Snow still covers the landscape Friday afternoon on his drive up to Weardale. The thick white patches of frost and ice are just now beginning to thaw, receding from their claim on the ground as the first green hints of spring coax their way up from the earth. Aside from the subtle seasonal shift noticed from his car window, the commute itself feels remarkably like any of his other trips up there—so much so that he almost lets himself believe that it really is a typical weekend visit. For a fleeting moment he can just about convince himself that everything will be normal when he arrives—that Rose will be there, that he's going up there for yet another a ski lesson with her—that she'd want to ski with him at all, in fact. That she'd give him one of the smiles he can always count on when he helps Wilf put together a meal—John's lips quirk up in a smile of his own just thinking about her, how she'd always give him a lingering hug when he'd make something new and ask him about his recipes even though he knows full well her own interest in cooking is minimal at best. But as much as he'd like to lose himself in those memories and pretend that everything is the same, he knows she won't be there... that everything has changed now. The idea of her absence from the place feels wrong somehow, and empty—as if her very presence is part and parcel of her family's lands and the place shouldn't even be there—like he shouldn't be there—if she isn't there too. His smile fades, and he wonders what it will be like to spend a weekend there without her.
Another weekend without her at all, in fact.
He'd texted her as promised after he'd left the bank that day. Hello—How are you—Did you have a nice afternoon… Awkward pleasantries that at least she's readily answering now, but her responses are still idle, polite. Hello—fine thank you how are you?—yes how was yours? And as much as he's happy about the progress, it's still nothing like their old banter, which only serves as a reminder of the distance that's grown between them these past few weeks. And with every kilometer he drives further north, his mind keeps wandering back down to London, knowing that she's there instead.
Knowing who she's likely with.
He clenches his jaw, thinking about how the smile dropped from Rose's face and how she stared at the marble floor of the bank like she couldn't even bear to look at him when that—that punk smirked and suggested going to the chip shop where Rose had found out about Chamonix. Oh, Jimmy knew exactly what he was doing. That wasn't a comment to hurt John, no—that was a comment to hurt Rose. Why in hell would she insist on spending—wasting—her time on someone who is so intent on hurting her, of not taking her feelings into consideration?
It's not like he would ever hurt her that way—or at least not mean to, he's quick to amend his own thought. With him, it was unintentional—she means everything to him, she has to know that—of course he'd never mean to hurt her. Especially not over a crush or a ridiculous trip to a ski resort. Jimmy's words though… those were deliberately meant to cause her pain.
But Rose didn't even seem angry at Jimmy—it was like she didn't even care! John's not upset with her, obviously—not like he'd have any right to be, mind—but still he glares at the road. She won't let him back in, not really, not yet—but Jimmy? She'll let Jimmy get that close to her even though he clearly couldn't care less about her feelings? Couldn't she see what a good for nothing tosser he is?
Johnlets out a long hiss of breath and turns on some music—loudly—and forces himself to concentrate on his driving.
He arrives just before dusk and drives past the lilting curve in the road that leads to the B&B, instead making a detour to the town center. John plans to make tomorrow's breakfast since he's staying the night—cooking at least one meal to save Wilf some work is the absolute least he can do. He knows full well that Wilf is unlikely to charge him for his stay—it's been weeks since the last time he was given a bill for his room, and considering he's here to do a favour for Wilf, he suspects the older man will refuse to charge him this time too. Turning into the main street of the town, he stops his car into the graveled carpark just outside Stone General Store to pick up some milk and bananas. That's the one benefit to Jimmy being in London right now, John thinks wryly—at least he doesn't stand a chance of running into that wanker in his family's shop.
John plods his way up the stairs to the Stone General Store entrance, and the door to the shop chimes merrily as he opens it. He steps over the threshold with his usual jaunt, flashing a smile at Bev behind the register. Her eyes first widen in surprise and then narrow as she sees him, her gaze tracking him as he walks brightly past the counter and gives her a friendly wave.
"Good evening, Bev!"
She doesn't respond, and as he grabs a carton of milk he turns around to find her still staring mutely at him, arms crossed tight in front of her chest in a way that is almost antagonistic. In that moment, it strikes John that her expression bears an unfortunate similarity to the one her son normally wears, and he swallows, having never seen that particular look on her face before. She's usually always so friendly… charming, even. He hesitates, confused—surely he couldn't have done anything that offended her in the past minute he's been in the shop? The sign on the door says they're open—and it's far too early in the evening for them to close, anyway. Why on earth could she possibly be glaring at him like that?
"Is… everything OK?" he asks.
She shrugs in a small, tense motion.
"Fine. Didn't expect to see you back here."
He wants to make a joke—about his presence being appreciated—but something about the way she's staring at him stops him in his tracks.
"Wilf needed some help with some electronics," he says, feeling lame even trying to explain his presence or his seeming need to justify it at all—to Bev, no less, who is usually so chatty and good-natured.
"That'll be £1.99," she says, still staring at him. He hesitates, wondering what kind of response that is to a comment about electronics of all things, not sure what she's even talking about until he looks down at the carton of milk he's holding in his hand.
"Ah," he says, smiling anew, and it feels forced, plastered on to his face like that—and why on earth is she still glaring at him? He hands over the money and she wordlessly deposits it in the cash register, finally tearing her eyes from him as she puts the money in the drawer and uses the tip of one finger to slide a paper bag over to him, barely touching it, as if it were soiled somehow. Which it might be, judging from the look on her face. Right then. He supposes he's meant to bag his own shopping today.
"Knew you used to hang about here because of Rose," she says, almost casually—but although she's not staring daggers at him any longer, her breezy tone is at odds with her rigid posture, her shoulders set in a challenge. "You know she's moved to London now. With my son."
At these last words she looks up… and there's that glare again. His smile drops and his mouth fumbles open, wondering what he can even say—is this really about Rose, and Jimmy no less? Of course he knows Rose is with Jimmy—he might hate it—he might know that Rose can do far better and be waiting for her to realize this herself and ditch the arsehole—but for now, of course, he can read between the lines clearly enough.
"Quite," he nods, inhaling sharply through his nose. "Well I'll just be—" he says, motioning with his thumb back towards the entrance and his car, but she's already turned her back to him. He backs towards the door slowly, nearly stumbling over his feet as he reaches the threshold, and makes his way back to the car, carton of milk still in hand. It's only when he's turned on the engine of his car that it registers that he forgot to pick up the bananas. He thinks the better of going back into the store—regular pancakes tomorrow will do just fine—and backs out of the carpark, heading slowly back to the B&B.
—
He arrives at the inn just before dinner and hauls his duffel bag into the front entrance—the warm smell of roasted lamb, honeyed carrots, and oven-hot potatoes enveloping him like a fond hug as soon as he opens the door. Oh, how he's missed this place. Wilf greets him with a handshake and a smile which he returns in earnest, and he insists on setting the table for Wilf and the handful of other guests here for dinner this evening. He doesn't set Rose's usual place at the table—clearly she won't be there, which is hardly unusual as she often has—or had—duties at Swinhope Moor that often kept her out long past supper time. Even so, he dislikes the thought of someone elsesitting in her place and skips past it as he's setting out plates, keeping her spot untouched.
He's even able to sort out the main reason for his visit here before the meal is ready—John was right, the problem with the remote control was indeed a loose connection, an easy fix that takes him mere minutes.
Dinner—a regional variation on Shepherd's Pie—is meaty and hot, and John eats more than his fill, making a mental note to ask Wilf exactly how he manages to get the lamb so succulent that each bite tastes as if it were steeped in broth, yet minced so finely that it nearly dissolves on his tongue. The other guests include a couple from Durham and a family passing through from Norfolk. The couple is there for skiing lessons, which draws John's mind back to Rose, and he wonders if they know Rose… if she's taught them in the past. If she'd be teaching them now if she weren't in London…
Wilf explains the history of Shepherd's Pie to the guests—how minced pies with shredded lamb had always been a local favorite, and how potatoes had become popular in the north during the 18th century. John makes an offhand comment that this is about how long Wilf's family has owned the B&B's property—but instead of taking this reference as an opportunity to talk more about his family's history in Weardale and local history as he is often wont to do, Wilf just smiles and nods thoughtfully.
After the meal, John clears the table and the guests head upstairs. He brings a stack of the dinner plates into the kitchen, wordlessly grabbing a dishrag to dry the dishes as Wilf finishes washing them. They work in silence standing side by side… except for the absence of Rose it feels like old times.
Drying the last dish and placing it on the rack, he stands with his back to the counter and arms crossed, absorbed in his thoughts. The first time he'd helped out in the kitchen, she'd been here… that was the morning after he met her. His lips quirk up almost ruefully at the memory. He'd dried the dishes that time too…
"Join me for an ale?" Wilf asks, pulling him out of his reverie. He looks up to find Wilf taking two bottles of John's favorite brew from the refrigerator and turning to face John, holding them up as if he already knows what the response will be.
"Don't mind if I do," John says, taking one of the proffered bottles from Wilf, popping the cap off and taking a slow sip.
His eyes flick back up to the older man, who's looking at him with a measured, almost concerned gaze. Wilf nods towards the sitting room and John follows, taking a seat on the blue sofa in front of the fireplace as Wilf takes his usual spot in his brown easy chair. John's eyes drop to his lap—the last time he had been seated here like this, he had been visiting Wilf and Rose for Christmas… that was barely a month ago and yet it feels so, so far in the past. They're silent for a long moment, and the crackle and pop of the glowing logs in the fireplace remains the only sound in the room.
Wilf takes a sip of his ale and sets it down, resting it on the arm of his chair. He idly brushes a few droplets of condensation from around the base of the bottle as he stares at the fire, not even noticing the moisture sinking into the dark chocolate fabric of the chair, darkening it with wet splotches.
"You all right, then?" Wilf asks, casting a sidelong glance to John.
John nods, taking a long sip of his own beverage. "Yeah," he says finally, the affirmation coming out as a whisper.
Wilf inhales with a small shrug, turning his gaze back to the fire.
"She's known Jimmy a long time. Not a bad lad, really. I suppose that's why—" Wilf swallows. "But I know she cares about you."
John's eyes drift to the floor—wondering what he means by not a bad lad, if that punk could possibly managed to pull the wool over Wilf's eyes about what an utter arse he is—wondering what Wilf means about her caring about him… caring how? Caring like a friend—or in a romantic way? Clearly whatever she's got going on with Jimmy can't be serious… can it? She can't have been that close to him—she'd certainly never brought him up in conversation with John, and they'd talked about nearly everything. Then again… his stomach sinks as he realizes that there were quite a few things he'd never brought up in conversation with her, either. He looks back up at Wilf for a long moment, his head thrumming with unanswered questions.
"Did she—did she say anything?"
Shaking his head almost sadly, Wilf flicks his eyes back over to John with a half-grin. "No, she doesn't tell me anything about what she's got going on these days. Which is as it should be—she's grown now, finding her own place in the world," he says with a small smile, and he looks almost proud. Wilf clears his throat and looks over at John once more before continuing. "But I raised her. She's family—I can tell these things."
Wilf's eyes drop back to the old stone fireplace, and John's drifts to his own family.
"I wouldn't know," John murmurs.
His memories of them are all from childhood, hazy snippets dragged up through his mind from thirty years past. They've been gone so long that even his recollections of them are dulled, like old half-forgotten photographs that come to mind only when you find them in an album stuck onto something more recent. Something like… Rose. The regret pinches him so hard that he exhales a deep sigh to relieve the pressure. It all seems so silly now, and obvious in retrospect, how he couldn't tell what he feels for her. And she cared for him, didn't she? Of course she did. But that was then… and it doesn't help him with the present day. He has no idea how she thinks of him now—if she's thinking of him at all. What she wants now. Does she really want Jimmy of all people? He can't tell—not at all.
John can feel Wilf's gaze on him, sympathetic and heavy, and takes another sip of his ale, staring down at the amber brew as if it held all the answers.
They sit in silence for another few minutes.
"You still talk to her then, you said?" Wilf asks.
"Yeah. Not—not as often as before. But we've been meaning to," John says, knowing it to be true for himself and hoping it to be true for her as well. "Talk more, I mean."
Wilf nods. "That's good."
"She said—she said I can still come here," John's words sounding more forced than he means them to. But he needs to get it out, to confirm it—to know that Wilf feels the same way Rose did, and to know that despite everything, he is still welcome here.
Wilf smiles back at him. "Of course you can. It'll be fishing season soon—maybe come up here on a bank holiday, eh? We can hit the lakes?"
John nods and exhales slowly, relieved. He gives a weak smile, looking down at his glass, which is nearly empty except for the remnants of froth clinging to the sides of the container. He'd talked about coming up to fish here before… while he was skating at the pond with Rose. He'd told her how he used to fish with his dad as a small boy, and she'd laughed… she'd seemed so happy that he wanted to come here for that—well, he'd wanted to come here to be near her, really… he swallows.
"You want another one?" Wilf asks, nodding at John's empty glass.
"Yeah," John says, exhaling deeply and looking up at his friend. "I'll get us both one."
At Wilf's nod he rises from his spot on the sofa and slowly pads to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and leaning down to retrieve two more bottles of ale. He places them on the counter and slowly pries the caps off one at a time, letting the serrated edge of the cap dig into his thumb as they slowly give way under his hand. It stings as the metal grinds against his skin, and he knows he should probably use a proper bottle-opener, but he can't really bring himself to care. He takes a sip of his ale and tosses the caps into the bin before heading back into the other room with the bottles.
As he returns, he sees Wilf has risen from his chair, and now stands looking at the wall of photos and mining memorabilia by the front entrance, his reflection casting a shadow on the "WEARDALE - FLUORITE CAPITOL OF THE UNITED KINGDOM" plaque. Wilf's gaze is measured as he looks over the wall, with such a faint furrow on his brow that if John didn't know him so well by now he would likely have missed it entirely. John moves to stand beside his friend and hands him the ale, his own eyes drawn to the plaque with its beautiful pink gemstone luminous in the background glow of the fireplace.
"Weardale must have been quite the boom town back in the day," John offers. He vaguely remembers looking at this wall on his first visit to the B&B, how he'd thought then that all the workers in the old black and white photos looked so sullen. Looking at them anew now though, they strikes him differently—they don't look resigned as much as determined. Tenacious, even.
Wilf nods slowly, then gives a small shrug. "That was a long time ago."
John nods slowly, his eyes roaming over the photos of entire families of mine workers—generation after generation of northerners who worked long hours a mile underground, never seeing the sun except on a day off. Only to have those mines shut down, and to have to leave their jobs and their homes, many of which had been in their families for generations. The thought hits him unexpectedly hard, and he swallows thickly. "It must have been a hard life," he murmurs.
"Still is," Wilf says, his tone flat, his eyes still fixed on the wall. John looks over at him, surprised. Wilf pauses for a long moment as John waits for him to continue.
"I'm glad she's in London. I miss her, but I want her to be able to do better for herself," he says, his voice soft, but thick. "We make do here, but… I want more for her. More than having to make a living tied to this place for the rest of her life."
John stands mutely, his mouth opening in objection and brow furrowing as Wilf's eyes flick up to his own. The older man's expression is solemn, and more open than John has ever seen it. John's not sure if Wilf means Weardale or the B&B—or both—but he shakes his head, gesturing out in a sweeping motion across the inn.
"But look at all you've got, all your family has built—you have your own business, you've had this land for over 200 years—"
"I always wanted more for her than this," Wilf says with a small shake of his head, glancing back at the wall. A fond smile comes to his face as his eyes linger on the photo of Rose as a small child in a pink ski suit, proudly holding up her ski trophy. John's eyes follow Wilf's motion and he looks back at the wall, at the photo of Rose, the photos of the mine workers, and the plaque of fluorite, still twinkling steadfast and bright in the glow of the fire.
"I've never had as much as this," John says softly.
Wilf's eyes flick over back to John's and he looks almost regretful, like he wants to object to the statement. It would be a kind gesture… but they both know any statement to the contrary wouldn't be true. John gives him a half-smile in return and shrugs, staring back down at his ale.
"Thank you, Wilf," John whispers.
"What are you thanking me for?" Wilf asks with a confused chuckle.
"Well… for inviting me here, and opening your home to me, and for making me part of… part of…" He swallows. He can't finish the sentence, the words "your family" stick in his throat—it seems too much, too presumptuous, even if that's how they've treated him, even if that's what he knows he means.
"Anytime, John. And… you are, you know."
John's eyes flick back up to Wilf's to find his friend smiling at him. John smiles back and they turn to the wall of memorabilia, finishing their ales in silence.
—
John rises early to make a breakfast of pancakes the next morning for both Wilf and the guests before they go off to spend the day on the slopes of Swinhope Moor. It turns out this is the first time the couple from Durham has been skiing here—which answers his question from last night—they wouldn't know Rose after all. He pulls out a sheet of paper from the front desk and gives them detailed directions on how to get to the ski lodge, complete with a map. They smile, thank him, and he watches them pull out of the carpark, their ski gear strapped on to the roof of their car. That reminds him—he thinks back to the cross country ski gear that's still in his room upstairs. No use leaving it here, he supposes—not that he'd likely use it on one of the cross-country trails outside London either, but although Wilf apparently has no problem with him leaving it here he still feels bad about using his room here as a storage unit for it.
And who knows, maybe since Rose is in London too… he cuts down that thought in his mind as soon as it sprouts, stamping down the slight flare of hope taking root in his chest. There's no way she'd want to. There's no way he'd ask her… not about skiing. Not anymore. He'd ruined that, hadn't he? He'd tainted something they'd enjoyed so much together. Possibly for good.
John descends the stairs slowly, duffel bag over one shoulder and ski bag over the other. Wilf stands behind the front desk at the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes catch John's as he makes his way down towards him. The expression on his friend's face is almost hesitant, and he sees Wilf inhale slowly, his eyes dropping to the basket of bonnie bits for sale on the front desk.
"There's… something I'm not sure you saw yesterday. It was dark when you got here, so I suppose… and well, you didn't mention it so I—" Wilf inhales.
"What is it?" John asks, the question automatic, the words soft. His brow furrows—whatever this is, it can't be good.
Wilf steps out from behind the desk, shrugging on his coat and motioning to the front door. The door jangles as he opens it and the two men walk across the carpark, their shoes crunching the hard snow into the gravel under their feet. Wilf's pace slows as he approaches the snowmobile off to the side of the carpark, and he gestures at it feebly.
John's eyes drop down to the machine, wondering what on earth—
Oh. He sucks in a quick breath.
"There was some sleet the day Rose moved—took us a while to salt it that morning. Jimmy's car was piled up with Rose's things for her move, I don't think he could see through his rear mirror. He lent me his in the meantime and said he'd pay for the damage," Wilf says.
John's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, feeling his pulse beginning to throb in his neck. Even through the shock of seeing the damage to the snowmobile, he's idly aware that his reaction would likely be far, far milder if it were anyone else on the planet who was responsible for this.
"I'm sorry John, all that work—"
John drops his bags on the gravel and crouches down beside the snowmobile, running his fingers over the dent in the side panel. There doesn't seem to be any damage to the suspension or skis at least—but the running board is bashed in, half detached, and the ski rack he'd made for Rose, although largely intact, has a large dent in one of the rungs and the paint has chipped off. It's an utter eyesore, and clearly undriveable. Bloody careless stupid Jimmy Stone. And the ski rack… John swallows, inhaling short puffs of breath through his nose, willing himself not to curse, telling himself to calm down for Wilf's sake. John had worked so hard on this… spent so much time in the geology lab, and fucking Jimmy just has to—wait… the inscription he'd worked so hard on is on the other side of the machine—is it still in place, or was it damaged too? He springs up and darts to the other side of the snowmobile—it's completely untouched, and he exhales a sigh of relief. John bends down just to double check it—everything is firmly in place, including the ski rack, the Prentice Forever inscription he'd made still gleaming with the bits of crushed fluorite from the bonnie bits. He runs his fingers over the whole side, just to make sure his eyes aren't deceiving him. It's fine—perfectly fine.
He lets out a soft bark of laughter and lets his head drop in relief. He doesn't know if it's a message, but he'll sure as hell take it as one.
John rises, more slowly this time, and makes his way back to the other side of the snowmobile, once again crouching beside the damaged side. He makes quick mental calculations of the tools he'll need—how much time it will take—how much he'd have to bribe the professor in charge of the lab again… he nods.
"I can fix it," he murmurs, looking up at Wilf.
Wilf shakes his head. "I have an appointment to bring it to a repair shop next week—I just thought you should hear it from me and not just walk out here and find it like this."
"I want to… I built my own car—I can do this," John says, his tone more insistent, his eyes still fixed on his friend's eyes. "Please," he adds more softly, as an afterthought.
Wilf stays silent, his brow furrowed, but after a moment his mouth curves in a half-hearted smile and he nods.
"Sure. Of course, John."
"I'll hitch it to the back of my car, I'll just need to borrow your trailer. You'll have it back next weekend," John says, running his hand over the ski rack. Tiny chips of iridescent blue paint flake off onto his fingers, falling to the ground as delicately as snowflakes as he brushes his hand onto his jeans.
Wilf pauses for a moment. "There's still time in the ski season here—Swinhope Moor is open for another month. You never know, maybe—" he looks down at the snowmobile for a moment, his eyes lingering on the ski rack, then down at John's ski bag lying on the ground beside them. He looks back up at John before continuing. "Why don't you leave your ski gear here? The room's still yours, you know."
John nods, smiling at the warm expression on his friend's face. "Okay," he says.
"Oh… one more thing. Mind dropping off something with Rose on your way home? A little care package from home—Shepherd's pie, some sausage, soup. You know how much she hates the kitchen."
Wilf chuckles and John smiles back at him, unable to keep a grin from his face.
"Of course not—I'd be happy to," he says.
"Good, then," Wilf says, clasping him on the shoulder and smiling back at him.
They maneuver the snowmobile onto the trailer, and John drops off his ski bag in his room, bidding farewell to Wilf. He sits in the driver's seat of his car a moment before leaving, composing a text to Rose.
Leaving Weardale now. Wilf gave me a care package for you… can I drop by?
He keeps the phone cradled in the palm of his hand and the car idles as he waits for a response. Sure enough, his phone pings in response a minute later.
that'd be great, thank you! i'll buzz you in, just punch in flat #48 on the security panel
John smiles.
Of course :), he types back.
He starts the drive back to London in a good mood—he's going to see her again. Maybe this is the opening he needs. Maybe they'll have a chance to talk finally—if Jimmy's not there this time. His eyes narrow and he glares at the road as he thinks about Jimmy, the damaged snowmobile, how he mentioned the chippy just to spite Rose… and both Wilf and Bev's implicit confirmation that they're dating.
He swallows. Maybe it's useless. Would she ever really let him in again… really? Maybe it was too late.
Then again… Wilf said she cares about him—present tense. And she hadn't cut him out of her life—things might be progressing more slowly than he'd hoped for, though perhaps as slowly as he deserved. She'd wanted to linger at the bank, hadn't she? Even though Jimmy was there and trying to prompt her to leave, she'd stayed… she was still letting him help her with the patent documentation even, and she hadn't been upset at him about the fees that had come as a surprise to them both. She'd said she missed him at the pub, even. That's got to be a good sign… doesn't it?
John pulls up outside Rose's building—miraculously, he's able to find a spot big enough to park his car even with the snowmobile's trailer attached. He grabs the bag of food from the passenger seat and makes his way to the building. Outside the glass doors to the front lobby, he sees a security panel. As instructed, he punches in #48 and waits as the dialtone connects him to the flat.
"Hello?" he hears a female voice say, and even through the tinny security box he can tell it's Rose. Even though there doesn't appear to be a camera, he smiles and self-consciously brushes a hand through his hair.
"It's me. Uh, John," he says, waffling back and forth from foot to foot, nervously spinning the plastic bag holding the food in his hand so fast that it the plastic twists around its handle and starts to cut of his circulation.
"Come on up!" she says, and he'd like to think that her tone is bright but her voice sounds metallic and fuzzy through the box and he can't really tell. The door buzzes open and he enters the building, making his way to her flat, his heart racing with each step.
He raps on the door to her flat—three quick taps—and waits. After the briefest moment—and so quickly that he almost takes a step back in surprise—the door swings open, and there she is. His face breaks into a smile—she's wearing a jumper and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail—she looks absolutely lovely.
"Hey," she says a little breathily. She clears her throat and gives him a tentative smile. He can't help his gaze falling to her mouth and resting on her lips, which are slightly open and glisten in the overhead light. He catches himself and flicks his eyes back up her own—she's still looking at him with a gentle, yet almost cautious expression. Her brow is slightly furrowed and it strikes him then that she might be just as nervous as he is. She's standing off to the side of the door, which is mostly open… is this an invitation inside? He'd hate to presume—the last thing he needs is another faux pas to push her away.
"How... um, how was the drive?"
"Hello… uh, fine. It was fine," he says, clearing his throat. This is the first time they've been alone since that horrible day at the chippy, and bloody hell, all he wants is to hold her. Just a hug… they always used to hug. Is that—is that still something she'd want too?
Oh, to hell with it.
He opens his arms, bag still in hand, awkwardly lifting them towards her and his heart starts to pound, hoping she won't leave him standing alone here like this. She doesn't hesitate and takes a step forward into his arms, resting her head against his chest. He closes his eyes—this is the first time he's held her in weeks. He wraps her into a tight embrace, and she reciprocates, her arms folding under his own and around his back, holding his shoulders. He inhales the light scent of her shampoo as he lays his cheek against the top of her head, letting her hair tickle his face. She wobbles slightly—she must be on tiptoe, he realizes. He steadies his arms around her and smiles.
"Would you like to come in?" she asks, her voice muffled against his jacket.
He nods into her hair.
"Yeah, thank you. In fact… um, if now's a good time, Rose—I think we should talk."
