,” she says softly. “They don’t.”
I hug Maggie goodbye and step outside into the cool winter air.
I feel something unfamiliar that I can’t quite put my finger on.
It’s been weeks of awkwardness and heat and history with Rory but maybe this is what it feels like when things settle.
Maybe friends is possible. Maybe sitting across from Rory at a table full of family and fairy lights won’t feel like standing on the edge of something.
If we’re going to be friends… This is probably where it starts.
I tell myself all afternoon that it’s just dinner. Just dinner. Just dinner. Just dinner.
Theo has changed his jumper three times by five o’clock because he wants to “look cool but also festive,” which apparently means a football hoodie and a reindeer antler headband.
I don’t argue. I’m too busy standing in front of my wardrobe pretending I don’t care what I wear.
Friends don’t overthink outfits. Friends don’t stare at a green knit dress and wonder if it looks like they’re trying too hard.
Freya, pull yourself together woman!
I settle on something safe. Soft cream jumper, dark jeans, boots. Hair down but not styled. Enough effort to feel human. Not enough to look like I’m trying too hard.
“You look pretty,” Theo says, already at the door.
“Thank you,” I reply lightly. “You look… festive.”
He grins and drags me out before I can second-guess myself.
The Bennetts’ house glows the way it always has in December. Fairy lights in the window. Wreath slightly lopsided because Arthur refuses to measure anything. The front door swings open before we even knock. Maggie wraps Theo up first, then me.
“There she is,” she says warmly, squeezing my hands. “Christmas, take two.”
The smell hits me instantly. Roast chicken and honey glazed parsnips. That slightly overdone gas fire that never quite behaves but is always lit anyway.
For one reckless second, I feel eight years old again. Rory is in the doorway to the living room, sleeves of his navy jumper pushed up to his elbows revealing his muscular forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. Fuck he’s gorgeous. Delicious even.
“Hi,” he says carefully.
“Hi,” I reply, matching him.
Theo barrels past us before anything can settle too heavily. “ISLA!”
She appears from the sofa in matching antlers and they collide mid-room like puppies.
I take off my coat and place it on the bannister. The house hasn’t changed. Same crooked angel on the tree. Same faded rug. Same faint scorch mark on the hearth from the year Rory insisted we could roast marshmallows without supervision and nearly set fire to Arthurs slippers.
Dinner is loud, warm, chaotic in the best way.
Theo insists on sitting next to Isla, which means I end up directly beside Rory whether I like it or not.
Our knees brush under the table as everyone reaches for gravy and we both react like we’ve touched a live wire.
He shifts first and I pretend not to notice.
“So,” Arthur says cheerfully, “who’s winning at life these days?”
“Me,” Theo and Isla shout in unison.
Maggie laughs. “That answers that.”
Rory’s elbow grazes mine when he reaches for the stuffing and this time neither of us flinches dramatically.
We just… pause. A second too long. Then continue like adults who absolutely have their emotions under control.
He’s being careful. Almost overly so. Just distant enough to prove he’s keeping his word.
Which is ridiculous, because wasn’t that what I wanted?
And yet every time he laughs at something Theo says or leans forward to listen to Maggie properly, I feel this flicker of something unsettled in my belly.
After dessert, the kids vanish upstairs in a rush of sugar from Maggie’s famous apple pie.
“Right,” Maggie says, clapping her hands together. “You two. Kitchen.”
“I…err” I begin.
“Nope,” she interrupts sweetly. “You can wash. He can dry. Consider it character building.”
Rory and I exchange a look that says we both know exactly what this is. Forced proximity in its most domestic form. Thanks Mags, thanks a bunch.
The kitchen is warm from the oven, fairy lights reflecting in the window above the sink. For a few seconds we move around each other wordlessly, plates clinking, tap running. He hands me a tea towel without looking directly at me. “You didn’t have to come tonight,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I glance at him. He looks… tense. Like he’s scared to move, talk or breathe for that matter in case he puts a foot out of place.
“Theo would’ve rioted,” I say lightly.
He smiles. “Isla too.”
Our fingers brush over the same plate. We both pull back slightly, then pause.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For… being weird.”
I blink. “You’re being weird?”
“Apparently I have a face when I’m trying not to be.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. “You absolutely do.”
He leans back against the counter, tea towel over his shoulder. Fuck he looks like a domestic God. He’s studying me like he’s trying to solve something without making it obvious.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
I dry the same fork twice. “You don’t get to be perceptive now.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “It’s not.”
The air thickens. He shifts closer to grab another dish and the back of his hand skims the inside of my wrist. It’s barely anything, a whisper of contact but stomach drops anyway. He freezes and so do I.
“We’re good,” he says carefully, like he’s reminding himself more than me.
“Yeah,” I reply.
He overcorrects immediately, stepping back, increasing the space between us like proximity itself is dangerous. It shouldn’t sting but it absolutely does.
“You don’t have to act like I’m going to jump you,” I say before I can stop myself. Although every single part of me wants to jump him and climb him like a tree. But I can’t tell him that.
His eyebrows lift. “I don’t.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to make things complicated.”
“That’s very noble of you.”
He gives me a look with an almost smile. “You’re welcome.”
There’s tension in it. A spark we’re both pretending not to see.
“You know,” I add lightly, “most people manage to wash dishes without looking like they’re defusing a bomb.”
“Most people aren’t me,” he replies.
He’s right. Most people aren’t him. No other man is him and that’s what is killing me about this whole thing.
We fall into rhythm after that. Plates stacked, cutlery dried, occasional accidental touches.
When Maggie finally wanders in to inspect progress, she looks between us with far too much knowing in her eyes. “Everything all right?” she asks innocently.
“Perfect,” Rory and I answer in unison.
She smiles in a way that suggests she believes absolutely none of that.
I hang the tea towel back on its hook and step around Rory to reach the cupboard and put the last of the plates away.
I find myself wondering why he’s pulling back so hard when it felt like we’d finally cracked something open.
I thought we would just slip back into how we have always been.
Able to accidentally touch and it not feel like electrocution.
Able to be in a room together and not feel like we need to run the other way.
If this is friendship, it feels… wrong. It feels more like restraint. And I’m not entirely sure which of us is more afraid of what happens if we stop holding it.