The closer that they'd got to the safe house, the more Harry had convinced himself that he couldn't leave Ruth. It had nothing to do with the way he felt about her - who was he kidding? Malcolm's house was his only other option, but he lived on the other side of the city and besides he was away. She'd been as tired as he was and hadn't argued. A positive that he'd held onto. Although, and there was always an although when it came to Ruth. It was probably more the idea of spending a night away from the safe house, than at his.
Even before she opened her eyes, Ruth remembered where she was. It was warm, it felt safe and it was Harry's. They'd arrived after dark and he'd been so lovely. Making her a cup of tea and a slice of toast whilst she'd had a shower, then walking her along the landing to where he made up the bed in his spare room. No pushing her to have a conversation, he'd politely wished her goodnight before he'd turned away and left her standing, with nothing other than a weak smile and a look in his eyes that was filled with the hope that he hadn't upset her.
Rolling over to get herself more comfortable, whilst at the same time wondering what she'd do all day once he'd gone into work, she saw the holdall that he'd promised he'd collect. He must have been out very early. She turned to her phone on the bedside table to check the time.
'Help yourself to a cuppa, I won't be long,' said his message. Short and to the point. Reminding her of another and more settled time and the dozens of messages that had passed between them. She stretched herself and closed her eyes again, berating herself for feeling so happy and wishing that this was for real, not just for a couple of days until she found herself somewhere else to live. Harry loved her and always had. For the moment it didn't matter that it was a woman that she'd never met until yesterday that had told her. Whatever else happened over the next few days, she was determined to let this play itself out.
Harry had been awake very early and with one look, had summed up the contents of his fridge and his cupboards as extremely wanting. Having been over to the safe house to collect Ruth's clothes and the other bits and bobs that he thought she might need, he'd grabbed a quick coffee and gone straight back out again to do some shopping. If he was going to spend another whole day with Ruth, or hopefully more, then he needed to make an effort. Knowing that she was still asleep, he'd been wracking his brain to remember what she ate for breakfast. Failing to remember, he'd opted for croissants, with an egg on toast as an alternative. Not very imaginative when he'd already made her toast the previous evening, but then he generally bought his breakfast on the way to work, or missed out all together.
'It's only me, the kettles on,' he called up the stairs. Relieved that with the sound of the water running, for the moment at least she hadn't grabbed her bag and left him, he turned his attention to laying the table.
'Aren't you going to be late for work?' followed her quiet 'good morning,' as Ruth walked into the warm kitchen. Heart stopping in his case as he turned to look at her, her still damp hair framing her face and that he hadn't heard her coming.
He wanted to say I'm all yours, but he couldn't. Opting for the less obvious, by just telling her that Ros would get in touch if he was needed. We need to talk went without saying, but neither of them said it. Harry worrying about the revelations that might drive her away from him again, and Ruth about the chances of heading back to bed, but this time to a different room. Having slept in one of Harry's shirts, she'd fallen asleep with images of Harry wrapped around her and had woken with the same thought. Increasing by the minute as she gazed across to where he was currently buttering toast, she was imagining it being like this every morning. Not with the imaginings of the time when she'd first met him, but with the reality that this was now possible and how right it suddenly felt. A thought that was causing her body to respond and her cheeks to flush, just as they'd done all those years ago whenever Harry had come anywhere near her. The only difference being that if she wasn't intending going back to five, then it didn't matter anymore, made worse or better she didn't know, because Harry was refusing to drop his gaze One of those rare and glorious moments that should have lead them into bed, but hadn't.
After breakfast and during the washing up that Harry insisted he would do, and after several turns of 'no you decide,' later, by which time Harry had won the battle, the decision was made. It was a battle that he'd needed to win, and he'd only offered her a choice so that she'd think she had one. The only stipulation being that wherever he was taking her, that she wouldn't be faced with another graveyard. Harry already knew exactly where they were going, so if she didn't mind, which she didn't, then it was Sussex again, but this time with a view of the sea. The fact that it would be grey and unwelcoming, rather than the crystal blue that Ruth had been used to couldn't be helped. It was the only place where he could start the conversation that he knew they had to have.
'Not only that, if I end up crying again, I can blame it on the wind,' Ruth said jokingly, eliciting one of Harry's wry smiles that she'd cultivated over the years. God she was starting to babble, get a grip, she told herself. Hopeless within seconds, as Harry leaned across in front of her, causing her breath to hitch as their bodies briefly touched.
'We'll need a flask,' she said rather obviously, disappointed that he hadn't kissed her, as he suggested that they take a warm drink and something to eat with them. Only because he could barely breathe by what had just happened.
Cliff top cafes tended to be closed in November, well at least the one that he had in mind would be. Retracing their footsteps from the previous day maybe, but gazing out over the channel had been something that he'd done on every occasion when he'd been to visit her grave. She'd been out there somewhere when he'd first made the pilgrimage and it had brought him comfort, until the moment that Malcolm had traced her, when it had brought him nothing but pain. A pain that he'd believed he deserved, which was why he'd still done it.
'Take this with you Ruth,' he told her, handing her one of his many warm scarves, as they piled their lunch and a few extra bits and bobs into a small bag. That he had a blanket in the back of the car to wrap around her if it was really cold, as well as the overnight bag that he always kept with him, she didn't need to know at this stage. He didn't want her to believe that this was forward planning, because it wasn't. Well not entirely. Without Ros pushing him, he'd have still been wavering.
That wasn't to say that he hadn't dreamt of a day when he and Ruth would be sitting there together. It would be on a Summer's day, when there would be dozens of small birds singing in a clear blue sky. When he would rip off the ties that were binding him and tell her that he loved her. But this was November and apart for a few brave seagulls that would anticipating the crusts from their sandwiches and never an optimist where Ruth was concerned, he had no great expectations. Although having said that, he was sure that he'd just seen a look of expectation in her eyes, and she already knew that he still loved her. Grace had seen to that ... so just maybe?