In the new year, James and Rose found themselves best friends again, best friends who found every excuse to hug, could stay up for hours at night talking, and who occasionally shared the afghan on the sofa while watching crap weekend telly. He was trying to teach her how to cook, citing the fact that she was turning thirty this year and couldn't possibly leave her twenties knowing only pasta, stir fry, chicken soup, and takeaway. Of course, his own culinary repertoire was rather limited, but he thought expanding her skills to include banana cupcakes, grilled cheese, taco salad, and meatloaf was well worth hours spent in the kitchen with her laughing over the mess and ordering takeaway when things went pear-shaped. It seemed like he was spending less and less time away from her, opting to stay in most evenings, coming to meet her at work in the afternoons after school. It felt like the average distance between them was closing.

But that's okay, he thought. She's my best friend, of course I feel comfortable around her, of course I want to spend time with her.

Are you sure? his inner Donna remarked.

Yes, James told her. She's my flatmate and best friend, a wonderful, brilliant best friend. But that's all. Just a friend.

"I'm telling you, she's not just a friend," the real Donna said over a pint at the beginning of February. It was one of her New Year's Resolutions. After his lack of communication through the Renée drama and further drama with Rose during the wedding, she resolved to make him go for a drink with her every two weeks at the very least so she could get him to tell her everything going on in his life. In other words, a fantastic excuse and opportunity to pry.

"I'm telling you, she is," James said stubbornly. "And I would know more about it than you, wouldn't I."

"Would you, though?" said Donna. "For someone so bloody clever you can be remarkably thick sometimes."

"I am bloody clever, thank you, I have a doctorate" James muttered, choosing to ignore the back half of her statement.

"She's just your type," Donna said. He knew she was trying to provoke him. It still worked.

"I don't have a type."

Donna nearly choked. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Let's go through them, shall we? It's not that many. There was Astrid in secondary school, Joan in university, Renée last year. James, everyone you've ever seriously dated has been blonde and boringly pretty."

"First of all, that's only three women, and how can anyone be 'boringly' pretty?'"

Donna snorted. "The fact that you've only ever seriously dated three women is another thing all together. And you know what I mean by 'boringly pretty.' Face it, James, you have a type."

"What about Christina?"

Donna gave a shout of laughter. "Christina? Martha's uni roommate? She shoved her phone number at you at the wedding and you promptly lost it. Tell me, what was her last name?"

James scowled. He could remember this. Easy. "del Monte."

Donna rolled her eyes. "de Souza. It was de Souza, you numpty. You were never that interested, you were just trying to be nice. Now admit you like blondes."

"Maybe the fact that I've only ever dated blondes means that I need to branch out," James argued.

"Or maybe it means you have a type."

"I don't have a type."

"Whatever makes you feel better," Donna shrugged. "And even if Rose wasn't totally your type, you still can't just be friends with her."

"And why not?"

"Have you ever seen When Harry met Sally?"

"Is that American? That sounds American."

"It is, and you should see it."

"Oh, I think I have. Joan made me watch it in uni. It's the 'Men and women can't be friends' film. Which I disagree with on principle because it assumes that men are completely licentious beings who think about nothing but sex whenever they look at a woman. Anyway, aren't we a little old to be taking advice from romantic comedies?"

"Stop deflecting, James, you know what I'm getting at."

James turned suddenly and faced his sister. "Yes, I do, and I'd like you to stop it. I can't– I don't actually want to think about this too hard right now. The last month with Renée, despite the anticlimactic ending, was awful. I don't ever want to be in that kind of state of limbo ever again. And there were all sorts of confusing things happening with Rose at the same time and I just– I don't know anything anymore. The only thing I do know, Donna, is that Rose and I are friends, she just might be the best friend I've ever had, and I'm not giving that up for anything." He was panting a little by the end, and his chest felt tight. This was true, he was convinced. So why did it feel like his heart was breaking?

For once in her life Donna looked properly speechless. "I–I'm sorry, James. Really. I just– I want you to be happy."

"I know. It's okay, Donna. It's fine. I just– if I do anything and I'm not sure about her, or I'm not sure about myself, I can't go back after that. I can never go back. I just can't. And I can't lose Rose as a friend." He tried to take a stiff swig of beer, but it tasted all wrong now and he pushed it away.

He felt Donna's hand gently on his shoulder. "I know you're afraid, James. But I've never known you to be a coward."

He didn't drink any more that night, but he stilled stumbled into flat like he was pissed out of his mind. All the lights were off, Rose must have gone to bed. Rose. Suddenly his bedroom seemed too far and he slumped onto the sofa, head in his hands. He heard footsteps, and the hall light clicked on. He looked up wearily to see Rose pad into the sitting room and sit next to him. She looked sad. And concerned. Of course. Rose was always concerned for him, because she cared so much.

"What's wrong?" The flat was chilly tonight, and she was just in her vest top. She had her arms crossed and shoulders hunched for warmth, and it made her look scared and vulnerable and damn if that image didn't make his heart break all over again.

"Rose, I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't raise his head, didn't look at her.

"For what?"

"For… I don't know. For a lot of things, I think."

"What things?"

He turned to look at her. She was looking at him, and she still looked sad. He hated seeing her sad, he realized. Hated it. It made his stomach twist uncomfortably and all his muscles screamed to move toward her, to do something. He must have moved unconsciously because he couldn't explain how it happened, but suddenly the distance between them closed and they were kissing again– longer and slower than it had been at the wedding. His hands rested gently on her waist and hers were on his shoulders. She tasted like toothpaste and smelled like coconut lotion and Rose and home.

She pulled away from him suddenly, held him at arm's length. "James, what are we doing?"

He blinked back at her. Wasn't it obvious what they were doing?

She shook her head at his silence. "We can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This," she gestured vaguely between them. "We can't keep throwing ourselves at each other when we're scared or sad or lonely."

James sighed and ran his hands through his hair. She was right, of course. And he felt like a prat, but why couldn't things just be simple for once?

Rose sounded frustrated with him. "James, we're flatmates, we have to live together. Our relationship needs to be more stable than that."

"Why?" He sounded whiny and childish and he knew it but he couldn't help it.

"Because we live together!" she said. "And I just– I need that to be a stable relationship. I've made… mistakes. Before."

There it was. That pain from a long time ago he saw after their first fight last November. He cringed at the thought that he'd been the one to bring it out again with his selfishness and thoughtlessness. "I'm so sorry, Rose. For being confused and not thinking about that you want or what you feel. You're right. We should stop. I should stop. It's not right, and it's not fair to you."

Rose sighed. "It's all right, James. It's just– we're flatmates and I like you but I don't want things to be… complicated."

"Complicated?"

Rose took a deep breath. "James, Shareen lived here before you, but I moved in here originally with my boyfriend."

He didn't say anything, so she continued, "I was twenty-six, I'd just gotten my first steady job in London, I was eager to get off the estate. I didn't think it through. I thought it would be wonderful." She paused. "But it was the wrong decision. It didn't work out."

She went quiet again, and James assumed the worst. "Did he–"

"No, but I didn't like living together. I wanted to move out but I couldn't afford to without moving back in with my parents, and Tony was four and there was no extra money. So I was stuck with him. It was something he held over my head– that I couldn't leave. But he left me anyway after three months. Moved out to go to France with his band and left me with the rent. I would have been evicted if it hadn't been for Jack, who lent me the money for those three months and then some. Basically until Shareen's salon started making money and she could move in with me. I only finished paying him back just before you moved in." She hesitated. "What I'm saying is, we already live together, and I'm not sure I want to… ruin that."

"Right," James said lamely. That was a terrible thing to happen to her, and he already hated the man responsible. He wanted to say more, but he couldn't organize his thoughts.

Rose looked at him searchingly. "So… are we okay then?"

"Yes." Of course they were okay.

"Okay," said Rose. "Goodnight, James." She stood and went back into her room.

Wait, what did I just agree to? James felt his heart lurch as she left. "Rose, I–"

Her bedroom door closed and he stopped.

His head fell into his hands as he realized what he'd been about to say, because he'd lied to Donna without realizing it. He did know. Rose, I love you.