Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thursday nights he usually goes to the back room of the community hall, the one with the stack of plastic chairs, and the noticeboard that still advertises a jumble sale from 2013. Paul gets there early on purpose. If he arrives first, he can choose a chair near the exit, and pretend it’s about airflow, not escape routes.

The kettle clicks on. Someone’s put out a plate of biscuits that taste of months in a cupboard. He pours himself instant coffee, and carries it like it might spill the whole time.

He looks at the noticeboard. 2013 was a bad year.

Not just for the headline reason, though that would have been enough for a lifetime. It was the year every corridor felt two inches narrower, and every conversation ended with, “You’ll say something on Sunday, won’t you, Vicar?”, as if a sermon could stitch skin, and repair mangled windpipes.

He remembers the first vigil he organised on the green — candles guttering in the beach wind, paper cups that burned fingers, microphones that squealed before they worked. He remembers the way people stared at him like he had a secret valve marked “comfort,” and if they jostled him hard enough, it would pour. He said the phrases he was trained to say, and hated half of them as they left his mouth. He believed every word, and still felt like a fraud.

He remembers the phone calls at midnight that weren’t really for him, they were for God, but there’s no phone service in Heaven, so Paul had to answer instead. Sitting on the vicarage steps with preteens who didn’t know where else to go. The old men who wanted to talk about tides and fishing lines, because talking about a boy was too much like admitting they had boys at home of their own. Mothers gripping his wrist a shade too hard. Fathers not gripping anything until it was too late for them.

He remembers the press vans turning up like flies on rotten meat in summer. He remembers being careful with sentences, so nothing could be clipped into B-roll. He remembers hating himself for thinking about B-rolls. He remembers Jack Marshall.

He remembers visiting houses where the television was on but nobody was watching, plates left half eaten because nobody could finish anything. The way anger lives under grief like a fault line. The way suspicion turns a whole village to salt.

He remembers Ellie on doorsteps, hair half tied up, trying to be the glue for a town while her own house was imploding. He remembers Alec—new, sharp, already fraying at the edges—standing on the church steps after a meeting he hadn’t meant to attend, asking Paul, “What use are you, really?” Rude. Honest. The kind of question you can only ask a man in a collar if you’re already on fire. Paul told him, “Sometimes none. Sometimes I can sit with someone who doesn’t want a detective.” Later he wondered if that answer had really been for himself.

He remembers almost walking into the off-licence on East Street one evening when the sky was the colour of pomegranate. He saw his reflection in a door — dog collar, ghastly face, bags under his eyes — and kept walking like his body was a cart rolling past a ditch it knew too well.

He remembers the ending, of course he does. How close to home it was. How the word “community” sounded like a dare for a while after that. How it often still does. How the church filled to the brim, then emptied, and thinned out to only the faithful, the desperate, and the stubborn. How long it took for laughter to sound like laughter again in the hallways of the town.

2013 sits behind the glass of his life like an old photograph he can’t put away. It’s pinned to his chest. He’s not special for carrying it. Everyone here carries it. But it’s the year he learned the difference between being useful, and being seen as useful. The year he started wanting a life that didn’t require him to be a symbol first, and a person second. It’s been simmering inside him for a long time now.

The door opens behind him, letting in a gust of evening, and a handful of people with the faces he knows: the fisherman who jokes too hard so he doesn’t fall apart, the nursery worker with the uneven fringe, the pair of lads who always sit close enough that their knees touch. Nate comes last, as usual, a quick squeeze to Paul’s arm as he passes. Sponsor. Friend. Anchor.

Chairs scrape. The chairperson reads the opening. Paul has heard it so often he could recite it backwards in his sleep, and still the words land like fresh water and salt in the same mouthful. When they get to “God as we understood Him,” he feels a familiar flicker of irony, and decides not to chase it. He believes. He also knows belief isn’t a cork in a bottle.

They open the floor.

“I’m Paul, I’m an alcoholic,” he says when it’s his turn.

“Hi, Paul,” comes back, easy as the tide.

“I almost bought a bottle in August,” he says. No preamble. No story about weather or traffic. He can feel the coin in his pocket, edge worn smooth by years of worry. “Didn’t. But I opened the store door. It scared me. I’ve been honest with my therapist and my sponsor. I didn’t say it here. I should have.”

Heads nod. Nobody points like he’s a liar. It helps.

“I’ve been… quiet,” he goes on. “Not just with this. With everything. Hiding in plain sight.” He could say a man’s name here. He doesn’t. He says, “Someone I care about went silent for a while, and I told myself I could live inside that gap. Turns out I can’t. It made the old thoughts sound new again.”

A murmur that isn’t pity moves through the room. Recognition, maybe.

“I’m leaving my job,” he says, surprising himself by putting it in the present and not the future. “I’m sending my resignation soon.” A few eyebrows lift; most of them know he’s clergy. A couple don’t. That’s fine. “I still believe,” he adds, because he always feels the need to dodge any condescending comments from people who never took his faith seriously. 

“But I just can’t be a symbol anymore. I want a life that doesn’t make me an outline. I’m applying for an MA in social work next year. I want to sit at kitchen tables where people need help, but won’t ask a collared man for it, and be useful.”

He hears himself, waits for the old guilt to rise. It doesn’t. It sits back, and lets him talk.

“I didn’t drink,” he says again, smaller. “I wanted to. Very badly. It felt like an invitation to stop trying for at least one evening. I kept walking. I texted Nate. I watched a stupid video a teenager sent me of a cat that looks like bread. I had tea. I prayed. I went to bed.”

A few smiles. The lads with the touching knees grin without shame. He likes them for that.

“I’m scared of doing it,” he finishes. “So I’m saying it here. Not so you talk me out of it. So I can’t pretend I dreamt the part where I said it out loud. That’s all.. Thanks.”

“Thanks, Paul,” Nate says first,  a reflex that from him sounds like trust, and not patronisation.

Next shares move past him with hospital waiting rooms, an uncle who keeps pouring Christmas drinks into sober hands as if forgetfulness is kindness, a coin held for eight years, and dropped in a car park grate. He listens, the way he learned to listen before he ever stepped foot in a church. The room does what AA rooms do: cuts things down to size without cutting anyone down.

They break for coffee and biscuits. Nate corners him by the window.

“Monday?,” Nate says, no throat-clearing.

“Monday,” Paul confirms.

“You want me on the end of a phone?”

“Yes,” he says, grateful for the permission to need it. “And maybe on my doorstep at seven if I haven’t texted.”

“I’ll bring milk,” Nate says. “Threat level dairy.”

Paul snorts. The laugh lands more in his chest than his throat. “Thanks.”

“You told them about August,” Nate adds, quieter.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And I’m still here,” Paul says. Quiet triumph. It’s enough. Nate smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling.

They sit again; the chair brings them to the close. The prayer feels strange in his mouth tonight, not because of God, but because of how much he wants to control things, and how little he can. He says the words anyway. Let go. Let God. He doesn’t have to choose a different sentence to make it true.

Afterwards, people do the slow pack-up of rooms like this. Fold chairs, wipe a mug because it makes them useful, talk nonsense on purpose to make the leaving easier. The fisherman claps him on the shoulder, and tells him he knows a bloke at Exeter who did the course and “didn’t die,” which passes for an endorsement in Dorset. The nursery worker says, “kitchen tables matter very much,” and doesn’t wait for thanks. The lads ask about proving dough, and he promises to bring a recipe next week that doesn’t collapse if you look at it wrong.

Nate waits until the room is nearly empty. 

“Walk me to the car?”

They step into the cool, sodium-lit car park. The hall hums behind them; somewhere a fox skitters through the hedge. Nate leans on the roof of his battered Fiat. His long graying hair waves softly in the wind.

“You told Alec?” he asks.

“That I’m resigning? Yes.” Paul rubs his thumb along the seam of his paper cup. “That it scares me in places I don’t even have names for? Not… all of that.”

“Then say the part out loud now,” Nate says. “Practice.”

Paul exhales, fogging the dark. “I’m afraid if I’m not useful, I’m nothing. I’m afraid I’ve made the collar my last line of defense, and I don’t know what’s under it anymore. I’m afraid I’ll leave, and discover there’s no ‘me’ left who isn’t a role.” He swallows. “And I’m afraid I’ll mess it up with him. Again.”

Nate doesn’t flinch. “Good. That’s English, not Latin.”

“I’m also—” Paul searches for the word and finds it. “Hopeful. Which is almost worse. Lots to go wrong there.”

Nate grins. “That’s the stuff. Put a name to it, and it stops moving the furniture in the dark.” He taps the car roof. “HALT check?”

Paul thinks. “Not hungry. A bit angry—more like raw. Lonely… less than last month. Tired, yes.”

“Eat something that grew in the ground, text the man, bed by eleven. If your brain starts a spin-cycle, call me. If your hands start itching, come round, and I’ll make you scrub my kitchen floor like a Victorian governess.”

“Threat level linoleum,” Paul says, and the smile lands where it needs to.

“One more thing,” Nate adds, softer. “You’re not resigning from being needed. You’re resigning from being a mascot. Big difference.”

That one hits clean. Paul nods.

They say goodbye — short, unceremonious, with the weight in the eye contact, not the hug. When the taillights have gone, Paul stands a moment longer, listening to the thin hush of the town after nine.

He takes the long way back: past the church—his for a little while yet—past the lychgate where, not so long ago, Alec had said I love you like he wasn’t sure the words would hold. On the porch, he keys a quick text.

Heading home. Still on for tomorrow? I’m bringing bread that won’t damage your knives.

The reply comes fast: Yes. Daisy made tomato soup. .

Paul pockets the phone, warmth pricking behind his eyes at the tiny dot: their agreed-upon sign that says I’m here even when I’ve gone quiet. He sets off again.

Outside the vicarage, he pauses with his key in the lock, and — before he can talk himself out of it, scrolls to a number he’s saved under E-Beckett.

The call goes to voicemail. He listens to the tone, heart in his mouth.

“Hi, Ellen. It’s Paul.” His voice sounds much calmer than he feels. “No emergency. Just… I wanted to try again. I can spare a Saturday sometime, if you can spare a breakfast. I’ll text as well.” A breath. “I hope you’re alright.”

He ends the call, texts what he promised, then steps inside. He leaves his mug by the sink, writes three lines of the resignation draft in a notebook—short, human, no hedging—and stops before he can start fussing with the phrasing.

Kitchen tables. People, not symbols.

Paul takes a slice of leftover bread, texts Alec a photo of the lopsided crumb with the caption Proof of life, and, for the first time in days, feels sleep waiting for him, like a place he might actually reach.

It's a biting November cold, almost December — the kind that finds your bones, and stays there — but the place is full, breath clouding faintly in the air above the pews. Paul can feel the eyes on him as he steps up to the lectern. Weighing him.

His notes are tucked in his Bible, but he doesn’t look at them yet. Instead, he rests his hands on the wood and lets the quiet settle.

“This is my last Sunday up here,” he says. The words carry in the way church words do, but they sound strange in his own mouth.

He talks about light — the kind that doesn’t erase the dark but sits inside it. About how people are not projects, and faith isn’t a badge you earn for being tidy. About the things this place taught him, even when he didn’t want the lesson.

And he talks about Broadchurch. The way it held its own in the worst of storms. The way it mended, not perfectly but honestly. The way it let him stay long enough to start again. About moving on not being a failure.

When it’s over, he closes his notes without having read half of them. He thanks them for letting him be there — for the welcome, the arguments, the cups of tea that bought him more time than he deserved.

The final hymn swells. He sings, because he wants to, and lets the sound wash over him.

After the liturgy there are handshakes, hugs, a child pressing a melted chocolate coin into his palm “for later.” He moves through it in a daze until the doors open, and the crisp winter air hits him.

And there’s Alec, standing just beyond the church steps, collar turned up against the wind. For a second Paul thinks about nodding, and walking home. For a second.

Instead, he steps down into the cold, and cups Alec’s face in his hands. The kiss is quick, but unhurried. He can feel the surprise in the little shift of Alec’s breath — not that it’s happening, but that it’s happening here.

“Hi,” Paul says when they part, the word catching somewhere between shy, and sure.

“Hi,” Alec answers.

Movement in the corner of Paul’s eye — Daisy, halfway to the gate, glancing back. She takes in the two of them, still close enough to be obvious, and gives a tiny, knowing smile before turning away again, hands in her pockets, walking like this was always the plan.

Paul watches Daisy disappear up the path, the crunch of her boots fading into the cold air. Alec’s still beside him, coat collar turned up, pretending to be more interested in the latch on the gate than the fact that Paul’s looking at him.

It’s nothing dramatic — no music swelling, no lightning bolts or fireworks — just the solid, certain weight of knowing he loves this man, and is loved back in turn. It’s as startling, still, as it was the first time, and as ordinary as breathing.

For a long moment he lets himself stand there in the low winter light, cheeks cold, chest warm, thinking: this is what it’s meant to feel like.

He doesn’t sleep straight through, but when he wakes it’s to the sound of a kettle boiling. For a second he forgets he’s not at the vicarage anymore — then remembers he’d stayed at Alec’s after the sermon.

When he comes down, Alec’s in the kitchen with Daisy, both in sleeping clothes. Daisy’s perched at the table, stirring sugar into her tea. Alec stands by the counter, sleeves pushed up, looking like he hasn’t been awake long either.

“You’re up early,” Paul says, leaning on the doorframe.

Alec looks over. “Could say the same.”

“Habit,” Paul says, moving to pour himself a mug. “Morning,” he adds to Daisy.

“Morning,” she echoes, a little shy but smiling. “Dad says you’re officially unemployed now.”

Paul chuckles. “More like between jobs. Sounds better on my CV. And I’m going to still be helping with some things until I find my footing.”

Alec tilts his head. “Going to take it easy for a bit?”

“I’m going to try. Not sure I’m very good at it.”

They drink their tea in a loose triangle — Daisy at the table, Alec at the counter, Paul half-perched on the other chair. It’s comfortable in a way he’d never thought he’d get.

Daisy finishes first, rinses her mug, and heads upstairs to get ready for school. “Good luck with… whatever you do next.”

Paul waits until her footsteps fade. “She’s alright?”

Alec nods. “Better. Still… watching her.” Then he studies Paul for a moment. “You?”

Paul shrugs. “Depends on the day.”

Alec’s mouth twitches. “Fair enough.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. Paul drains the last of his tea, feeling the weight of the weeks ahead, and the weeks after that. When he stands to go, Alec walks him to the door.

When Alec kisses him, Paul feels it settle into his bones like the taste of honey in tea. Walking back to the vicarage in the cold, he realises he’s smiling like an idiot. Not the polite sort of smile you can turn off, but the kind that sticks because it’s holding up the rest of you.

For years, love had been something he gave away until he was empty. Now, it feels like something that comes back. And maybe that’s why the rest of his life doesn’t feel so much like loss anymore.

It’s strange, waking up, and knowing Sunday won’t be shaped around service anymore. Stranger still that it doesn’t ache the way he thought it might. The ache came yesterday — in the vestry before, in the pause after the final hymn when he saw Alec standing near the back, as firm on the ground as a landmark.

Today there’s only quiet.

He makes coffee and drinks it by the kitchen window, watching gulls cut across the pale sky. The vicarage feels different already — like the house knows it’s no longer required to be more than four walls and a roof.

His phone buzzes on the counter. A message from Nate: Breakfast? My treat. You did alright.

Paul smiles, types back, Half an hour, and pockets the phone.

Before he leaves, he pulls open the desk drawer, and takes out the letter he’d written weeks ago — the one officially ending his post. He doesn’t need to read it again; the finished version is already in the diocesan office. Still, his fingers linger on the paper, tracing the date.

When he steps outside, the air is brisk, biting at his skin. His legs take him past the church without asking his permission. The doors are shut, the noticeboard out front already listing next Sunday’s services under someone else’s name.

He stands there a long moment before walking on. He told himself yesterday’s kiss outside — with Alec’s hand warm against his jaw, and half the town possibly watching — was enough to end things on. It was. It is.

But as he heads toward the café where Nate will be, Paul knows it’s not an ending at all. Just a different beginning.

Sunday’s buzz has drained out of him by Tuesday.

The flowers from the pulpit are still on his kitchen table, a bit too loud in the early light. Cards lean against the vase — thank-yous, blessings, a folded sheet from the school kids covered in crooked hearts. He should feel proud. Or at least wrung out in a satisfying way. Instead, it’s the aftertaste of adrenaline, and the too-big quiet.

He scrolls to E-Beckett again. Yesterday’s standing ovations, handshakes, and “we’ll miss you”s hadn’t been enough to nudge him into calling her. But the fact that it’s over — truly over — does. Neither had his voice message from before. He wonders if she even listened to it.

She answers on the third ring.

“What,” she says, flat.

Paul almost smiles. “Hi to you too.”

“You caught me before coffee.” He can hear the click of a lighter. “Congrats or condolences, whichever it is.”

“Bit of both.” He leans against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was my last sermon two days ago.”

Silence, then a soft snort. “So it’s official. You’re out of the mafia.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the only way I’m putting it. You spent ten years as their dog, like it made you untouchable. Forgive me if I’m not joining the weepy choir.”

He lets the sting land before speaking. “I didn’t call for a fight.”

“Then why did you call?” Her voice is sharper now, but not louder.

“Because I thought maybe… with this change… we could try again. Breakfast. My treat. I can even put up with your music.”

“My music is fine.” A pause. “And I’m not sure you and me in public is a smart move right now.”

Paul takes a breath. “Alright. Here’s my offer — I’ll be in Bristol next Saturday. You tell me the time and place. If you don’t show, I’ll still eat a decent fry-up, and catch the train back. No hard feelings.”

There’s a faint sound on the line — maybe her exhaling smoke, maybe thinking. “Text me the details,” she says finally. “I’ll see how I feel.”

It’s not yes. But it’s not a no.

“I’ll do that,” Paul says.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t bring a Bible.”

“Noted.” He says.

She hangs up first. Paul sets the phone down, looks at the flowers on the table.

Paul sets the phone down, looks at the flowers on the table, then grabs his coat. He leaves them where they are and goes out, more to move than to get anywhere.

Rounding the corner by the newsagent, he spots Maggie on a bench, cigarette between two fingers, her bag slouched against her shin.

“You’re out early,” he says.

She glances over, exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Could say the same. Thought you’d be sleeping off all that holy pageantry.”

“Not really my style.” He nods at the cigarette. “Still on the same brand?”

“Don’t fix what isn’t broken.” Her mouth tilts. “You looked steady up there Sunday.”

He huffs a laugh. “Felt anything but.”

“Didn’t show.” Her eyes narrow slightly — the old Maggie look that reads people like she’s deciding if they’re worth quoting. “So. What now? Monastery? Tell-all book?”

“Social work, maybe.”

“About time.” She flicks ash into the gutter. “You’ve been wearing that collar like a hair shirt for years.”

Paul almost smiles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Not confidence. Truth.” She takes another drag. “For what it’s worth, you looked like yourself up there. Not the job. You.”

That catches somewhere in him. “Appreciated,” he says, softer.

Maggie stubs out the cigarette in a battered tin. “Well, don’t vanish. Broadchurch has enough ghosts.”

“I’ll try not to.”

She heads off toward the quay. When Paul turns for home, he realises the smile from Alec’s doorway two nights ago still hasn’t left him.

By the time he’s back at the vicarage, the light’s gone gray. He makes tea, sits at the kitchen table, and takes out his phone.

No photo this time, no clever caption. Just: Still here.

Alec’s reply comes a minute later: Me too.

Paul leans back, the words catching in his chest in the same way when he’d said it to Nate a few weeks ago— about August, about getting through. Still here. It had been enough then.

It’s enough now.

The café Ellen picked is the kind of place that looks like it’s been open since the seventies without changing a thing except the people behind the counter. The formica tables are worn to a matte finish, the menu is a single laminated sheet, and the sugar dispenser clumps if you don’t shake it first. The smell is a mix of frying bacon, and burnt filter coffee, clinging to the air like dust.

Paul gets there ten minutes early. Not because he’s eager — he tells himself it’s just so he can claim a corner seat with his back to the wall, somewhere he can see her come in. The table wobbles when he rests his elbows on it, so he folds a napkin to wedge under one leg.

Ellen arrives twenty minutes late, cigarette dangling from her fingers, sunglasses shoved into her hair even though the sky outside is a dull sheet of winter grays. Her bass case is slung over her shoulder, strap fraying where it’s rubbed against a thousand pub doorways. She drops into the seat opposite, a kiss in the air somewhere near his cheek that smells faintly of tobacco, and strawberry lip balm.

“Alright,” she says, weaving a hand through her dyed black hair like it’s a challenge.

“Alright,” he answers.

They order — poached eggs, and toast. Ellen leans back in her seat, tapping her cigarette against the empty saucer the server’s left behind.

“So.” She eyes him over the rim of the chipped mug the waitress brings a minute later. “You’re really done with that crap.”

“I am.”

“Good. Thought you’d end up buried in it.” She saws into a slice of toast with a butter knife, heavy-handed. “What now?”

“Thinking about social work.”

Her mouth tilts halfway between a smile, and a jeer. “Guess that’s less… stagey.”

He lets it pass. “You still playing?”

She smirks. “Eh. I’m between bands. Again. Got a couple of gigs lined up with some mates from Bath. Don’t put my money into it yet, though. Might crash, and burn before we finish our first set.”

“You won’t,” he says before he can help it.

She raises an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure?”

“I heard that live track you put out last year. The one that starts with the bassline from—”

Her eyes narrow instantly. “How the hell do you know that?”

Paul shifts in his seat. He hesitates, realising too late he’s stepped into it. “Someone sent me a link.”

“Uh-huuuuuh.” She doesn’t call him on it, but the look she gives him says she’s filing it away for later.

The food arrives, and buys him a reprieve. They eat in a slow, lopsided rhythm, the conversation circling weather, her flatmate’s terrible dog, Nate’s latest baking experiments that even seagulls wouldn’t touch.

At some point, Ellen sets down her fork, eyes him like she’s measuring him against something only she can see. “So. What’s your life like now, then? Not the version you’d put in a newsletter.”

Paul hesitates, knowing she’ll sniff out any varnish. “Quieter. Fewer committees. More… real people. More time to think. And…there’s Alec.”

“Alec?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates just long enough for her to catch it. “He’s—” Paul doesn’t know what to expect of her reaction. “My partner.”

Her eyes narrow again, sharp in a different way now. “You’re gay?”

“Bi,” he corrects, without flinching.

She stirs her tea, the spoon clinking against the mug. “Hmm.” She lets out. “That wasn’t a problem in the mafia?”

He can’t help the small huff of a laugh. She always calls it that. “It was… complicated. But not in the ways you think. It’s not the reason I’m out.”

“I bet,” she says. He can’t tell if it’s sarcastic.

They finish eating without rushing. When she picks up the bill before he can, he lets her — easier than making it a point. They step outside into the cold, the air damp enough to curl the ends of her hair.

She lights another cigarette, and walks with him halfway to the station before peeling off toward her rehearsal space. “Next time, you pick the place. But it better not be some yippy-yappy fancy lot, where one coffee costs more than a whole night of my tips.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She nods once, sharp, then turns without a goodbye — which, for Ellen, might be as close to one as he’s getting.

Paul watches her go, her hair dangling behind her in the wind, then turns toward the platform.

Alec’s place is warm when they step in, the kind of heat that continues to sting after being cold. Paul drops his bag by the hall table, and shrugs off his coat, catching the faint smell of something — coffee grounds, and whatever had been cooking earlier.

They end up in the kitchen without deciding to. Alec fills the kettle, Paul leans against the counter. Paul thinks about how this house feels so different from his own. Less orderly, more lived-in.

Daisy comes in when the clock’s pushing seven. She’s pink-cheeked from the cold, hair tucked under a wool hat. “Hi,” she says, already kicking off her boots. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be late. Jessie’s mum made dinner.”

“No problem,” Alec says. “Cup of tea?”

“Please.” She dumps her bag by the stairs and sits at the table. “How was Bristol?” she asks Paul.

He smiles. “Wet.”

They drink and talk about Bristol as a city — Paul describing the market stalls strung with lights, the busker on Corn Street who sounded like he’d been singing since before microphones were invented. Daisy asks if the suspension bridge looks as big in person as it does in photos; Paul says yes, but it also feels strange, like someone built it just to prove they could. Alec chimes in about getting lost there once, years back, and how every street seemed to tilt uphill in both directions.

For a while, the kitchen fills with the low hum of cups against saucers, and the rhythm of ordinary talk — nothing sharp-edged, nothing with a hidden catch. Just the three of them, sitting warm while the wind moves outside.

Suddenly Daisy says, almost shyly: “So… how are we doing holidays this year? Because Hanukkah’s next week, right?” 

Alec glances at Paul. “Starts Thursday night, yeah.”

“Ends Christmas Eve this year,” Paul adds. “So technically we could do both.”

Daisy brightens. “That’s what I was thinking. Like… Hanukkah first, then Christmas.”

Paul chuckles. “That’s a lot of food.”

“Good,” Daisy says. “We can do latkes, and… sufganiyot? Did I say that right?”

“Close enough,” says Alec, a ghost of pride in his voice.

Paul looks between them — Alec leaning back in his chair, Daisy practically bouncing in hers. “Alright,” he says. “Eight nights of oil, and sugar, and then we’ll see if I survive to Christmas dinner.”

Daisy smirks. “Challenge accepted.”

She stirs the dregs of her tea, then adds, “I’ll be at Mum’s for the second night, though. She’s not… y’know…” She gestures vaguely, like she’s not sure what word to use.

“Jewish?” Paul supplies.

“Yeah. So probably just dinner, gifts, and a tree there.”

“Fair enough,” Alec says, with that tone Paul’s learning is his way of making an agreement stick.

Paul thinks about it for a moment. “Then maybe we make the first night here,” he says. “Kick it off properly. Candles, dinner, the whole thing. And you can take latkes with you for your mum.”

Daisy grins. “She’ll love that. She eats anything fried.”

Alec snorts into his tea.

Paul sits back, letting the sound of them roll over him. For years, the holidays had been something he got through — Advent, Christmas services, midnight mass, the press of parishioners’ hands — all the trimmings without the roots. Now it’s a patchwork. Different threads. And it’s strange, how much more it feels like something you could actually wrap around yourself.

Sunday morning, Paul finds himself back in the church hall, but not in a collar. His coat’s on the back of a chair, sleeves rolled, hands full of folding chairs. The room smells faintly of pine from the Advent wreath Christine’s brought out of storage. He knew her back in seminary already. Late start in clergy, after a long career in crisis management. She’s fifteen years older than him, but they always got on well. He’s glad she’s the one replacing him.

“Those go against the far wall,” she says, without looking up from her clipboard. 

Paul obliges, metal legs scraping over the lino. “You’ve got the readings sorted?”

“I’ve got more volunteers than readers,” she says, ticking a box. “Which is a luxury. You left me in better shape than most parishes I’ve inherited.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.” She glances at him, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Though I suspect you just guilt-tripped half the town into helping you before you left.”

He snorts. “Not untrue.”

Christine sets her clipboard down, and starts laying out hymn sheets in neat stacks. “I’m glad you’re here, Paul. I don’t want to lean on you, but your face is familiar to people. Makes them less twitchy about a new vicar changing things.”

“I can do less twitchy,” he says. “Christmas lunch still on?”

“Of course. I’ll need you for that. And the carol service, if you can bear it.”

Paul hesitates, the ghost of last year’s Advent pressing against him — the sermon-writing at two a.m., the faces in the pews he couldn’t always meet. Then Alec’s face rises instead, steady in the back row, and he nods. “Yeah. I can bear it.”

Christine’s gaze lingers a moment, maybe catching more in his answer than he meant to give, but she just says, “Good. Now, help me get the urn plugged in before the congregation riots.”

Thursday night, the back room of the community hall is the same as always — stack of plastic chairs against the wall, noticeboard with curling paper, the circle of mismatched seats. Paul takes the one nearest the door. Habit.

Tonight’s shares drift toward family. Someone talks about not knowing what to buy their son for Christmas because they’ve only been sober since July. Someone else says they still feel like the odd one out at the table without a drink in hand.

When it’s his turn, Paul leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“I met up with my sister last week,” he says. “We… don’t talk much. History. Geography. Pride. Take your pick. But I’m not preaching anymore, and I thought maybe that would help. She agreed to breakfast, which I’m calling a win.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s not a drinker, not like I was. But she’s lived through enough of my years when I was… absent, let’s say. It’s not easy to convince someone you’re worth a second go.”

A couple of nods from around the circle. One man mutters, “Takes time.”

“Yeah,” Paul says. “And I’m trying to remember I can’t rush it. Which is not my strength. But I’d rather keep turning up, and let her get used to that, than… disappear again.”

He leaves it there, lets the next voice take over. The clock says quarter past seven. Normally he’d stay, stack chairs, rinse mugs — but tonight’s the first night of Hanukkah.

He catches Nate’s eye during the break.

“Heading off?” Nate asks.

“Yeah. Got candles to light.” He can’t hide his smile.

“Good reason.” Nate squeezes his arm. “See you next week.”

Outside, he walks quickly, past shopfronts and lamplit windows, toward Alec’s. The thought of the menorah in the window, of Daisy leaning in with questions, pushes him faster.

When he knocks at Alec’s door, he hears voices inside. It’s not his house, not yet. But tonight, it feels close.

Alec opens the door before Paul can knock twice.

“You’re early,” he says, stepping back to let him in.

“AA finished quicker than usual,” Paul says, hanging his coat. “Either that or I bailed early.”

Daisy’s already in the kitchen, setting out plates. “Hi!” she says, then adds, “You didn’t miss anything. Dad nearly burned the first batch of latkes, though.”

“They’re fine,” Alec mutters, but there’s a faint flush at his ears.

The menorah sits on the windowsill, unlit, gleaming faintly in the kitchen light. Daisy looks at Paul, then at Alec. “Can I light it?”

“You can,” Alec says. “First night’s special.”

Paul strikes the match and hands it to her. She reads the blessings —  transliterated, halting, but sure — and leans forward to light the shamash, then the first candle. The flame catches, and burns.

They stand there for a moment, all three of them, just watching it.

“Alright,” Alec says finally. “Latkes before they go cold.”

Paul smiles, feeling something loosen inside him. 

The next night, the kitchen’s quieter without Daisy’s running commentary over the frying pan.

“She’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Alec says, setting down two mugs of tea. “Tess said they were making gingerbread.”

“Dangerous competition,” Paul says. “Latkes versus gingerbread.”

The menorah is already in its spot on the windowsill. Alec lights the shamash, says the blessing, then leans in to set the second candle burning. The flicker throws gold over Alec’s face.

“No audience tonight,” Alec says.

Paul glances over. “You miss it?”

Alec shakes his head. “Just… different.”

They stand there for a moment, side by side. Alec’s hand brushes Paul’s — brief, almost accidental. Paul catches it and doesn’t let go.

Alec glances at him, something unreadable in his eyes. Paul tilts his head just enough to bridge the space between them, and Alec meets him halfway.

It’s sweet — a kiss that tastes faintly of tea and the warmth from the candles still dancing on the windowsill. Alec’s fingers curl lightly at Paul’s hip, like he’s making sure this is real.

When they part, Paul keeps his forehead resting against Alec’s.

“Chag sameach,” Alec says quietly.

Paul’s mouth curves up. “Chag sameach.” He repeats, carefully.

They let go slowly, not in a rush to break the contact, and drift toward the sofa with their mugs. The living room is dim except for the menorah’s light spilling in from the kitchen.

Paul sinks into the corner of the sofa, and Alec settles beside him, close enough that their knees press.

“You alright?” Alec asks after a moment.

“Yeah.” Paul exhales through his nose. “More than alright, actually.”

Alec tilts his head like he doesn’t quite believe it. “Even with Daisy away?”

“She’s not exactly going to vanish forever,” Paul says, smiling into his tea. “Besides… you’re stuck with me all evening. Might have to talk to me.”

Alec huffs. “Dangerous.” But his hand finds Paul’s on the cushion between them, lacing their fingers together without looking down.

They sit like that for a while, the candle’s light shrinking little by little in the other room, the quiet more companionable than silence used to be for either of them. Paul feels the tension of the past week loosening — not gone, but not running the show either.

“What was it like?” Paul asks suddenly, quietly.

Alec glances over. “What was what like?”

“Your childhood. Before… all this.” He gestures vaguely, meaning the years, the jobs, the messes.

Alec’s brows knit for a second, like the question caught him off guard. “Normal enough,” he says after a pause. “Two parents, school runs, family dinners. Arguments over stupid things. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I suppose that means it wasn’t bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes on some point just past Paul’s shoulder. “My mum was… different, though. She was a child during the war. Survived things no one her age should have seen. Ended up in Scotland after. She didn’t talk about it much, but you could feel it — like she carried this guilt for making it when others didn’t.” He swallows. “It made her hold on too tight sometimes. To me. To everything.”

Paul studies his face, the way Alec’s mouth draws in slightly, like he’s keeping the rest of the story folded away. 

“She worried a lot,” Alec goes on. “About us, about the neighbours, about strangers on the street. Hid food everywhere, and couldn’t ever throw it away. Was always halfway ready to pack everything into one bag, and go.”

“That sounds like a lot to grow up with.”

Alec shrugs one shoulder. “It was just life to me. I didn’t understand where it came from until I was older. By then, she was gone.”

Paul squeezes his hand, thumb grazing the edge of his knuckle. “Thanks for telling me.”

Alec gives a small nod, still looking ahead. But his fingers tighten around Paul’s like he means it.

Alec’s hand stays in his, warm and steady. After a moment, Alec tilts his head just enough to look at him.

“What about you?”

Paul feels the question land like a stone dropped in water — slow to sink, ripples spreading. “Not much to tell,” he says, too fast. The lie comes automatically, before he can even think about it.

Alec doesn’t push. Just waits, gaze fixed, the way he does in interviews when he knows time will do the work.

Paul shifts, sighs, his thumb tracing idle shapes against Alec’s fingers. “The only other people I’ve told anything really are my therapist, and my sponsor,” he says eventually. “So… this isn’t easy.”

“Alright,” Alec says. Nothing more.

“There was a lot,” Paul admits, voice low. “When I was young. Stuff you don’t forget, even if you’d like to. Ellen doesn’t remember most of it. I do. And I… learned to keep it locked up. Safer that way.”

He glances at Alec, catches his eye, then looks away again. “That’s as far as I can get into it, tonight, sorry.”

Alec nods once, as if that’s exactly enough. 

They sit in the dim light, the last of the candle flickering out in the other room. Paul doesn’t let go of his hand. They stay like that until the candle in the other room gutters out, and the quiet folds around them.

They move through the hallway together — Alec locking the door, Paul switching off the lights — the small choreography of people who’ve done this more than once. In the bedroom, Alec toes off his shoes, and leaves them by the wall; Paul mirrors him without thinking.

They change, climb under the duvet, and lie facing each other in the soft dark. The smell of laundry powder lingers in the sheets, undercut with the faintest trace of candle smoke.

Alec switches off the lamp. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Paul responds, smiling, because it always amazes him he can just say that now. No matter how many times they’ve said it already. But it’s nothing dramatic. Just the warm press of Alec’s knee against his, the way they both shift at the same moment to get comfortable. Yet as Paul lets his eyes close, he realises it feels like the start of a rhythm — a routine taking place without him noticing, one he could learn by heart if he’s lucky.

Paul hadn’t planned on ending up back under the covers, but Alec had disappeared upstairs to fetch something, and when Paul followed, the something had turned out to be himself, stretched out on the bed with that faintly smug, faintly tired look that meant he wasn’t moving unless Paul made him.

Now, the duvet’s warm over their legs, the curtains half-drawn against a pale wash of winter light. The air in the room smells faintly of toast from earlier, and the skin under Paul’s hand is warmer still. Alec’s lying on his back, head turned toward him, one arm tucked under the pillow.

“Thought you said you had things to do,” Paul says.

“I do,” Alec replies, not moving. “This is one of them.”

Paul laughs, leaning in until his mouth brushes the corner of Alec’s jaw. Alec turns his head just enough to meet him, the kiss gradual, tasting faintly of the tea they’d had an hour ago. His hand comes up, slowly finding the hem of Paul’s T-shirt, and pushing it higher.

The touch is familiar now, the kind that still makes Paul’s breath catch, but without the edge of uncertainty it used to have. He shifts closer, knee sliding between Alec’s, his own hand slipping under the fabric of Alec’s jumper to find bare skin. The muscles under his palm tense, then ease.

Alec’s breath hitches like a held note, when Paul mouths at the base of his throat. He tilts his chin up, a silent permission Paul’s learned to recognise. He takes his time, kisses trailing lower, hand mapping the familiar line of Alec’s ribs.

“What do you want?” Paul asks against his skin, voice quiet but intent.

Alec swallows, looks away, his chest rising under Paul’s palm. “Hold me. Tight.”

Something about the way he says it — without hedging, without making a joke first — sparks in Paul. He remembers when Alec used to meet that question with a shrug, or a vague “whatever you’re doing’s fine,” like desire was something to be downplayed. Now it’s clearer. Direct.

Paul likes that. Likes that Alec trusts him enough to ask for what he actually wants. That he wants him to be the one doing it.

So he does it — shifts his weight, bracketing Alec’s body with his own, arms tightening around him until their ribs meet. He feels Alec’s heartbeat under his chest, quick but ceaseless.

There’s a tug inside Paul, something old, and half-instinctive: the reflex to give until he disappears. Years of smoothing over edges, making himself small so other people could breathe easier. It’s what kept him drinking once, and what kept him sober after, because in both states he was still trying to be the version of himself that made other people stay.

But this isn’t that. This is him holding tight because Alec asked for it — not to keep him from leaving, not to prove something, but because Paul wants to, and because it feels good to want in a way that isn’t all cost.

His hands roam lower, slow and certain. Alec’s breath deepens, catches again when Paul shifts his thigh. They find a rhythm without speaking, the press and pull of bodies giving Paul a kind of control that doesn’t feel like taking, only giving back what’s asked for.

Alec’s hands slide up Paul’s back, under his shirt, pulling him in even closer. Paul mouths at his collarbone, tasting salt and warmth, and lets himself move with the need building between them.

Alec’s phone starts ringing somewhere on the floor, vibrating against the boards. They both ignore it. The sound feels distant, irrelevant — nothing outside this bed matters enough to break the pull between them.

Alec shifts, hand sliding down, finding Paul through the thin fabric. His fingers close around him, warm and firm. Paul exhales hard against Alec’s throat. It’s always like this when Alec takes the lead — unhurried but sure, a kind of quiet possession Paul didn’t know he’d like until he’d been shown it. He braces a hand on the mattress, the other curled around the back of Alec’s neck, letting the rhythm take him. The missed call dies away, replaced by the only sounds in the room: their breathing, the soft drag of skin against skin, the low hum Alec makes when Paul bites lightly at his jaw. They’re right on the edge, the rhythm between them tightening, and Paul feels Alec’s breath stutter against his cheek.

Then Alec’s phone cuts in again, insistent, vibrating against the floor.

Alec mutters something unprintable into Paul’s shoulder, pulling back just enough to fumble for it. His hand shakes a little, not from nerves, but from where they’d been seconds ago.

“Hardy,” he says, trying to level out his breathing. There’s a pause, then the shift in his face as he listens. Work mode, clicking in fast.

“Alright. Send me the address. I’ll be there in twenty.”

When he hangs up, he sits there for a few seconds, still half-under Paul, the air between them hot and uneven. “Crime scene,” he says, voice rough with more than just exertion. “I have to go.”

Paul huffs a sorry excuse of a laugh. “I figured.”

Alec doesn’t move right away. He bows his head, breath still rough, and lets his forehead rest against Paul’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Paul squeezes his waist once. “Go.”

Alec nods, pushes off him, and swings his legs to the floor. The spell of the morning breaks fast: trousers, shirt, the impatient shove of buttons through holes. He can’t find his belt—of course he can’t—until Paul reaches over the side of the bed, and holds it up.

“Thanks.”

“Always,” Paul says, passing it across. He sits up, and tugs Alec closer by the wrist long enough to fix a crooked collar, and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “Text me when you get there.”

“A full stop?”

“That’ll do.”

Alec’s mouth twitches. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Count on it,” Paul says, light on purpose.

At the door Alec pauses, fingers already on the handle. “Tonight?”

“If you can.” Paul lifts two fingers in a promise. “If not—tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alec nods, then turns back once more, leans in and hugs him hard—no finesse, all need. Paul wraps both arms around him and holds on. When they let go, Alec catches his coat from the hook, and Paul tosses him his scarf without looking. It’s muscle memory now.

“Alec,” Paul says as he opens the door.

Alec glances back.

“Be careful.”

Alec’s answer is the smallest smile. “You too,” and then he’s gone, boots thudding down the stairs, the front door clicking shut a moment later.

The room feels too big for a few seconds. Paul exhales, drops back against the pillow, and stares at the ceiling until the pounding in his ears fades. He could be angry at the interruption; he isn’t. This is the shape of loving a man whose phone is never just a phone.

He gets up, straightens the sheet by habit, and sets two glasses on the nightstand like they might pick up where they left off. In the kitchen he puts the kettle on, checks his phone, and there it is: a single dot.

He types back: Good. Come back safe.

He’s never had the house to himself before.

Paul stands in Alec’s kitchen with the kettle half-filled, and the quiet doing that trick of making every small sound ring—pipe tick, clock hand, the soft rattle of rain against the back door. Alec’s scarf is still on the chair from where he tossed it, a diagonal of dark wool that might as well be a footprint. Daisy’s revision notes are magneted to the fridge—dates, underlined titles, a smeared highlighter comet across the corner. On the windowsill: two stubby brass candlesticks and a half-box of long matches. They don’t use them much, he knows, but they’re there. Kept.

He makes tea because it’s a thing to do with his hands. While the water heats he opens a drawer and finds the usual chaos—elastic bands, a lone AA battery, a takeaway menu that predates Christ. He closes it again, and leans on the counter.

Move in with us. If you want.

Alec had said it after the sermon like he was asking the time. Not a stunt, not a test. A question that assumed Paul would be allowed to answer whatever he wanted.

He wants to. That’s the easy, dangerous part: the want. A key on his own ring that isn’t parish-issued, or for a lonely room somewhere in the city. A drawer that’s not borrowed. Saturday mornings that don’t end when someone’s phone rings, or if they do, the morning isn’t ruined. He can see it — a shelf for his cookbooks, the bread tins under this very counter, the way Daisy already steals crusts while pretending she’s not hungry.

Then the other voice slips in, the old one that knows every weak seam: what if you mess it up. What if you don’t know how to live somewhere that isn’t the Church’s? Since he dried out he’s lived in grace-and-favour places: a seminary corridor where everyone slept with their doors open; a curate’s flat with a rota for the washing machine; the vicarage with its thin walls, and thinner privacy. Every cupboard came with rules he didn’t write. Move into a house with a man and his daughter, and the rules become his own, their own, and there’s no collar to hide behind when he gets them wrong.

He carries the mug into the front room, and sits down. The sofa has that end-of-day slump where Alec usually lands; there’s a dent from Daisy’s shoulder, a thread pulled near the arm. Ordinary. It goes through him like a soft punch. He sets the tea on a coaster, and laces his fingers together.

It’s not just fear of slipping. It’s the quiet, if he’s honest. The kind that used to spook him when he first got sober. He’d filled it with prayer, with meetings, with parishioners who needed him to be a steady hand on a marked calendar. He still has the meetings. He has Farah. He has Nate. Odd hours of work for Christine that give him a sense of stability he still needs. Those anchors aren’t going anywhere. But the vicarage — even when it was empty — had a hum to it that wasn’t his, a borrowed purpose. This house hums with Alec and Daisy. If he moves in he’ll be adding his own frequency. That’s… new.

His thoughts take the path they’ve been taking more often lately: Ellen. His sister and him didn’t grow up with quiet, not the safe kind. When social services took them, the silence was a shock that felt like punishment. He’d learned to read noise for danger, and silence for the aftermath. He doesn’t want to bring any of that into Alec’s kitchen. He doesn’t ever want Daisy blinking at him the way he used to blink at social workers — polite, wary, counting exits.

The tea goes lukewarm while he’s thinking. He drinks it anyway. Then he stands, and does the one thing that always helps: he starts a loaf.

Flour. Salt. Yeast. Water. His body remembers the motions; his mind gets to stand down. He stirs until it’s shaggy, turns it out, and works it with the heel of his hand. The dough takes shape under him, a slow cohesion that feels like reason. He oils a bowl, drops it in, covers it with a clean tea towel. It will rise, or it won’t, and neither possibility has anything to do with whether Paul is a person fit for a spare key.

He wipes the counter. Opens the cutlery drawer again. Thinks about practicalities instead of hypotheticals: he could bring the Dutch oven, the heavy blue one, if Daisy doesn’t mind the weight on these shelves; the two pans that don’t warp; the plant that barely survives on his sill. The AA mug can live here, not as a warning badge but as a simple fact. He imagines its chipped rim next to Alec’s favourite mug, the one with “Britain’s worst cop” printed on and the cracked handle he refuses to bin. Ellie gave it to him as a joke, and he protested at first, but now he always uses it.

He pulls his phone out, and types to Nate: He asked if I want to move in. I do. Brain doing the “you’ll ruin it” dance. Advice?

The reply lands a few minutes later: Move a small thing first. Toothbrush. Book. Tell them you did. breathe.

He smiles, startled by how doable that sounds. He sets the phone down, goes upstairs, and stands in the doorway of the bathroom like he’s about to cross a border. He opens the mirrored cabinet. There’s space on the second shelf—razor, plasters, one of those tiny hotel sewing kits Daisy thinks are hilarious. He places his spare toothbrush there, the one he keeps in his rucksack for nights that turn into mornings, and closes the cabinet. His reflection looks exactly the same. He laughs under his breath.

Back in the bedroom he doesn’t open drawers, doesn’t snoop. He sits on the edge of the bed he left warm an hour ago and stares at the dip in the pillow where Alec’s head had been. “Kitchen tables matter very much” someone said at the meeting where he said he’s resigning. He thinks this must be what they meant: not sermons, or slogans, or promises with capital letters, just the simple fact of putting your toothbrush where your life is.

His phone buzzes again. A message from Alec: On scene. Will be v late. Sorry. .

He texts back: Dough proving. Your house will smell smug. I put a toothbrush in the cabinet. If that’s too much, I’ll move it. x

Three pulsing dots. Then: Keep it there. Come home later if you like.

Home. He reads the word twice, not to test it, but to get used to it.

Paul gets up, goes downstairs, and turns the bowl a quarter turn under the tea towel—a useless habit, but it feels like checking a pulse. He leans on the counter, and lets his thoughts drift back to Ellen again, but only as far as Bristol breakfast tables, and the way she said hmm when he told her about Alec. There will be harder conversations. There always are. He doesn’t have to have them all today.

He writes a note, and leaves it by the hob in case Daisy gets in first: Dough rising. Back later. Don’t tell your dad I used all the good flour.

Then he opens the back door for a breath of cold air, pockets his phone, and stands in Alec’s kitchen like it might be his as well, and doesn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone, not even himself.

Chapter Text

Boxing Day starts with cardboard and tape.

Yesterday was easy in the way Paul never thought Christmas could be. No sprinting between services, no watch-checking. But no arguments either. In the morning they walked the beach, while Daisy filmed a dog that wasn’t theirs doing zoomies in the foam. Back home, they had dinner they cooked together, Alec included, even if he cut his hand twice while chopping the vegetables.

Gifts were small and exact: Daisy gave Paul a heavy sketchbook “for writing, not art, don’t panic,” and a key tied to blue ribbon; Paul gave her a decent set of pens, and a tiny silver pomegranate; Alec handed Paul a canvas satchel with too many pockets, and the quietly spoken, “For classes.” Paul got him a book he knew Alec’d been eyeing.

He texted Ellen a photo of the dog. She replied, am also alive, thanks. He wrote back, Have a good day. Because he wasn’t sure she would appreciate a Merry Christmas.

Today, they clear out the vicarage.

Daisy takes command like a stage manager. “Kitchen, Books, Clothes, Misc, and a ‘first-night’ box. Label everything,” she says, handing Paul the marker. Alec ferries loads to the car with that careful gait he uses when he’s trying not to make anyone fuss about his heart.

Paul moves through rooms that never quite belonged to him, and decides what does. Mug from AA. Two chipped bowls. Exactly one picture of Ellen and him, two creatures posing for the camera in front of a Christmas tree. A few pictures from his twenties — him, and his best mates back then: Akram, Dave, and Adam — just before his jump from a spiral to a freefall. Cookbooks with flour stuck in the gutters. The river stone Farah gave him — pocketed. Old music tapes that barely work, but he hasn’t got the heart to leave behind. He finds the old collar tabs in a drawer, and stands there too long.  One goes in a keepsake envelope. The rest into a charity bag. He leaves a short note for Christine on the kitchen table with the spare keys, and the boiler instructions he’s rewritten four times to be clear.

They do it in circuits: hallway to car, car to Alec’s, up the stairs, back again. Daisy fills the silence with logistics, and playlists. Alec’s quiet but present; whenever Paul’s hands stall on an object too long, Alec touches his elbow, and takes the box without comment.

At Alec’s, the “first-night” box opens like a campsite: tea, charger, pyjamas, the photo of him and Ellen, tiny and dressed to be respectable, that Daisy insists on propping against a bookend (“Temporary shrine,” she says). She doesn’t ask who it is beside him, and he’s grateful. Paul puts his satchel on the chair by the window and the key — his key — on the hook by the door. It looks right there.

They make one last trip to the vicarage at dusk. Paul walks through the empty front room, bare floor, a square of paler paint where a picture used to hang, the outline of a life that never quite fit. He switches off the lights. Locks up then texts Nate. The reply comes fast: Proud of you, mate. 

Outside, Alec checks Paul’s face. “How do you feel?”

“Surreal.”

“I imagine.” He squeezes his hand. “Anything else?” Alec asks.

Paul pats his pockets as if an answer might be hiding there. “Just the leaving, I suppose.”

They walk to the car. The vicarage recedes in the wing mirror, all dark panes, and old brick. Grief and relief sit next to each other in his chest like two passengers who refuse to swap seats.

“You can miss it, and still be glad,” Alec says, eyes on the road.

“I know.” He does. Doesn’t change much.

Later, with the last mug of hot chocolate Daisy made them rinsed, and the hallway quiet, he stands a moment in the doorway, and turns the new key again, just to hear it catch. 

He hesitates, thumbs hovering, then takes a picture, and types the smallest version of the truth.

Moved today. Still Broadchurch but no more Church. I’m here.

He almost deletes I’m here, leaves it, hits send.

Three dots. Nothing. Then:

Cool. Send address in case u croak in a ditch

He snorts despite himself, texts it over. Another bubble arrives a beat later:

🖕🏽merry merry etc.

He stares at the little emoji, ridiculous, and tender in its own feral way, and feels something unclench.

You too, he writes. Got spare tea and sofa if you ever want it. No Bible.

No answer this time. That’s fine. He pockets the phone, turns off the hall light, and follows the sound of Daisy mock-arguing with Alec about where which tea really belongs, the new key pushing against the others on the hook with a small, right-sounding knock.

They finish the obvious jobs — first-night box emptied, duvet shaken out, towels on hooks. When Daisy yawns mid-sentence, Alec taps her shoulder toward the stairs. “Go on. Big foreman day tomorrow.”

She rolls her eyes, kisses Paul’s cheek on her way past like it’s always been allowed, and disappears.

The quiet that follows isn’t empty. Paul stands in the doorway of the small room that will be his and not-his, until they stop calling it that. His satchel’s on the chair. The key he texted to Ellen is on the hook with the others. On the windowsill he sets the flat river stone: pocket this when you forget you’re here.

Alec comes to stand beside him. “How’s your head?”

“Like it’s still moving even though the car’s stopped,” Paul says. “Good. Weird. Both.”

Alec kisses his forehead. “We’ll let it catch up.”

They make the bed together. It shouldn’t feel as ceremonial as it does, but it is. When they climb in, the mattress squeaks a protest at being asked to learn a new shape. He’s slept here countless nights since March, but this feels different. Paul lies on his side and watches the ceiling until his eyes adjust. In the dark, Alec’s hand finds his wrist, then stays there, not a grip, just a check-in.

“Welcome home,” Alec murmurs.

Paul swallows. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t sleep straight through, the old urge to get up, and walk until the edges stop ringing. He doesn’t. He counts the in-and-out of Alec’s breathing until it grounds him enough to stay. His insomnia has lessened a bit in the last year. He feels this night won’t go so easy still. He checks the time: two am. He sends Nate a single dot. A minute later: 👍. He wonders if Nate ever sleeps. He smiles in the dark, and watches the small crescent of the moon in the window, until his eyes close.

Paul’s phone buzzes while he’s wrestling a flat-pack shelf into something that might one day hold books.

Mark L: You about?

He wipes dust on his jeans, and types back.

I am.

Got time to meet? Blue coffee van by the slipway. 12.

The van’s window rattles in the wind. Mark’s already there with two paper cups and that look he gets like he’s decided ordinary is a job he can do.

“Milk, no sugar,” he says, handing one over. “Couldn’t remember if you’re still doing sugar.”

“Only when I’m not lying to myself,” Paul says. Mark laughs at that.

They stand side by side, watching a man in waders swear at a coil of rope. The tea’s too hot.

“Saw your last one,” Mark says after a while, meaning the sermon. “It was… alright.”

“Cheers.”

“Didn’t come to argue about that,” Mark adds. “Came because it’s January, and I thought I was done being angry, and I’m not.” His mouth twitches. “New year’s crap for that.”

“Doesn’t reset the clock,” Paul says.

Mark nods like that’s permission rather than advice. “I keep thinking there’ll be a day where it stops being the first thing. There isn’t. Some days it’s third. That’s as good as it gets.”

“How’s third feel?”

“Like I can get the shop order right without wanting to put my fist through a shelf.” He takes a gulp, winces at the heat. “And then you pass a kid in a red coat, and—” He taps the cup lid twice. “Back to first.”

Paul doesn’t fill the space. Wind tugs the smell of salt off the water; a gull drags a chip wrapper toward nowhere.

“You still… that person I talked to?” Mark says, not looking at him. “Without the collar.”

“I can listen without a uniform,” Paul says. “Probably better at it now.”

“That’ll do.” Mark works his jaw. “I’m not asking for prayers.”

“I wasn’t offering.”

Another nod. “Good.” He stands there, shoulders easing a fraction. “You look… lighter. Leaving.”

“I miss some things,” Paul says. “Not sorry about the rest.”

“Yeah.” Mark flicks his eyes over. “Saw you outside after. With Hardy.” Not a question. 

Paul finds his mouth doing the small, helpless smile it does now when Alec’s name lands. “Mm.”

“Good, good…” Mark says simply, as if he’s ticking a box marked glad for you. 

Mark takes a long pull of tea, then says it like he’s reading a part he’s rehearsed, and hates. “You know, I went out on the boat because I didn’t want to be anywhere people could talk me out of it.” His mouth twitches. “Wasn’t trying to make a point. I just wanted quiet.”

Paul doesn’t move toward him. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I still think about it.” Mark keeps his eyes on the water. “Not like a plan. More like a… shortcut your head offers on bad days. Walk past the harbour, picture the drop, then remember I promised not to. Go buy milk instead.” He huffs. “Riveting, my coping strategies.”

“Riveting keeps you here,” Paul says. “Do you have names you ring if the shortcut gets loud?”

“Yeah.” Mark taps his pocket. “Psych. Beth. Nigel. Ellie, sometimes. You, if I have to.” A heartbeat. “I won’t do it. Not saying that for your benefit. I won’t.”

“I understand.”

Mark nods once, like they’ve made a deal. He swivels the cup lid with his thumb. “Papers came through last week. The divorce.” He snorts. “A mail came in like it was an order on Amazon. Your query is delivered. Six pages in a brown envelope. Signed my name, and felt… nothing. Then I put the kettle on, and it hit like someone had moved a wall an inch, and I’d been walking into it all day.”

“Both things can be true,” Paul says. “Nothing, and everything.” 

Manchester comes to mind again, like it often does.

“Yeah.” His jaw works. “We were long done before the stamp. Still— seeing it. We did our best, then some, then ran out.” He glances over. “You leaving — it feel like that?”

Paul thinks of the letter in the diocesan file, the empty vicarage, the way Alec’s key sounds on the hook. “A bit. We were finished before the paperwork. Signing just made other people stop asking.”

“That tracks.” Mark’s shoulders drop a fraction. “Last month was alright. Quiet. Beth and Chloe came by. We argued about nothing, which I will take over the other kind of arguing.” He flicks Paul a look. “And then I saw you two outside the church, and… thought maybe we all get to have one thing that isn’t a fight.”

Paul’s smile is small but unhideable. “Trying.”

“Good.” Mark crumples the cup. “You said social work?”

“That’s the plan. Try not to annoy everyone by caring too loudly.”

“You will,” Mark says, deadpan. “Annoy people. But it’ll help.” He tucks the cup in the bin and clears his throat. “If you need someone to remind you you’re not God when your head starts going that way—”

“I’ll call you before I start multiplying loaves.”

“Do. And… if you need not to talk, and just watch idiots reverse trailers into the slip, I’m around.”

“I’m around, too,” Paul says. “For the milk days.”

Mark nods, accepting it like a practical tool, not a promise. “Right. Back to it.” He starts off, then pauses. “Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you didn’t go quiet with the rest of it,” Mark says, meaning the collar, the month, all of it. “Keep not doing that.”

“I’ll try.”

It’s late January. Paul’s been living with Alec long enough that his toothbrush doesn’t feel like a guest anymore, long enough that the key on the hook looks right there. He’s happy — he knows he is — and somehow the nights have still started coming apart.

He lies awake, and counts in the dark. Watches the line of moonlight across the wardrobe, hears the slow blink of the router through the door, the soft ticks of the radiators, and pipes. His body is exhausted. His mind paces.

Beside him, Alec turns once, twice, then stills. A minute later: “You awake?” Voice groggy, not surprised.

“Yeah.” Paul keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Alec shifts closer, palm finding Paul’s sternum like a way of saying I’m here without switching on the lamp. “Bad dream? Or the usual?”

“The usual.” Paul lets out a thin breath. “Feels stupid. Everything’s… good. And my brain’s acting like the sky’s falling.”

Alec’s thumb drifts once, thoughtful. “Doesn’t have to make sense.” A beat. “Want tea? Or—”

Paul turns his head at last, the shape of Alec’s face coming into view, eyes open in the half-light. That look — concern edged with patience — undoes him more than it should. He doesn’t want tea. He wants something that floods the system, narrows the world to skin, and breath, and heat until the noise shuts up.

“Come here,” he says, already sliding a knee over Alec’s thigh.

Alec’s hand tightens, stopping him for the span of a heartbeat. “You sure? Not just… coping?” No judgment in it, only the question.

Paul swallows. He nods once. “I want you.” He hears the truth of it as it leaves his mouth, and the other more uncomfortable truth under it: I also want the quiet it brings.

“Okay,” Alec says, and the last of the pause leaves his body.

Paul kisses him, hard enough to catch a fist in the sheets. He climbs over, hips settling, mouth opening against Alec’s until the room shrinks just to this. He breaks to breathe, and hears his own voice, rougher than he meant. “Hands — on me.”

Alec slides them down his back, gripping his waist; Paul rocks into it, chases his touch. He drags the duvet aside, pushes Alec’s shorts down, licks his palm, and works them both with wet fingers.

Alec bites back a sound, and lifts to meet him, breath hot at Paul’s throat.

“Green?” Alec murmurs. It’s a habit now, a check he almost never skips.

“Green,” Paul answers, immediately.

Alec closes a hand around him, matching the quick rhythm Paul sets. Paul fists Alec in turn, pace tipping from urgent toward messy, the kind that wipes the inside of his head clean for a blessed stretch of seconds. Alec mouths at the hinge of his jaw; Paul shudders, and presses closer, foreheads bumping.

“Look at me,” Alec says quietly. Paul does, and the floor drops away — there’s the hit he came seeking, and the ache he didn’t. He comes with a gasp he can’t smother; Alec follows on the spill of Paul’s breath, noise punched out of him.

They still. Alec’s hand finds the back of Paul’s neck, thumb stroking once as if to bring him back into the room. They wipe down with the corner of the sheet, clumsy, and laughing under their breath in the dark, then resettle: Alec on his back, Paul half across him, ear over Alec’s heartbeat.

The quiet arrives, late but intact. Paul feels it land, and, with it, the small pang of shame he knows too well. His thumb finds the edge of Alec’s rib and rubs there, slowly.

“Hey,” Alec says into his hair, like he can read the shift.

“Hm?” 

“Still there?” 

Paul opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Sorry. I liked this. I don’t know what is up with me lately.”

Alec traces a slow line between his shoulder blades.

Paul lets out a breath. “Farah says symptoms come back when you feel safe enough to notice them. I hate that she’s right.”

“Safety’s loud,” Alec says, like he knows. Paul knows he does.

He nods, throat tight for a better reason. His thumb keeps moving over that rib like a worry stone. “I’ll tell her it’s worse again.”

Alec kisses his hair, mumbling: “I love you.”

Paul breathes in deeply. “I love you too.”

He counts: ten-eleven-twelve a few dozen times, and manages a few blessed hours of unconsciousness after that.

Paul’s in his usual seat by the wall, hands wrapped round a paper cup gone lukewarm. He half-listens as it goes around, the small circle of voices and silences, until it’s his turn and he hears himself stand.

“Paul. Alcoholic.”

“Hi, Paul.”

“I’m… alright, and not. Living with someone now. Feels good. Safer than I’ve ever felt, maybe.” He pauses, makes himself breathe before the next bit. “And my insomnia’s back. Since Christmas, maybe a little before. I keep waking at the same time every night. Not drinking over it, but I am… walking laps in my head.”

The varnish on the floor has worn thin in arcs where chairs scrape. He looks at that instead of faces.

“I thought—used to think—that getting the good stuff in place would shut the rest up. But it’s louder now. Old things.” He rubs the strap, stops himself. “Stuff I boxed up so tight I forgot the boxes existed.”

He swallows.

“I don’t want to dump my whole history here now. First time I’m saying any of it in this room.” He taps his thumb again, forces his hand still. “But. There’s a memory looping. Not the worst bit— just a… tiny stupid detail. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s one thing — a smell. I don’t even know what it is exactly. Somewhere between damp wood, and… citrus sweets gone bad.”

He rubs the back of his neck, finds the words slower than he wants.

“I caught it once in the street, a couple of weeks ago. No idea where it came from. But now it’s like I smell it everywhere — in shops, on the bus, when I’m making tea. Like it’s soaked into the air, into my clothes, my skin. And every time it happens I’m back in some old room I haven’t thought about in years, and I can’t see the walls right but I know she’s there. My sister. I don’t even know what was happening — just that smell, and us together. I can’t shake it.”

Someone coughs. He forces himself to keep going.

“I’m thinking about my sister more, too. We’re… not fixed. But talking. It’s like my body noticed that before my brain did. Maybe it’s connected. I don’t know. That’s all for now. I’m here. I’m not drinking. I’ll probably text my sponsor at two in the morning a lot, like an arse.”

There are a couple of quiet chuckles. He sits, exhales, listens as the next person talks about walking their dog at four, the next about shaking hands, and bleeding nails. The rhythm of the room starts up again — shares, and silences, stories that veer off into the ordinary, tinged with pain, and hope. Someone else starts talking about how the smell of petrol still pulls them straight back to their dad’s garage. Someone else says burnt toast is their trigger. Paul listens, but the ghost of that smell is still in his nose, stubborn as ever, like it’s followed him in.

After the Serenity Prayer, the usual shuffle of coats, and mugs begins. Nate just nods at him from across the urn, no push for details. He looks tired lately too. Paul nods back. Outside, the cold air should clear his head, his nose, his lungs. But it doesn’t. The scent’s still there, faint but close, and with it the half-formed picture of Ellen, younger, and thinner, and looking at him like he’s the most competent, and knowledgeable person on the planet.

It’s a Sunday that’s cold in that damp Dorset way that makes the air taste like stone. Daisy’s got her hood up, Paul’s scarf is doing its best to be three scarves at once, and Alec has his hands buried deep in his coat pockets as they walk up to Miller’s front door.

Ellie opens it before they can knock, mug in hand, hair scraped up in a way that says she’s already been up for hours.

“Hardy,” she says, then, “Paul. Daisy. Come in before you freeze solid.”

Inside, the heat fogs Alec’s glasses. The smell of coffee is strong enough to make Paul think of the church kitchen, though that’s not the memory that’s been following him lately. He pushes it aside before it can get a foothold.

Fred is on the floor with a Lego set, head bent in concentration. He glances up, and grins. “Hi!”

Paul steps in, and offers Ellie a paper-wrapped bundle. “Wholegrain. Baked it last night.”

She takes it, peeling back the paper to peek at the dark crust. “Looks good.” Her eyes flick to his face, noting something — the faint grey under his eyes, maybe — but she doesn’t mention it. She just says, “Kettle’s on.”

Daisy’s already shedding her coat to join him. Alec disappears toward the kitchen with Ellie, their voices low, and familiar. Paul kneels beside Fred, and gets a detailed explanation of the castle’s defences, pointing out a missing turret piece that earns him a serious nod of thanks.

The whole place feels lived-in in a way Paul both envies, and finds exhausting — warm, messy, full of life. He tucks his hands in his pockets, and listens to Fred’s running commentary, letting the background noise surround him. 

Ellie wanders back from the kitchen with a fresh mug, leaning against the doorframe. “So,” she says, looking between Alec and Paul, “first month of cohabitation — how’s it going?”

Paul glances at Alec. “Peaceful,” he says, then grins. “Mostly.”

Alec snorts. “Meaning I leave my shoes in the hall.”

“Meaning he leaves them exactly where I trip over them,” Paul corrects, the rhythm easy, almost automatic now.

Ellie’s mouth quirks. “You sound disgustingly domestic. I’ll need to keep my eye on that.”

Daisy pipes up from the Lego battlefield without looking up. “They’re fine. They argue about mugs but otherwise it’s good.”

Paul tips his head toward her. “And we’ve got a live-in referee now.”

“Which is why I’m still standing,” Alec says, dry.

Ellie laughs into her mug. “God help us all if she ever takes sides.”

“Already has,” Daisy says, straight-faced. “I’m Team Whoever Makes Breakfast.”

Fred looks up at that, Lego piece in hand. “Me too!”

She nods at Paul. “And you? How’s… not-Sunday anymore?”

“Quieter,” he says. “In a good way. I’m filling out course applications. Trying to remember how to write about myself without a parish newsletter voice.”

“You’ll smash it,” Daisy says, quick and certain. “I can proofread. Dad can too but he’ll make it sound like a witness statement.”

Alec sips his coffee, and doesn’t argue, which is as close to agreement as he gets.

They end up talking about Christmas — Fred proudly showing off his new toys, Daisy pulling up the video of the zoomie dog. Alec fills Ellie in on their days, and pretends he didn’t nearly slice a finger off helping with the vegetables.

Ellie watches them all like she’s cataloguing the changes since she last saw them together — not judging, just noticing.

When Fred drags Daisy in to adjudicate whether a Lego helicopter can land on a Lego roof, Ellie jerks her head toward the kitchen. “Tea refill?”

Paul follows. The kettle ticks up to a boil. Ellie watches him over the rising steam.

“You look knackered,” she says, not unkindly.

He huffs a small laugh. “Subtle.”

“Occupational hazard.” She tips the teapot. “You alright?”

He considers lying, and decides against it. “Sleep’s been… patchy. Head’s loud.”

“Bad loud?”

“Old loud,” he says. “Not dangerous. Just… back.”

Ellie nods like she gets more than he’s said. “You got people?”

“I do.” He means Alec, Daisy, Nate, Farah. In a lesser capacity Maggie. Mark. Christine. It feels almost greedy to list them all.

Ellie’s mouth softens, and for a second she looks at him the way she sometimes looked at him after Danny’s case — not pity, exactly, but a kind of quiet recognition.

“Alright,” she says. “Just… don’t go doing that thing where you look after everyone else, and forget you’re one of the people too.”

Paul huffs through his nose, half a laugh. “I’ll put it on a sticky note.”

“Do.” She pours the tea, slides his mug over. “And you’ve got me too, just for the record.”

Paul wraps both hands around the mug, not drinking yet, letting the steam hit his face. He doesn’t answer right away, but she doesn’t seem to expect him to. She doesn’t press further — which is, in its own way, the kindest thing she could do.

He meets Ellen at her rehearsal studio above a carpet shop, Bristol traffic threading past the window like it’s trying not to look up. She texts him the door code, and: don’t be weird.

He isn’t sure what that entails, so he arrives five minutes early, buys two bottles of water from the off-licence, and waits on the landing until the thud of a kick drum starts through the thin wall.

Room 3 is hot, and cluttered—amps, cables, a drum kit that’s seen things. Ellen’s in black jeans and a Godspeed! You Black Emperor tee cut to ribbons, bass slung low. There’s a new scar on her knuckle, and tape on her thumb. She clocks him in the doorway, chin lifting in acknowledgment rather than welcome.

“This is Paul,” she tells the room, dry. “Ex-mafia. Current… whatever.”

“Hi,” he says. 

The guitarist, a woman with a silver buzzcut, nods. “Izzie.”

The drummer just flashes a peace sign, and goes back to tightening a lug.

They play. It’s loud enough to shake the cheap light fittings, all push, and swing, vocals half-buried like a dare. Ellen anchors the whole thing, shoulders loose, wrist sure, head tipped as if lining up with some internal click. Sometimes throwing in backing vocals. He knows the shape of one progression before it lands, and realises—mid-bar—that he’s heard an early version of it on a Bandcamp single from two years ago. He keeps that to himself. His fingers twich.

Between songs she swigs water, and pretends he isn’t there. He stands by the door, bottle in his hand, and tries to look like furniture. He can feel, more than hear, a small thread of vibration through the floor— practice rooms stacked, someone else hammering out scales below. The memory that’s been stalking him, that sharp, useless scrap of the past, nicks at the edge of his focus, and he lets the noise drown it.

After half an hour the drummer needs to get to a late shift. The band break with a flurry of apologies about next week’s slot, and whether the van will make it to Swindon. Ellen coils her lead into a messy loop, and drops it into a canvas bag.

“So where you taking me?” Ellen asks, swinging the bass bag onto one shoulder.

“Food,” Paul says. “There’s a café on Gloucester Road that still pretends it’s daytime.”

“Grease or greens?”

“Grease.”

She considers, then jerks her chin toward the stairs. “Fine. I’m starving.”

They clatter down past the locked doors, and the shut carpet shop. Bristol traffic hums outside like it’s minding its own business for once. On the pavement she zips her coat, gives him a look. “And don’t hover.”

“I’m walking next to you,” he says. “That’s adjacent to hovering.”

“Mm-hm.”

They head up the road. He offers her one of the waters he bought; she takes it without comment, cracks the cap with the taped thumb.

“What happened there?” he asks, nodding at the thumb before he can stop himself.

“Stage edge. My fault.” She eyes him. “Still sober?”

“Yeah,” he says. “One day at a time.”

“Good.” She tips the bottle back, swallows. “I’m not hauling your corpse down those stairs.”

They walk. The café’s bright with strip lights, and tired plants. They take a table by the window; condensation ghosts the glass. Ellen orders chips, curry sauce, and a battered sausage like a dare. Paul gets egg and chips and two teas.

They eat for a while without talking. She finally flicks him a look. 

“So.” She points a chip at him. “Still bi? Or was that a phase like your guitar years?”

“Still bi,” he says, deadpan. “Still rubbish at guitar.”

“Hm.” She salts the chips with unnecessary force. “And Mr Posh is real.”

“Alec is real,” he says. “He’s also not posh.”

“He sounds posh.” She waits, then adds, “He nice to you?”

“Yes.” He hears the feelings in his own voice, and doesn’t apologise for it. “I try to be good to him, too.”

“Grosssss,” she says, but it sounds like a child scowling at their parents kissing. 

He snorts. She lets the corner of her mouth tip up, just barely, like she didn’t mean to enjoy that.

She drags a chip through the curry. “You look properly knackered.”

“Insomnia.” He doesn’t dress it up. “Been getting the odd… flash. Stupid details. A smell, mostly.”

Her gaze flicks away, then back, sharper. “What smell?”

He frowns at the table. “Old wood. Varnish maybe. And this… too-sweet chemical. Not lemon, not really. Plasticky. Gets in your throat.”

Ellen doesn’t look away. “Furniture polish. Mr Sheen. Yellow can.”

The word lands like a switch. He can see the sideboard, the bannister, the slick shine that made everything look wet.

“He’d hose the place before visits,” she adds, voice flat. “Said it smelled ‘respectable.’”

Paul nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

She eats another chip, eyes on him now like she’s waiting for him to make it weird. He doesn’t.

“That smell’s been everywhere lately,” he says. “Bus seats. A book cover. Nowhere, really. Then I’m ten again, checking which key hits which bit of wood.”

“Front door was louder,” she says, automatic. “Back door stuck. He swore at it.”

Paul nods. “You remember that.”

“Bits.” Her mouth twists. “Not the tidy memory you want. Just— noise. Then gaps. Then I’m older, and it’s already happened.” She flicks salt off her fingers. “Why are you telling me this? You’ve got your people. Therapist. Mafia lads. Boyfriend.”

“Because it’s yours too,” he says, quietly. “And because it’s worse alone.”

She breathes out through her nose, not quite a scoff. “Don’t make me your session.”

“I’m not.” He lifts a hand, lets it fall. “I’m trying not to be the bloke who keeps the worst bits locked up, and then wonders why they wake him at three.”

“You on anything?”

“Not for sleep, currently.” He grimaces. “Farah’s got me doing boring sane things. I bake at stupid o’clock. Write. Text a dot to a mate so someone knows I’m not climbing the cliff.”

“Great,” she says, dry. “Carbs, and Morse code.”

He lets himself smile. “More or less.”

She looks past him to the window, condensation haloing the orange street. “I hate that smell,” she says, softer. “Sometimes I buy the wrong polish, and bin it just so it’s not in my flat.”

“Yeah.” He folds a chip, doesn’t eat it. “I threw a can out of the vicarage once. Didn’t know why. Felt ridiculous.”

“Ex-mafia litterbug.” A beat. “You could’ve said, back then.”

“I tried. Sometimes I froze.” He keeps his voice even. “Sometimes I hid with you in the cupboard, and counted.”

Her eyes cut to his, quick. “We did that.”

“We did.”

They eat in the clatter of plates and the hiss of the fryer. When the tea arrives, she tears two sugars open without asking, and dumps both into his mug. He watches the grains spiral and doesn’t argue.

“So,” she says, back to armour, “Mr. Posh knows about this fun family pastime?”

“Yes.”

She raises her eyebrow. “So. Tell me about him. I can see you’re just at the edge of your seat to do it.”

Paul wraps both hands round the tea. “He’s… Scottish. Detective. Looks like a man who lost an argument with sleep, and won’t admit it. Says very little. Notices everything.”

Ellen’s mouth twitches. “Cop boyfriend. That’ll go down great at band practice.”

“He’s kind,” Paul continues, like it’s the only word that matters. “Not soft. Just— careful with people. Rude to himself.” He thinks of Alec muttering at the kettle, of the way he leans a shoulder, not a whole body, into comfort. “He makes terrible food, and great tea. He and his daughter say ‘Shabbat shalom’ on Fridays like it’s muscle memory. He pretends he hates kids’ films, and then quotes them a week later.”

“Hmmm.” She doesn’t give him more than that, but she doesn’t look away either. “You not saving his soul for Jesus, so you lot get married or whatever?”

He doesn't rise to it. “No.” 

“And he knows all this? The drinking, the cupboards, the… polish.”

“He does,” Paul says. “Not every angle yet. I’m… working on ‘every.’”

“Brave,” she says, flat. “Stupid. Then brave again.”

He huffs. “Probably.”

Ellen drums her fingers on the Formica. “You living with him?”

“I am,” he says, and waits for the hit.

It doesn’t come. She just picks up another chip. “Does he snore?”

“No.”

“Lucky.” She pauses, then: “Gigs here, and in Swindon next month. If the van doesn’t die.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that… an invite?”

“It’s a warning.” But she doesn’t take it back. “If you come, stand at the back. Don’t be weird.”

“I can manage that.”

She pushes half the battered sausage onto his tray without looking at him. “Eat. You look like a broom.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Fuck off.” But the corner of her mouth twitches.

When they leave, the night’s turned wet. He offers her the spare water; she pockets it. 

“Text if the smell goes feral,” she says, as if it’s the sort of sentence people say every day. “We can hate it at the same time. But not the dot, I can’t stand that shite.”

“I will,” he says, and means it.

“Don’t bring him to the gig. Yet. I’ll think you’re showing me off, and I’ll be sick.”

“I won’t,” he says. “Text first?”

“Text first,” she echoes, like a treaty clause. Then, after a beat: “If he hurts you I’m keying his car.”

“He won’t,” Paul answers simply. “But— thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It’ll only encourage me!” 

They walk without hurry, hoods up, the takeaway smell clinging to their coats. At the corner where she’ll turn off, she taps her phone against his again, a quiet seal on the treaty.

“Text first,” she says, as if reminding herself.

“Text first,” he repeats.

She nods once, then strides away, vanishing into the mist before he’s finished watching.

When Paul gets in,  Alec’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, rinsing mugs. He glances over at the sound of the door.

“Alright?”

Paul hangs his coat, feels the damp lift from his shoulders. “Yeah.” He toes off his shoes, the warmth from the radiator soaking up into his feet. “Went to see Ellen.”

“Mm.” Alec shuts off the tap, dries his hands on a tea towel. “How’s she doing?”

“Still herself,” Paul says, which earns him the ghost of a smile. He crosses to the counter, sets down the bottle of water he didn’t drink, and leans there a moment, letting the quiet work its way in.

Alec studies him for a second longer than casual. His gaze is careful, like he’s already half-guessing what kind of ground Paul’s been walking over. “You look… less knotted.”

“Maybe.” Paul shrugs, faint. “We talked about— stuff.”

Alec nods once. “Good stuff?”

“Not exactly.” He pulls the satchel strap over his head and drops it onto the chair. “Necessary stuff.”

Another pause, small but weighted. Alec only says, “Aye,” and moves past him toward the living room, brushing a shoulder against his in a small, grounding pass. “Tea?”

Paul exhales, the smell of toast catching him again. “Yeah. Please.”

Later, they’re on the sofa, mugs warm in their hands, rain ticking at the windows. Alec doesn’t ask for the details, and Paul doesn’t offer — not yet. But when Alec’s thigh rests against his, Paul feels the quiet question in it, and lets the answer be this: not pulling away.

It’s gone two a.m. and Paul’s still staring at the ceiling, counting the faint whirr of the boiler, the occasional hiss of tyres on wet road somewhere far. Sleep’s been slippery for weeks; tonight it’s not even pretending to be in reach. Alec’s breathing beside him is steady until it isn’t— 

a sharp, broken inhale, the kind that catches.

Paul turns. Alec’s eyes are shut but his face is twisted, jaw locked. The sound he makes is half a choke, half a word Paul can’t catch.

“Hey—,” Paul’s hand is on his shoulder before he’s thought it through. Alec jerks awake with a sound like someone’s yanked the air out of him.

He’s upright in an instant, back to the headboard, chest heaving too fast. His eyes are wide, fixed on nothing.

“Breathe,” Paul says, low. “You’re here. You’re alright.”

But Alec’s shaking, breaths too shallow to be useful.

Paul shifts closer, palms up so Alec can see them. “Look at me. In for four, out for six.” He does it himself, slow and exaggerated until Alec’s gaze snags on him. “That’s it. Again.”

It takes a few rounds, his breath still hitching, but the rhythm starts to catch. Paul keeps count under his breath until Alec’s shoulders drop a fraction.

Alec scrubs both hands over his face, like he can wipe the dream off. “Sorry,” he rasps.

“Don’t,” Paul says. He waits until Alec’s breathing evens a little more. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Alec shakes his head. “Not now.”

“Alright. Then we just sit.”

So they do. Paul leans into him, just enough for their sides to touch. He keeps his breathing slow, even, a metronome Alec can borrow if he needs it.

When Alec’s head tips toward him at last, Paul shifts the duvet around them both. “We’ll get the kettle in the morning,” he murmurs. “For now, you’re safe.”

Alec’s nod is barely there, but his hand finds Paul’s under the covers, and stays there. 

Alec’s breathing smooths out first, his weight settling heavier into the mattress, hand still hooked in Paul’s under the duvet. Paul stays still, counting the rises, and falls, until he’s sure Alec’s under again.

He closes his own eyes. Waits. Nothing comes. The quiet isn’t quiet enough — there’s the swish of the wind, the hum in the walls, the faint smell of rain off the open vent. His mind picks at the loose threads anyway.

It finds Ellen without trying. Her taped thumb, the way she’d said Furniture polish. Mr Sheen. Yellow can.

He catches himself breathing through his mouth to avoid it, even though there’s nothing here — no yellow can, no slick shine. But the ghost of it is in his throat, as real as the sheets under his hands.

He tries the tricks Farah taught him — naming five things in the dark, breathing into his stomach. He tries his counting. But the smell slips through all of it. In the end he watches the shadowed ceiling until the edges start to fuzz, Alec’s grip still warm around his fingers, and lets the night take the long way to morning.

Paul wakes to the small clatter of a spoon against a mug.

“Tea,” Alec says from the doorway. He sets a mug on the bedside table and nudges it closer with two fingers. “Strong. Sugar’s in.”

“Saint,” Paul murmurs, pushing up on one elbow. The first sip lands exactly where it needs to.

Out in the hall, Daisy is a blur — zipper, trainers, the thump of a backpack against the wall. She pops her head round the door, cheeks bright under her fringe. “Morning!”

“Morning,” they echo.

She bounces in place. “Has anyone seen my maths book? No, it’s fine, I’ve got it— bye!” She’s grinning at nothing she’ll name.

“What’s the rush?” Alec asks.

“Just… on time for once,” Daisy says, which is such a transparent lie it counts as a joke. “See you later!” She’s already halfway down the stairs, calling, “Text if you need anything!” like she’s the parent.

The door goes, and the house settles. Alec leans a shoulder to the frame, watching the empty hall for a second longer, then glances back at Paul. “Happy about something.”

“Let her have it,” Paul says, smiling into his mug.

Alec drains the last of his tea, and starts getting dressed, already clocking the time. Shirt, tie, the jacket from the back of the chair. He buttons as he walks, checks his phone, and snorts under his breath.

“Lunch?” Paul asks, swinging his legs out of bed.

“I’ll grab something,” Alec lies, shrugging into his coat.

Paul’s already at the wardrobe, fishing out Alec’s scarf, and the battered folder Daisy left on the hall table last night. “Wrong hand,” he says, swapping the scarf for the file. “Eat something anyway. Text me if today goes sideways.”

Alec huffs, but it’s fond. “You’ll get your punctuation.”

“At least a comma.” Paul steps close to neaten the knot of Alec’s tie — quick, practiced —  then lets his hand rest for a second against Alec’s collarbone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Alec leans in, presses a brief kiss to the corner of Paul’s mouth. “Back for dinner.”

“I’ll cook,” Paul says. “Try not to bleed on anything.”

“No promises.” Alec pockets his keys, taps the folder against his palm once, and heads for the door. From the hall he calls, “If Daisy texts you first, tell her I noticed nothing.”

“Already practicing,” Paul calls back.

The door clicks shut. Paul listens to Alec’s footsteps fade down the path, then looks at the cooling mug on the bedside table, and smiles, stupidly, because this — morning, tea, tie, nonsense about commas — feels like a life.

The application portal wants 1,000 words on “motivation and suitability.” The box on Paul’s laptop blinks like it’s daring him to perform his whole life on command.

He’s at the kitchen table because it feels like the only honest place to try. Daisy’s at school; Alec’s at the station. The house is quiet in a way that makes the clock louder, and his head busier.

He types:

I have spent most of my working life at kitchen tables—

Stops. Deletes. Puts it back. Leaves it.

He doesn’t know how to say “I want to be useful without a pulpit” without sounding like a press release. He doesn’t want to sell trauma like it’s a qualification, or hide it like it’s a lie. He wants the middle: true, but not a confessional.

He pushes the laptop aside and pulls a pad closer. Bullet points. Farah’s voice in his head: Lead with values, back them with evidence, say how you’ll be safe for others and yourself.

• Dignity, agency, harm reduction
  
  
• Listening as a skill
  
  
• Safeguarding, multi-agency work, bereavement support
  
  
• Addiction recovery: boundaries, accountability, relapse prevention
  
  
• Supervision & ongoing therapy; AA community; not doing this alone
  
  

He writes a line, crosses it out, writes it again cleaner.

Back to the keyboard.

I have spent most of my working life at kitchen tables, where people tell the truth because there is a cup in their hand, and no one is performing. In parish work I sat with families after sudden death, advocated in school meetings, and liaised with police and social services on safeguarding cases. I learned to hold boundaries, to document clearly, and to stay when the room went quiet.

That stays.

He wants to say why he left the collar without making it a melodrama. He goes for simple.

I’m applying now because I want to keep doing that work without the barrier of a role that many people understandably don’t trust. My faith hasn’t vanished, but my job does not need to follow me into every conversation. Social work’s commitment to dignity and choice matches how I try to show up.

He exhales. Tea would be avoidance; he makes it anyway, then doesn’t drink it until it’s lukewarm.

The next bit is the bit he’s avoided for years.

I am in long-term recovery from alcohol use. This informs my practice. It means I understand ambivalence and shame, and I know change is often non-linear. I maintain a recovery program (weekly AA, sponsor, service), regular therapy, and peer accountability. I know my risk factors (over-functioning, insomnia) and the strategies I use to manage them (supervision, structured rest, saying no).

He waits for the shame to bite. It doesn’t, not hard. He keeps going.

Transferable skills: case notes, confidentiality, crisis triage, facilitating groups, home visits, joint working. Additional experience in bookkeeping and applying for grants.

Limitations: I am new to statutory frameworks, and welcome training and supervision.

He scrolls up. Adds a paragraph that sounds like him, not a brochure.

What I value most is meeting people where they are. I believe goodness is not dependent on belief, and that outcomes improve when people keep their agency. I am comfortable sitting with anger and grief. I don’t preach. I ask, ‘What helps?’ and we build from there.

He checks the word count. 612. Somehow that feels like both “too much” and “not enough.”

The free time around all this nags at him. He’s not used to afternoons that don’t ring with other people’s schedules. The space lets old memories knock on the door; some days he can nod at them, and keep typing, some days they get both feet over the threshold. Today they lurk but don’t take the chair.

He adds one last section—practical, grounded.

Preparation: I’m completing pre-course reading (child development, law and policy), shadowing at the food bank two mornings a week, and attending local safeguarding training next month. I thrive in supervision; I want to be taught.

He reads the whole thing out loud. It sounds like a person. It sounds like him.

He copies the draft into a document called KitchenTables_v3, because he’s honest enough to know there will be a v4 and v5. He prints a single page to scribble on later. The printer coughs; the page arrives with a faint grey line along the edge. He’ll live.

A text pops up from Alec: Miller says your bread is “almost indecent.” Home by six. You okay?

Paul snaps a photo of the printed page with Most of my working life… at the top and sends it back: 2/3 of a statement and only mild swearing. I’m okay.

Alec replies with a comma.

Paul smiles, finally drinks his cold tea, and opens a new tab to book the safeguarding course. 

They hit the supermarket because the fridge has become a museum of prehistoric condiments. It’s early evening, the place half-full of people doing the same chore. Paul steers the trolley; Alec reads the list like it personally wronged him.

“Milk, eggs, apples,” Alec mutters. “Daisy wants the crisps with the sea salt that isn’t salty.”

“Got it,” Paul says, turning into produce.

It sneaks up fast. One second Alec’s weighing apples; the next his hand’s on his chest, and his face has gone the colour of printer paper.

“Alec?” Paul’s already beside him. “Talk to me.”

“My… heart,” Alec gets out. “It’s—” He swallows, eyes wide in a way Paul hates. “Feels wrong.”

Paul moves him to the end of the aisle, out of the stream of trolleys. “Okay. Quick check.” He keeps his voice low. “Pain going into your arm or jaw?”

A fast shake of the head. “No. Just— fast.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me feel.” Paul takes Alec’s wrist, sets two fingers to the pulse. It’s racing, but it isn’t skipping. He meets Alec’s eyes. “It’s quick, but it’s even. Could still be your heart— we can get it checked. Or it’s a panic surge. Either way, we slow it down.”

Alec’s breathing is up in his throat. Paul loosens his collar, puts a cold bottle from the top of the trolley into his palm. He’ll go back to pay for it later. 

“Outside,” he says, and walks him to the automatic doors.

They sit in the car. Paul cracks the window. “Look at me.” He taps his own chest. “In through your nose for four, out through your mouth for six. I’ll count.”

They breathe. Four in, six out. Paul keeps the rhythm, no fuss. When Alec’s shoulders are still up near his ears, Paul switches tactics.

“Alright. Five things you can see.”

Alec blinks hard, drags his eyes around. “Blue sign. Two trolleys. Woman in a red coat. Van. Your ridiculous scarf.”

“Four things you can feel.”

“Cold bottle. Seat under my hands. Air on my face. Your—” He huffs. “Your knee against mine.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“Car door. Someone swearing at a coin slot. Your voice.”

“Good. Two you can smell.”

Alec makes a face. “Tarmac when it’s damp. Apples. …I think.”

“Last one; taste?”

“Mint. From earlier.” He almost smiles. The line between his brows is loosening. His pulse under Paul’s fingers has dropped from a gallop to a sprint.

They sit a little longer, breathing the counts. Colour creeps back into Alec’s cheeks. He looks wrung-out, and a bit angry with himself.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t start,” Paul says, gentle. “Your body pulled a fire alarm. We responded. That’s all.”

Alec nods once, still shaky. “For a second I thought—”

“I know.” Paul doesn’t make him finish. “We can go to A&E if you want. Or ring your GP in the morning and say ‘this is happening, and I’m tired of white-knuckling it.’ Both can be true.”

Alec stares at the steering wheel, then at Paul. “GP,” he says. “I’ll book. I… think I need help with this.”

“Good.” Paul squeezes his wrist, then lets go. “Tonight we buy bread and milk, and abandon the rest.”

“Daisy’s sea-salt-not-salty crisps?”

“We’ll chance my bread and her wrath.”

That gets a tired laugh. They go back in, grab the basics, and leave the trolley halfway through the shop with a muttered apology to no one in particular. In the car home, Alec’s quieter than usual, but not hollow. At a red light he reaches across, finds Paul’s hand, and holds on like he means it.

At the house, Paul puts the kettle on without asking. Alec leans on the counter, breathing more evenly now.

“Thanks,” he says, eyes on the mug Paul slides over. “For… knowing what to do.”

“You told me what you needed,” Paul says. “I just counted.” He bumps Alec’s shoulder. “Book the appointment. I’ll come if you want.”

Alec nods. “Yeah. …Please.”

“Done.” Paul takes a swallow of tea, then adds, lighter, “And for the record, my scarf is not ridiculous.”

“It’s very ridiculous,” Alec says, and the look he gives Paul says he’s back in the room.

The venue’s an upstairs room above a pub that thinks a carpet counts as soundproofing. Paul gets there early on purpose, flashes the email ticket at the door, and takes the stairs slowly. He texts first like she made him promise — here. not weird — and pockets the phone.

It’s hot already. Fairy lights, low stage, bar in the corner doing nothing but pints and plastic cups of squash. He buys soda water, stamps his wrist, and takes the back wall by the fire exit. Earplugs in. Exit sign in sight. He can breathe here.

He’s dressed like the version of himself he put in a box years ago: old black jeans, boots he polished out of habit, and a ratty punk tee he found at the back of the drawer that’s a size too small, and clings in ways he didn’t plan for. The trash can shaped print’s cracked, the collar a little chewed, the group has long disbanded, and disappeared from the internet. Daisy had called it “historically significant”, and Alec had said, “It suits you,” which is how it ended up on his body instead of back in the drawer.

Nate gets a single dot. A thumb-up arrives almost before he’s locked the screen.

“Alright there, mate?” A bloke in a denim jacket, and messy brown hair, slides close enough to be heard over the hum, grin a touch too confident. His gaze flicks over Paul’s too-small tee, and back up. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Soda water does me,” Paul says, lifting his plastic cup.

“Make it two, then. I’ll even splash out for a slice of lime— seems only fair if you’re going to turn up looking like that.” He tips his head, openly appreciative. “Pint after? I’m persuasive.”

“I don’t drink,” Paul answers, calm. “But thanks.”

 “Shame. I could be persuaded to settle for the soda. Or a number.” The bloke’s smile tilts sly. “You’re wasted on the back wall.”

Paul’s mouth quirks. “I’m good where I am.”

“Alright.” He backs off, hands raised. “If you change your mind, I’m at the bar. Name’s Tommy.”

“Have a good night, Tommy.”

“Already am,” Tommy says, eyes lingering a second before he tilts his chin toward the stage. “Bass player’s a machine.”

“She is,” Paul says, and the clear tone of pride in his voice makes the man raise his eyebrows. He drifts away toward the bar.

Soundcheck bleeds into doors. The buzzcut guitarist waves a hello with her chin; the drummer does the same with a stick. Ellen doesn’t look over. Bass low on her hip, she checks her tuning like it owes her money.

The house lights drop to a dull wash, and the room tilts toward the little stage. Count-in on sticks, a crack of kick and snare, and they’re off—fast, tight, Ellen driving the whole thing from the hips. She barely looks up, mouth set, eyes somewhere past the back wall. It suits her. It suits the songs.

Paul lets the sound do what he came for. Earplugs take the edge off; the rest rattles pleasantly through bone. He keeps the fire exit in his peripheral, and breathes like Farah taught him when the crowd presses forward. It’s fine. It’s good. He’s here. 

The buzzcut guitarist steps to the mic, grin sharp under the lights.

“We’re Forgotten Fees,” she yells, voice slicing clean through the room. “Thanks for coming out on a school night— be loud, be kind, buy a shirt off Ellen’s cursed suitcase.”

A ripple of laughter. Sticks click—one, two, three, four— and they slam into the next song. Ellen’s bass comes in like a spine, everything else locking around it. Paul feels the floor hum through his boots, and lets his shoulders drop a fraction. He’s here; it holds.

They’re three songs in when the guitarist says, “New one,” into the mic, and counts them straight down. It comes in lean and clipped, bass carrying a simple, stubborn figure that makes the crowd nod along before they know why.

On the surface it reads like a renter’s anthem: debts, mould in the corners, “inspections,” deposits swallowed, the word respectable tossed around like a brick. People cheer at the chorus because it’s easy to be angry at landlords.

But the verses aren’t really about flats. They do inventory a flat: the bannister you don’t touch, the hallway you run through, the cupboard that “wins” at hide-and-seek. Little flashes. Front door’s louder. Count to ten, don’t breathe. Yellow shine on everything.

Paul feels it land somewhere low and exact. The audience hears cracked walls in vines and overflowing fines; he hears the game he taught a six-year-old so she’d stay put.

Ellen barely looks up. She screams during the bridge. Locks the rhythm with the kick, and lets the words ride over it, voice flat, uncompromising. There’s no memoir flourish in it, no wobble, just the facts arranged like scaffolding.

His throat goes tight. He swallows, breathes the way Farah drilled into him, keeps the exit sign in frame. He doesn’t bolt. He doesn’t cry. He lets the bass thrum through bone, and holds still.

By the last refrain the room is shouting along to the plain bits—be respectable— not knowing what they’re singing. The song snaps off clean. A few people whoop. Someone near the bar yells, “Play it again!” The guitarist grins; the drummer taps a stick on a rim. Ellen wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes skimming the crowd once like she’s counting heads for a fire drill.

For half a second they catch. She doesn’t signal anything — no nod, no smirk — just that quick, hard acknowledgement that says you heard it. He tips his cup a fraction, the smallest answer he can give without doing a scene, and making it weird.

Then she’s back down the neck into the next track, and the room surges forward again, happy to be angry about something simple. Paul stays where he is, earplugs in, exit sign green over his shoulder, pride and grief sitting side by side like two punters sharing a table they didn’t mean to.

They play forty minutes like it’s ten.

Ellen does a low run near the end that makes three heads in front of him whip round as if to ask who is that, and pride flares so clean he almost laughs. Last chord. Thank you, good night. Lights up to a murmur, and the clack of plastic cups.

Tommy materialises again, hopeful. “Still on that soda?”

“Still on soda,” Paul says.

“Shameee.” Tommy’s grin softens, not pushy now. “Tell your bass player she’s frightening in a good way.”

“I will.” Paul tips him a small salute. “Have a good one.”

Load-out looks exactly like every load-out he remembers: cables that don’t want to coil, a missing drum key that appears in someone’s back pocket, the eternal argument about whether the case will fit if you just angle it. He waits by the stairwell until Ellen texts: don’t be weird, then: door. He meets her at the top of the stairs where the dirty carpet smell changes to cold air, and wet coats.

“You stood there like a plant,” she says. “Back row, exit sign, very dramatic.”

“Old habits,” he says. “You were… brilliant.” He says it plain so she can hear he means it.

She tries not to preen, and fails by a millimetre. “Help me or go away,” she says, thrusting the canvas bag at his chest.

He takes it. “Aye aye.”

On the pavement the band splits toward buses and bikes. Ellen lights a cigarette, cupping the end from the drizzle. “Your admirer looked crushed.”

“I think he assumed we’re…” Paul tips his head between them.

“Together?” She barks a laugh. “Christ. We’ve got the same face.”

“‘Family’ would’ve been quicker.”

“Not in this outfit.” She exhales sideways. “You could’ve pulled, though. Tight t-shirt doing numbers.”

“I’m taken.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mr Not-Posh.” She flicks ash. “He know you’re here?”

“Texts first, remember?” He shows his phone:  Gig fine. Not weird. A dot from Nate sits above it like a guardian angel with poor punctuation.

She eyes the screen, then him. “Good. That song didn’t send you into the hedge, then.”

He meets it. “I heard it.”

“Wasn’t for you.” Defensive, thin.

“I know.” He shifts the bag on his shoulder. “Thank you anyway.”

“For what?”

“Saying it without… turning it into a sermon.”

She snorts. “Ex-mafia still trying to preach.”

He lets that pass. “Food?”

She thinks, then shrugs toward the kebab place two doors down. They split chips, eat standing under the awning while the rain gets serious. A drunk staggers past, and shouts something tuneless; Ellen flips him off without looking.

“Gonna bring the copper next time?” she asks, casual as a tripwire.

“Not yet,” he says. “You said you’d be sick.”

“I did.” She squints up at him. “Maybe after Swindon. If the van lives.”

He nods. “If the van lives.”

She stubs the cigarette, toes the butt into a crack. “You were right about the furniture polish,” she says, like a receipt she’s reluctant to hand over. “Verse two needed something real.”

“It had plenty.”

“Yeah, well.” She slings the bass across her back. “Text when you get in. Not a dot. Actual words.”

“I will.”

“And tell Mr Not-Posh I said he’s punching.”

“He’ll disagree.”

“Course he will.” She starts backward down the pavement. “See you, Paul.”

“See you, Ellen.”

She turns, shoulders up against the rain, and disappears into the smear of light. He stands a moment with chip salt on his fingers, then texts two messages: Home soon. Proud of her. and, to Ellen, Train in ten. Chips were good. You were better.

Chapter Text

Paul gets home just before three, salt drying on his boots from the long walk up the hill. The house is quiet: Daisy’s bedroom door cracked, light off; Alec’s lamp still on, book facedown like he fell asleep mid-page. Paul showers the venue off his skin, texts Home. Thank you. to Ellen, and gets back a single skull emoji that he decides is approval.

He slides into bed, and Alec, half awake, reaches without opening his eyes. Fingers find Paul’s ribs, pause like they’re counting them, then stay. Paul lies there with a small, ridiculous smile he can’t be bothered to fight, and watches the room go softer around the edges.

He’s awake again at six, not with panic so much as that thin, alert readiness that’s been camping under his sternum since January. Downstairs, he makes tea, opens the laptop, and finds the email he’s been refreshing for: Interview invitation – MA Social Work. His throat tightens in the good way this time. He reads it twice to make sure the words don’t disappear, then forwards the date to his calendar before his brain can talk him out of believing it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Alec appears, hair doing its own thing, tie draped round his neck like it arrived there by accident.

“Tea?” Paul asks.

“Please.” Alec clocks the open laptop. “Good news?”

“Interview.” Paul tries for casualness, and fails. “End-March.”

Alec’s mouth tips. “That’s… brilliant.” He leans in, kisses him once like punctuation. “We’ll practice. I’ll be your most terrifying panel.”

“God help me.”

“Don’t call Him. You’ll only encourage Him.” Alec lifts his mug. “Proud of you.”

Daisy clatters in on a drift of cold air and enthusiasm, scarf half on, eyeliner perfect. “Morning.” She clocks the laptop. “What’s that face?”

“He got an interview,” Alec says, because he knows Paul will undersell it.

Daisy grins like it’s Hannukah again. “Yes! We’re celebrating. After school I’m making— something. You’ll find out.”

“Am I safe?” Paul asks.

“Statistically? No. But it’ll taste good.” She slings her bag. “Bye— good luck— don’t freak out.” The front door bangs, and she’s gone.

They eat toast over the sink, the way people do when nerves make plates feel formal. Alec ties the tie properly, winces at his shoulder, pretends he didn’t. Paul pretends he didn’t see. Domesticity isn’t a miracle cure; it’s a place to put the hurt down for a minute.

“Text me later,” Alec says at the door. “About times for dinner. And—” he taps the laptop lid “—send that email to someone who can read commas.”

“Daisy will stage a comma intervention,” Paul says. “Go. You’ll be late.”

“Never,” Alec lies, and kisses him again, quickly.

The house exhales after he leaves. Paul tidies on autopilot, like movement can keep the thoughts from spreading out. He opens a fresh document: Personal_Statement_(Final_actual_final_100%), and gets as far as I want to do this because… before the cursor becomes a dare. He writes kitchen tables matter, and deletes it. He writes people over symbols, and leaves it for now. Some truths have to be smuggled in under plainer words.

He makes another tea, kneels to fish a cloth from under the sink, and freezes.

Yellow can. Red cap. Mr Sheen.

It’s so ordinary he wants to laugh. He didn’t buy it. He wouldn’t. Daisy must’ve grabbed it when she blitzed the skirting boards while revising; she’d put two songs on, and called it “productive avoidance.” The smell isn’t in the air, not really. Still, his mouth remembers it. Doorframes remember it. His hands remember where to put themselves when it’s time to look respectable.

He stays crouched there too long, palm on the cupboard door, knuckles whitening. Five things. He tries, and the words take their time coming.

“Sponge. Tabs. Pan lid. Pipe. Stupid bloody yellow can.”

His phone buzzes on the counter. 

gig might die. van smells like wet dog and battery acid. u alive?

He huffs, grateful for the care shaped misanthropy.

Alive. Found a yellow can in our cupboard. Thought you’d appreciate the jump scare.

Immediate: bin the cunt.

He picks it up between two fingers like it might leak nuclear waste, and drops it into the outside bin with more satisfaction than is reasonable for six quid of chemicals. When he comes back in, the kitchen smells like tea again. He texts done. and gets back a single flame.

He leaves the cupboard door open until the air feels neutral, then sits, pulls the laptop closer, and types: I want to do this because when systems forget people, people get hurt. I have been on the sharp end of that. I’d like to be on the other side.

He doesn’t delete it. 

The clinic sits under a low winter sky, strip-lit and over-warm, smelling faintly of hand gel and damp coats. Reception hums with the soft clatter of keyboards, and the tinny murmur of a radio; laminated posters lean on noticeboards about flu jabs and sleep hygiene. A child coughs, a printer chunters, somebody’s name pings from a wall speaker. Alec pauses just inside the automatic doors like he’s hit shallow water — coat still on, shoulders up — because places like this pull old corridors over the present: beeping monitors, blood-pressure cuffs, that antiseptic sting that used to mean bad news arriving in measured tones. He swallows, keeps moving, and lets Paul steer him toward two chairs under a poster no one reads.

“Alec?” Paul says, soft enough that it doesn’t carry. “Tick what’s true. Leave what isn’t.”

Alec huffs, uncaps the pen. Sleep: poor. Appetite: fine. Palpitations: sometimes. He skips the box about alcohol, hesitates at “worry that feels hard to stop,” then marks it, and looks vaguely disgusted with the paper for making him admit it. Paul doesn’t read more over his shoulder; he just keeps a presence at Alec’s side, available, trying not to hover.

The wall speaker pings. 

“Mr Hardy?”

They follow the corridor’s right angles into a small room with a desk, an exam couch, and a blood-pressure monitor that looks newer than Alec expects. Dr Patel is the kind who makes space first, and decisions second. “What brings you in?”

Alec opens his mouth, shuts it. “Anxiety,” he gets out, after a beat. “Panic, lately.”

“How often?”

“Off and on for years. Worse recently.”

Dr Patel nods, clicks his pen. “What happens in your body when it hits?”

Alec rubs his thumb over his palm. “Chest is tight. Can’t breathe. Hands go numb. Sometimes it feels like the room tilts.”

“Palpitations?”

“Yeah. And the… ‘I’m-about-to-die’ bit.” He aims for wry, misses.

“Sleep?”

“Rubbish. Nightmares. Wake at four, and that’s it for the night.”

“Caffeine, alcohol, other triggers you’ve noticed?”

“Herbal tea and decaf, mostly.” A beat. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke.”

Patel nods again, gentle but businesslike. “Any thoughts of harming yourself?”

He hesitates, looking like he’s struggling hard with himself. “Yes but… it’s not like that.”

Dr Patel’s pen stills. “Thank you for saying that. When you say ‘not like that,’ do you mean thoughts about not wanting to be here, but no plan to harm yourself?”

“No. It’s like— I enjoy the pain. Not all of it, obviously, but often when I have to focus— I have to grip my wrists. Sometimes. Or something like that. Used to bite myself a lot as a kid.”

The doctor’s expression softens, not startled anymore, just attentive. “Thank you for saying that plainly,” he says. “When you grip your wrists now, is it to feel something sharp so you can concentrate? Do you ever break the skin or leave marks that last?”

“…sometimes. Usually not.”

“That sounds like non-suicidal self-soothing through pain,” Patel says, calmly. “Common with anxiety. Different from wanting to die, but still your body asking for help.” He glances to Alec’s hands. “How often?”

“Bad days. Interviews. Paperwork. Nights.”

Dr Patel nods. 

“But in full disclosure… I—,” he stops. Glances at Paul, before continuing. “I like it sexually too.”

Dr Patel doesn’t flinch. He glances between them once, then back to Alec. “Thank you for trusting me with that. Is it alright to talk about it with your partner in the room?”

Alec nods.

“Okay. Then two different things we should keep separate in the plan,” Patel says, tone steady. “One: consensual pain in a sexual context. That can be a valid preference when it’s negotiated, safe, and wanted by both adults. Two: using pain to regulate distress outside sex. That’s the bit I’m targeting with skills and medication.”

He clicks his pen closed. “A few checks from my side: is it always consensual? Agreed in advance? Sober? Any injuries that need medical care afterward?”

Alec’s ears colour. “Consensual. Agreed. Sober. No injuries beyond bruises.”

Patel nods. “Good. Then I’m not here to pathologise it. What I do want is guardrails so your brain doesn’t learn ‘pain = the only way I calm down.’ That means: outside the bedroom, we replace wrist-gripping with safer anchors, if possible. In the bedroom, you keep doing what you’re doing— best with clear negotiation, aftercare, and a stop system.”

He jots a line, then meets Alec’s eye. “I’d like to start a daily anti-anxiety/antidepressant—low dose, build up slowly. It takes a few weeks. I’ll also give you a very small supply of a ‘rescue’ tablet for spikes. Use it sparingly.” A glance at the chart. “Given your cardiac history, we’ll do bloods and an ECG before/soon after you start, to be thorough.”

Alec nods once.

“If either of you notices sex is being used to discharge panic rather than chosen because you both want it, name it and pause. That helps your brain learn you have more than one tool.”

He turns back to Alec. “So: meds as discussed. I’ll note a referral to a therapist who’s kink-aware so you don’t have to educate them. We’ll pair CBT for panic with DBT skills for ‘urge surfing’— letting the urge pass without acting on it— and sensory alternatives that don’t harm skin. I’ll also give you a short handout on grounding, and a list of non-injury ‘pressure’ options— ice cube in the palm, rubber exercise ring, cold water on wrists, textured stone.”

A beat. “Any of this make you uncomfortable?”

Alec exhales. “No. Relieved, actually.”

Patel smiles, small. “Good. Final safety bit: if urges shift toward breaking skin or you feel compelled rather than choosing, contact me sooner than our four-week review.”

He prints the scripts, adds a discreet note to the referral, and stands. “You’ve both been very clear. That helps me help you. We’ll take this step by step. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Emergency contact?” Patel asks, nodding at Paul.

“Yes,” says Paul, while Alec fills out another form.

They cut across to the little café by the chemist — condensation on the windows, two tables free, a chalkboard promising daily soup. Paul lets Alec choose the corner, and goes to order: two teas, the soup, toast. When he brings the tray back, Alec’s jacket is off but his shoulders are still high.

“Say when,” Paul murmurs, pouring milk into Alec’s mug.

“Now,” Alec says, and takes it like a lifeline. He blows on the surface, eyes on the table. “Well. That was… thorough.”

“Thorough’s good.” Paul tears the paper off a butter pat, slides it over. “You were clear. He was decent.”

Alec nods, jaw moving once. “I thought I’d want the floor to swallow me when I said—” He stops, starts again. “Didn’t.”

“Me neither.” Paul lets that sit, then adds, “Thanks for letting me be there.”

Alec huffs. “You’re the one who has to live with me once the tablets kick in.” A beat. “Relief, mostly. And… the bit about not pathologising us.” He risks a glance up; there’s colour in his face. “That helped.”

Paul’s mouth tips. “Yeah.” He breaks his toast, passes half across. “We should steal some of his language. In bed, if it’s ‘want’ and not ‘I’m drowning,’ we say it. Green because I want you, not because I need to shut my head up.”

Alec swallows, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Efficient. Very you.” He sobers. “And if it is drowning?”

“Then we stop, and do not make it noble.” Paul taps the table twice, a tiny emphasis. “Cold water on wrists. Walk. Whatever. Call it what it is.”

Alec turns his mug between his hands. “I can try the ice cube thing. The ring.” He snorts. “You’ll love buying me gym tat.”

“I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it,” Paul says, dry. “Chemist after this. We’ll get the rubber grip, a stress ball that isn’t shaped like a brain, and whatever else looks stupid, and works.”

“Add decaf pods before Daisy stages a coup.”

“Done.” Paul stirs his own tea, then lowers his voice. “Therapist bit alright?”

“Yeah.” Alec takes a spoon of soup, breathes out. “Kink-aware beats me googling at midnight and getting a vicarage sermon on sin.” He catches himself, winces. “Sorry.”

Paul laughs, and waves it off. “I resigned. You’re allowed to bully the empty collar.” He watches Alec’s face, checks for the flicker that means he’s pushing too hard, finds only tiredness and relief. “What do you want from me tonight?”

Alec thinks properly. “Send Patel’s handout to my email so I won’t lose it. Sit with me when I take the first tablet so I don’t make it a headline in my head. If I get twitchy, tell me to eat something. And—” He hesitates. “If I go quiet, ask once. Not three times.”

“Copy that.” Paul nudges his ankle under the table. “And if I fuss, tell me to pack it in.”

Alec’s mouth twitches again. “Pack it in.”

“Premature use of the phrase,” Paul says, but he grins.

They eat. The room hums with ordinary chatter, knives tapping plates. When the bowls are empty, Alec wipes his thumb along the rim like he’s finishing a thought.

“If Daisy asks what the script’s for?” he says.

“‘Anxiety,’” Paul answers. “True, and sufficient.”

Alec nods, then sighs. He sits back, the set of his shoulders finally loosening a notch. “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For the rest.” He slides his hand across the small gulf of Formica, palm up. Paul fits his fingers into it like he’s done this for years and not months.

“Home,” Alec says.

“Chemist first,” Paul replies, and when Alec rolls his eyes, he adds, “Green because I want you, later.”

That gets him the smallest, real smile. “Later,” Alec agrees, and they stand. The day outside hasn’t changed, but something in both of them has.

Daisy’s already in the kitchen when they get back, perched on the counter with a pear and her phone, hair up in a lopsided bun. She tries for casual the second she clocks them.

“Hey. How was the GP?” she asks, like she hasn’t been waiting to ask.

“Fine,” Alec says, hanging up his coat. “Boring in the best way.”

“Good.” She nods, then can’t help herself. “I met two people at lunch. New in my year. We… kind of clicked.”

Paul smiles. “Names?”

“Jaz and Rowan,” she says, like the syllables have been burning a hole in her pocket. “They’re… y’know.” A small shrug, trying to tame the grin that keeps jumping out. “We ended up talking about exams, and a film night, and… stuff.”

“Stuff,” Alec repeats, amused.

Daisy rolls her eyes but she’s glowing. “They get it. It was easy. I forgot it could be.”

Paul’s chest warms. “I’m really glad,” he says, and means all of it — how fast she said it, how unafraid. “Do they like terrible biscuits and decent tea?”

“I can test that theory,” she says, hope peeking through. “Could they come here? Not this week— soon?”

“Yeah,” Alec says at once. “Tell us when.”

“Okay.” She tries to dial it down and fails, bites into the pear to keep from grinning. “They’re starting a little lunch group too. Library table.”

“Perfect amount of rebellion,” Paul says, and she snorts.

He turns to fill the kettle and the happiness tilts, just a fraction. Lunch tables fold into pub tables, then into a different kind of crowd: his twenties, sticky floors, dirty back rooms, kisses that were neither romantic, nor platonic, but a secret third thing bitter with gin, laughter that always got too loud. The way he used to chase that first loosening with another, and another, and another, until he was numb. For a second he tastes metal and cheap lime. Bleach, piss, and blood on a dirty bathroom floor, somewhere in Manchester. The old itch lifts its head— brief, ugly, familiar.

He plants his feet, names what’s in front of him, quiet: kettle, blue mug, the chip on the worktop, Alec’s battered key bowl. In for four, out for six. Twelve-eleven-ten. He reaches into his pocket and feels the smooth edge of his AA coin, presses it once, lets go.

“You okay?” Daisy asks, mid-text, eyes flicking up sharp the way they do now.

“Yeah,” he says, honestly. “Just… happy for you. And remembering it wasn’t like that for me.” He gives her the gentlest version. “It’s good that it’s different.”

Her face softens. “It should’ve been like this then.”

“It is now,” he says. “We’ll take now.”

Alec sets a hand at the small of Paul’s back for a second, nothing showy, just present. “What do Jaz and Rowan watch?” he asks Daisy.

“Animation that isn’t Disney,” she says grinning. “And weird indie stuff. And Paddington.” She lifts a shoulder. “They have range.”

“Good taste,” Paul says, pouring water over tea bags. “Invite them for next Friday?”

Daisy’s smile goes wide and unguarded. “I will.”

They move easily around each other — Alec laying out mugs, Daisy stealing a biscuit before dinner, Paul fishing the honey from the cupboard. The old pictures in his head don’t vanish, but they fade to the edges. He’ll text Nate a dot later. He’ll tell Farah he named the itch, and let it pass. He won’t think of Dave. At least for the moment. For now there’s a plan for a film night, Alec’s hand brushing his again when he sets the sugar down, and Daisy talking about a library table like it’s a small country she’s founding.

After she disappears upstairs, Alec rinses plates while Paul dries. The normality of it works on him like medicine.

“How’s your head?” Alec asks, passing over the pan.

“Quieter,” Paul says. He taps his pocket. “Coin helped.”

Alec nods. “Good.” He hesitates, then adds, “I’ll start the tablets tomorrow. Dr Patel said mornings.”

Paul bumps his shoulder. “Breakfast with a side of courage.”

“Mm.” Alec half-smiles. “You doing AA Thursday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

They load the dishwasher. Paul texts Nate a single dot; the reply comes back: Here. He breathes easier.

Later, bins need taking out. Paul hauls the bag down the path, and he feels it again. A sweet, plasticky lemon hits him in the face — someone’s had a clean. His mouth goes dry. He stands there, bag in hand, while his brain rewires time all on its own: bannister shine, the wet look of the sideboard, key hitting wood.

He names what’s real. Cold air. Wheely bin. Orange streetlight catching the puddle by the kerb. He texts Ellen before he can talk himself out of it: smell went feral.

The dots dance. Her reply: bin it. set fire to the sun. 

He doesn’t think about it; he just hits call.

Ellen answers on the second ring. “Who died.”

“No one,” he says. His voice comes out thinner than he means. “Doorway ambush. Neighbour’s spring clean.”

A drag; the soft click of her lighter. “‘Set fire to the sun’ still stands.”

“I know.” He leans his shoulder against the cold brick. “I did the list. Coin. Bin lid. Streetlight in the puddle. It passed. Just… wanted a voice that knows what that can means.”

Silence, then: “I know what it means.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t notice he was bracing. “Thanks.”

“You safe?” she asks, businesslike.

“Yeah. Sober. Home. Bins conquered.”

He hears traffic and someone laughing too loud outside wherever she is. “Rehearsal went. Swindon van still dying. I wrote a new chorus. It doesn’t suck.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says, simple.

“Gross,” she mutters, but she doesn’t hang up. “You want a trick? When the smell won’t get out of your head— count like we used to. Not the cupboard numbers or the twelve-eleven-ten thing. The stupid ceiling crack map. Make a route.”

He looks up at the orange edge of the streetlamp. “Ceiling crack map,” he repeats. “Alright.”

They’re quiet for a few breaths that don’t need narrating.

“You’re not drinking?” she says, checking, not pleading.

“I’m not,” he says. “Want to. Don’t.”

There’s a rustle on her end, the sound of her shifting against brick. He hears traffic, and that too-loud laugh again.

“Can I—” he starts, then chooses the simple version. “If you’ve got time, can I come to you? Not tonight. When it’s alright.”

Silence sharpens. When she answers it’s fast, high with alarm she tries to flatten. “No. Not my flat.”

“Okay,” he says at once. “Not your flat.”

Silence holds just long enough to sting. Then: “I’ve gotta go,” she says, already halfway off the line. “Don’t… just don’t turn up.”

“Won’t,” Paul says quickly. 

A breath that might be relief. “Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

“Night, El.”

The line goes dead. He stands by the bin a second longer, cold biting his knuckles, then pockets the phone, and heads back in.

Alec looks up from the hob. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Paul closes the door, lets the warm kitchen swallow the last of the street. 

He texts Nate a single dot. The thumbs-up lands before the pan sizzles. He breathes, cracks two eggs into a bowl, and lets the small ordinary of it hold.

Alec tilts the pan, watching the oil run. “Eggs?”

“Yeah,” Paul says, finding the bowl and the salt like he lives here — which he does. He stirs, breath easing back into its usual shape.

Daisy thunders halfway down the stairs, remembers it’s not a school night, and appears in socks, hair wild. “Did someone say eggs?”

“Get plates,” Alec tells her. “And don’t steal the toast before it’s toast.”

She salutes, raids the cupboard, and sets out three plates with unnecessary ceremony. Paul slides into the small gaps they keep making for each other: forks, glasses, tea bags. Ordinary work. It helps.

They eat at the table. Daisy talks about the library lunch group — Jaz brought cinnamon buns, Rowan’s starting a zine — and Paul lets himself enjoy how quick her words come now. When she ducks back upstairs for a charger, Alec nudges Paul’s ankle under the table.

Daisy reappears with her charger, already shrugging on a jacket. “Mia texted— there’s a seven-thirty showing at the Regent. I gotta to go.” She looks between them, assessing, amused. “Try not to burn the place down.”

“We’ll do our tragic best,” Alec says, fishing a tenner from his wallet. She takes it, kisses his cheek, lifts a hand to Paul in a small salute, and is gone, with a thud of the door and the clatter of the letterbox.

The house exhales. Paul stacks the plates; Alec doesn’t let go of his ankle under the table until he has to. In the quiet, the ordinary clinks feel louder, companionable.

“You’re in a mood,” Alec says, passing him the last fork.

“Eggs,” Paul lies.

“Liar.”

Paul tips his head, lets the corner of his mouth go. “Maybe I like seeing you post-GP, and not scowling at a blood-pressure cuff.”

Alec steps in close to put the fork away, which is unnecessary because the drawer is behind Paul. He stays there a heartbeat too long to count as accidental, hand braced on the counter beside Paul’s hip. “Colour?” he asks.

Paul’s breath catches, but not from nerves. “Green,” he says, simple. Then, because it’s true, “because I want you.”

Alec’s mouth lifts—small, not smug. He ghosts a thumb over the inside of Paul’s wrist, exactly where Paul likes to be found. “Green,” Alec echoes back, just as plain. “Because I also want you.”

They don’t rush it. Alec leans in, and kisses him once, then again, deeper, the kind that says we’ve got the evening. Paul laughs against his mouth for no reason except that he can. Alec’s hand slides to Paul’s waist; Paul hooks two fingers in Alec’s belt like an anchor.

“Upstairs?” Alec murmurs.

“Mm. In a minute.” Paul nudges his forehead to Alec’s, eyes shut. “Dance with me first.”

“There’s no music.”

“Then we’ll be the music.”

It’s daft, and they both know it, but Alec hums something tuneless, and they sway in the small rectangle of kitchen floor like it’s a proper room, and not between the bin, and the frying pan. Paul fits a palm at the back of Alec’s neck; Alec’s other hand finds Paul’s hip. The hum dissolves into their breathing.

After a while, Alec nudges his nose along Paul’s cheek. “Still green?”

“Still green.” Paul smiles. “Because I still want you.”

“Good.” Alec steals another kiss, then taps the light switch off with his elbow, the kitchen dipping to hallway dim. “Come on, then.”

They leave two mugs by the sink and the back door on the latch because Daisy has a terrible habit of forgetting her keys. As they pass the hall table, their hands find each other again without thinking, fingers lacing like they’ve always known how.

Upstairs, the house falls quiet in that way it does when it’s just the two of them. Alec shuts the bedroom door, turns the lock out of habit, and then turns back to Paul like he’s worked up to a ledge.

“Can I… ask for something?” he says, already a little breathless from the kitchen.

Paul tips his head. “Yeah.”

Alec swallows. “I’d like—” The words stall, then land. “I’d like my hands restrained.”

No teasing from Paul. Just a nod and a small step closer. “Okay.” His voice goes firmer. “Details. Front or back? How tight is good? Anything off-limits tonight?”

“Front,” Alec says. “To the headboard’s fine. Not too tight. No marks I can’t cover.” A tiny huff of a laugh. “I have a job.”

“Colour now?”

“Green.”

“Safe word still the same?”

“Yes.”

Paul kisses him — no rush, a seal. “Good. Tap twice if your mouth’s busy, and you want me to pause. I’ll check in.”

He crosses to the wardrobe, pulls out a long, soft scarf. Not rope. No knots that bite. He holds it up so Alec can see what he’s choosing, then comes back to him slowly, like he’s giving Alec time to back out. Alec doesn’t. He lifts his arms, wrists together above his head, and lets Paul take his weight.

“Last check,” Paul murmurs, mouth closer. “Still green?”

“Greeeen,” Alec says, impatient.

Paul threads the scarf around the headboard slat and Alec’s wrists, firm but careful, two clean wraps and a flat knot he can undo fast. He slips two fingers under the fabric at each wrist, checks the space, looks Alec in the eye. Alec nods. His pulse is up; he can feel it in his throat, in the tug of the scarf when he tests the give.

“Good,” Paul says, like it’s a private benediction, and kisses him again, deeper. The first drag of Paul’s mouth, the press of his body along Alec’s, the heat of it — spikes the want without tipping it into panic. Alec breathes, lets the resistance of the scarf do what he asked for: hold him still, hold him here.

Paul maps him like he’s got all night—mouth at Alec’s jaw, down to his throat, pausing to let Alec feel the contrast of warm breath and cooler air. Alec shifts, a low sound kicking loose when Paul’s palm slides under his shirt and finds skin. He can’t pull Paul closer with his hands, so he arches into him instead; Paul makes a pleased noise that goes straight to Alec’s gut.

“Tell me how it is,” Paul says, lips at Alec’s ear.

“Good,” Alec manages. “Feels… right.”

Paul smiles against his skin and starts to pull him apart in slow, ordinary ways — thumb on a hipbone, teeth at the curve where neck meets shoulder, a knee slotted between Alec’s, the kind of pressure that turns his thoughts down to a single, bright line. The scarf creaks faintly when Alec braces; the sound knocks something loose in him that’s more relief than anything. He lets it happen. Lets himself be held.

Paul’s control isn’t cold; it’s attentive. He watches for the small shifts — how Alec’s breath goes shorter when Paul’s fingers trace the inside of his wrist under the fabric, how his thighs tighten when Paul’s mouth drops lower, how a quiet, unguarded sound escapes when Paul drags teeth lightly along his chest and then soothes the mark with his tongue. Every so often, Paul glances up.

“Colour?”

“Green,” Alec says each time, faster now.

“Good man.”

Clothes become obstacles. They deal with them one-handed: Paul’s hands, Alec’s hips, the messy shove of denim and cotton aside. They find a rhythm without thinking; friction where they want it, heat where they need it. Alec’s arms flex uselessly against the scarf, and the uselessness is the point. His body answers in a way his head can’t talk over.

Paul sets the pace — coaxing, then pushing, then easing back so Alec can feel the edge without falling over it. He holds Alec’s waist, and moves with him, low sounds slipping out of both of them now, the bed complaining. Alec tips his head back, throat open, wrists tight in the loop, and lets Paul see him like this. Wants him to see.

“Look at me,” Paul says, and Alec drags his eyes down. Paul’s pupils are blown, his mouth a little wrecked. Proud, yes—but more than that, present. Here. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Colour?”

“Green,” Alec bites out. “Paul—”

“Good. Stay.”

Paul crowds him, mouth catching Alec’s again, hand closing at his hip in a way that says mine without taking anything he hasn’t been given. He shifts his thigh, grinds them together just so, and it’s like Alec’s body has been waiting for that exact angle all night. He groans, surprised by the force of it.

“I’ve got you,” Paul says against his mouth. “Let go.”

Alec does. He goes tight all at once, the heat ripping through him hard enough to make him swear into Paul’s shoulder. The scarf holds, the headboard rattles, and he rides it out with Paul right there, braced and steady, breath hot at his ear. Paul follows him in a stuttering rush, a low sound punched out of him, as he buries his face in Alec’s neck.

For a few seconds everything blurs — their breathing, the thrum in Alec’s wrists, the warm drag of skin on skin. Paul stays where he is, weight welcome, then forces himself to move first.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, and Alec huffs a wrecked little laugh at the joke of it. Paul reaches up, loosens the knot clean, unwinds the scarf. He rubs Alec’s wrists with his thumbs, checking the skin, tracing circles into the ache until the blood hum evens out.

“Colour now?”

“Green,” Alec says, softer. “Still green. Just… wrung out.”

“Good.” Paul kisses each wrist on impulse, then his mouth. “Water?”

Alec nods. Paul grabs a glass from the bedside, and Alec drinks, throat working. Paul wipes them down with the edge of the sheet, tosses the scarf to the foot of the bed, then slides in beside him, one hand resting over the place the fabric sat moments ago.

“Alright?” Paul asks.

Alec nods again, eyes half-closed. “Great.” He swallows. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Paul nuzzles his temple. “You told me what you wanted.”

Alec rolls his wrist under Paul’s hand, testing. “Next time we could try a bit tighter,” he says, almost shy. “Still safe.”

Paul’s smile curves against his skin. “Next time,” he says.

They settle under the sheet, heat fading to a pleasant hum. Paul keeps his hand over Alec’s wrist like a promise. Alec exhales, the kind that empties the last scraps of adrenaline, and lets his eyes close. Outside, a car passes. Inside, nothing demands anything they don’t want to give.

It’s February, the kind that can’t decide between rain and frost. Paul takes the long way to Farah’s office, counting the cracked paving stones outside the pharmacy, touching the AA coin in his pocket like a worry bead. He’s slept three hours. The world has that thin, high-pitched ring tiredness gives it.

Farah’s room is warm without being foggy. Plants that refuse to die; a cheap clock that ticks like it’s got a sense of humour. She nods him in, waits until he’s sat the way he likes — back to the wall, door in sight.

“How’s this week?” she asks.

He breathes out. “Loud.”

“Night or day?”

“Both. Night starts it. Day keeps it.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t write anything yet. “Tell me one thing that’s helped, then the thing that’s new.”

“Helped?” He rubs his thumb over the coin. “Bread at 3 a.m. Texting Nate the dot. Alec’s hand on my back when I forget where the air is.”

“And new?”

He stares at the rug. “A detail. I thought I remembered all the… outlines. Then this thing turned up like it never left.”

“What’s the thing?”

He swallows. “Light under a door.”

She waits. He hates that he knows how to recognise her waiting, and also needs it.

“It’s the kitchen,” he says. “He’s come home. I’m on the stairs, sitting two steps up, hands flat on the cold paint. There’s that yellow strip of light under the door. And the… floor polish. The wood’s wet-shiny. I can hear him swearing at the back door because it sticks. I can hear Ellen breathing because she’s hiding by the coats. And I don’t move.”

Farah’s pen stays on the table. “What happens in you when you say that?”

“Shame,” he says, because he’s promised to stop being tidy. “Like I’ve been caught.”

“Where does it sit?”

“Throat. Hands. Like I’ve been shouting except I haven’t said anything.”

“Let’s get you anchored before we go further.” Her voice doesn’t go soft; it goes precise. “Name three things in the room.”

He makes himself look. “Plant with the broken leaf. Your purple notebook. The nick on the skirting board.”

“Good. Feel your feet. Count five breaths down your spine.”

He does it. The ringing eases.

“Now,” Farah says, “take me through the bit on the stairs in present tense, like we’re sliding the memory a little closer— but only a little. If it spikes, we stop.”

He nods, palms flat on his knees. “I’m sitting on the stairs. Paint’s cold. The door is shut, light at the bottom. I hear the key. I hear the back door stick. I should get up. I don’t.”

“What do you tell yourself, sitting there?”

“That moving will make it worse.” He hears his own voice go thready. “That if he sees me first, he’ll forget she’s there. That if I sit still, time will go past me.”

“Does it work?”

“No.” It comes out like a laugh that isn’t one. “Not that night.”

She lets a breath go. “Paul, I’m going to say the thing that feels obvious and doesn’t feel true when you’re in that stairwell. Ten-year-olds don’t make adults do harm. Ten-year-olds don’t ‘fail’ at saving people.”

“I know.” His mouth pulls. “My body doesn’t.”

He swallows. “I hear… Grace moaning.” The name comes out smaller than he means. He still uses it. Sometimes he calls her biological mother, like he has a non-biological one. Never mum. Ellen does. 

“Not words. That… sound. In the kitchen.”

Farah doesn’t move. “Stay with the edges, not the middle,” she says. “What does your body want to do when you hear it?”

“My legs go heavy,” he says. “Like if I don’t move, I’ll keep the room the same. Hands—” he looks at them— “want to press flat to the paint.”

“Good noticing. Come back to this room for a second. Today’s date?”

“February… twenty-something.” He squints at the wall clock. “Twenty-one.”

“Where are your feet?”

“On your horrible rug,” he says, and the ghost of a smile cracks the grip.

“Good.” she smiles. “Sound memories are sticky. Your system learned ‘that noise = danger.’ It’ll throw alarms at any echo. We won’t bully it out of that. We’ll teach it a second truth.”

He nods, breathing evening out. “How?”

“We pair the old sound with a new ending,” she says. “Not in the stairwell. Here. Now. You hear the moan. You name it. Then you bring in something present and safe. Give me one safe sound from your actual life.”

He doesn’t need to think. “Kettle. The click just before it boils.”

“Great. Let’s try a small rep.” Her tone stays practical, like they’re fixing a hinge. “Say it: ‘I hear Grace moaning.’ Then add: ‘And I hear the kettle click.’”

He shuts his eyes. “I hear Grace moaning.” His throat roughens; he lets the breath pass. “And I hear the kettle click.”

“What happens?”

“Less… tilt.” He opens his eyes. “Still there. But it shares.”

“That’s the work,” Farah says. “Not erasing. Sharing.” She waits. “What story does the boy on the stair tell himself about that moan?”

“That it’s his fault,” Paul says, before he can tidy it. “That if he’d moved faster, or slower, or said something different yesterday, it wouldn’t be happening.”

“And what two true sentences could the adult in this room say back — without arguing, just adding truth?”

He looks at the nick on the skirting. “You didn’t cause it. You were a child.”

Farah nods once, like a metronome. “Good. Again. Small voice, then adult voice.”

He tries it, and the floor steadies half a degree.

They work like that for a few minutes: tile, anchor, sentence. When he starts to fray, she lifts a hand. “Enough for today?”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “It’s worse lately,” he says, because guilt is already queuing. “Which feels stupid, because I’m… happy. I’m doing the things. I have so much support. And still.”

“‘And still’ is honest,” Farah says. “Safety gives your system permission to notice what it muted to survive. That’s not failure. It’s sequencing.”

He nods, the explanation landing where it needs to. “Homework?”

“Same as we sketched last time, refined for sound,” she says. “Third-person stair, five minutes, boring language. Two true sentences for the boy. Start a ‘sound log’ on your phone: trigger, anchor you used, how long till it eased. Put a small safe sound on purpose into bedtime—kettle click, radio murmur, Daisy brushing her teeth, whatever works. And I recommend going back on sertraline. No heroics.”

He half-smiles. “Company, not fixing,” he echoes, thinking of the text he sent Alec.

“Exactly. Give him the headline tonight.” She caps the pen at last. “How’s the urge to drink?”

“Short. Mean. Comes and goes. I text Nate. Bake bread. Swear at bins.”

“Good,” she says. “And Ellen?”

He huffs a laugh. “We made a treaty: text first, don’t be weird. She named the smell.”

“Then we keep building a triangle,” Farah says. “Connection, body, tools. You don’t have to white-knuckle February.”

He sits forward, elbows on his knees, and lets the room come fully back. Plant. Notebook. Nick on the skirting. “I’ll try the kettle,” he says. “And the two sentences.”

“And when the moan shows up,” Farah adds, “you don’t have to wrestle it. You can say: ‘I hear you. I also hear the kettle.’ That’s already different.”

He stands, lighter by an amount he wouldn’t notice if he weren’t looking for it. Outside, the air can’t choose between rain and frost. He texts Nate a dot; the thumbs-up returns. He texts Alec: Headline—sound tile today, shamey, but I’m okay. Kettle plan. Company later?

Alec: Yes. I’ll put the kettle on now.

He walks the long way to the water, hands in his pockets, head down against the wind that blows straight along the quay. The tide’s on the turn. Shingle mutters with each pull, a thousand tiny stones changing their minds at once. Gulls heckle nothing in particular. It’s February gray— the kind that flattens distance so the cliffs look nearer than they are.

He sits on the low step by the slipway because standing feels like pretending. Cold goes through his jeans fast. Salt rides the air. For a minute he does the sensible things — names what’s here, counts four in, six out. Plant, notebook, nick on the skirting, Farah had said. Here it’s: bollard, orange life ring, rust line on the rail.

Then the tears arrive without announcement. No swell-up, no warning — just water, and heat, and his mouth trying to keep quiet and failing. He bends forward, heel of his hand to his brow, and lets it happen. It’s not tidy. It doesn’t pick one reason. It’s all of them, and none: the light under a door, Ellen’s laugh on a phone outside a rehearsal space, a yellow can he never wants to see again, the last hymn, the new key, Daisy’s grin over a library table, Alec saying he’ll start the tablets tomorrow, the way the kettle clicks right before it goes.

He hears himself make a noise he would rather no one hear, and the sea answers with a drag of gravel. He doesn’t give it a speech. 

When it ebbs he stays where he is, face hot in the cold, sleeve damp. He picks up a flat stone and turns it once, twice, without throwing it. The smell out here is only salt and diesel. No polish. That helps more than he expects. He presses thumb to AA coin through the pocket of his coat, once, like a doorbell.

A gust sends spray across the slipway. He stands, joints stiff, and rubs his face with both hands like he’s washing without water. One more breath with the cliffs, the lifeboat flags, the low rumble at the edge of everything. Then he turns for home, boots loud on the wet boards of the pier, the ache still there but no longer running the whole show.

Christine catches him on the path between the lychgate and the vestry, one mitten off, a notebook under her arm and the hurried look of someone trying to be in three rooms at once.

“Paul— sorry— have you got five?” Breath fogs as she says it. “I’m… a bit crammed. Funeral Friday. Family want time today. Could you sit in and help me shape it?”

He can see she hates asking. He also sees the ink on her thumb, the boiler-man sticker on her sleeve, the pages splayed where she’s dog-eared them to death.

“What would helping look like?” he says, keeping his voice level.

“Listening,” she says, relieved he hasn’t bolted. “Asking the right questions. You were always good at… drawing the person out of the fog. I’ll do the liturgy. I’m not asking you to wear a collar.”

He nods. “I can sit, take notes, help them find the bones of a tribute. You lead on the day.”

“Perfect.” She exhales. “They’re in the hall now. The Carters.”

The church hall is too warm, stacked chairs pushed to the walls. A woman in her sixties grips a tissue like it might float away; a man in his thirties— her son, from the bone structure— has that stunned, careful expression of someone holding it together only out of politeness. There’s a plate of untouched custard creams sweating under cling film.

Christine does the introductions, and then, wisely, fades to the kettle.

“I’m Paul,” he says, taking the end of the table, notebook open, pen down. “I’m here to listen. Tell me about him— ordinary things first. What a Tuesday looked like.”

That unlatches something. The son—Ben—says “Radio 4 too loud,” and the mother—Marion—adds “marmalade in September, always three jars, labels crooked.” From there it comes: a dent in the passenger door he never fixed; a habit of tapping coins flat on the kitchen table; a terrible singing voice he used anyway on away days to Yeovil; how he kept a list of birthdays in the back of an old diary, and rang people at eight-thirty on the dot.

Paul keeps them on small particulars. “If I walked into your kitchen, what would be on the counter?” “What did he complain about for fun?” It’s the bit he remembers how to do without thinking. Get to the room, catch the detail, set it back down so they can see it.

Christine slides a mug toward each of them, and sits, letting him steer the shape. When the first quiet falls, Paul glances at his notes.

“Would you like a little structure I can give you, to make the telling easier on Friday?” he asks. “Three short pieces: ‘Who he was to us,’ ‘what we’ll miss,’ and one story you’d tell him if he walked in now.” He looks at Ben. “You could share the story. You’ve already started one.”

Ben blinks like he hadn’t noticed. “The door dent?”

“If that’s the one that belongs to him,” Paul says.

Marion’s mouth twitches. “He blamed that lamppost for ten years.”

They choose one hymn that feels like scaffolding—“Abide With Me,” because his mother liked it, and one track from a CD the son has in his pocket. Christine notes the timings, the names, the order. Paul keeps his pen still when Marion says, out of nowhere, “He could be unkind,” because the truth belongs in the room too. He nods, lets it sit, and then asks, gently, “How did he try to mend it when he was?” Marion breathes out, and tells him about the paperwhite bulbs he brought home every January, as if he could force something to bloom early.

By the time the mugs are empty the outline is there. Christine recaps it back to them, and promises draft orders of service tomorrow. When they stand, Marion takes Paul’s hand with both of hers, quick and awkward.

“Thank you,” she says. “You made him… him again.”

“It was already there,” Paul answers. “You brought it.”

Outside, light’s going and the air snaps colder. Christine tucks the notebook tighter to her coat. “I owe you,” she says. “I’m sorry to pull you back in.”

“You didn’t,” he says. “I stepped in. Boundaries are mine to keep.”

She studies him a second, reading for splinters. “You alright?”

“I will be.” He gives it straight. “There’s a cost after. I’ll mind it.”

She nods, grateful for the honesty. “I’ll email you the order. No late-night drafts, I promise.”

He smiles. “Please don’t.”

They part at the lychgate. He texts Alec: running late. home in 20. Then, reflex, he sends Nate a single dot. 👍 comes back before he’s reached the pavement.

As he passes the vestry, the door is shut, and a thin strip of yellow shows at the bottom where the light catches the stone. His stomach lifts once, like the step on a moving bus. He looks away, names what’s in front of him; the frost on the grass, the grit under his shoe, and keeps going. Home is ten minutes and a kettle away. He’ll pay the cost there, with people who will sit in the room while it clears.

It happens the way old habits do: not in a decision, but in a drift.

After the funeral with Christine he tells himself he’ll lie low for a day, finish the personal statement, sleep. By mid-morning he’s on the phone with Mark “I’ll pop by,” Paul hears himself say. They talk, he makes two coffees, stands in a kitchen that remembers a boy and a cliff, and talks about radiators because it’s easier than grief.

On the way home he answers a number he doesn’t know. “Hi, is this Paul? I’m Sam— Nate said you might, uh—” Newcomer voice. Paul buys them a tea, takes the outside table so the air can move, tells them where the Thursday meeting is and what to do between now and then. “Text me a full stop at ten tonight,” he says, and means it. Sam nods too hard, eyes blown wide with the terror of day one. Paul stays an extra half hour because leaving would feel like pushing someone into the road.

Back at the house Daisy’s at the table with two kids from her lunch group, all elbows and notebooks. “You said we could do zine night,” she says, hopeful and a little wary, like she still expects adults to retract permission.

“Kitchen table is yours,” Paul says. He sets out biscuits, then pens, then more paper. He’s halfway to offering to proofread when Alec catches his eye, and lifts a single brow. Enough. Paul leaves them to it, and instead alphabetises the spice rack he’s alphabetised before. The itch in his head that’s been there all week dulls with each small necessity: tea, mugs, bin bag, wipe the worktop.

Christine texts: got called to the ward, family asking for prayers. No collar needed. He stares at the message, tastes polish, and replies, On my way, before he’s thought it through. At the hospital the family needs a chair moved, and someone to stand in a quiet way while a grandson says the thing he’s been practising in the corridor. Paul says nothing holy. It helps anyway. On the bus back he writes three sentences of his personal statement in Notes, and deletes them because they sound like someone else’s press release.

Farah’s homework sits in his satchel untouched: draw a timeline, mark three good memories without qualifying them, one boundary you’ll keep this week. He moves the page to a different pocket and answers a message from Ellen instead: van wheezing. can you tell me if this MOT bloke is mugging me? He calls, listens to her read numbers she doesn’t trust, says, “You’re fine to refuse the extras; they’re covering themselves,” then stays on the line while she pays so she doesn’t turn it into a fight for sport. “You’re getting less fun,” she says, which is how she says thank you. He laughs, and feels the laugh land more in his chest than his throat.

In two weeks he’s stacked like Jenga. Daisy’s got an early mock; he slips a note under her bowl—Proud of you. Eat. He kneads dough at 5 a.m. because his head has been humming since three, proofing it on the radiator that clanks like an old man clearing his throat. He tells Nate on the walk to the meeting, “I’m fine. Just busy.” Nate gives him a look he can feel through the side of his face.

“Busy is the neatest relapse there is,” Nate says, not unkind. “You don’t drink. You disappear anyway.”

“I’m not disappearing,” Paul says, and hears the lie in its smallness.

“Alright,” Nate sighs. “Set a boundary I can check. One thing you’ll say no to this week.”

Paul thinks of Sam, of Christine, of Ellen, of the zine kids, of Mark, of Alec, of the MA tab open like a dare. “I’ll… not go to the hospital if I’m asked,” he says, then immediately winces. “That’s monstrous.”

“It’s honest,” Nate says. “Try: ‘I’ll ask myself if I’m the only person who can do it. If not, I’ll pass it on.’”

Paul nods, relieved to be told how to be a person.

He lasts until Saturday. A message pings from Christine: family from Tuesday asked if you could be at graveside. He types, Of course, stops, deletes, types, Can’t do graveside; happy to ring them after, and has to sit on his hands so he won’t add three justifications. It’s a small victory that feels like he’s letting a plate smash.

Alec watches the way he moves through rooms like he’s keeping a tray balanced. “You don’t have to get there first,” he says one night, quietly, while they’re brushing their teeth.

“If I don’t, I think about it,” Paul says to the mirror. Toothpaste foams; he spits. “Thinking is louder.”

“Then we make thinking less loud,” Alec says. “Not by adopting the town.”

Paul tries to laugh and ends up breathing, which is better. “How?”

“Eat. Sleep. Pillows. Walk. Ask me to sit with you instead of answering everybody else’s text.” He looks over. “Ask me before you say yes.”

“Like permission?” Paul bristles without meaning to.

“No. Like ballast,” Alec says. “For both of us.”

They try it for two days. Paul asks before saying yes to fixing Fred’s bike, and they go together; Fred tells Alec he’s “nearly good at mechanical things now,” which is generous. Paul texts Christine a list of phone numbers for lay visitors, and doesn’t go. He writes a clean paragraph of the personal statement that doesn’t sound like anyone else. He sleeps four uninterrupted hours, and thinks the tablets might be helping Alec already.

Then Sam texts at midnight: can’t breathe. Paul is in his shoes before he’s finished reading. He stands in the dark hallway with his coat half on, phone to his ear, talking Sam through square breaths until he hears that ugly edge drop. “Text me the dot,” Paul says, softer now. “I don’t need the street name. Just the dot.” It comes two minutes later. He takes his shoes off, goes back to bed. Alec is awake, watching the ceiling crack map like it’s a constellation.

“I was here,” Paul says, pre-emptively.

“I know,” Alec says, not moving his eyes. “Did you help?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” A beat. “What’s the one thing you can drop tomorrow?”

Paul wants to say none. He says, “I’ll tell Christine I can’t cover the baptism class.” The words feel like taking a hand off a ledge.

Sunday afternoon he sits with Daisy and the zine kids cutting up photocopies for a collage about “places you breathe.” He doesn’t offer a single opinion about layout. When Jaz asks what his page will be, he says, “The AA kettle,” and they both nod like that’s obviously a place. He likes that.

At 2:17 a.m., the kitchen is lit by the laptop screen and the oven light hazing the proving bowl. The MA page glares: Tell us why now. His Notes app is full of sentences about other people. The cursor blinks like it’s tapping its foot.

He rubs his eyes, thumbs the coin, types: Because I would have been saved by someone with this job, and I want the next kid to meet me instead of no one. He deletes saved by, because it feels like a word he should have let go of by now, tries again: Because people kept me alive when I couldn’t do it alone. Because I am not a symbol. Because kitchen tables matter. It’s not elegant. It’s true enough.

His phone buzzes with two unread messages: 

Christine: Thank you again. Couldn’t have done Friday without you.  

Ellen: swindon survived. drummer dumped her boyfriend mid-set. huge polycule drama. chaos. you’d have hated it. night.

He answers Christine with a short You did it too. x, and Ellen with a feral combination of emojis she’ll recognise for what it is. Then he closes the laptop because the words have turned to gibberish.

He crawls back under the duvet. Alec wakes enough to make space, slides a palm flat over Paul’s sternum.

“I’m trying not to be the town,” Paul says into the dark.

“I can tell,” Alec murmurs. “I can also tell you’re wired like a fuse box.”

“Helpful,” Paul says, and laughs once, which is a mercy. “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” Alec says. “Turn some switches off at the wall.”

Paul nods against the pillow, a gesture no one can see. Tomorrow he’ll fail at something small, and then try again. Tonight he lets Alec’s hand be a switch he doesn’t have to control, and waits for morning to do what mornings do.

He doesn’t sleep at all.

Morning comes in strips through the curtains and Paul is still awake to meet it. He gives up pretending, slides out from under the duvet without shaking the mattress, and pads to the kitchen. Kettle. Bowls. Bread he shaped at midnight because doing something with his hands felt like standing in a doorway with the weather on his face.

Alec appears a few minutes later, hair wrecked, pyjama top crooked on one shoulder. He takes one look and doesn’t bother with the polite version.

“None?” he asks.

Paul shakes his head. “Borrowed an hour from next week,” he says, which is his joke for when he hasn’t slept. Alec frowns in sympathy.

Daisy skids in on socks, already in her school jumper, a secret fizzing under her skin. “Morning.” She grabs a slice, burns her tongue, pretends she didn’t. “I might be home late. Library thing.”

“Text,” Alec says, pouring tea.

“I will.” She pauses, eyes on Paul. “You okay?”

“Functional,” he says. “Slightly haunted. Go on, you’ll miss the bus you claim you don’t care about.”

She grins, snatches her bag, and is gone.

They eat in the kind of quiet that counts as care. Alec nudges a mug toward him. “Cancel something,” he says.

“Which something?”

“First one you think of.”

“Christine wants me to look over a eulogy draft.”

“Not yours,” Alec says gently.

Paul almost smiles. “I’ll text her later.”

Alec tilts his head. “Text her now.”

Paul does, fingers heavy: Can read after lunch. Need a slow morning. Sorry. The three dots blink; the reply is instant and simple: Of course. Rest.

He stares at the word like it’s a foreign road sign. “Okay,” he says, to the table more than Alec.

After Alec leaves for the station, the house turns too quiet in the particular way of houses with only one person in them. Paul opens the laptop, the personal statement blinking in the same sentence he left it on. He reads it three times, and couldn’t repeat a single word. He closes it, and tries Farah’s homework instead. A timeline: childhood, Michael’s, foster homes, Dave and the lads, very nearly a grave to be honest, seminary, Broadchurch, the bit where he nearly went to pieces again and didn’t. He puts the pen down. Picks it up. Draws one line, then another. The page looks like he’s mapped motorways he has no intention of driving.

He sets a timer for twenty minutes, and lies on the sofa because Farah keeps saying you can’t think sleep onto your body; you have to invite it like a cat. The timer screeches at him twenty minutes later, and he has no idea what happened in between, which isn’t sleep but isn’t not.

He makes a sandwich, and tastes none of it. He washes the plate because he can do that. He texts Nate a single dot at noon out of season; the thumbs-up comes back with: nap or walk. He chooses to walk.

The shore is gray and workable. Wind that feels like a clean slate. He walks until his feet stop arguing, then turns back. Outside the newsagent Maggie is leaning on the rail, cigarette tucked between two fingers like punctuation.

“Oh, you look wrecked,” she says, fond as a scold.

“Thanks. I’ve been practising.”

She squints at him. “The good kind or the bad kind?”

“Bad,” he says. “Fixable.”

“Fixable by you or by sleep?”

“Sleep,” he admits.

“Then stop being interesting, and go home.” She taps ash, then softens. “You did a big thing. Your head’s catching up. Give it a minute.”

He nods. “Trying.”

“Try quieter,” she says, and takes another drag. “Go. Before I start mothering, and we both hate it.”

He salutes her with two fingers, and obeys.

Back home, he does the thing that used to feel like failure, and now feels like not being stupid: he sets an alarm for one hour, pulls the throw over his shoulders, curls on his side. He doesn’t sleep. His eyes shut, and the world grinds, then slides, then clicks back with the alarm, and somehow that’s enough to make the floor look flatter.

He answers Christine with two sentences about keeping the eulogy human. He answers Sam with You did well last night, full stop sent, proud of you. He opens the personal statement again, and changes nothing, then adds a single line: I want a life where I am useful without disappearing. It looks earnest, and a bit embarrassing. He leaves it there for now.

Daisy’s key turns mid-afternoon; she bursts in carrying a poster tube and the smell of wet wool. “We got the room!” she says, like he knows what that means.

“Congratulations,” he says, deciding not to ask and letting her fill him in. She does — details about a display in April, teachers who said no and then yes, Jaz’s grandmother’s recipe for biscuits. He lets the rhythm of her voice lift the corners of the day.

Alec texts at five: leaving soon. need anything?

Paul types: you, deletes it, types: maybe your face and whatever milk we haven’t got. Alec replies with a single cow emoji and a thumbs-up, which makes Paul laugh aloud for the first time today.

He starts dinner because doing something small and concrete feels like turning a switch. By the time Alec gets home, Daisy’s already telling him about the room and the biscuits, and Paul’s in the doorway with a tea towel, listening like a man who loves the sound of a house filling up.

They eat. Daisy vanishes upstairs with her tube and a promise to show them later. Paul does plates; Alec dries. Normal builds its scaffolding back around him.

“How’s the fuse box?” Alec asks, bumping his hip with the cupboard door.

“Less sparky.” He leans on the counter. “Maggie ordered me to nap.”

“She terrifies me,” Alec says. “I’m glad she terrifies you into sensible things.”

Paul exhales through his nose. “It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I’m happy. I can feel it. And my brain is still running the fire drill at three a.m.”

Alec folds the tea towel. “Bodies don’t read memos,” he says. “We’ll keep inviting it to change.”

Paul nods. “Switches at the wall.”

“Mm.” Alec tilts his head. “Tonight I’m the wall.”

“Good,” Paul says, tired enough to let the relief show.

They clear up. Daisy appears with the poster. Bold shapes, a title that makes no sense until she explains it twice, names of people he hasn’t met yet. He loves it the way you love something that didn’t exist this morning.

Later, after Daisy’s door clicks shut, and the house goes down to the soft noises of plumbing and wind, Paul stands at the bathroom sink, and looks at himself long enough to get past the tired. He takes his coin out of his pocket, and sets it on the shelf, a small, quiet weight.

In bed, Alec rolls onto his side, and lifts an arm. Paul fits himself to the offered space. The hand finds his sternum again, like a promise renewed.

“Sleep,” Alec says into his hair. Not an order. An invitation.

Paul lets his eyes close. The light under the door flickers once; old film splicing itself in— and then, stubbornly, stays dark. He doesn’t sleep immediately. He sleeps, eventually. It’s something.

Chapter Text

Thursday slides in on too little sleep, and too many tabs open in Paul’s head. He’s halfway through an application paragraph when his phone jumps.

Daisy: jaz & rowan can do tomorrow 🎬

Daisy: pls tell me you’ll be here

He types wouldn’t miss it, deletes the squishy emoji he almost adds, hits send.

Two minutes later: Christine: Death on Elm Lane. Family want funeral Tuesday. Could you help me shape it? Today if possible.

He stares at both threads. The paragraph on his laptop blinks like a metronome. He thumbs the coin in his pocket, and tells himself the sentence Farah keeps drilling: you can’t be the town. Then he types anyway.

To Christine: Of course. One hour this afternoon.

To Daisy: Will cook later.

Daisy: yesss. latkes v. cinema snacks, discuss

He smiles, which is part of the problem: it all matters. All of it asks the same part of him to show up first.

Christine’s “one hour” is ninety minutes plus two cups of tea at a kitchen table with a daughter who keeps smoothing the same crease in a hymn sheet. Paul is good at this— finding the person-shaped bit under the paperwork. He hates being good at it today.

He texts a dot to Nate on the way back. The thumbs-up lands with: say no next time. He pockets the phone, and already knows he won’t.

At home, Daisy’s in the kitchen laying out bowls like a general. “Jaz is allergic to peanuts. Rowan will eat anything that isn’t beige.”

“Understood.” Paul tightens his apron, pulls flour, yeast, oil. He’s halfway through proofing dough when a smell comes through the extractor fan — too-sweet, plasticky lemon. The air slides sideways. Bannister. Sideboard. Yellow strip under a door.

He anchors. Bowl. Tap. Tea towel. Daisy humming. He texts Ellen before he can talk himself out of it: smell still won’t leave off.

Her reply is instant: set everything on fire.

He huffs, the bad laugh that helps anyway. Wish I could. He pockets the phone, washes his hands until the present comes back.

By evening, the house is three voices and a film. Jaz and Rowan slot in like they’ve always known where the mugs live. Daisy’s alive in a way Paul wants to fold up and keep. They talk nonsense about animation and zines; Rowan asks about the bread like it’s a technical interview. Paul is the version of himself he likes: present, quietly useful, unremarkable in the best way.

Halfway through, his phone buzzes on the sideboard. Christine: Family want to add eulogy from cousin. Can I ring you? Sorry.

He looks at the three on the sofa. Alec catches his eye, small frown. Paul tips his phone, five minutes, mouths sorry, and steps into the hall.

Five becomes twenty. Cousin becomes two cousins and a long argument about which hymn isn’t “too cheerful for Auntie.” Paul solves it, because of course he does. When he slides back in, Daisy’s shoulders are tighter, and Alec’s jaw is set the way it gets when he’s swallowing an opinion.

“Sorry,” Paul says, too light. “Crisis averted.”

“Whose?” Daisy asks, not moving her gaze from the TV.

He lets it go, because now isn’t the moment. The film ends. Goodbyes are bright at the door. The quiet after is not.

Alec rinses bowls. Paul dries. Daisy stacks leftover biscuits in a tin like she’s counting them to stay calm.

“You promised today,” she says to the tin. Not at all angry. Disappointed.

“I was here,” Paul says, and hates how defensive it sounds to his own ears.

“You were here, and not,” she says. “You left twice.”

“Five minutes,” he tries, and hears the lie of scale. “It’s a funeral.”

“We know what funerals are,” she says, finally looking up. “We had one.”

Alec sets the bowl down too carefully. “Paul,” he says, gentler than the room deserves, “we asked you to try, and put us first sometimes. Today was supposed to be one of those.”

“I did,” Paul says. “I am. I live here. I left—” The wrong sentence climbs up his throat: I left my parish for you. He swallows it down, too late to stop the shape of it from landing.

Daisy blinks like he slapped her with the wrong hand. “For me?”

“That’s not what he meant,” Alec says, quickly.

“It’s what it sounded like.”

Paul feels the old click— guilt into anger so he doesn’t have to feel the first as long. “I’m trying to be useful without disappearing,” he says, too hard. “I thought that’s what we all wanted.”

“I want you,” Daisy says, hands opening like she can’t find where to put them. “Not your usefulness. Just you. And then you ghost out mid-sentence and—” her mouth wobbles—“and it feels a bit like being twelve, and losing people while they’re still in the same room again.”

Silence. It lands where it needs to.

Paul’s breath goes thin. He wants to fix it fast, and can’t. “I’m… sorry,” he says, and means it. “I’m here. I really am.”

“Okay,” she says, and grabs the tin, and goes upstairs.

The sink hisses. Alec turns the tap off, back on, like he’s buying time. “You heard her,” he says.

“I did,” Paul says. Everything in him rattles. “It’s not that I don’t—” He stops. “I’m wired wrong lately.”

“I know,” Alec says. “That’s not a moral failing. It’s a… fuse problem.” He holds Paul’s look. “But this—” he gestures at the hall where Paul took the call— “is a habit. The town will always ask. You have to tell it no sometimes. And you have to tell us when saying no sets your head on fire.”

Paul leans on the counter. He hates that the sentence makes sense. He hates that he wants to be the man who can do both. “I don’t know how,” he says, small. “Not yet.”

“Let’s learn it then,” Alec says. “And while we learn it, sometimes we do the clumsy version. Which looks like: ‘I want to answer this but I promised my family.’ Full stop. Call back later.”

Paul nods. A useless thing happens in his chest— shame dressed as competence. “I nearly handled today,” he says, and the word nearly tastes like failure.

“You can mess up, and still be trying,” Alec says. “That’s the job.”

Paul nods again. His hands won’t stop shaking. He texts Nate a dot without looking, then adds: did the thing where i leave & stay at once.

Nate: and survived it. next time text me before you answer the world. 

“Shower,” Alec suggests, reading him. “Reset. I’ll make tea.”

Paul goes. The water makes noise he can stand. He puts his forehead against tile, and breathes until the part of him that wants to run quiets enough to hear his name if someone calls it.

When he comes back, Daisy’s door is shut. Alec’s at the table with two mugs, and the face that says he wants to keep talking, and is choosing not to. Paul sits. The tea is too hot. He drinks it anyway.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

“I know,” Alec answers. “So will I. I should’ve grabbed your phone, and put it under a plant pot.”

That gets a laugh out of Paul, low and uncompromised. “Please do.”

They wash up. They go to bed with the carefulness of people who’ve argued and haven’t at once. Paul lies awake long enough to hear Daisy’s light click off, and the town go down to the late-night hum he used to mistake for quiet.

Sleep doesn’t come. The smell from next door drifts through again like a memory that pays rent. He thumbs the coin, stares at the dark, and finally reaches for his phone.

You up?

The dots appear the way they do with someone who keeps their phone plugged into a wall socket. depends. why.

Smell. Brains. Stairs.

Longer pause, then: join the club. i’m… not at mine.

Okay. Not coming. Just. hearing your voice helped last time.

He waits. The ceiling crack map becomes a route he can almost walk without getting lost. The reply finally lands: phone’s dying. rehearsal made a racket. don’t turn up anywhere. text tomorrow

I won’t. Text tomorrow.

He sets the phone face down, slides closer to Alec, and shuts his eyes on purpose.

Friday doesn’t fix anything. He walks with Christine to the undertaker’s, and forgets he’s not on staff anymore. He says the right thing about a hymn, and the wrong thing about a reading, and watches grief change shape when it’s given a job to do. He goes home to make soup, and finds he can’t make his hands choose between onions and leeks.

Daisy comes in from school with a look that says she’s not going to make him do the work of asking. “Jaz’s mum is driving us to the gallery Saturday,” she reports. “We’ll be back by five. I’m cooking.”

“Deal,” Paul says. He wants to tell her again that he heard her last night, that he’s trying to move furniture in his head so there’s room for the right things. He settles for, “I’m proud of you,” because that’s true, and doesn’t ask anything from her to say back.

She softens. “Ta.”

Alec texts at four: late. paperwork. save me a bowl.

Paul texts back a photo of the soup and, without comment, puts his phone on the high shelf where he can’t reach it without meaning to.

The evening is almost easy until it isn’t. After dinner, Daisy mentions the gallery again, just a fraction tighter. “Jaz’s mum said we can pick up Mia if we swing by the estate.”

“Good,” Paul says.

“She also said if we need a second adult to sign anything at the door, she’s around. So. No stress.”

Paul nods, the sentence landing the way it’s meant to: you don’t have to be everywhere. A part of him still flinches. If they need me and I’m not there. He smiles, and says, “Text me if the biscuits in the café are any good.”

“Deal,” Daisy says, and floats upstairs, buoyed by her own plans.

Alec squeezes Paul’s shoulder on his way past with the bowls. “That’s progress.”

“It is,” Paul says, and means it. He also means the other thing he doesn’t say: I wish I could stop needing to be the person with the spare pen and the spare prayer. He hates that it sounds like self-importance even in his own head. He hates that it’s also love, misdirected.

He sleeps an hour that night. At three he gives up, puts on shoes, and walks the short loop down to the shore, the one with enough streetlight to paint the pavement dull. He doesn’t text anyone because he’s ashamed of the hour, and the loop, and the not-sleep, which is how shame wins.

On the way back he passes the church. The noticeboard lists Christine’s Sunday services in tidy black stick-ons. He feels both nothing, and too much. He keeps walking.

There’s a message on his phone when he gets in: practice again tomorrow. carpet shop. if you’re coming to lurk, don’t be weird.

He laughs out loud, stunned by relief, and texts back: exit sign, earplugs, not weird. Chips after?

Nothing. Then: maybe.

remember don’t bring a bible.

Deal, he types, and sets the phone down like it might go off if he touches it again.

He climbs back into bed, cold and too awake. Alec rolls over, makes a place. Paul slides into it, hides his face in Alec’s neck, and finally—finally—drops under for an hour that counts.

The cracks are showing. He can see them. He can also see the shape of where he’s going if he doesn’t stop trying to be a wall, and a door, and a whole town.

Tomorrow he’ll go to Bristol, and keep his promise not to be weird. Tomorrow he’ll sit on a carpet above a carpet shop, and listen to his sister practice songs that have more than one meaning, and he’ll try not to fix anything with his hands.

Tonight he whispers into Alec’s shoulder, not waking him, “I’m here, I love you.” like a vow he’ll have to keep choosing. 

The shore’s in that grey mood it gets in the mornings— tideline scuffed, gulls arguing over nothing, wind coming at you sideways. Paul walks because it’s the only thing that makes his head feel bigger than the room inside it.

“Oi, bread man,” Ellie calls, falling into step like she’s been angling toward him for a while. She’s got two paper cups. “Tea. Don’t argue.”

He takes one. “Wouldn’t dare.”

They walk. Pebbles grind, jackets rustle. It’s ordinary enough to help.

“Heard you’ve been… busy,” she says, carefully. “From Hardy. Not details.”

“Mm.” He sips. “Trying not to turn myself into a community hall.”

“Tricky, that.” She glances at him. “You look… fine-adjacent.”

“About right.”

They let the sea do most of the talking. A dog shoots past, all legs and delight, owner apologising to the wind. Ellie huffs a laugh that fogs the air, and then goes quiet again.

“Thank you,” she says, sudden, like she’s decided not to rehearse it.

“For?”

“For getting him to the GP.” She doesn’t look at him. “He’ll say it was his idea. It wasn’t.”

Paul shakes his head. “I didn’t get him there. I just… stood next to him till he walked.”

“That’s exactly it,” she says. “Standing next to him is ninety percent of the work. The rest is reminding him he’s not a lost cause when he starts narrating like a Victorian ghost.”

He smiles into the lid. “He does narrate indeed.”

“Tell me about it.” She tosses a pebble; it skips twice, dies. “I’ve been telling him for years to sort his brain out. He listens to me, but he hears you. Don’t get smug about it.”

“I won’t.” He means it. “I’m glad he went.”

Ellie snorts. “Me too. He’s easier to live with when he’s not trying to out-stare his own heart.”

She pauses. “Listen. I don’t know how to say this, but I am really glad he has you. I care about him.”

“You and me both.” Paul huffs a small laugh.

Ellie keeps her eyes on the tide. “Not like, competing with you. Just— you know. He's my idiot. I don’t want him white-knuckling his way through the rest of his life.”

“I know,” Paul says. “He’s mine too. Different columns, same spreadsheet.”

That gets the corner of her mouth. “Good. Then between us we can bully him into staying alive, and doing his work.”

“We’ll take shifts,” Paul says.

“Deal.” She bumps his arm with her elbow, quick and companionable. “And for what it’s worth— I really am here. For you too. I can do tea, and shutting up.”

He nods, throat a little tight. “I’ll cash that in.”

“Do.” She tips her head toward town. “Come on, before the weather remembers what month it is.”

They turn back together, not saying much more, the sea filling in the rest.

He takes the mid-morning train, hood up, rucksack under his feet, the window showing him the usual winter fields spliced with pylons. Dorset drains into Somerset, then into the outskirts of a city that still feels like a coat he used to own, even though he’s never lived there. He texts before the signal drops:

to Alec: train to Bristol. will be back for late tea. x

to Daisy: want anything weird from an independent shop that smells like incense?

to Nate: •

Thumbs-up from Nate arrives before the carriage doors unlock at Temple Meads.

Outside, the air has that Bristol tang of wet brick and bus brakes. He walks up past the skatepark and the mural he always means to photograph and never does, then ducks into a café Ellen named in her text—neutral ground, too bright, table legs that wobble. He buys two teas and a shared plate of chips, because chips are a language they both remember, claims a corner with a view of the door, and writes four lines in his notes app he’ll never show anyone:

— ask, don’t argue

— don’t hover

— leave first if she needs it

— do not touch

Ellen turns up ten minutes late, hair shoved under a beanie, bass case not with her— which he takes as a small mercy. She clocks the chips, the tea, him, in that order.

“You look like a dad,” she says by way of greeting, dropping into the chair opposite.

“Well, I live in a house with a teenager,” he says. “It’s contagious.”

She steals a chip without asking. “Train alright?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” A beat. “No Bible.”

“No Bible.”

They sit with the clatter and hiss around them doing most of the work. She taps ash from a cigarette she isn’t allowed to light, remembers, puts it out with a sigh. He lets the tea scald his tongue on purpose.

“How’s your… smell?” she asks, deadpan enough to make it survivable.

“Quieter today,” he says. “Louder at the bins. Texted you, panicked you, sorry.”

“You didn’t panic me,” she lies automatically, then squints. “Okay, you did. But I asked you to text. So. Good job or whatever.”

He nods once. “How’s the van?”

“Held together with prayer and gaffer tape.” She picks a salt crystal from the table and lines it up with a crack in the Formica. “We got offered a support slot if we can get to Leeds. I told them great, if anyone wants to buy a kidney.”

“That’s good,” he says, meaning the offer, not the kidney. “You sounded… good.”

Her mouth twitches despite herself. “We were. Izzy had crazy drama in her relationships. As she does. They all broke up mid-set, and it erupted. Made for a good show, though.”

Paul huffs a laugh. “Art from collateral damage.”

“Exactly.” She flicks a chip crumb off the table. “Jo dedicated a song to their ex’s cat mid-scream. Crowd loved it. I nearly quit the band on principle.”

“You won’t.”

“Not till after Leeds,” she says, like it’s both a joke and a contract. She studies him a second. “You actually alright, then? You look… less haunted than last time.”

“Today’s lighter,” he says. “Helps to watch you turn chaos into timing.”

“Ugh. Don’t start talking parables,” she warns, but her mouth curves before she can stop it. She pushes the last of the chips toward him. “Eat. You fade when I’m not looking.”

He nudges the plate back. “Split.”

They do, in companionable silence. When the teas are just stained mugs, she digs out a crumpled flyer and shoves it across. “Bristol date. Leeds if the van lives. Text first. Don’t bring the cop.”

“Text first,” he echoes, sliding the flyer into his pocket. “And… thanks. For the Mr Sheen thing. Naming it helped.”

“Good,” she says, fast, like she wants to kick the topic back under the table before it bites. Then, softer: “I bin that bitch on sight. That count as exposure therapy?”

“It counts as self-respect.”

“Hm.” She stands, zips her jacket. At the door she pauses, chin down. “If it goes feral again, call. Not dot. Proper words. Just don’t turn up out of the blue.”

“Proper words,” he says. “And you— if the van dies, I can come get you.”

She snorts. “You in a parish car with a halo?”

“Ex-mafia car,” he reminds her. “Current whatever.”

“Whatever,” she repeats, and taps his arm with the back of her phone— her version of a hug — before peeling off into the drizzle.

Outside, he texts:

to Alec: survived chips, acquired flyer, sister didn’t set me on fire. train soon. x

to Nate: • (alive, tired, okay, thanks)

The coin sits warm in his palm. He breathes, counts four in, six out, and heads for Temple Meads feeling like the day has a bit more room in it than when he arrived.

It sneaks up on him anyway.

Paul does the things he knows to do— meetings, bread at 3 a.m., AA, Farah every other week, runs along the prom when the weather lets him— but the nights keep thinning and the edges keep ringing. By the first week of March he’s white-knuckling the mornings, and napping like he’s been unplugged in the afternoons. Farah gives him the look that means she’s about to say the sensible thing he doesn’t want to hear.

“Let’s add medicine back in for a bit,” she says. “You’ve done this before. It helped before.”

He nods, thumb on the coin. “Sertraline?”

“Start low, go slow,” she says. “Tell Alec so he doesn’t think the yawning is a personal critique.”

His doctor prints the script and the leaflet that never changes. First few days are the usual: mouth like paper, stomach sulking, dreams too bright. By day five the static in his chest has dialled down half a notch. He texts Nate a dot, adds: starting meds. Nate replies: proud of adult choices. hydrate.

That night Daisy’s at Rowan’s. Rain thins to mist against the kitchen window. Alec boils water the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to start, then brings two mugs to the sofa, and sits with that careful set of shoulders that means he’s trying not to hover.

“How’s the grand experiment?” he asks.

“Like being underwater with a straw,” Paul says, honest. “But the water’s warmer than last week.”

Alec huffs. “That’s a picture.”

They sit in the TV’s blue wash for a while, not watching. Eventually Paul says, “Farah’s put me back on sertraline.”

Alec nods, unsurprised. “Patel upped mine last Tuesday.”

Paul turns his head. “And you?”

“Less cliff-edge,” Alec says, considering. “More… speed bumps. Palpitations have backed off. Nightmares still auditioning for awards, but I wake up less convinced they’re real.” He sips, grimaces. “Also I could nap on a fence post.”

“Same,” Paul says, with a small laugh that actually lands. He toys with the handle of his mug. “Libido’s getting weird.”

Alec snorts into his tea. “Understatement of the year.”

They let that sit. It isn’t awkward; it’s honest. Paul finds the words slow and plain. “Wanting’s still there. Getting from want to… you know. It’s like the gears stick.”

Alec nods, eyes kind. “Mine too. Not broken. Just… slower to catch.”

“Feels unromantic, narrating it like that.”

“Feels adult,” Alec says. “We can work with adult.”

Paul leans his head back against the sofa, relief loosening something between his shoulder blades. “Okay. We work with adult.”

Alec reaches across, and hooks their pinkies together, the smallest possible stake in the ground. “Colours still help?”

Paul thinks, checks in with his own body like Farah’s taught him. “Green in my head,” he says. “Amber in my hands.”

“Copy that.” Alec squeezes once. “We can have green without sprinting.”

They don’t try to turn the talk into proof. They sit there until the mugs go cold, then wash up shoulder to shoulder, moving around each other without thinking. In bed later, they make a different sort of map: kisses where they already know, the kind of touching that’s more about being found than being finished. When Paul’s mind skitters, Alec keeps a palm settled low on his back and says, quietly, “Here,” like a lighthouse. When Alec’s breath hitches toward the old cliff-edge, Paul breathes louder on purpose so he can match it.

Nobody chases an outcome. Nobody apologises when the body says not tonight. They end up tangled anyway, warm under the duvet, the kind of closeness that makes room rather than demands it.

“Do you miss the hurricane version of us?” Paul asks into the dark, because if he doesn’t say it it’ll grow teeth.

Alec thinks. “Sometimes,” he admits, “For a second. Then I remember the month after, and I’ll take this.”

Paul smiles where Alec can’t see it. “Me too.”

“Green tomorrow,” Alec says, drowsy. “Different kind.”

“Walk to the headland?”

“And back,” Alec answers. “Always back.”

Paul sends Nate a dot with his free hand, tucks the phone away, and lets the new quiet be what it is— less dramatic, more livable. Weird libido, heavy eyelids, speed bumps and all. He can work with that. They both can.

He takes the early train, and reads the invitation twice on the way, not because it changes, but because it steadies him to see the same words hold. Bristol slides past in slices—brick, cranes, sudden sky—and he gets off at Temple Meads with ten minutes more than he needs.

Ellen’s text lands as he crosses the forecourt: don’t wear dad jeans. He thumbs back a photo of his navy jumper and decent boots. She answers with a skull and a fire. He laughs once, pockets the phone, and walks.

The School of Policy Studies sits behind glass that thinks it’s friendlier than it is. He checks in, clips on a paper badge with his name printed wrong, and takes a seat by a window. He has a folder in his bag he keeps not opening: references (Christine, a diocesan supervisor), proof of his seminary degree, the one-page CV that makes ten odd years look like a straight line. The AA coin sits in his pocket, round and solid. He doesn’t touch it yet.

“Paul Coates?” a voice calls. Not Reverend. Strange.

He stands. “Here.”

They take him to a small room with a round table and three chairs too upright for comfort. On the panel: a woman in her forties with a fountain pen and a calm face (“Dr Menon, course lead”), a man with a notebook and the hands of someone who’s moved people out of unsafe flats a thousand times (“Martin, practice educator”), and a woman about his age in a red cardigan (“Esther. Lived-experience rep”). There’s water on the table. He doesn’t pour any.

“Thanks for coming,” Dr Menon says. “We’ve read your statement. We’ll ask some questions, then a short scenario. If you need a pause, say so.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“Why social work, now?” she asks first.

He could say the long version — leaving the church, finding a language that isn’t sermons, learning that kitchen tables are where most rescues really happen. He says the small truth that fits.

“Because people kept me alive when I couldn’t do it alone,” he says. “Because I’m better at listening than fixing, and social work asks for both, but in the right order. And because I want to be accountable in a way a collar made too easy to avoid.”

Martin’s pencil ticks once. “You’ve been clergy. What parts transfer, and what needs to be unlearned?”

“Transfer: crisis calm, safeguarding basics, holding a room, handling grief without making it about me, working across services, and keeping records that make sense to the next person who reads them. I’ve done a lot of pastoral work where the job is to sit in a kitchen and not blink. And I’ve done bookkeeping for years— budgets, audit trails, the unglamorous detail.”

He lets out a breath. “Unlearn: being the ‘answer.’ Taking power I haven’t been asked to take. Confusing care with control. I’ve got good supervision habits now; I’d use them.”

Esther leans forward. “Your statement mentions recovery. You say you’re sober. How do you keep your own issues from swamping someone else’s?”

He meets her eyes. “I keep my recovery where it belongs: in my life, not theirs. I have a sponsor. I go to meetings. If something in a visit hooks me, I note it and bring it to supervision; I don’t make the client carry it. Lived experience helps me spot shame and avoid it. It doesn’t make me an expert on anyone else’s.”

Dr Menon nods. “Scenario. You’re allocated to a family: single parent, two children aged ten and six. School raises concern about persistent lateness and the nine-year-old falling asleep in class. Mum has missed two appointments with Early Help. What do you do first, and why?”

For a second a chill goes through his spine. Ten and six, ten and six, ten and six, ten and six—

He breathes in.

“First, I’d try to understand the barrier,” he says. “Phone, text, letter— whichever she uses. If no response, a home visit at a time that might actually work— early morning or early evening. I’d assume there’s a reason, not bad intentions. When we meet, I’d ask about mornings: transport, work shifts, caring responsibilities, health. I’d listen for safety concerns and strengths— who helps, what’s gone right before.”

“And if you’re worried?” Martin asks.

“If I have reason to believe the children aren’t safe, I’d follow our threshold guidance and escalate under Section 17 or 47 accordingly. But lateness and tiredness can be poverty, neurodivergence, or a parent juggling three jobs. I’d try practical support: breakfast club, transport options, a Team Around the Family meeting. I’d agree goals with Mum, not at her. And I’d record it clearly so the next practitioner can see what we tried.”

Esther tilts her head. “What if Mum tells you to sod off?”

“I’d respect the boundary unless risk demands otherwise,” he says. “I’d leave information, a phone number, and an open door. People come back when shame isn’t waiting for them.”

Dr Menon glances at her notes. “Second scenario. An older man in his seventies, living alone, self-neglect— weight loss, unsafe home. He refuses support. What do you consider?”

“Capacity, first,” he says. “Can he understand, retain, use, and weigh information about accepting support, and communicate a decision? If he has capacity and the risk is only to himself, I respect unwise choices while offering harm-reduction— fire safety, falls prevention, meals on wheels. If there’s risk to others or exploitation, different threshold. I’d involve GP, community nurses, maybe a voluntary sector befriending service. I’d check for hoarding disorder versus poverty, grief, or depression. And I’d keep knocking, gently.”

Martin smiles into his notebook like someone pleased by a complete answer. “Boundaries and values. If a service user is transgender and you’re working with a school resisting their name and pronouns, where do you stand?”

“With the young person,” he says, without wobble. “Law and ethics support dignity and non-discrimination. I’d advocate within the school’s processes, educate where needed, and escalate if necessary. Anti-oppressive practice isn’t a slogan to me; it’s the basis.”

Esther’s mouth tips. “What about your health? You mention anxiety and insomnia. What support do you need to train safely?”

“I’ve got a plan,” he says. “I’m on medication prescribed by my GP, in therapy, in AA. I sleep better than I did. When I don’t, I use the boring tools— no caffeine after lunch, walks, counting, writing it down. I flag early if I’m fraying, and I use supervision.”

He hopes with his whole heart his current hiccups don’t keep slipping into something worse anyway.

“Good,” Dr Menon says simply. “Last set. What kind of social work draws you?”

“Children and families, especially care-experienced young people, or adults with substance misuse. I know both worlds enough to be useful and humble.”

“Why Bristol?” she asks.

“Family in the city and proximity,” he says, honestly. “And the course’s emphasis on reflective practice and user involvement fits how I’m trying to work. Also, the placements list suggests I’ll learn things I don’t already half-know.”

They give him a minute for questions. He asks about placement support, about service-user teaching on the course, about how they handle students with caring responsibilities. The answers are practical, not glossy. It helps.

“We’re done,” Dr Menon says, closing her notebook. “Anything you wish we’d asked?”

He thinks of all the pieces he didn’t put on the table—Ellen’s band, the smell of furniture polish, the kitchen light under the door. He shakes his head. “You asked the right ones.”

“Thank you, Paul,” she says. “We’ll be in touch within two weeks.”

Outside, the corridor returns him to ordinary time: footsteps, a notice about bursaries, a poster with dates that don’t matter yet. He reaches the pavement and only then presses the coin in his pocket, once.

Texts:

to Alec: Done. Think it went… alright. x

Alec: Proud of you. Pub lunch now then? 

to Ellen: didn’t wear dad jeans. didn’t swear. answered the capacity one. chips?

Ellen: acceptable. don’t hover.

He smiles at his screen like a teenager, then puts it away. 

The pub’s upstairs room is shut, but the bar downstairs is open— worn carpet, posters for last month’s acts curling at the corners, a chalkboard that insists tonight is QUIZ NIGHT as if volume could make it true. Paul clocks the smells— beer, old wood, a lemon cleaner that isn’t the one his body hates— and lets his shoulders drop a notch. He takes the corner of the bar where he can see the door. Soda water, no ice. Earplugs in his pocket like a habit he hasn’t shaken.

Tommy’s there, denim jacket, same half-grin, pint already sweating on the mat. He clocks Paul in two passes: face, shoulders, too-small punk tee peeking under the nicer jumper he wore to the interview.

“Well, if it isn’t Back-Wall,” Tommy says, amused. “I was beginning to think I hallucinated you.”

“Still real,” Paul says. “Less ear-splitting tonight.”

“I can fix that.” Tommy tips his pint. “What you drinking? Tell me it’s not soda water again.”

“It’s soda water again.”

“Christ. Alright.” He taps the bar twice, orders another pint and a soda with lime. “You here for the bass player?”

“My sister,” Paul says, too even to be a challenge.

Tommy blinks, then laughs. “Course she is. You’ve got the same ‘come closer and I’ll bite’ face.”

“Family trait,” Paul says.

The door swings; Ellen shoulders in, fringe damp, beanie jammed in a pocket. She clocks Tommy, then Paul, then the two glasses.

“You multiplying admirers now?” she says, dropping onto the stool beside Paul.

“Offered him a real drink,” Tommy says. “He declined on moral grounds.”

“He’s sober,” Ellen replies, dry. “Buy him crisps if you want to flirt.”

Tommy grins. “Salt and vinegar it is. I’m Tommy.”

“Tragic,” Ellen says, and sticks out a hand anyway. “Yeah, I remember you. Ellen.”

Tommy barks a laugh, backs toward the bar. “I’ll bring an offering.”

Ellen elbows Paul lightly. “Interview?”

“Went well,” he says. “I want it.”

She tries not to smile and fails by a millimetre. “Good. Try not to act surprised.”

Tommy returns with a pint, a soda with lime, and a packet of salt and vinegar he tears open with his teeth like he’s doing stagecraft.

“I do the tech here,” he says, setting everything down. “Lights, cables, making sure no one electrocutes themselves. Glamorous life. Bar too when money’s low.”

“Explains the forearms,” Ellen says, deadpan.

Tommy winks. “Bless you.” He tips his chin at Paul. “You ever on this side of the desk? You’ve got ‘used to coil leads properly’ energy.”

“Old habit,” Paul says. “I try not to show off in public.”

“Boring and domesticated,” Ellen supplies, picking a crisp. “He alphabetises spices now.”

“I do not,” Paul says, then remembers he absolutely did last week, and shuts up.

Tommy laughs. “Look, I respect a man who can find cinnamon in a crisis. Still— if you fancy slumming it with a tech after your chips, say the word.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Ellen tells Tommy. “He’s got a fancy detective boyfriend, and a kid. Lovey-douvey missionary under the duvet, while gazing tenderly into each other’s eyes, probably.”

Tommy barks a laugh. “Domestic missionary work— iconic. I’ll leave you to your liturgy then.”

“Former liturgy,” Paul says, because he can’t help it.

Ellen rolls her eyes. “See? Dad jokes and dishwashers. Tragic.”

Tommy tips his pint toward Paul. “Tragic but fit. Respect. If your fella ever needs better lights for, I dunno, interrogations, I work for reasonable crisps.”

“Noted,” Paul says, amused despite himself. “He’s a DI, not MI5.”

“Even better story,” Tommy grins. “Alright, saints and sinners, I’ve got to go make the strobes behave.”

He melts back toward the desk. Ellen watches him go, then side-eyes Paul. “You’re collecting strays again.”

“I stood still,” Paul says. “He arrived.”

“Mm.” She bumps his shoulder with hers. “Help me haul the cab or I’ll tell Tommy you played in that band.”

“I did not,” he lies, standing. He takes the canvas handle. “Aye aye.”

“Don’t ‘aye aye’ me,” she mutters, but she’s smiling now, small and real.

They take the stairs sideways with the cab, elbows knocking the rail. In the green-room corridor someone’s left gaffer tape footprints like a path; Ellen kicks one absent-mindedly, then shoulders the door with her hip.

“Here,” Paul says, setting the cab down. He checks the jack, coils the lead the way muscle memory insists, leaves the loop where she can grab it.

“Useful,” she allows. “Stay out of the way of the drummer or they’ll adopt you.”

“I’m very adoptable,” he says, deadpan.

“Don’t I know it.” She slings the bass on, tests a line; the room thrums. Over by the desk, Tommy throws Paul a two-finger salute, and mouths behave at him. Paul replies with the world’s least convincing halo.

He texts Alec—made it / not weird / earplugs in—and gets back a tiny bear emoji and: love you. Daisy chimes in three seconds later with a photo of a lopsided brownie and the caption emergency baking. He grins at the screen, pockets it before Ellen can accuse him of being soft.

Soundcheck slides into doors again. Paul takes his spot by the fire exit, soda refreshed, earplugs seated. The set’s tighter tonight, funnier between songs; Ellen lets herself look up twice, and catches him both times, like checking a landmark she refuses to admit is useful.

After, the air on the stairs is cold enough to steam breath. Ellen drags on her coat, bass case thumping her shin. She nods at her bandmates still packing up across the room, and some red haired bloke hovering behind them.

“You were good,” Paul says. Plain.

She squints at him like she’s testing for sarcasm. Finds none. “Yeah.” A beat. “We were.”

Tommy appears with a roll of tape on his wrist. “Cab down? I’ll grab the other end.”

“We’ve got it,” Ellen says, then flicks Paul a look. “Dad strength.”

“Rude,” he says, taking the handle anyway.

At the door she stops him with a hand to his sleeve— brief, almost a flinch. “Text first,” she reminds him, softer than before.

“I will,” he says.

“Good.” She tugs her beanie low. “Go home. Be boring.”

“On it.”

He heads for the station, sends Nate a single dot on the platform, and when the train pulls in he catches his reflection in the dark glass—old tee, stamped wrist, a man who came back on purpose—and thinks, not bad.

Paul doesn’t mean to hover, but the kitchen turns into its own kind of liturgy, and he can’t look away.

Daisy’s the one who decides: “Let’s do it semi-properly this year.” She says it like a dare, then rolls up her sleeves and starts emptying cupboards. Alec nods like he’d already hoped for that and brings a stack of clean boxes to catch the contraband— cereal, pasta, the biscuits that multiply when no one’s watching. Anything with crumbs gets taped shut and shunted to the boot of Alec’s car.

“Chametz exile,” Daisy declares, pleased with herself.

“Right,” Alec says, dry. “Bread, out. We’ll keep it simple— no bread for a week, no baking, nothing that needs rising.”

Paul raises a hand from the doorway. “I’ll… relocate any dough experiments to Christine’s hall kitchen until after,” he offers. “Hot cross buns may have to live at the church.”

“Deal,” Daisy says, delighted.

They vacuum skirting boards like they’re defusing a bomb. Alec points out the places crumbs hide: the cutlery drawer runners, the toaster tray, that far corner under the bread bin where time goes to die. Daisy follows the instructions with serious attention, ponytail flicking as she leans in. Paul wipes shelves, and thinks, not for the first time, that kitchens are where most faiths make the most sense.

On the table, the Seder plate takes shape by degrees. Hard-boiled eggs cool in a bowl. A beet roasts for the bone they won’t use. Parsley sits in a mug of water. Alec peels a horseradish and immediately regrets it—eyes streaming, laughing through the pain while Daisy cackles, and Paul retreats to a safe distance.

“Salt water,” Alec says, once he can speak again. “Tears of slavery. Don’t overthink the ratio; if it tastes like the sea, you’ve nailed it.”

“On brand,” Daisy says, measuring with the confidence of a recent convert.

They make charoset together— apples chopped fine, walnuts crushed in a tea towel with a rolling pin, cinnamon, a splash of grape juice. The kitchen smells like memory even to Paul, who grew up on different stories. Alec leans on the counter as he stirs and, without quite deciding to, starts to talk.

“My mum used to make it too sweet,” he says, tone steady but distant around the edges. “We’d say it was perfect every year, and she’d wave a hand, and add more cinnamon anyway. Spring cleaning made her… twitchy. She’d hoard bread ends all winter— couldn’t throw them away. Survivor logic, I suppose. Then Pesach came, and she’d be scrubbing like she was trying to erase the feeling of wasting food.”

Daisy glances up fast. Alec meets her look and doesn’t flinch. “She was small during the war,” he adds, gentler. “Old enough to be scared, young enough to think it was her fault when the adults were afraid. Passover made her very proud and anxious at the same time. She loved the order of it. The questions.”

“The Four Questions?” Daisy asks, already grinning. “Because I am absolutely doing them this year.”

“You are,” Alec says, mock-stern. “And I’ll muck up the tune like always.”

Paul listens, quiet, the way you do when someone opens a drawer that usually sticks. He files away details— too-sweet charoset; the bread ends; pride and worry coexisting— because he wants to understand not just the holiday, but the people moving inside it. He’s spent half his life explaining Easter to rooms; here, he learns to let a table explain itself to him.

“What Haggadah are we using?” he asks, careful with the pronunciation now that he’s practiced it out loud at least three times.

“Old photocopies from Gran’s,” Daisy says, triumphant, producing a dog-eared stack that looks like it’s survived three moves, and a flood. “And I printed a more modern one for extra bits. We can mix.”

Alec flips through the pages, thumb lingering on a margin note in a cramped hand. He smiles. “She’d like that.”

“Can I read something?” Paul asks, and feels ridiculous for how much the answer matters.

“Course,” Alec says, as if it were never a question. “Pick a paragraph you like. Maybe the ‘this is the bread of affliction’ bit. Or the open door.”

“I’ll practice,” Paul says, and means it.

They lay the table to see how it will feel: plate for the matzah covered with a tea towel Daisy embroidered badly on purpose; Elijah’s cup (“And maybe one for Miriam,” Daisy adds, daring Alec to object; he doesn’t); little bowls for salt water that catch the light. Daisy plans an afikoman hiding place with the kind of strategic glee that suggests Paul will be sent to “accidentally” misdirect any seekers.

“When’s Easter, again?” Daisy asks, counting candles for the first night. “It overlaps, right?”

“Easter Sunday’s the eighth,” Paul says. “I’ll help Christine with the Saturday night vigil, then come back in time for whatever your dad’s pretending isn’t brunch.”

“Latkes with matzah brei,” Alec says, already resigned. “And fruit. And no bread anywhere near the place.”

“Resurrection with matzah,” Daisy says, unbothered. “Interfaith excellence.”

Paul laughs. “I’ll make coconut macaroons,” he offers. “Pesach-safe. Promise.”

“God help us,” Alec mutters, but he’s smiling into the charoset.

By late afternoon the house feels lighter in a way Paul can’t name. Partly the missing bread. Partly the point made with hands: this matters, and we did it together. Daisy tapes a paper sign to the bread bin— on strike, back after Pesach— and takes a photo for Jaz and Rowan with a caption about “doing it semi-properly.”

Alec leans on the counter, watching her, thumb absently turning his mug. “Mum used to hide the afikoman in the same place every year,” he says, almost to himself. “Behind the books on the bottom shelf. I never told her I knew. It made her happy when I ‘found’ it.”

Daisy slides into his side, and bumps his hip. “Then this year,” she says, “you don’t get a clue.”

“Cheat,” he says, fondly.

Paul, from the sink, takes the tea towel off his shoulder. “I’ll referee,” he says. “And I’ll read the bit you point at, badly but with commitment.”

“That’s all it takes,” Alec says.

They stand there a minute, three shadows on warm tile, a Seder plate waiting, a week without bread ahead, Easter on the other side of it.

They start at sundown because Daisy says that’s when it feels like a story should begin.

Candles first. She strikes a match, cups it, and lights two tapers in the little brass holders Alec found at a charity shop. Her voice is careful around the blessing— familiar enough to be muscle memory, not so practiced that it feels showy. Paul stands with his hands together, not intruding, let in.

They’ve laid the table like a map. The Seder plate in the middle: parsley in a glass, the roasted beet where the bone would be, a hard-boiled egg cooling in its cracked shell, the horseradish wrapped in foil like a small bomb, charoset in a chipped blue bowl. Three sheets of matzah under a tea towel Daisy embroidered badly on purpose. The cups, both half-filled and waiting. Bowls of salt water glint under the light.

“Okay,” Daisy says, cheeks already pink with the kind of happiness she tries to play down. “I’m leading.”

“By all means,” Alec says, mock-formal, but his mouth is softer than the tone.

They take their photocopied Haggadot— Daisy’s with doodles, Alec’s with his mother’s marginalia, Paul’s with a paperclip marking the paragraph he promised to read. He turns it over in his hand once like a talisman.

Alec blesses the grape juice. They drink. Daisy dunks parsley in salt water, and rolls her eyes when it drips on her hand. “Tears,” she says, and licks it off. “Salty.”

“Accurate,” Alec murmurs.

They break the middle matzah— Alec’s hands do it without thinking— and Daisy slips the larger half into a napkin. She looks at Paul like a conspirator, then vanishes into the hall with it. Paul keeps his eyes studiously on the Haggadah. Her footsteps creak once on the stair. A door sighs open, closes. She reappears stone-faced. New hiding place. New map.

“Right,” she says, triumphant. “Magid. Dad?”

Alec nods and begins, English overlaid with the rhythms he grew up with. When it’s Paul’s turn, Daisy points and braces as if he’s about to do stand-up. He reads the line he practiced: “This is the bread of affliction… let all who are hungry come and eat.” The words leave his mouth, and land somewhere that isn’t just the room— kitchens, halls, waiting rooms; people he’s known who would’ve needed this exact sentence. He doesn’t add anything to it. He doesn’t need to.

The Four Questions are Daisy’s by right, and she sings the start with more nerve than tune, which makes Alec grin helplessly. Why is this night different… She reads the answers, then goes off-script and asks a fifth, head cocked at her dad. “Why did Gran always add more cinnamon to the charoset even when we said it was perfect?”

Alec laughs under his breath. “Because she didn’t believe in perfect. And because more cinnamon.”

“Good policy,” Daisy says, and spoons a mound onto a matzah shard for each of them. Sweet, and grit, and spice; the kind of taste you feel in your cheeks. Paul thinks about mortar and memory, and decides he’d rather let the food be food tonight.

Dayenu comes out as half-song, half-chant, all bad harmony. Daisy claps the beat on the table. Alec pretends not to, then does. Paul finds the refrain fast enough—“it would have been enough”—and lets himself enjoy how it builds, absurd and sincere at once.

Maror next. Daisy peels back foil and the horseradish fumes punch them all. Alec’s eyes water instantly; Daisy wheezes, laughing. Paul does his bit and it hits like a lit match up the nose. It’s painful and grounding and, to his surprise, good. He names what’s here, because that helps: sharp, nose, breath, now. He looks over. Alec’s wiping his eyes, smiling like he can see his mother across the table and the sight doesn’t hurt anymore.

They pause to top up cups. Daisy glances at the photocopy, flips to the modern insert. “Miriam’s cup,” she says, a little defiant. “We bless water, since we’re always blessing wine.” She reads the short paragraph about women and wells; the kitchen seems to lean in.

Korech—Hillel sandwiches. Alec demonstrates, two matzah, charoset, a smear of horseradish meaner than it looks. Daisy copies, then makes one for Paul that’s generous on the sweet. He takes a bite that makes his eyes prickle again for more than one reason.

Dinner comes without fanfare: latkes that hissed in oil, roast veg, a salad Daisy swears is needed, and then ignores for the first three mouthfuls. They eat like people who’ve done some work to make the eating mean something. Conversation is ordinary— Jaz and Rowan, Christine’s choir overrehearsing, whether coconut macaroons are dessert or a food group. Paul thinks of the church kitchen at Easter, of vigil fires and new light, and doesn’t say any of it out loud yet; it’s all here anyway, nested inside the plates like a second table.

After, Daisy stands with a solemnity that’s only half a joke. “Elijah,” she declares, and carries the big cup to the doorway. Alec opens it. Night air leans in— sea, damp stone, the distant thud of a car door. They stand together, not looking for anything mystical, just making space. Paul feels the old reflex to pray rise, and he lets it be what it is without the words: a quiet invitation, a door that opens on purpose. 

They sit again. Daisy tries to look casual, and fails. “Afikoman?”

Alec spreads his hands. “I am but a humble seeker.”

She narrows her eyes at him like she can see the boy who “found” it in the same spot every year for his mother’s sake. “Paul, you’re neutral,” she says. “No cheating.”

“No cheating,” he promises, and keeps to the doorway while she and Alec pretend not to turn the flat upside down. He hears the kind of laughter that happens when people are trying to be quiet; a cushion skids; a chair leg knocks. Daisy whoops from somewhere down the hall. She reappears with the bundled napkin like a victorious smuggler. “Ransom, please.”

“What’s the going rate?” Alec asks, already pulling out his wallet.

“Macaroons tomorrow. And you have to come to the school thing with the art kids. And—” she looks at Paul with studied nonchalance “—you both have to watch my terrible film pick next week.”

“Done,” Paul says, before Alec can hedge. Alec sighs theatrically and nods.

They eat the afikoman in silence, each piece small, the last taste on the tongue.  When they stack plates and rinse the wine-purple from the bowls, Paul catches his reflection in the dark window: candle halos behind him, Daisy drying her hands on a tea towel, Alec flicking water from his fingers. He feels that old edge where happiness used to hurt—then it doesn’t. Not tonight.

Daisy leans her shoulder to his. “You did good,” she says, like she’s grading him.

“High praises,” he says, solemn.

Alec comes up on his other side, bumps him with the same gentle aim. “Chag sameach,” he says softly.

Paul meets his eyes. “Chag sameach,” he echoes. With each occasion they share, they become more familiar to Paul.

Christine’s church office looks like a stationery cupboard exploded. Stacks of folded service sheets lean against a box of tapered candles; the Paschal candle—still plain—waits upright in its stand. Paul rolls up his sleeves and starts the unglamorous bit: counting orders of service, rubber-banding them in tens, sliding them into crates marked VIGIL, DAWN, FAMILY.

“Bless you,” Christine says, passing him a roll of tape. “I always forget how many moving parts Easter has until I’m standing in them.”

“Christmas is a sprint,” Paul says. “Easter’s a triathlon.”

They work without fuss. He brasses the little hand bell while she checks the font heater. He hauls lilies to the chancel; she quietly swaps one out that’s browning at the edge. He drafts a rota on scrap paper— welcomers, candle-lighters, someone to baby the temperamental sound desk— then phones Mr. Evans to talk him out of bringing his own thurible. Choir practice bleeds through from the nave in uneven bursts of “Thine be the glory.” He doesn’t correct them. He isn’t that anymore, and it’s oddly easy not to be.

At the sacristy table, they set out long tapers for the Vigil. Christine eyes the old box of firelighters like it might bite. “You staying for Saturday night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. “Happy to shepherd flames and stop small children setting themselves on fire.”

“Sold.”

They pause. The church holds that pre-Easter quiet he knows by heart. Christine leans a hip to the table, gives him a sideways look. “How’s it feeling? The… change.”

“Like my legs remember routes my head doesn’t take anymore,” he says. “But good. Home’s different now.” He doesn’t have to explain home.

She nods, then—gently nosy, properly pastoral—adds, “And the mixed-calendar thing? Seder last week, Easter this. How’s that in the house?”

He smiles, small and unguarded. “Busy. Good busy. We did it—Daisy led. I read the ‘let all who are hungry’ line. Felt good to be with them for it.” He taps the taper box. “Then I’m here holding a candle two days later. It doesn’t feel like a compromise. More like… two ways of telling the same truth from different sides of the table.”

Christine thinks about that like it’s a sermon seed. “What helps it work?”

“Names,” he says. “We call things what they are. Friday nights we say ‘Shabbat shalom.’ Sunday mornings I don’t drag them to church, but we show up for each other’s important bits— no commentary track.” A beat. “And we let the awkward land without panicking. If something stings, we say it, and then make tea.”

“That last one’s underrated,” she says, amused. “Tea as sacrament.”

“Kitchen tables matter,” he says, almost a mantra at this point. “Also: not trying to win. Nobody’s the conversion project.”

Christine smiles at that. “I’m glad you’re there.” Then, softer: “And thank you for being here. You make this so much lighter.”

He shrugs, warmed. “I know where the spare matches are.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” She straightens. “Right. Can you stencil the cross on the Paschal candle while I fight with the photocopier?”

He does it slow, steady hand finding a rhythm he thought he’d lost: red wax lines, Alpha and Omega, the little grains to press in later. He writes the year and steps back. It looks right.

Saturday night, he stands by the west door with a windproof lighter and a pocket full of spare tapers. The new fire catches on the first try; the congregation’s soft “ooh” is involuntary and lovely. He tips light to wick, passes it on, watches the nave turn to a moving constellation. He doesn’t think a single tidy thought about symbols. It’s enough to see people’s faces change when the dark isn’t doing all the work.

After the Vigil he helps stack chairs, then walks Christine back to the office. She’s flushed, happy-tired.

“Go home,” she tells him. “You’ve done your penance.”

“Wrong season,” he says, deadpan, and she snorts.

Outside, the air’s damp and cold. He texts Alec: done. on my way. The reply comes quick: kettle on. He pockets the phone, and heads down the path, hands smelling faintly of candle wax, not thinking about meaning so much as looking forward to the front door opening, and someone saying, “You’re late. Sit. Tell me everything.”

His phone buzzes on the coffee table. An email banner. University of Bristol—Application Update.

Alec sees his face change. “Open it.”

Paul laughs under his breath, thumb suddenly stupid. He taps. Reads. Reads again.

“Well?” Alec prompts, already grinning.

“I—” Paul actually has to sit forward. “Offer. Conditional on references. But—offer.”

Alec makes a noise that is embarrassingly close to a cheer and drags him into a hug that tips his tea dangerously. Paul lets himself be pulled, laughs into Alec’s shoulder, then pulls back to look at the screen again like it might evaporate.

“Proud of you,” Alec says, smiling.

Paul’s throat goes tight in the way that means he’s tired and happy at the same time. “Text brigade?”

“Text brigade.”

He fires them off: to Nate (Offer. Breathing.); to Christine (Got in. Thank you for letting me hover with candles.); to Ellen (uni said yes. don’t be sick.). Nate’s thumbs-up arrives instantly. Christine sends three exclamation points and a “Knew it.” Ellen replies with: 🎸🤮 then, after a beat, don’t mess it up.

They sit there longer than they mean to, the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. When the tea’s gone cold, Alec nudges his knee. “Bedtime, student.”

“In waiting,” Paul says, but he gets up.

They brush their teeth like they’ve been doing this for years—bumping hips at the sink, Alec muttering at the tap that splutters. Paul plugs in his phone, sets an alarm he won’t need, and takes one last look at the acceptance email as if it might change shape overnight.

“Student,” Alec says again, softer now.

“Show-off.”

“Head alright?” Alec murmurs.

“Quieter,” Paul says, and for once it’s true. He lets the thought of Fall float there— lecture halls, kitchen tables, work that isn’t a collar— and doesn’t chase it. The house hums, the sea does its slow lung outside, and he calms down before the next thought can announce itself.

Alec is the one who starts it— hand low on Paul’s back. “Come here,” he says, voice already lower than before.

Paul lets himself be steered toward the bed, pulse picking up. “What’s this for?”

Alec shuts the bedroom door and leans back against it for a second, eyes on Paul like he’s already halfway undressing him with his eyes.

“For being amazing,” he says, voice quiet but carrying weight. “And because I want to.”

That alone pulls heat up Paul’s spine. He likes that line— because I want to— more than anything else. He toes his slippers off, peels his jumper over his head, and waits for Alec’s next move.

“On the bed,” Alec says.

Paul sits, spine straight, tracking every step Alec takes toward him. Alec peels off his own shirt slowly, as if each extra second is part of the control. He slides a hand into Paul’s hair, thumb brushing his jaw.

“You’ve been doing the work,” Alec murmurs. “Let me take over tonight.”

Paul breathes out, feels his shoulders drop. “Yes.”

Alec’s mouth lifts at the corner. “Good.”

They kiss— deep, claiming, Alec dictating the pace. He pushes his wrists into Paul’s hands. “Hold me down.”

Paul pins them to the mattress above Alec’s head. Alec tests the restraint, and when Paul doesn’t loosen, something dark flickers in his eyes.

“Harder,” Alec says.

Paul presses until he feels the tremor in Alec’s arms, the taut pull of muscle. Alec’s breath comes harsher, like the strain feeds him.

“Bite me.”

Paul’s teeth close on Alec’s throat, enough to make him gasp.

“Harder.”

He tightens the bite, until Alec’s chest rises in a sharp inhale.

“Use your nails.”

Paul drags them over Alec’s chest, slow, premeditated, leaving raised lines that will last. Alec lets out a sound that’s half-grunt, half-moan, hips shifting restlessly. The clear orders let him stop thinking about anything else.

Paul’s own body aches for more, but the meds drag a strange distance between wanting, and getting there. He can feel Alec’s, too— in the way his arousal spikes and dips, in the tiny flash of frustration that crosses his face before he pushes through it. They’ve both learned to work with it, to take pleasure in the control, in the resistance, in the fact that neither of them is here for an easy finish anyway.

“Don’t let go,” Alec orders.

Paul doesn’t. He holds him pinned, works Alec with a rough, deliberate rhythm, just shy of too much. Alec tries to twist into it, and Paul resists, knowing the fight is half of what Alec wants.

“More,” Alec grits.

Paul gives it to him— firmer strokes, his teeth grazing Alec’s shoulder, his nails pressing crescents into the inside of Alec’s arm. Alec groans, back arching, the pain and pleasure threading tight until he finally comes with a shudder he can’t quite control.

Paul eases his grip, rubbing the marks on Alec’s wrists. “You alright?”

Alec hums. “Better.” He flexes his wrists, winces the kind of wince that means good pain. “You didn’t make it easy.”

“You told me not to.” Paul strokes the inside of his arm, feeling the faint tremor. “Green?”

“Still green.” Alec shifts enough to kiss him again. Then, quieter: “You?”

Paul hesitates, then admits, “Want you like hell. Body’s still… slow to catch up.”

Alec brushes a thumb along Paul’s cheekbone. “Same.” He says it like it’s not failure, just fact. “Doesn’t change the part I wanted.”

Alec leans up to kiss him—slow, deep—before pushing Paul gently back against the pillows. Paul lets him work open his belt, slow enough that it’s almost teasing. Alec’s fingers are sure, a little rough, exactly the way Paul likes. He watches Paul’s face like it’s the only measure that matters, taking his time, letting the weight of wanting build between them.

Paul doesn’t guide; he just rests a hand in Alec’s hair, letting him choose the pace. Alec holds his hips still, takes his time, building the heat slowly enough that it’s almost unbearable.

“You’re good at this,” Paul murmurs, not praise so much as truth.

Alec hums in acknowledgement, the vibration curling up Paul’s spine. His fingers tighten at Paul’s hips, the faint dig of nails a reminder of where they are, who they’re here for.

Paul lets himself give in to it— the heat, the pressure, the sight of Alec on his knees because he wants to be. It’s enough. More than enough. When Paul finally shudders, it’s not just release, it’s relief. He sinks down to haul Alec up with him, kissing him slowly, not caring about taste or breath.

They end up tangled sideways on the bed, Alec’s head tucked under Paul’s chin. The radiator hums, the air warm enough to make the world feel far away. Paul runs his thumb over the marks on Alec’s wrists, slow circles that say here without a word.

Alec sighs into his chest. “Am I ever going to get tired of saying I love you?”

Paul doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because something in his throat won’t clear that night.

Alec shifts just enough to look up at him. “I’ll take that as no,” he says after a beat, reading it in the quiet, in the way Paul’s arms have not loosened. He knows the difference between absence, and a held breath; this is the latter.

Paul exhales, brushes a hand through Alec’s hair.

“I mean it every time,” Alec says, voice low but certain. “Even when you can’t say it back. Especially then.”

Paul’s hand stills for a second, then starts moving again. He could say it— he feels it, sharp and sure in his chest—but the room feels too whole to risk breaking it. The warmth, the weight, the soft hum of the room around them, all of it is its own kind of yes.

Alec lets his head fall back to Paul’s chest, hearing it in every slow breath. He doesn’t need the words to believe them.

Chapter Text

The wind’s up enough to peel the gulls sideways, the tide halfway out, leaving the flats ridged and shining. Paul takes the long path along the harbour wall, hands in his coat, just trying to get the air to untangle the noise in his head.

He spots Ellie before she sees him—halfway between the car park and the quay, arms full of two Tesco bags and fighting a losing battle with the lead of a spaniel that’s very sure it owns the whole world.

“Alright there?” Paul calls.

She blows hair from her face. “Would be if this lunatic would stop trying to chase seaweed.”

He steps in without thinking, takes one bag before she can protest. “You’re going to dislocate something.”

“Don’t you start,” she mutters, but she looks relieved. The spaniel throws itself at a pile of bladderwrack; Paul plants his feet and holds the lead steady while Ellie wrestles the bag back into order.

By the time they’ve wrangled the dog, the bags, and balance, they’re both laughing. A real laugh, not polite. The sound cuts through the wind like the sun.

“Thanks,” Ellie says, quieter now. “Been one of those weeks.”

“Yeah,” Paul says. “Me too.”

Ellie glances at him sidelong, adjusting the bag on her arm. “So what’s the prescription, then? You want tea and shut up, or tea and talk?”

He huffs a small laugh. “That an official menu option in Broadchurch?”

“Should be,” she says. “Half the town would be in better nick.” The spaniel tugs again, she reins it in. “You look like you’ve got the weight of something on you. Doesn’t have to be mine to notice.”

Paul rubs his thumb over the lead, grounding. “Might be safer sticking with shut up today.”

“Fair.” She doesn’t push, just nods. “Tea’s still on offer though. You don’t have to earn it by spilling your guts.”

Ellie wrestles the Tesco bags through her front door with a muttered curse. Paul follows, holding the one he stole off her, and toes the door shut behind them.

“Dump it on the counter,” she says, already kicking her shoes off. “I’ll deal with the veg in a bit.”

Her kitchen is the same as always—bright even under a grey sky, magnets and post-its cluttering the fridge, a smell of laundry powder and yesterday’s coffee. Ordinary in the best way. Paul sets the bag down, takes in the quiet hum of the house.

“So,” Ellie asks, “one tea and shut up?”

“Tea first,” Paul says. “Decision after.”

She snorts, flicks the kettle on, and pulls two mugs from the cupboard—mismatched, one with a faded cartoon whale. “Figures. Always hedging your bets.”

“My own occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he says.

Steam curls from the kettle, the hiss filling the pause between them. Ellie moves briskly, thumping teabags into the mugs with the same determination she uses on suspects. Paul leans against the counter, hands tucked in his pockets, letting the small ordinariness work on him.

She pours, stirs, then slides the whale mug across to him. “Here. Strong enough to resuscitate a corpse.”

“Good. Might bring me back to life.” He wraps both hands around it, grateful for the heat.

Ellie studies him sidelong, not unkind. “Rough week?”

“Mm.” He blows across the surface of the tea. “Loud.”

She nods, like she already knew. “Yeah. I’ve had one of those myself.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow. “Tea and talk, then?”

She huffs. “Don’t get ambitious. Let’s start with tea and complain-about-the-weather.”

They sit at the small table, both cradling mugs, the rain tick-ticking against the window like it’s keeping score.

“Complain-about-the-weather’s too easy,” Paul says. “Try me with a real one.”

Ellie snorts. “Alright then. Dogsitting this lunatic. The car’s threatening to die again. Garage says it’s the clutch. My wallet says it’s a pipe dream.” She takes a savage gulp of tea. The dog curls around her foot. “And the school rang. Apparently Fred’s ‘showing disruptive tendencies’ in maths.”

Paul winces. “That code for something serious or for being an overactive child?”

“Overactive child.” She shakes her head. “Some days it feels like I’m playing whack-a-mole with paperwork and hormones.”

He lets a small smile show. “Could start outsourcing. I’ll take Tuesdays.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she says, but the line of her shoulders eases just a fraction. She drums her fingers once on the table.

Paul studies her for a moment, sees the grit holding her together. “You holding up?”

“Most days.” She shrugs. “Some days not. But—” her eyes flick to him, quick and sharp, “— I know you’ve got your own storms.”

He raises his mug in surrender. “I’m more on the side of tea and shut up, today.”

For a beat the rain fills the quiet again. Then Ellie softens. “I meant what I said before. Him getting meds? That’s you. Don’t argue.”

He looks into his tea like it might explain the rest for him. “It’s easier,” he admits, voice low, “to stand still for him than for me.”

Ellie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t dig. Just sets her hand flat on the table between them, close enough that he can feel the heat without touching.

“Then keep doing that,” she says. “And let the rest come when it comes.”

The rain ticks on. He feels her hand, a brush away from his. They finish their tea in relative silence.

Ellie stands, collects the mugs without comment, rinses them under the tap. She doesn’t try to wrap it up with anything neat, doesn’t force the mood lighter. Just lets the water run, and the rain do the talking.

Paul gets to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Anytime,” she says, back still turned, voice even.

He hesitates in the doorway, wanting to say something else but not finding the shape of it. The silence stretches, then he nods once, more to himself than her, and lets himself out.

Outside, the air hits him sharp and wet, cold wind stinging his cheeks. The harbour wall waits, slick with rain, gulls wheeling overhead like scraps of noise.

The walk back takes longer than it should. He keeps to the edges, where the pavement slicks into puddles, where the rain blurs everything just enough to match his head. By the time he reaches home, the hood of his coat is heavy, his trainers soaked through.

Inside, the house is warm, bright, lived-in. Shoes in a heap by the stairs, the radio low in the kitchen. Daisy’s voice drifts through—half laughter, half indignation. Paul stands in the doorway just long enough to watch the ordinary without being in it.

Alec notices first. He’s at the counter, sleeves rolled, chopping something with a focus that’s too deliberate. “Where’d you go?” 

Paul shrugs out of his coat, hangs it on the back of a chair. “Walk. Down to the harbour, bumped into Ellie.”

“In this?” Alec gestures at the rain lashing the window. 

Paul’s throat tightens. Daisy looks up from her notebook, frown tugging at her mouth. “We were a bit worried,” she says simply.

Paul lifts both hands, half-surrender. “Sorry, should have said something. I’m back. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Alec says automatically, then stops himself. His knife stills against the board. He takes in Paul’s damp hair, the way his shoulders sit too high. The protest hovers, but he swallows it.

Daisy closes her notebook, softer now. “You’ll catch cold if you sit in wet clothes.” She says it like it’s practical, not an accusation. “Go get changed. I’ll keep your tea warm.”

Paul exhales, somewhere between relief and shame. “Alright,” he says, and heads upstairs.

By the time he comes back down, dry clothes and hair sticking up from a towel, the table’s already set. Alec is stirring a pot, face unreadable, but his voice comes out gently. “Sit. It’s nearly ready.”

Daisy passes him a mug with both hands. “Chamomile. Don’t make a face.”

He doesn’t. He wraps his hands around it and lets the steam sting his eyes. They’re not asking questions, not pressing him to explain. Just holding the edges.

The three of them eat together, the radio muttering on. Daisy talks about schoolwork and films, Alec listens with the kind of attention that means he’s listening for Paul too. Paul adds a word here and there, small things, enough to keep the rhythm.

Nobody says the word worried again. They don’t need to. It’s in the way Alec lays out extra bread, in the way Daisy leaves her notebook open like she’s waiting to be interrupted. They’re trying to move on, to support him without pinning him down.

Paul lets them. He lets himself be folded back into the ordinary, even if the noise in his head hasn’t gone anywhere.

Paul’s tucked under two blankets, hair damp from sweat, nose red from too many tissues. The box is balanced precariously on the nightstand beside a mug of cold tea he swore he’d finish. He’s restless even like this, thumb running over the edge of his AA coin as if he could will his body back into motion.

“Stop,” Alec says from the doorway, like he’s catching him in the act.

“I’m lying down,” Paul mutters. His voice is rough enough to prove it.

“You’re planning the minute you’ll get up.” Alec sets a fresh mug on the table, steam rising. “Tea with honey. Drink it before you start plotting.”

Paul sighs but reaches for it. “You always this bossy with invalids?”

“Only the stubborn ones.” Alec pulls the curtains a little tighter against the pale April light, then sits on the edge of the bed. “Your body’s telling you to slow down. Try listening.”

Paul takes a careful sip, winces, but keeps it down. “Doesn’t suit me.”

“Neither does pneumonia.” Alec gives him a look sharp enough to settle the argument, then stretches out beside him, on top of the covers. He props his head on his hand. “Better?”

Paul’s lips twitch. “Bedside manner could use improvement.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“No. You’re worse.” But the warmth seeps in, between Alec’s steady presence, and the tea in his hands. After a beat he admits, quieter, “Thank you.”

They lie there with the faint hum of the radiator filling the pauses. Rain plucks at the window, fine and persistent. Alec shifts, looks over at him with that particular mix of fond and exasperated.

“You know it’s been more than a year,” Alec says suddenly.

Paul blinks. “Since what?”

“Since… this.” Alec gestures between them. “Us. I don’t even remember when exactly the first time was.”

Paul lets out a hoarse laugh that turns into a cough he has to muffle against the blanket. “That’s romantic. You’ve forgotten me already.”

Alec huffs. “Not forgotten. Just— blurred. Like we’d already been doing it before we knew.”

Paul laughs, low and scratchy. “I do. Early March. You’d done your ankle. Pretended it wasn’t as bad as it was. Nearly combusted from having it looked over.”

He shakes his head at the memory. “You were furious with me just for touching it.”

Alec makes a face, somewhere between defensive and sheepish. “I wasn’t furious.”

“You were… something.” Paul coughs into his sleeve, then smiles, softer. “Didn’t know it at the time, but you weren’t just angry. You were… frustrated. With yourself. With me. With how much you liked me being there, even when you hated it.”

Color creeps into Alec’s ears. He looks away, jaw tight. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Not when it matters,” Paul says. “Back then you were still trying to wrestle yourself into shapes that didn’t fit. I could see it. Even if I didn’t know what I was looking at yet.”

The radiator hums. Alec’s hand, after a pause, slides across the duvet until it rests near Paul’s. “You saw more than I wanted you to.”

Paul lets their fingers brush. “And less. Took me months to catch up.”

Alec exhales through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a huff. “You shouldn’t have had to catch up. I should’ve just… said what was going on.”

“You weren’t built for that yet.” Paul’s voice is quiet but certain. “You’d been taught to keep everything under lock and key. Same as I’d been taught to fix everyone but myself.”

Alec turns his head, studies him for a long beat. “Still your instinct, isn’t it? Running yourself ragged for other people.”

Paul huffs a laugh that turns into a cough halfway through. “Look who’s talking.”

Alec shifts up on one elbow, glaring in the way he does when it’s more worry than annoyance. “Exactly. I don’t want you burning out the same way I did.”

“Already did that, years ago.” Paul settles deeper into the pillows. “Now I’m just… trying to notice when I’m doing it again.”

The rain ticks harder against the glass. Alec’s gaze softens but doesn’t let up. “And if you don’t notice?”

Paul swallows. “Then I need you to say it. Even if I hate hearing it.”

Alec lies back down, close enough that Paul can feel the warmth of him through the covers. “That works both ways, you know.”

Paul nods, lets his eyes close. The radiator hums on, steady as breath. Both of them know the words are true. Both of them also know how hard they are to live up to.

Alec reaches instead for Paul’s hands, pulls them out from where they’ve been fidgeting in the sheets, and presses a kiss to each knuckle. “I will,” he says against the skin. “I promise.”

Paul’s throat aches in a way that isn’t from the cold. He nods, lets Alec keep his hands a moment longer.

Paul shuts his eyes, tries to take comfort in the weight of the promise. But some small part of him knows how often they’ve both broken promises to themselves, and how fragile this balance still is.

Alec shifts closer, resting his forehead briefly against Paul’s temple. Neither of them speaks again.

They lie in that silence until footsteps patter on the stairs, quick then careful. Daisy appears in the doorway with a bowl balanced in both hands, sleeves shoved up, hair in a skewed ponytail.

“I made vegetable broth,” she announces, proud but trying not to sound like it. “It’s edible. Don’t ask about the kitchen.”

Paul pushes himself up a little against the pillows. “You didn’t have to—”

“Obviously I did,” she cuts in, stepping forward and setting the bowl down on his lap with a flourish. “Someone has to keep you alive. Dad would’ve just fed you toast until you gave up.”

Alec, leaning against the headboard with his own mug, mutters, “Was planning on toast, actually.”

“Case in point,” Daisy says, grinning. She pulls the desk chair closer, spins it around, and straddles it backwards, chin on her folded arms. “Eat. And don’t say it’s too salty, because I’m not starting again.”

Paul tries the first spoonful. It’s lumpy, a little uneven, but warm all the way through. He smiles, genuine. “It’s good.”

Her expression flickers, quick pride she tries to bury under a smirk. “Told you. Better than his toast.”

Alec huffs. “Cheek.”

She launches into chatter then, and Paul lets it wash over him, grateful for the sound of her voice filling the room. Alec’s shoulder presses against his, warm, quiet.

When Daisy finally bounces up again, promising to “let the geriatrics nap,” she leaves behind the smell of broth and the soft weight of ordinary care. The quiet that follows is gentler, but the earlier conversation still lingers, unspoken, between them.

In the week the house sounds different without them. No kettle, no clatter of homework upstairs, no continuous irritation of Alec’s typing. Just the creak of pipes and the scrape of branches against the window. Paul shifts under the blanket on the sofa, sweat damp at the collar of his T-shirt, the fever making the world too close and too far at once.

Sleep comes in ragged slips. He dozes, wakes, dozes again. Each time the air feels thicker, his chest heavier, the shadows stretching at the corners of the room. He dreams in fragments—kitchen tiles slick under his palms, the yellow strip of light beneath a door. Ellen’s breath hitching somewhere out of reach.

When he jolts awake this time, it’s with his pulse in his throat. The dream didn’t end; it bled into remembering. Something he hasn’t let himself picture in years.

He hadn’t remembered that part. 

Paul pushes himself upright on the sofa, palms clammy. He rubs his thumb over the coin in his pocket, hard enough to leave a dent. It doesn’t ground him all the way. The memory clings. Not just the fear but the smallness of it. The ridiculousness.

His chest hurts like he’s been shouting, though he hasn’t said a word.

He stays there, breathing through it, counting the cracks in the ceiling until the fever drags him under again.

When he wakes again, body soaked with sweat, hot and cold at once, his hands won’t stop shaking. He presses his thumb into the coin hard enough that the ridges hurt, but the memory keeps replaying anyway: the butter knife, the carpet, the too-small body trying to look bigger.

He fumbles for his phone, screen too bright, and scrolls to Ellen. For a second he just stares at her name, the coil of guilt in his gut saying don’t drag her into this. Then he hits call before he can think himself out of it.

It rings long enough he almost hangs up. Then:

“Yeah?” Her voice is muffled, background noise like she’s outside.

He tries for steady. “Hey, El.”

A beat. “You sound wrecked. You sick?”

“Yeah. And—” His throat sticks. He coughs, winces. “I’m sorry. I remembered something. From before. When he was—when Michael was—”

The pause sharpens, the way it always does when that name enters the room between them.

“What did you remember?” she asks, quieter, but not careful like glass—more like rope lowered down a well. Wary.

He grips the phone tighter. “I had a knife. A butter knife. I was on the landing. Like I thought I could do anything with it. Like it made me less… useless.”

Silence. Then a long breath on her end. “Christ, Paul.”

“I forgot it. All these years, I forgot. And now it’s back and I can’t—” He breaks off, presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I feel stupid. Like I was pretending.”

“Oi,” she says, sharp enough to cut through his shaking. “You were a kid. You weren’t pretending. You were surviving. Big difference.”

He swallows, the words catching. “It doesn’t feel different.”

“That’s your bitch fever lying to you.” Her voice steadies, brisk in the way that used to drive him mad and now saves him. “And your head, probably. But it is different. You did what you could. Doesn’t make you pathetic. Makes that scumbag worse.”

He lets the silence hang, breathing in her certainty.

“You still with me?” she asks after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Text your stupid dot. You got a therapist, yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. “Farah.”

“Right. Well, save this one for her next time instead of dropping it on me while I’m stood in the rain like some soap opera extra.” Her tone is sharp, but it lands more like armour than scolding.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t.” There’s a faint catch she covers with a cough. “Don’t be sorry. Better you called— Just—don’t keep it in your head till it rots.”

The line rustles, traffic bleeding through, a car horn far away. He can picture her standing outside some pub or practice space, one hand jammed in her pocket, the other tight on her phone, pretending this isn’t hitting her half as hard as it is.

“Paul?”

“Mm?”

“…nothing. Set fire to the sun.”

His throat burns sharper than the fever. “Alright,” he says, because it’s all he can get out.

The call clicks dead. He lies back, phone still in his hand, and whispers it once to the ceiling—half prayer, half curse. Set fire to the sun.

He texts the dot before sleep drags him under. To Nate and Alec both.

Paul’s phone buzzes against the kitchen table. He glances down, thumb already moving before his brain catches up.

got a letter. says bailiffs. don’t know what to do. can you come over please?

Paul stares at it, jaw tightening. He sighs.

Alec notices. He sets his pen down on the paper he’s been annotating. “What is it?”

“Mark.” Paul exhales. “Got a debt letter. Bailiffs threatened. He’s panicking.” He pushes his chair back, half-standing already.

“You’re going over there?” Alec asks, voice flat in that way that means he’s keeping something in.

Paul frowns. “He doesn’t know what to do. I’ll just—”

“Paul.” Alec cuts across, sharper now. “You’ve just been in bed sick for a week.”

“I’m fine,” Paul lies automatically. 

“No, you’re not.” Alec’s voice climbs. “And this isn’t your debt. It’s not your job to—”

“It’s exactly my job,” Paul snaps, more heat than he meant to let out. 

The silence lands hard. Daisy, perched at the counter with a bowl of cereal, looks between them like she wants to shrink into the cupboard.

“You think you’re the only one who can show up?” Alec says finally. “He’s a grown man. He can ask for help without you sprinting out the door.”

Paul presses a hand to the table, steadies himself. “And if no one had shown up for me?” His voice shakes. “You think I’d still be here?”

That cuts sharper than anything Alec expected. His mouth works, but Daisy’s voice comes in first, tentative but clear: “Maybe… maybe you could just call him? Instead of—”

Paul looks at her, throat too tight. The concern on her face isn’t about Mark at all. It’s for him.

He nods once, rough. “Yeah, alright.”

He steps into the hall, leaving Alec and Daisy in the kitchen. Neither of them speaks. The sound of the rain against the window fills the space he’s left behind.

Mark answers on the third ring, voice too fast, already trying to make excuses for the letter. Paul cuts through, steady, the way he’s learned: one step, one breath, one task. He offers numbers for debt advice, offers to come by tomorrow, offers tea. Mark laughs it off, says he’s sorry for bothering, and he’ll manage after all, then goes quiet. Paul knows that quiet. He hangs up with the same ache he always does when his words don’t land.

For a couple of days, it stays there. Muted, unresolved, lurking at the edges. Paul tells himself he’s done his part, that people have to choose help for themselves. He bakes bread, helps Daisy with her printer jam, mutes his phone, sits through therapy where Farah makes him say not everything is yours to fix until it feels like it might stick.

Then, the afternoon of the zine showcase, his phone rings again. Mark’s name on the screen. The tone on the other end is nothing like before—no jokes, no excuses. Just panic, sharp and ragged, spilling too fast to catch.

Paul listens, trying to keep his own breath level. He checks the time. An hour and a half, he told Alec. An hour and a half, and then Daisy’s showcase. He can still make it if he leaves now.

But Mark’s pacing, words spilling out too fast—interest rates, court dates, all the ways one man can drown without leaving the house.

Paul plants his feet, phone hot in his hand, the rain pressing closer on the glass. He tells himself this is what he’s for. He tells himself Daisy will understand.

But Mark’s pacing, words spilling out too fast—interest rates, court dates, all the ways one man can drown without leaving the house. Paul knows this rhythm too well: someone caught between panic and collapse, needing a firm voice to hold them up. His body moves into the old stance automatically. Sit. Breathe. One thing at a time.

He keeps checking the clock, but every time he thinks he can break away, Mark says something that keeps him tethered—if I lose the van, that’s me finished.

By the time he finally extracts himself, promises made and hollow reassurances half-said, the bus he needed is long gone. He sprints anyway, rain in his face, stomach a knot. The showcase was meant to start at seven. He told her he’d be there.

When he pushes open the community centre door, the hum of voices has thinned to after-sound. Chairs scrape. Paper rustles. A poster taped to the wall reads Youth Zine Collective – Showcase Night! in Daisy’s handwriting.

She’s at the back, packing up her stack of zines into a tote bag. Rowan, Mia and Jaz hover, their laughter quieter than usual. Alec stands by the table, arms crossed, face unreadable until he looks up, and sees Paul.

Paul lifts a hand, almost sheepish. “I’m so sorry. I—”

Daisy doesn’t look up. “It’s fine.” The words are flat, rehearsed, like she’s borrowed them from someone else.

He crosses the room, but she’s already ducking her head, tucking the last copies away. Rowan shoots him a glance he can’t parse, then loops an arm around Daisy, and says something about food. She goes with them, quick, not giving him time to catch her eye.

The room feels too big without her in it.

Alec stays where he is, jaw set. “You missed it.”

“I know.” Paul’s voice comes out rough. He runs a hand through his damp hair, feels the weight of it dripping onto the floor. “I tried, I’m sorry.”

Daisy’s zine is still on the table, a corner of the cover bent from too many hands. The sight of it twists something in him.

Alec doesn’t answer. His eyes flick to the booklets, to Paul. He just shakes his head once, sharp, and turns toward the door.

“Alec,” Paul says, but too quietly, the word swallowed by the space between them.

Alec doesn’t stop moving.

The silence left behind is worse than shouting.

The drive back isn’t silent, not completely. Daisy hums along to whatever’s on her headphones, her knee bouncing against the seat. It’s the kind of restless energy that usually means she’s happy, but tonight it feels a little sharper.

Paul keeps sneaking glances in the rearview, trying to read her face in the glow of the passing streetlights. She catches him once, pulls one earbud out. “You don’t have to look like I’ve been orphaned,” she says, half-teasing, half-serious.

His throat tightens. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know,” she says, and it’s true—there’s no venom in it. Just a sting of disappointment she tries to fold small. She shrugs, slipping the bud back in. “You can still read it. It’s not like it disappears when I leave the room.”

That almost breaks him more.

Alec’s silence at the wheel is heavier, less forgiving. He doesn’t add anything, just drives with his jaw set.

By the time they pull into the driveway, Daisy’s already texting someone, her bag over her shoulder before Paul can open his door. She pauses just long enough to bump her shoulder against his arm. “Next one, yeah?”

“Next one,” he promises.

She nods, disappears inside.

Paul lingers by the car, damp air settling in his collar, Alec still at the wheel. He forces out, “I wanted—”

“Wanting doesn’t always help,” Alec cuts in, quiet but sharp, eyes forward. 

The house settles quietly around them. Paul leans against the counter, dripping rainwater onto the tiles, the letter in his pocket feeling like a stone. Alec hangs his coat on the back of a chair with slow precision, movements tight enough to count as silence.

Paul tries first. “She’s not furious.”

“She shouldn’t have had to choose not to be,” Alec replies. His voice isn’t raised, but it lands like weight.

Paul swallows, fingers twitching for the coin in his pocket. “I thought I could get back before it started.”

“You didn’t.” Alec meets his eyes at last, gaze level, tired more than angry. “You promised her.”

Paul’s chest knots.

“Someone will always have something.” Alec’s words cut clean.

Paul doesn’t fight it. He just nods, once, sharp, like taking a blow he knows he deserves.

Alec exhales, long through his nose, and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m going to bed.”

He leaves Paul there with the tick of the fridge and the faint sound of Daisy’s music overhead, loud enough to be a wall.

Paul presses both palms to the counter, closes his eyes, and stays standing in the quiet until his legs start to ache.

The landing light glows dim under Daisy’s door. Paul hesitates at the bottom of the stairs long enough that his knees ache. Finally, he climbs, slow, trying not to let the wood creak. Alec’s door is half-closed; a line of shadow spills across the floor.

He pushes it open. Alec is in bed already, sitting up against the headboard with a book shut flat on his lap. He doesn’t look over.

Paul clears his throat. “I should’ve done better.”

Alec doesn’t answer right away. Then: “You should’ve been there.”

“I know.” The words scrape. “I thought—”

“You always think you can split yourself in half,” Alec cuts in, sharp but not raised. “Mark. The town. Whoever it is this week. And then us. And Daisy’s meant to take the scraps?”

Paul flinches. “It’s not scraps.”

“It was tonight.” Alec’s voice goes quieter, more dangerous for it. “She scanned that crowd the whole time. Kept looking for you. She pretended fine, but I saw.”

Paul grips the doorframe, nails biting wood. “I didn’t mean to let her down.”

“No one means to. Doesn’t change the fact.” Alec looks at him now, gaze steady, tired lines carved deep. “She needed you in the room, not outside some flat with Mark’s bloody bills.”

Paul forces himself to step in, close the door behind him. His chest feels too tight for air. “If I’d said no, Mark might’ve—”

“Might’ve what? Gone another night? You don’t save the world by running yourself into the ground, Paul. You’re not a priest anymore. You’re not obliged to bleed for every man who knocks.”

That lands heavy. Paul swallows, jaw aching.

“And if you’re too busy helping everyone else, you won’t be here either.” Alec’s hand closes over the book, knuckles white. “That’s what terrifies me.”

Silence thickens. Paul feels it press like weather on his skin. He wants to argue, to justify, but the words die in his throat.

Alec shakes his head once, slow. “Get in or don’t. I’m done talking tonight.”

Paul strips to his shirt, climbs under the covers. The space between them feels like a mile. He lies on his side, eyes open to the dark, listening to Alec’s breathing even out into sleep, and feels the guilt pool heavy in his gut.

Paul’s eyes stay open, fixed on the ceiling he can’t see. His chest feels like a locked door he’s pressing against from the wrong side.

He slides his phone from the nightstand, screen too bright. Types before he can overthink:

to Nate: slipping. want to crawl out of my own skin.

The reply comes faster than it should at this hour.

Nate: •

Then, after a pause: Breathe. Glass of water. Stay in bed.

Paul presses his thumb to the coin in his pocket like it could burn him back into shape. He knows Alec was right downstairs. Knows Daisy heard. Knows he’s been losing himself in everyone else’s storms for a while because it’s easier than standing in his own.

The thought curls like a hook: a drink would mute this. Just one. One, not three, he used to say that like a vow. The craving is sharp enough to make his mouth taste it. He closes his eyes against it, grips the phone harder.

He thinks about Ellen—how sharp she was on the line last week, how she covered the catch in her voice with a joke. He remembers other years, when he failed her, when he was the problem she couldn’t solve. The guilt gnaws. He misses her with a child’s ache, the kind that wants to be small and looked after, not responsible, not necessary. Just a boy whose world wouldn’t break.

But that boy isn’t coming back. He wasn’t ever there to begin with.

He forces his breath out slowly. Texts Nate again:

not drinking. just wishing.

A single dot comes back. The agreement. The lifeline.

Paul puts the phone down, curls onto his side. 

The coin’s hot in his palm from how long he’s been rubbing it. Nate’s dot sits unanswered on the screen, small and solid, but not enough. He scrolls down to Ellen’s thread, thumb hovering. Stupid idea. Necessary idea. Both.

fought w them. can’t sleep.

He doesn’t expect a reply, not at this hour. But a buzz comes quick enough to make his chest lurch.

want me to say don’t be pathetic or want me to pick up?

His throat pulls tight.

pick up if thats okay. you dont have to.

He hits call before he can think better. She answers on the third ring, voice rough but awake. “What happened?”

“We fought,” he says. His voice sounds cracked, even to him. “Alec and me. Daisy heard probably.”

There’s a silence where he imagines her lighting a cigarette, though she promised she wouldn’t in bed anymore. Then, softer than he expected: “You can come here if you need to.”

It knocks the breath out of him. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Just—don’t expect me to make tea at two a.m.”

A laugh escapes, thin but real. “I won’t.”

He scribbles a note for Alec in the dark kitchen: 

Went to Ellen’s, couldn’t sleep. You were right — I’m sorry. I love you a lot. I’ll text you. 

He leaves it propped against the kettle. The paper sags a little against the kettle, ink smudging where his hand shook. He stares at it a second too long, as if he could make Alec feel it through the counter, then forces himself to turn away.

The hallway feels cavernous at this hour, floorboards creaking louder than they should. He slips his shoes on, zips his coat all the way up, and doesn’t look at the closed doors upstairs.

Outside, the rain is cold and insistent, misting his glasses, soaking into his collar. The street is empty — just the pools of lamplight, the slick shine of tarmac, the whisper of water in the gutters. He stands there a moment, shivering, hand in his pocket on the coin like it might anchor him. Then he heads for the car, each step deliberate, like if he stops moving the night will swallow him whole.

The drive is quiet, engine hum and wipers beating time. His phone buzzes once on the passenger seat.

top floor when you get here. 

He exhales for the first time in miles.

By the time he pulls up on her street, the dashboard clock says 2:11. Bristol feels like another country in the rain, sharp with neon, and the smell of fried food clinging to the air.

He locks the car, climbs the narrow stairwell, and buzzes. The crackle of her voice comes through, brisk, already half-tired: “Yeah. Come up.”

The door clicks, heavy and grudging, and he pushes it open into a corridor that smells faintly of damp coats and takeaway boxes. Her flat is cramped, lived-in—band posters curling on the walls, an amp in the corner like a piece of furniture.

Ellen’s already waiting in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, hair flat on one side from sleep. She doesn’t look surprised to see him, just tired in that way that’s older than both of them.

“You look like shite,” she says.

“Cheers,” he manages.

She jerks her chin toward the sofa. “Sit before you fall down. Kettle’s already on.”

He shrugs out of his coat, shoes left askew by the door, and sinks onto the sagging cushions. The warmth of the room makes his damp clothes steam faintly, his glasses fogging until he takes them off.

Ellen clatters in the kitchen, then appears with two chipped mugs. She drops one onto the table in front of him, keeps the other cupped in both hands, and finally lowers herself into the armchair opposite.

They sit in silence long enough that the radiator clicking feels like a conversation.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks at last, voice low.

He shakes his head. “Fought with Alec.”

“Yeah.” She blows on her tea. “So you’ve said.”

Paul nods, staring into the mug like the steam might give him words. His throat is raw from the night air, from everything he isn’t saying.

Ellen watches him a beat too long. “You gonna tell me, or am I meant to guess?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “I let someone else’s problem get in the way. Daisy’s thing. I wasn’t there.”

“Ah.” She takes a sip, winces at the heat, sets the mug down. “And your Alec’s got the subtlety of a sledgehammer, so that went down well.”

Paul huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence again, thick but not empty. The rain presses at the window like it wants in.

“Why me?” Ellen asks finally. Her tone isn’t sharp, but it’s not soft either. “It’s two in the morning, Paul. You’ve got a house. A bed. A person who actually gives a damn. Why drive all the way out to me?”

He meets her eyes, and there’s no point in lying. “Because I miss you every day like a limb. But also because I wanted to feel like somebody’s kid for a while. And you’re the only one left who remembers.”

Ellen doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tap against the mug, restless. When she does speak, her voice is quieter, thinner: “That’s a crap job to give me.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Ellen keeps staring into her mug like the dregs might spell something out. “You can’t keep doing that, you know. Running to me every time your head tips sideways.”

Paul shifts on the sofa, damp collar cold against his neck. “I don’t. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s not like that.”

Her mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Feels like it from where I’m sitting.”

“That’s not fair.” The words are out before he can pull them back. “I’m not— I’m not trying to dump it all on you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters, but the sting in it is aimed down at her mug, not at him.

Paul grips his knees, breath shallow. “You think I wanted to put this on you?”

“No,” Ellen says, sharper now. “I think you wanted to feel better, and you didn’t stop to think if I could carry it.”

The radiator hisses again, too loud in the pause.

Paul drops his gaze to the floor, shame prickling under his skin. “I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. But it doesn’t land the way he hopes—it never does.

Ellen sits back, arms crossed, eyes too tired to be cruel. “Yeah. You always are. Saint Paul the penitent. ”

Paul flinches at the nickname, the way she spits it like it burns her tongue. He lets out a short, humourless laugh. “You think I like this? Coming here like some bloody stray, saying sorry like it’s all I’ve got?”

“Feels like it’s all you’ve got,” she shoots back.

He shakes his head, fingers digging into his knees. “It’s not penance, El. It’s—” He stops, the words tangling. “It’s me not knowing how to talk to you on the usual without being too much.”

Her jaw tenses, but she doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches until the street noise bleeds through thin glass. 

Ellen unfolds herself, drains the last of her tea, sets the mug down with a soft clink that feels like a full stop. Paul leans back into the sofa, staring at the ceiling cracks until his eyes blur. They let the quiet do most of the work, not peace, but truce.

At some point he mumbles an excuse and pushes himself up, padding down the narrow hall to the bathroom. He flicks the light on, squinting against the sudden brightness.

It’s ordinary at first glance—chipped tiles, cracked soap dish, the same toothpaste brand they grew up with. But when he reaches for the towel, his hand knocks something off the shelf: a foil packet, folded and tucked behind the mirror. Not enough to be old, not hidden well enough to be forgotten.

His stomach drops. He stares at it on the tile, the shape too familiar from too many years ago.

He crouches, picks it up with shaking fingers.

When he steps back into the lounge, Ellen’s already watching him. She sees the packet in his hand, and her face goes very still.

“Christ, El,” Paul says, voice low, rough.

Her chin lifts, defensive in an instant. “Don’t start.”

But he’s already starting.

Paul stands in the doorway, the foil packet pinched between two fingers. His voice is steady but it takes work.

“Ellen.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just pulls her knees tighter to her chest and looks away.

“Put it back.”

He blinks. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Paul.” Her tone sharpens. “Don’t.”

He crosses to the table, sets the packet down between them like proof. “How long?”

She shrugs instead of answering. “Don’t act like my bloody sponsor. You forfeited that job a long time ago.”

“That’s not what I’m—” He breaks off, drags a hand down his face. “El, you’ve got to know what this does to me. Walking in here, seeing this—”

Her laugh is short and bitter. “Always about you, isn’t it?”

His chest tightens. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She leans forward, eyes bright now, dangerous. “You come in here at two in the morning because you can’t cope, and then you get to sit there judging me for how I cope?”

Paul opens his mouth, shuts it again. His hands are fists on his knees. He tries for calm, but it comes out frayed. “I’m not judging. I’m scared.”

That lands, for half a breath. Her face flickers—anger giving way to something rawer—but then the wall comes back up.

“Save it,” she mutters. “You don’t get to play big brother now. Not when you disappear for years, and only come sniffing round when your conscience itches.”

He reels, guilt and fury twisting together. The foil packet gleams dully between them, the room suddenly too small.

Paul presses his palms into his knees, hard enough that the seams of his jeans bite skin. He keeps his eyes on the floor, because if he looks at her, he’ll say it too sharp.

“I’m scared for you.”

“Oh here comes the bloody sermon.”

Ellen’s laugh is short, bitter, nowhere near humour.

Paul looks up, stung. “It’s not a sermon. It’s the truth.”

“Same thing, isn’t it? You sit there with your scared eyes, and your sad voice, and suddenly I’m the moral lesson of the week. Don’t end up like Ellen, kids.” She spreads her hands wide, mock-preacher. “Fall from grace, live in a bedsit, shoot up in the loo—hallelujah.”

“Jesus, El.” His voice breaks, sharper than he means. “Do you think that’s how I see you?”

“I think you want me tidy. Manageable. Something you can pray over and feel good about after.” Her eyes flash, wet but defiant. “You don’t want me, Paul. You want a redemption story.”

“That’s not fair.” The words come out rough, and he hates how small they sound. “You’re my sister.”

“And where the hell were you when I needed a brother?” she snaps. Her whole body leans forward now, fierce, cornered. “When my crap foster family treated me like a live-in nanny? Or later, when I lived on scraps and my gas was cut off? When— when Dave tried to off himself? Your own bloody best friend. When mum was on the warpath? Or when I was—” She cuts herself off, but the silence after is louder than shouting.

Paul feels it all like a blow. “I didn’t know. You never told me.”

Her laugh this time is sharp enough to cut glass. “Didn’t want to spoil your clean little parish, did I? Couldn’t have Reverend Paul’s hands dirty like they used to be. ”

He surges to his feet, voice cracking on the edges. “I cut her off because I couldn’t breathe, Ellen! Because I was drowning, too, and—“

“Shut the bloody fuck up!” Ellen screams, eyes squeezed shut. “Just shut the fuck up for once!” She pauses just long enough to get some air.

“You left me. You can pretend all you want, and think up a million excuses, but that’s what you did.”

“You— you think I had any choice in where they put me? I was ten years old!” He raises his voice too, because otherwise he knows he’ll cry.

“Yeah, like you were so bloody quick to find me when you did have that choice. Didn’t give a damn then, and I don’t believe you do now. You just want to get your holy street cred for saving me.” Her voice, already naturally raspy, is pure gravel. “After you dropped your collar I thought I’d give this a go, because maybe you actually do give a shit. But no, bloody fucking course. I’m a moron, and you’re still the same holier-than-thou son of a bitch you were before.”

He starts to speak. She lifts her voice even higher. “Let me finish, because you need to hear this. No matter what you do, we come from the same place, are the same, and will be the same. The only difference between you and me is I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not. And I know I’m a failure.”

Something lands square in his chest. He reaches out a hand. “Ellen. Ellen, you’re not—”

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, so hard it folds her in on herself against the skirting board.

His ears ring. He wants so badly to do something—anything, to comfort her, because beneath the pain she just threw at him is the old thread that’s always tied them. For a second he isn’t here. He’s ten years old and she’s six; he’s calming her as she cries; he’s eight, giving her the bigger half as his stomach aches; he’s four, he’s seeing her for the first time, purple and loud, and already furious with life.

Ellen’s breath is ragged and vicious. She’s curled on her side against the skirting board, pitch black hair in her face, one hand fisted in the hem of her shirt like she needs it to keep from shaking apart.

He doesn’t touch her. He wants to. His hands burn with it. But he lowers himself to the floor an arm’s length away, cross-legged, palms open on his knees like Farah taught him. Name five things. He tries, and the words tangle.

“Lamp. Amp. Setlist. Router light. Your—” he lists under his breath, and throat snags. “Your nail polish.”

“Shut up,” Ellen spits, face to the skirting board. “Just shut the fuck up.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I hear you, I’m sorry.”

“You left me,” she spits again, softer only because there’s less air behind it. “You left.”

“I hear you,” he manages. His voice comes out scraped thin. “You’re right. I didn’t come find you when I could have. I hid— in the band, then when that collapsed— in work, in God— because it was easier than knocking on your door, and risking — this.”

She laughs, cruel and small. “Congratulations. Confession accepted. Penance five Hail Marys.”

His mouth shakes. He looks at the router light because looking at her feels like pushing. In for four, out for six. It doesn’t help much.

“You left me,” she says again, softer, and it lands harder.

“I know.” The words wobble. He swallows. “And before that—before they took us—I left you in other ways. I—”

“Don’t you dare tidy it.”

“I won’t.” He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, annoyed at himself for leaking. “When he got angry I stepped in. I said it was me. I said I did it. I learned how to make you go quiet so they’d forget you were in the room.” His breath hitch-climbs. “It didn’t always work.”

Her shoulders flinch. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.” Tears slip anyway. He hates that they do and can’t stop them. “You were six.”

“It doesn’t buy you anything,” she says, staring at the skirting board. “You don’t get a medal because you played hero. You’re still doing the bit — bloody Saint Paul of Manchester.”

“I know I don’t.” His voice frays. “It’s not a defence. It’s… the bit I never said out loud.”

He makes himself say it plain. His voice cracks, and his eyes sting.

“I learned the sound of his key in the door,” he says. “How hard it hit the wood told me what kind of night it was going to be. If it was the bad kind, I’d knock something over before he found you. Spill something. Drop a plate. Give him a reason to look at me.”

Ellen shuts her eyes. He goes on.

“I told teachers I fell. I told the GP I was clumsy. I kept you out of the kitchen after six. I put you in the cupboard with the hoover when he started shouting, told you we were playing hide-and-seek.” His mouth pulls. “You always won.”

She makes a small, furious sound.

“I nicked coins from the jar, and bought bread,” he says. “Half for you, half for me, then I’d tell you I wasn’t hungry so you’d eat mine as well. On Saturdays I took you to the library because it was warm and free and nobody asked questions if we stayed till closing.”

He swallows. “When Social came, I let them think I was the problem because I thought it would make it easier for you. I didn’t fight hard enough to keep us together. That’s on me.”

Silence. The radiator ticks as it cools.

“Sometimes I froze,” he adds, voice thinner. “Sometimes I hid in the stairwell and listened to the wall, and waited for it to be quiet. I’m not telling you I was brave. I’m telling you what happened.” He drags his sleeve across his face, annoyed at the wet. “I did what I could. It wasn’t enough.”

She keeps her face to the skirting board and spits it again. “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t move.

“Fuck you.” Louder. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—”

The words start as knives, and turn to gravel halfway through. She runs out of air, sucks another breath, swings again. “Fuck you,” smaller now, then a rasp, then just sound. Her shoulders go with it. She folds over her knees and shakes. Crumpled on the floor like a used tissue.

Paul stays where he is, cross-legged on the floor, palms open. His own throat’s raw. He breathes with her without saying so—four in, six out—until the room stops tilting.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer. He tries again. “I can get it, and leave it by you. No touching.”

She jerks a nod you could miss.

He gets up slowly, keeps a wide arc, returns with a glass, sets it on the floor within reach, then sits back where he was. She doesn’t take it. Not yet.

“I hate you,” she mutters into her sleeve. “I hate you.”

“I hear you,” he says. His voice breaks on the last word. He clears it. “I’m here.”

“Don’t… fix me...” It comes out shredded.

“I won’t.” He looks at the scuffed toe of her boot instead of her face. “I’m not your priest. I’m your brother.”

That lands. He feels it even if she doesn’t show it.

Her hand creeps out, finds the glass, drags it in. She drinks, coughs, drinks again, puts it down too hard. Water laps over the rim, and leaves a dark moon on the laminate.

Silence. Someone upstairs thumps a door.

“You left me,” she says, quieter now, like confessing to the floor. Her cheek is covered in dust and tears.

He rolls onto his side, shoulder to the skirting board, palm over his eyes. The plaster is cold through his shirt. He tries for breath, and gets a shiver instead. 

Across the room Ellen watches him—a hard, assessing stare like she’s making sure what she’s seeing is real.

“You left me,” she says again, softer. 

“I know,” he gets out. It scrapes. “I did.”

Silence stretches. He drags his hand down, forces his eyes open. “I can’t fix it with words. I can only… be here. Now.”

Her mouth twists. “Being here’s new.”

“It is,” he admits.

She scrubs her sleeve across her face, then jerks her chin at the glass on the floor. “Drink. You sound like sand.”

He tips the glass and lets a mouthful soften his throat, then lowers himself back to the floor. They watch each other across the narrow strip of the floor.

Floorboards near them are scuffed where a chair has scraped the same path for years. The rug doesn’t reach the edges. Fairy lights droop, unlit, one bulb dead three along. Somewhere outside, tyres hiss on wet road, a cat makes that sudden sharp noise that always sounds like an argument.

She lies on her side under the streetlight stripe, mascara smudged, hair a dark snarl against the floor. Up close she’s the mirror that doesn’t flatter: same bones, same stubborn mouth, thinner. She breathes through her nose, wrist tucked under her ribs like she’s bracing. He sits an arm’s length away, cross-legged on the cold floor, palms open on his knees because he promised himself he wouldn’t crowd her. Between them, the glass of water throws a warped reflection of the window. They don’t touch it. They don’t touch each other.

Her bass leans against the amp, strap twisted, a coil of cable coiled less neatly than it wants to be. She breathes through her nose, eyes on him like she’s letting herself believe he hasn’t already vanished.

Time goes thin. The room feels like it could stay exactly like this forever, if no one moves first.

“I can’t be what you want from me,” she says finally. Hoarse. Voice barely there. ”Call it whatever. There’s nothing inside me. Rage is the only thing that makes me move.”

He nods once, like he’s taking an order.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “Not forgiveness. Not a version of you that’s easier to look at. Rage kept us alive. I know what it costs.”

Her mouth twitches. “Don’t flatter yourself into us. You don’t know me now.”

“I’m trying to.” He glances at the bass, at the flat of her thumb, the small shine where a callus has split.

She sighs, starts laughing then cries again “Do you get off on this? I've treated you like shit ever since you came here, and you just keep turning the other cheek.”

He shakes his head. “No. It hurts,” he says, plain. “I don’t get anything out of it. I’m not here to be a saint or a punchbag.”

She barks a laugh that tips into another hiccup of tears. “Then why keep coming back?”

“Because leaving is what I did before,” he says, voice rough. “Because turning the other cheek wasn’t holiness, it was survival. Because we are the same. If you want me gone, say the word and I’ll go. If you don’t… I’ll sit here, and shut up, and fetch milk, and change bulbs, and text before I come. But I’m not here to get off on anything.”

Ellen watches him, and says: “Sit and shut up.” with wide eyes.

Paul stares.

She pushes herself upright, crawls to the bald patch in the middle of the rug, then flops onto her back, arm thrown over her eyes. “Closer,” she says. “Don’t touch me.”

He slides across the boards until he’s a handspan away, and lies down too, palms open on his chest like he’s showing he’s got nothing in them. The ceiling cracks into a map that doesn’t lead anywhere. A car goes by, tyres whispering again. Somewhere a pipe ticks.

They don’t talk.

Her breath hitches now and then, then evens. He tries to make his own small, not matching hers, just less noticeable. Ten-eleven-twelve. A strand of her hair sticks to the corner of her mouth; she blows it away without moving her arm. The glass of water between them catches a slice of streetlight and throws it back up the wall.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispers.

He stops even the careful counting of his breaths. “I won’t,” he says, and means it.

“Good.” Her voice is raw. “Just… don’t talk.”

He nods, though she can’t see it. After a while he risks, very quietly, “Blanket?”

A beat, then the smallest grunt that might be yes.

He reaches back, drags the throw off the sofa, and flicks it so it lands like a border between them, warming without touching. He sets his phone face down, sends Nate a single dot with his thumb— alive, here —and goes still again.

The room settles around them: the radiator ticking down, a siren far off, the fox’s knife-edge yelp swallowed by rain. She breathes, shivers once, stills. He lies there, and lets the floor bite his shoulder, lets the ache in his throat be what it is.

“Paul?” she says at last, so quiet he almost misses it.

“Yeah.”

“…nothing.”

“Fair,” he whispers.

They don’t move. Minutes unspool. When her breathing finally slips into the softer rhythm that means sleep, he stays exactly where he is, eyes on the hairline crack in the ceiling. Once, instinct pulls his hand half an inch toward her—toward the line of her shoulder under the throw—but he catches himself, lets it fall back open on his chest.

She mutters something in her sleep, too quiet and blurred to catch. Just the shape of words, broken by breath. For half a second he thinks it might be his name, but it could just as easily be nothing at all.

The ceiling crack maps nowhere. The glass of water throws back a thin line of streetlight.

He lies there, eyes open, and does not leave.

Chapter Text

Paul wakes with a stiff neck and the taste of dust in his mouth. The floorboards have printed lines into his cheek, his shoulder aches from lying on it too long. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is, only that the air smells faintly of damp plaster and old smoke.

Then he sees her. Ellen, cross-legged on the wide sill, hair a snarl, yesterday’s eyeliner smudged half down her face. The window’s cracked open, rain dampening the frame, and she’s got a cigarette between two fingers like it’s the only thing holding her upright.

Paul pushes himself upright, palms braced on the floorboards. His body protests. He reaches for his phone, thumb fumbling at the screen. The light makes him squint.

One message. From Alec.

Are you safe??

He locks the phone again, sets it face down on the floor. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Ellen exhales smoke toward the glass, the sound thin, like paper tearing. “Bad news?”

Paul scrubs a hand over his face. “Just… Alec.” His voice comes out hoarse.

She hums, not quite curious, not quite dismissive. “What’s he want?”

He swallows. “Asked if I’m safe.” The words feel too big in his mouth, like they might mean more than they say. He doesn’t add what claws at the back of his throat.

Ellen tilts her head, watching him through the smoke. “And you’re scared to answer.”

“I’m not—” He stops, because she’s right. His thumb drags over the phone without unlocking it. If he writes back, it might open the door to last night’s fight all over again. Might be the line Alec finally won’t forgive him for crossing.

Ellen snorts softly, flicks ash into the mug she’s using as an ashtray. “Christ. You look like you’ve been handed a bloody subpoena, not a text.”

Paul doesn’t answer. He presses the phone harder into his palm, as if grip alone can keep everything from slipping. His thumb hovers over the screen, chest tight. He can’t bring himself to open it again.

Ellen exhales another ribbon of smoke, squints at him through the haze. “Answer him. I’m not gonna flip out.”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“If you’re worried I’ll be offended that you're doing it in front of me, you can stop. Save the martyr act for Sunday school.”

Paul doesn’t move.

She flicks ash into the tray, eyes still on him. “Or is it that you’re scared he won’t forgive you?”

“Maybe.” The word comes out before Paul can stop it.

Ellen tilts her head, drags smoke down, then lets it flow from her nose. “If he knows the cupboards and polish, he should understand.”

Paul’s chest twists. He swallows. “I still haven’t told him. Not really.”

She shrugs, flicks ash into the tray balanced on the sill. “Then don’t. No one’s owed that story. Not even him. Nobody’s obliged to carve themselves open just to be loved.”

Paul stares at the phone in his hand, screen glowing faintly with Alec’s name. His thumb hovers, useless. “I want to tell him.” The words come out small, like he’s testing them against the air.

“Hmm.” Ellen doesn’t answer right away. She leans back into the windowframe, smoke trailing past her hair, eyes unreadable. Finally, she says, quieter: “Then that’s different.”

The room holds still. Rain ticks against the glass, softer now. Paul looks down again at the phone, the unread message sitting like a weight. For a moment he feels ten years old, waiting for permission. Then he exhales, slowly, and presses his thumb to the screen.

He types with shaking fingers:

Safe. At Ellen’s. I’m sorry.

The whoosh of the message leaving makes his stomach flip. Ellen glances at him, but she doesn’t comment. Paul sets the phone face-down on his knee like it might burn him if he looks too long.

Minutes drag. Ellen smokes in silence, tapping ash against the tray with the kind of precision that makes it feel like she’s deliberately not watching him. 

Paul keeps his eyes fixed on the floorboards, every muscle in his chest pulled taut. He imagines Alec staring at the screen, jaw tight, deleting draft after draft. Imagines him turning away.

The buzz, when it comes, nearly jolts the phone from his lap. He flips it over, heart hammering.

Good. Just come home when you can. Please.

No anger. No recrimination. Just that word—please— that undoes him more than shouting ever could.

Ellen glances at the look on his face, then turns back to the window, letting him have it.

Paul stares at the message until the letters blur. His thumb hovers, retreats, hovers again. Finally he types a single dot, and hits send—the smallest proof of life he can manage.

He sets the phone down on the floorboards, exhales through his teeth. For a long while he doesn’t move. Then, careful as if crossing thin ice, he shifts closer to Ellen. Not touching. Just less distance. Close enough that if she toppled, he could catch her.

She doesn’t look at him, but she doesn’t tell him to stop either. Just drags once more on her cigarette, flicks into the tray, and lets the smoke drift between them.

When she finally regards him, her blue eyes are red-rimmed, flat in the half-light. For a moment it seems like she’ll say nothing at all. Then, slowly, she brings the cigarette to her lips, takes one drag, and turns toward him.

Her hand wavers once, then stabilizes. She holds the smoke out, the filter tipped just close enough to brush his mouth.

It’s not a dare. Not mockery. It’s the crooked shape her care takes.

Paul bends forward, lips closing around the paper. He breathes in, shallow, the smoke burning his chest like it wants to carve him out from the inside. He lets it go quickly, coughing once. Ellen pulls the cigarette back, sets it to her own lips again, sharing what’s left of the ember like it’s the only language she’s still fluent in.

She doesn’t look at him when she says: “We need to talk about it.”

Blunt, like a door being shut behind them both.

Paul swallows, throat scraping from the drag, and from everything else. His hands twitch uselessly in his lap. “About what?” he asks, though he already knows.

Ellen finally turns her head, eyes catching his. “Don’t make me say it.”

Paul shifts on the floor, knees stiff. “About last night?”

“About last night,” she echoes, voice flat. Her gaze fixes somewhere past the glass, where the rain has started up again. “We tore strips off each other, and now we’re… here. Like nothing happened.”

Paul tries for a laugh but it dies halfway. “That’s sort of our thing, isn’t it?”

Ellen finally glances at him. Her hair’s tangled, her mascara a grey shadow under her eyes, but the look is steady. “Doesn’t mean it works. I don’t… I don’t know how to talk to you without biting.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you without breaking,” he admits back. 

Ellen huffs. She pulls her knees up to her chest, and rests her chin there. “So what, we just keep circling? You worry, I snap, you break, I retreat, we both hate ourselves, back to step one?”

Paul rubs at the back of his neck, stares down at the grain of the floorboards until it blurs. “It’s still talking. That’s more than we used to have.”

She studies him for a long beat. “Does it feel like talking to you? ’Cause to me it just feels like bleeding on the carpet, and hoping for a miracle.”

His throat catches. He wants to say no, to soften it, but he can’t lie to her anymore. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

The rain patters harder against the glass. Ellen looks away, wipes under her eyes with the heel of her hand. “We’re shit at this.”

“Yeah,” Paul says softly. He risks a glance at her. “But we’re still here. Not being here hurts worse.”

That makes her mouth twitch—not a smile, not forgiveness, but something that tells him he isn’t wrong.

The stub burns down to nothing between Ellen’s fingers. She grinds it out in the tray, and leaves it there, the smoke trailing thin as thread.

They end up side by side under the window, backs to the damp sill, as close as possible without contact. Paul can feel the heat of her shoulder like a ghost against his own. The rain outside softens to drizzle, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling.

For a long time neither of them speaks. The streetlight shifts, throwing a faint amber line across the floorboards, catching the ashtray, the empty glass, then goes out. Ellen tucks her knees up, chin balanced there, hair falling forward to hide her face.

Paul draws a slow breath, careful not to let it tremble.

Ellen breaks the silence first, voice rough from smoke and sleeplessness. “I want to meet your copper.”

Paul blinks at her. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she huffs, a broken half-laugh. “But it feels like if I don’t, then I can imagine your life’s perfect now. Untouched. And my… crap won’t get anywhere near it.”

Paul swallows, throat tight. He wants to argue—say his life isn’t perfect, that Alec knows him better than that—but the words knot up. All he manages is a quiet, “It’s not like that. You know that.”

Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t look at him. “Maybe. But let me have the picture a little longer.”

Paul shifts, the phone still heavy in his hand. Ellen notices, eyes narrowing.

“What did he answer?”

Paul startles. “What?”

She nods at the phone. “Your man. What’d he say?”

He hesitates, thumb brushing over the screen without unlocking it. His chest feels too tight. “Just to come home when I can.”

Ellen studies him, then exhales through her nose, wiping the side of her face. “Doesn’t sound like the hanging judge to me.”

They don’t talk about it anymore, and eventually get up. Ellen pulls on a jumper, Paul his coat, and they clatter down the narrow stairwell. The corner shop’s metal shutter is half-rolled, the bell jangling when Ellen pushes through. It still smells of disinfectant and cardboard, lights too bright after the dim flat.

The shelves are thin—instant noodles, multipacks of crisps, cereal in dented boxes. The man behind the counter yawns into his sleeve, radio murmuring the morning news report.

Ellen grabs a carton of orange juice, a packet of custard creams. Paul hesitates, then adds two cheese pasties wrapped in cling film, the kind that sweat in their own pastry.

They carry it outside, sit on the low wall beside the shop while delivery vans splash past on wet tarmac. Ellen rips the custard creams open with her teeth, and hands him one. He takes it, lets the sweetness crumble over his tongue. She gulps straight from the orange carton, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Paul shakes his head, and she snorts.

“You still eat like you’re hiding it from someone,” she says, reaching for another biscuit.

He breaks the pasty in half, steam leaking pale into the cold air, and passes her a piece. “And you still eat like you’ve got something to prove.”

They eat in silence for a bit, vans grumbling past, tyres hissing. A fox noses at a takeaway bag across the road, trots off when a lorry growls too close. 

They’re nearly back when Ellen slows. Her gaze catches on the row of bins, on the yellow can jutting from the black plastic. Not the same brand, but near enough. It hangs between them like a spectre they both know.

Paul feels his chest seize; Ellen’s jaw tightens. Neither of them says the name. For a moment neither of them speaks at all. The rain patters against metal lids, somewhere above a gull screams like it’s laughing.

Ellen digs in her pocket, flicks out her lighter, and holds it toward him between two fingers. “Here,” she says. Her tone is flat, like she’s offering a cigarette.

Paul blinks, throat tight. “El—”

“Take it.”

The metal presses cool against his palm when he does. He turns it over once, twice, thumb catching on the wheel, not sparking it. The weight feels wrong and right at the same time.

Paul feels his lungs go tight, old dust rising in his throat. Ellen doesn’t look at him; she just digs into her pocket, pulls out another half-spent lighter, rattles it, then tips the last of its fluid across the rim of the bin. The sharp tang cuts through the drizzle.

She points to the other lighter—the one she gave him earlier—holding her finger out like a dare. “Go on.”

He stands still.

“Just do it.”

The bin hisses when the flame touches. A brief, sharp bloom of fire crawls over the rim, flares, then dies back to smoke. The yellow can blackens, curls. They watch until the rain smothers it, leaving only the charred husk of the can, the ghost of the smell hanging in the damp air. Rain spatters into the bin, muting what’s left.

Ellen tucks her hands into her jacket pockets, as if nothing happened. “There. Gone.”

Paul stares at the smoke thinning to nothing, lighter still warm in his hand. He nods once, more to the air than to her. “Yeah.”

But from the way she won’t meet his eyes, he knows she doesn’t believe it either.

The husk in the bin still smokes faintly when Ellen exhales, and sits down on the curb.Paul sits down beside her, the kerb slick under his palms. For a while they just stare at the blackened curl of the tin, black cloud bleeding into the rain.

He can’t help himself.

“Do you—” his throat catches, and he forces it out softer, “Are you still in contact with Dave?”

Ellen barks out a laugh that doesn’t have any humour in it. “Contact. That’s one way of putting it.” She flicks a bit of wet ash off her knee. “Yeah. He shows up sometimes to gigs. Can’t seem to decide if he’s my shadow or my albatross.”

“I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

“Lucky you.” She drags the toe of her boot along the gutter, head ducked. “He’d like you to think he’s still twenty-two and bulletproof. But he’s not. None of us are.”

Paul exhales shakily. “I had no idea he tried to…”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t look at him.

“I thought he would be better off without me.”

Ellen doesn’t answer right away. The rain slicks her hair down where the hood’s slipped back, and she lets it, like she doesn’t care if she gets soaked or if the street swallows her whole.

When she finally speaks, her voice is rough around the edges. “He wasn’t.”

Paul’s head drops forward. He lets the lighter roll from his palm to the ground. “I know that now.”

“You left,” Ellen says, not cruel, not even accusing—just factual. “And he went nuclear. Did the thing he always does. Picked the worst possible way to feel something.”

Paul closes his eyes. His voice is barely audible. “I thought staying would kill me.”

“That’s the bitch of it,” Ellen mutters. “Sometimes it still does.”

She lights another cigarette, or tries. The lighter sparks but doesn’t catch. She tries again. On the third strike, it flares. She breathes in like it hurts. Offers it without looking.

He doesn’t take it. “He write anything after?”

Ellen exhales smoke out her nose. “A few things. One good. The rest…” she shakes her head. “Half-ripped demos. Stuff he wouldn’t even let me touch. I think he wanted to burn out before anyone got to hear it.”

Paul nods. It’s not a surprise. It’s not even a new hurt. Just one that never quite scabbed.

“Did you think about calling me?” he asks. He doesn’t look at her.

“Yeah.” Ellen presses her thumb to the filter, then looks at the smear of ash it leaves on her skin. “Every time he spiralled. Every time he got close to something real again. Every time he didn’t.”

She flicks the ash off her sleeve. “But I figured you’d made your choice. And it’s not… all on you. He has his own head.”

Paul swallows hard. His voice cracks on the edge of it. “I thought if I came back, I’d just wreck him more.”

“You might’ve,” she says, not unkindly.

The bin has gone quiet now, smoke snuffed out by the rain. The ghost of the flame lingers only in the tight twist of Paul’s gut.

Eventually, Ellen speaks again, softer now. “He said once that you were the first thing that ever made him feel seen.”

Paul’s breath catches. “He never said that to me.”

Ellen shrugs, cigarette nearly down to the filter. “He wouldn’t. You know him.”

“Yeah.” Paul digs his fingers into the damp curb. “I do.”

She finishes the last drag and stubs it out on the pavement. “You should talk to him.”

Paul shakes his head. “I don’t even know if I could find him.”

“He’s not hiding,” Ellen says. “He’s just… dunno. Crawling through everything.”

Paul runs his hand through his face. Ellen looks at him.

“Were you actually… shagging? Or… something? I could never tell.”

Paul laughs weakly. “Neither could I.”

“Huh.”

“We kissed on stage all the time. And then we kissed off stage. And it was half-joke, a dare, and part-something else. He was my best mate, trailed behind me since high school calling me ‘prophet’. “

He grips his hair to distract himself from the hurt in his chest as he speaks. 

“I didn’t love him, but I also did. We made out all the time, always ready to call it a joke, and never crossed that line. For years. And then when I spiralled I wanted to be wanted by anyone. I went to whoever. Any person who was willing.” He bites his lip, reluctant to get the next words out.

“Then one night after a show we got so pissed it’s all a blur. But I remember I wanted to feel anything, and he was there ready to give it to me. Figured after all our wild shit on stage it would be rough, and a storm, and just as hurtful as I thought I deserved. But. It wasn’t. He was so fucking gentle, my God.” 

He hides his mouth in his hands. 

“I woke up, and he held me like I was something precious, while all I could feel was what a parasite I was. Like I—“ he trails off.

“—like I’d conned him into something,” Paul finally mumbles into his palms. “Like I’d tricked him into thinking I was worth it, even for one night.”

He drops his hands, but doesn’t look up. Just stares at the curb, the smear of ash, the water threading through the gutter like veins.

Ellen doesn’t speak right away. She sits back down beside him, knees angled outward, elbows on thighs. She doesn’t light another cigarette.

“I remember that day,” she says eventually. “Not the show, but the way he came back in, in the morning, quiet as anything. Didn’t talk. Just made himself a cup of tea he never drank, and sat by the window like a statue.”

Paul makes a sound—something between a nervous laugh and a choke.

“I thought you’d had a row,” Ellen says. “Didn’t realise he was grieving something you hadn’t even let yourself feel.”

Paul presses the heel of his hand to his eye, hard. “I left two days later.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Ellen picks at a fray in her sleeve. “He didn’t either. Just showed up to rehearsal like nothing had happened, played like he wanted the strings to bleed.”

Paul shudders. “I thought if I let myself stay, I’d do something worse. I couldn’t look at the disappointment in everyone’s faces.”

He draws his knees up like he needs to keep something from falling out.

“And now—now I’ve got this whole new life, and I don’t know what to do with the ghost of him still living in my lungs. I don’t even know if he hates me. Or if he—”

He breaks off, can’t say still cares, can’t let himself hope.

Ellen finally moves, reaches over and places a hand close to his, on the pavement. “You didn’t ruin him.”

Paul doesn’t answer. He feels the warmth of her hand, haunting his.

“And maybe he didn’t ruin you either.”

Paul stares at their hands, millimetres from each other. His voice comes out small. “He deserves better than silence.”

“Then don’t give him that,” Ellen says. “Write. Call. Send a carrier pigeon. I don’t care. Just don’t keep pretending he’s already lost.”

The streetlight flickers above them, rain gone now, just the shimmer of wet concrete. The bin has stopped smoking. The lighter in Paul’s pocket feels heavy and necessary.

Paul finally asks, hoarse, “What would I even say to him?”

Ellen shrugs. “Start with ‘Hi, Dave.’ Then tell the truth, for once.”

He lets out a long breath, wet with memory. “He hated it when I did that.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “But he also always listened.”

Paul leans back, stares up at the sky gone pale with clouds. “I don’t even know if he’d pick up.”

“Then leave a message. And if he doesn't, that's his choice and his right.”

They sit there a few minutes more. The bin is just a bin again. The rain’s eased into mist.

Paul speaks quietly, half to himself. “He called me prophet. And I just kept leading us into deserts.”

Ellen sighs. “Stop with bible stuff. You’re not in the desert anymore.”

He doesn’t say no.

They sit. Cars trail by on the street behind the corner. An alarm rings out somewhere far away. Ellen sighs again.

“You should go back. He’s waiting.”

Paul shifts, thumb worrying the lighter warm in his palm. “What about you?”

She arches her brow. “What about me?”

“Will—” His voice hitches. He clears it. “Will someone be here? If you need.”

Ellen snorts, but it doesn’t quite land. “I’ll call Jamie. He owes me anyway.”

Paul doesn’t answer. He isn’t sure if he should ask who Jamie is.

Her jaw sets. With a groan, she drags out her phone, thumbs quick, screen glow stark in the morning light. “There. Texted him. Happy?” She tips it toward him so he can see the sent message: come over. then shoves it back in her pocket. He nods, but it doesn’t sit right in his chest. Still—he won’t push. Not now.

They walk back to her flat in silence. On the pavement outside, they pause. Paul lingers like he wants to say something else, but can’t shape it.

“Go on. Before the neighbours start giving me looks.”

Ellen lifts her hand. For a second it just hangs there, uncertain. Then, almost like muscle memory, she curls in her fingers until only her smallest stays out. Pinky crooked, exactly the way she used to demand promises decades ago. 

Paul freezes. His throat aches as he slowly hooks his own finger through hers, just for a heartbeat. Warm skin against warm skin, fragile and strange, and achingly familiar.

Then she pulls back, shoving her hands into her pockets like nothing happened. “Go on,” she mutters. 

And then he turns, the lighter heavy in his pocket, and walks away.

Paul fits the key into the lock as quietly as he can, half-hoping, half-dreading that the place will be empty. The door gives with its usual soft click. Shoes in the hall. Jacket slung over the chair. He stops.

“Alec?”

From the sitting room, quick footsteps, and then Alec is there—hair mussed, shirt untucked, face tight with worry. He starts forward fast, almost colliding, then brakes hard like he’s hit an invisible wall.

His hands twitch once at his sides. “Can I—” His voice cracks, steadies. “Can I hug you?”

Paul blinks. His throat closes. For a second he can’t get any sound out, and then it breaks loose, raw. “Yes.”

Alec’s arms are around him in an instant, strong, and awkward, and desperate all at once. Paul folds into it, chest heaving, the lighter in his pocket pressing hard against his leg. The smell of Alec—aftershave, wool, familiar sweat—unmakes him. His face finds the hollow of Alec’s shoulder, and the tears come, unstoppable, hot, and humiliating, and needed.

Alec tightens his grip, like he knows Paul might try to slip away even now. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, just breathes, slow and even against Paul’s temple, as if lending him the rhythm.

Paul fists his hands in Alec’s shirt, knuckles aching with it, and lets the sobs shake through him until his ribs hurt. It feels endless, and then it doesn’t—then it’s just the two of them swaying in the narrow hall, Alec’s weight steady against his.

When Paul finally drags in air that doesn’t splinter, Alec leans back just far enough to look at him, eyes sharp with worry but soft around the edges. 

“You’re home,” he says, like that’s the only thing that matters.

Paul nods, throat too thick for words. He doesn’t let go.

Alec smooths a hand once down Paul’s back, and says, “Tea.”

It shouldn’t be a whole sentence, but it is.

Paul nods, scrubs at his face, and lets Alec steer him into the house. His body feels hollowed out, running on the shape of routine. He peels himself out of damp clothes in the bedroom, leaves them folded crooked at the foot of the bed. The mattress dips when he sits, lighter still pressed hard in his pocket like a brand.

From the kitchen comes the sound of the kettle and cupboard, the soft clink of mugs. A rhythm older than the fight, older than words. By the time Alec comes back, Paul’s already pulled the duvet up around his shoulders.

Alec passes him a mug, then climbs in beside him, still in his shirt. They drink in silence, heat soaking into their hands

The world feels narrowed to wool, steam, the ache in Paul’s chest, and Alec’s unchanging presence at his side. For the first time in two nights, he doesn’t feel like he’s bracing for impact.

They continue until the mugs are empty, set them on the floor by the bed. The duvet comes up over their shoulders, the night pressing quiet against the windows. Paul lies curled on his side, face to Alec’s.

Alec’s eyes search his in the half-dark. He asks, low and careful:

“Do you want to talk?”

Paul swallows again, eyes burning though he’s run out of tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Alec’s brow furrows. “For what?”

Paul’s gaze drops, then drags back up. “For yesterday. For the fight. For missing Daisy’s thing, the showcase. For… walking out in the middle of it and making you worry sick.” His breath snags; he presses the words out anyway. “For slipping. For being so bloody weak about it. For not being—” His voice cracks, thin. “Not being easier to love.”

The silence stretches. Alec doesn’t look away. His jaw works, his hand twitching once against the duvet like he’s fighting not to reach out. 

“Paul. You don’t get to apologise for that one.”

Paul presses his knuckles to his mouth, shaking his head. “I don’t want to dump it on you.”

Alec’s brow furrows. “I know it was Ellen’s.” He waits until Paul’s eyes flick up, then adds, quieter, “I’m not angry about that. I just need to know if you’re—” He breaks off, drags in a breath. “I thought… I thought maybe you left because of me. Because of what I said.”

Paul’s eyes fly open. “No.” His voice cracks, fierce through the tears. “No, Alec, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t you.”

“Paul.” Alec’s voice drops, steady but not sharp. “Please. Just tell me if I should be worried.”

Paul’s breath snags. His knuckles press harder to his mouth, until it almost hurts. “I’m here,” he says at last, the words muffled, breaking. He drops his hand, forces himself to meet Alec’s eyes. “I’m here. I’m not—” His throat closes. He shakes his head hard. “You don’t need to be scared about that.”

Alec studies him for a long moment, something loosening in his shoulders but not disappearing entirely. He nods once, small, as though anchoring the words somewhere inside himself. “Alright.” His voice is low, rough. “Alright.”

Paul sags against the pillow, drained, but the knot in his chest eases just enough for him to breathe. He lies very still, watching Alec’s face in the dim spill of the lamp. His own words echo back at him—I’m here—and he feels how thin they are, how much they don’t say.

His hand drifts down from his mouth, finds the sheets, knots them tight in his fist. “There’s… there’s more I should’ve told you,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “About me. About before.”

Paul swallows, throat tight. “When I say I’m sorry, it’s not—it’s never just the day before. It’s years. Whole bloody years.” His gaze flickers down, to the knot in the sheet he’s making with his hand. “Things I never said. Things I still don’t know how to say. That I don’t know if I will ever say.”

Alec’s eyes don’t leave him, patient in the half-light.

Paul breathes in, shaky. “We didn’t grow up safe. Not me, not Ellen. I thought if I could take it, it would spare her. Sometimes it did. Sometimes—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight, tears threatening again.

Paul’s voice frays at the edges, but he keeps going, words pulled up like splinters.

“It got worse as we grew. The kind of nights where you knew before it started that you’d lose.” He forces air through his nose, jaw locked. “When I was ten, there was one… altercation that was the worst of it all. Social came. Took us out. Said it was for the best.”

His fist twists the sheet tighter, white-knuckled. “We got separated. Different houses. Different rules. I told myself it was safer for her. That she’d finally… breathe.” He shakes his head, bitter. “But all I really did was disappear.”

He drags a hand down his face, voice cracking low. “By eighteen I was already drinking. Thought it helped me get loose. Thought it made me forget. By twenty four it nearly killed me. And still I— didn’t stop. I cut off everyone who cared, because I couldn’t watch the hurt in their eyes.” He cuts off, breath shuddering, unable to finish the sentence.

Paul swallows hard, stares at the ceiling like the words might hang there safer than in Alec’s gaze. “I never stopped thinking I should’ve done more. Should’ve fought harder. Should’ve— anything. So when I say I’m sorry, Alec, that’s the weight. It’s not just you I’m apologising to. It’s her. It’s everyone. I can’t stop. I’ve been working on it for years, and I still can’t.”

The words hang there, jagged and heavy, until Paul feels like they might crush him back into the mattress. His chest aches with the effort of keeping still.

Alec shifts only enough to reach across the small space between them. His hand doesn’t land, just rests close on the quilt, open, steady.

“You were a kid,” he says at last. His voice is low, even, like he’s afraid too much force might break the air between them. “You were ten years old. You couldn’t have carried it all. Not for her. Not for yourself.”

Paul drags in a breath, ragged. “I know I wasn’t responsible. Christ, I’ve had it drilled into me by therapists for years—‘not your fault, not your burden, you were a child.’” He lets out a broken laugh, even though none of it is funny. “But it doesn’t stop it sitting in me like marrow, like cancer. Doesn’t stop me waking up, and thinking—if I’d just been stronger—if I’d done one thing differently—”

His fist knots tighter in the sheet, tendons straining. “And she’s still hurting. Still can’t be near me without bristling like I’m fire. We sit in the same room, and it’s like— like touching glass. I can see her, but I can’t reach her. We can’t just…” He trails off, voice fraying. “We can’t just be brother and sister. Not the way we should’ve been.”

The silence that follows is thick, but Alec doesn’t fill it. His hand rests open on the quilt between them, close enough Paul could cover it if he chose, the offer quiet.

“That’s what kills me. Not the past. The fact that it's still now.”

Alec just lies there, watching Paul, breath slow and even, keeping the room open around them.

At last Paul lets go of the sheet. His fingers hover, then land in Alec’s palm, clutching hard like it’s the only solid thing in the room. And when Alec’s hand closes around his, firm and sure, the dam breaks.

Paul folds into him, burying his face in Alec’s chest, arms locking like he’s afraid he’ll be prised away. Alec doesn’t speak, doesn’t move except to hold him tighter, solid as breath. For a long time it’s only the sound of Paul’s shaking, the rough pull of air between them.

Then, muffled against wool, Paul forces words out. “We touched. First time in twenty-six years.”

Alec’s chest rises under him, a pause. His arms tighten—the only answer he gives.

The café’s half empty, windows misted from the rain. Paul sits hunched over a chipped mug, both hands around it though the tea’s gone lukewarm.

Nate slides into the booth opposite, rain still clinging to his jacket. He pushes damp hair back from his forehead, a streak of early silver catching in the light, then nods at Paul’s face. “You look like hell.”

Paul huffs, the sound dry. “Thanks.”

“I mean it kindly. Alive, but hell.” Nate’s voice carries that usual scrape of humour, but his eyes don’t. They crease a little at the corners, older than Paul’s, steady in a way Paul can’t always stand.

Paul stares at the ring his mug has left on the table. “It got bad,” he says finally.

Nate studies him for a minute. “Want to tell me how close it got?”

Paul’s thumb drags across the mug’s chipped handle. He doesn’t look up. “Close enough I thought about… making it stop. Just—stop. Didn’t get further than that, but.” His throat clicks. “Felt too bloody easy, in the moment.”

Nate doesn’t fill the silence. Just waits, eyes on him, patient in that way Paul both needs and hates.

Paul’s breath hitches, uneven. “The fight with Alec. The fight with Ellen. Both in one night. Felt like there wasn’t anywhere left to stand.” He shakes his head, a humourless noise in his throat. “Didn’t even matter who was right. Just… broke something loose in me.”

He presses his knuckles hard against the mug, like it might steady him. “That’s when the thought came. Not dramatic. Just… quiet. Like a door swinging open.”

Nate’s shoulders shift, rain dark on his jacket. “And you didn’t walk through it.”

Paul nods once, sharp. “No. But I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to.”

Nate’s jaw works, but he doesn’t look away. He leans in a little, forearms braced on the table. “And you made it through the drive. You’re here.”

Paul lets out a rough sound, half laugh, half groan. “Doesn’t feel like much.”

“It’s not nothing,” Nate says. His voice isn’t soft, but it lands solid. “Sometimes not nothing is the difference.”

Paul drinks. He can’t bring himself to look at Nate right now.

Nate scratches his neck. “Who can you tell if the thought comes again?”

Paul swallows, throat raw. He wants to look away but doesn’t. “Alec,” he says, voice catching. “You. Farah.” The names feel clumsy, dragged up like stones from water, but they’re solid once they’re out.

Nate nods. “Good. That’s three. That’s a net.” He leans back, peels damp fabric from his sleeve. “So next time it creeps in, you don’t sit in it alone. You pick one. Doesn’t matter which. You call, or you knock, or you just… show up.”

Paul huffs, shaky. “Like it’s that easy.”

“No,” Nate agrees. His gaze softens just slightly, without losing weight. “But it’s a hell of a lot easier than driving until you disappear.”

Paul drops his eyes to the mug, thumb tracing the chipped rim again and again. His chest feels scraped out, but something in him steadies on the rhythm. “I’ll try.”

“Not try,” Nate says. “Do.”

Paul nods, slowly, like he’s trying the motion on. “Alec. You. Farah.” He repeats it under his breath, as though saying it twice might make it stick.

The rest of the meeting feels more like drafting a battle plan than conversation.

The kitchen hums with quiet Saturday sounds— radio on low, boiler rattling, scissors skittering over paper in bright May sun. Paul drags the glue stick across a headline, and feels the familiar flutter in his fingers: not panic, exactly, just that too-bright edge the mornings give him now. He blinks past it. Slow’s not the same as worse. Slow can mean healing.

“Hold still,” Daisy says, leaning across to steal the headline back. “You’re wrinkling the discourse.”

He smiles, lets her, and notices his hand has started that tiny tremor again. He tucks it under the table like he’s only hunting for a cap.

“No, no, that one’s too obvious,” she says, snatching a photo from Paul’s hand before it can hit the page. “This isn’t school art club. This is vision.”

Paul huffs, more entertained than annoyed, and drops the rejected clipping onto the growing discard pile. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because you love me,” Daisy says breezily. “And because you’re the only one with the patience to sit here for three hours cutting up magazines.”

From the doorway, Alec clears his throat softly. “Toast?” he asks, like it’s a question about art direction. 

“Or actual food?” Daisy says, scandalised.

Alec shakes his head. “Toast is a lifestyle.”

Paul huffs. “One I don’t think my arteries could keep up with.”

That earns him the faintest flicker of a smile from Alec as he steps past, brushing his fingers lightly against Paul’s shoulder—nothing showy, just a check-in.

Alec drops slices in the toaster with the gravity of a  surgeon. Daisy rolls her eyes. “See? He’s treating it like it’s a religion.”

“That’d make me the rabbi of rye,” Alec says, deadpan, and pulls the butter from the fridge.

Paul snorts, surprised out loud. The sound earns him a side-glance from Alec—half pleased, half checking if he’s okay. Paul ducks his head back down to the collage before Daisy can notice.

The kitchen smells of bread and glue, warm and faintly chemical. Not lemon, thank God. Magazine scraps sprawl across the table in a messy constellation. Daisy hunches over the collage, one knee up on her chair, glue stick in hand.

Paul blinks at the page too long, waiting for his brain to catch up. Mornings feel like he’s walking underwater lately—Farah says the dose will even out, give it time but ever since he upped it it’s been like this. He rubs his thumb along the table edge, grounding himself in the scrape of wood.

Daisy glances at him, then back at her work. “Need something sharp here.”

He tears a strip of yellow from a page, slower than he means to, and hands it over. “Try this.”

She sticks it down, pleased. “See? You’ve got an eye.”

He manages a smile. “Don’t spread that around.”

Paul’s hand twitches before he picks up the slice. He’s aware of Alec’s gaze on him, careful but not pushing, like Alec’s waiting to see if he’ll eat. The toast tastes of butter, and salt, and something too ordinary to be as hard as it is.

Daisy doesn’t notice; she’s bent over her collage again. Alec does. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for the butter knife, spreads another slice, and sets it quietly on Paul’s plate.

Paul wants to say thank you, but the words feel too fragile in his mouth. Alec understands it anyway.

They migrate to the sofa when the gluey mess starts to congeal. Paul sinks first, a slow fold into cushions, and Alec follows—an arm along the back, the other an easy bracket at Paul’s shoulder. Paul leans, not quite all his weight, just enough to feel bones line up and the quiet in his head tilt warmer.

By the time Daisy looks up, Paul’s head has tipped lazily toward Alec, their legs a tangle under the throw. She stares at them, mock-appalled.

“You two are disgusting,” she declares. “I’m going to get diabetes just from being around you.”

Alec doesn’t look up. “That’s not how diabetes works.”

“Metaphor, Dad,” she says, but her mouth’s already tipping toward a grin.

Paul huffs a laugh that comes out softer than he meant. “We can sit a regulation distance apart if it helps.”

“Don’t you dare,” Daisy says, and flops into the armchair, flipping through a stack of clipped headlines. She doesn’t say anything about how slow he moved getting here, or how he’s still holding the edge of Alec’s jumper like a lifeline. She just sips her tea, eyebrows doing their usual commentary at the telly.

Alec’s thumb finds that absent-minded path at the back of Paul’s neck. The room settles around the three of them: toast crumbs on the table, paper offcuts on the floor, the radio murmuring about showers later. Paul feels the pull of sleep—mornings are all molasses now—but lets his eyes close anyway, breathing in wool and aftershave and the clean, ordinary hush of being exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“Gross,” Daisy says after a minute, without heat.

Alec reaches for the remote. “Film later,” he says.

“Can I pick?” Daisy replies.

“Deal,” Paul murmurs, and lets himself drift, still tucked against Alec, while Daisy pretends not to keep watch.

The quiet holds—radio murmuring, toast crumbs cooling—until Paul’s phone buzzes on the table. Once. Twice. He half-turns, reluctant, but the name lit on the screen still punches through the haze.

Ellen.

Alec’s thumb keeps its slow path at the back of his neck, as if he hasn’t noticed. Daisy doesn’t look up from her stack of clippings. The room stays soft, ordinary. But the shape of her name lingers, sharp as glass shards under the skin.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t reach right away, doesn’t trust his hands. Alec notices—of course he does. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts closer, and finds Paul’s hand, a firm wrap of fingers that anchors more than words could.

Paul breathes once, then reaches with his free hand and unlocks the phone. The message sits there, plain:

you still breathing?

He presses the phone flat to his knee, Alec’s hand still around his own. Paul’s grip tightens before he even realises it. Alec squeezes back.

Across the room, Daisy glances up. “Who’s that?” she asks, too casual to be nothing.

Paul’s thumb hovers, screen already dimming. “Just someone checking in,” he says, automatically, then pauses. He clears his throat, still staring at the phone like it might flare again. “It’s my sister,” he says finally.

Daisy pauses mid-flip of a headline, frowning faintly. “Your sister.” She says it like she’s turning the words over in her mouth.

He nods once, doesn’t look up.

There’s a silence, then: “Is she the girl in that picture? The one on the shelf by the telly?”

Paul blinks. He hadn’t thought Daisy noticed the frame at all—the old photo of two kids on a beach, wind whipping their hair, his arm around a girl who looks half ready to bolt.

“Yeah,” he says, voice catching. “That’s her.”

Daisy leans back in the chair, studying him. She doesn’t press, doesn’t ask why he never mentioned a sister to her before. She just nods, like she’s filed it away somewhere important, and goes back to her pile of clippings.

Alec’s thumb circles his hand once more, and Paul exhales through the knot in his chest.

Daisy props her chin on her fist, eyes narrowing slightly as if she’s still picturing the photo. “Does she ever come down? To see you, I mean.”

Paul’s breath stutters. He looks at the dark screen again, thumb twitching like he might unlock it, then sets it flat on the table instead. “Not really.”

“Why not?” Daisy asks, but her tone’s lighter than the words—like she’s offering him an out if he wants it.

Paul swallows, manages a thin smile. “It’s… complicated.”

Daisy tilts her head, studies him for a moment, then nods. “Okay.” She doesn’t push, just flicks through the stack of clippings again.

Alec doesn’t say anything either. His hand just stays over Paul’s, solid and warm, and that’s somehow worse and better at once.

When Alec shifts beside him, Paul finally slips his hand free, reaches for the phone. The screen lights his face pale as he unlocks it.

hey. Yes, i’m safe. home right now.

He stares at the message for a long time before hitting send. The whoosh feels louder than the radio.

Alec’s hand settles back over his wrist, thumb brushing once like he understands without needing to read the screen. Paul leans into the touch, eyes shut just for a second, waiting for the reply he knows will come.

Hours slip by. Collage scraps gather in a pile, toast crusts go cold on the counter, and by the time Daisy’s picked a film the sky’s already bruising toward evening. Paul’s phone buzzes once where it’s slipped between the cushions.

He eases it out, thumb hovering before he opens the new message.

been thinking. maybe i could come down for a bit. not see anyone else yet, just. look around. if u want.

Paul reads it twice. The words blur, then sharpen. He locks the screen without replying, tucks the phone under his thigh. Alec’s beside him, eyes on the telly, hand still warm against his own.

On the telly Daisy laughs at something sharp and clever, Alec’s hand stays steady in his, and Paul presses it all down—hope, terror, everything—until the pressure feels like it might hollow him out.

Later, the garden’s damp with late spring, air carrying salt from the sea. Paul leans against the back step, jumper pulled close. The house hums faint behind them—Daisy upstairs with music low, curtains drawn.

Paul clears his throat. “Ellen texted.”

“Mm.” A beat, then, “Good news or trouble?”

Paul huffs something that doesn’t reach the laugh he planned. “Bit of both. She… she wants to come down. To Broadchurch. Not to see you yet—she said that herself. Just… to be here, for a bit.”

He stares at his hands, knuckles pale in the porch light. “I want her to. God, I’ve wanted that for years. But I’m scared too. Scared we’ll—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “End up right back where we always end.”

Alec shifts, comes to sit beside him on the step. His knee brushes Paul’s. He doesn’t push, just asks, quietly, “What do you need, if she does?”

Paul lets out a shaky breath, eyes still on the dark garden. “Someone beside me. Not… physically maybe, but ready that I might call you?”

Alec just nods. “Then that’s what you’ll have.”

They sit a while without saying anything, the garden a dark box of damp grass and hedge shadow. Somewhere beyond the houses the sea hushes at the shingle. The porch light has gone off; a moth bumps the glass once and gives up. Paul tips his head back and finds three stubborn stars through the cloud, enough to count.

Alec looks at the horizon, and stays close. Paul turns toward him, the movement small as a breath. “Come here,” Alec murmurs, and Paul does—leaning in until their foreheads touch, then their mouths. The kiss is unhurried, the kind that doesn’t chase anything except the reminder that they’re here. Alec’s hand comes up to Paul’s jaw, warm, certain; Paul’s fingers curl in Alec’s jumper like they’re anchoring themselves to shore.

When they part, Paul keeps their noses close. “Thank you,” he whispers, and it means more than the moment. Alec answers with a quiet hum, thumb brushing once along Paul’s cheekbone, and for a second the night feels wider than it did.

They sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, watching their breath turn pale in the air. A light goes on in an upstairs window, and the house looks like it’s waiting for them. Alec nudges Paul’s knee. “Come on,” he says, soft. Paul takes one last look at the thin scatter of stars, nods, and follows him inside.

The morning’s bright but cold, the kind that makes the sea look harder than it is. Paul walks down across the shingle, coat zipped high, his breath fogging white. Ellie’s already there, hands shoved in her pockets, trainers crunching at the edge where the tide pulled back.

“Thought you might chicken out,” she says when he gets close enough. Not unkind, just Ellie being Ellie.

Paul huffs, shoulders lifting. “Tempting. But you’d have come after me, wouldn’t you?”

She smirks. “Obviously.” Then, softer: “Glad you didn’t.”

They start walking, not toward anywhere in particular, letting the stones shift under their feet. Paul keeps his hands tucked deep, the lighter a small weight in his pocket.

“Been some time,” Ellie says, tilting her head at him. “You holding up?”

“Trying,” Paul admits. He glances at the surf, bright and restless. “Some days it feels like I’m back on my feet. Some days I’m just… waiting to fall again.”

Ellie nods, lips pressed thin. “Yeah. That’s the deal, isn’t it? Doesn’t mean you’re losing.”

Paul doesn’t answer right away. They walk a stretch in silence, gulls wheeling above them, the wind tugging at their clothes. Finally, he says, “Ellen might come down. She texted.”

Ellie’s brows lift. “That the sister?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I don’t know what’ll happen if she does.”

Paul’s voice comes out quieter than he means, snatched by the wind. “Would you… meet her with me? Not for the whole time, just—pick her up from the station. With me.”

Ellie slows her steps, squints at him. “You want me there?”

He swallows, nods once. “Yeah. Feels like if it’s just me, we’ll… slip straight back into the old pattern. But if you’re there, maybe it won’t. And if it’s Alec she’ll freak out, because it’s too big in her head.”

Ellie hums, thoughtful, kicking at a stone. “So I’m the middle ground. Not Alec-level terrifying, not family-history catastrophic. Just Miller with her big gob.”

“Something like that.”

She glances sideways at him, softer now. “Alright. I’ll come. We’ll get her off the train, grab a coffee, make it normal before it all gets… heavy.”

Paul nods, throat tight. “That’s exactly it. I just… I don’t want one of us bolting before we’ve even started.”

Ellie bumps his shoulder with hers. 

“Alright then.”

Paul tips his head, watching the horizon blur into gray sky. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, but there’s no bite in it. Just the wind, and the gulls, and the space of a promise between them.

Paul stands in the hall, fiddling with the zip of his jacket like it might buy him more time. His bag’s already by the door—pointless, really, since he won’t need it—but the act of packing it felt like armour. Ellie waits beside him, scarf looped twice against the sea chill, tapping her keys against her palm with an ease he doesn’t quite share.

Alec lingers near the kitchen doorway, arms folded tight across his chest. He hasn’t said much all morning, just kept moving around them like he’s trying not to crowd. But now, as Paul bends for his shoes, Alec speaks.

“You’re sure about this?” His tone is level, but there’s a thin edge under it, something taut he can’t hide.

Paul straightens, glances over. “No. But I’m going anyway.”

Ellie cuts in before Alec can press further, breezy on purpose. “It’s a train station, Hardy, not a war zone. I’ll be with him the whole time.”

“That’s not what worries me.”

Paul knows what he means—knows it’s not the walk through town, or the station crowd, but what comes after. He steps closer, slips a hand to Alec’s arm, brief but solid. “I can’t not go. She asked, and… I’ve got to try.”

For a moment Alec just studies him, gaze searching. Then he gives a short nod, not surrender but trust, even if it sits uneasily. “Alright. But you call me if you need me.” His eyes flick to Ellie, sharp.

Ellie salutes with the car keys. “Yes, sir. We’ll keep him in one piece.”

That earns her a flicker of gratitude, though Alec’s shoulders stay tight. Paul bends to tie his laces, heart thudding like he’s walking into a test he can’t prepare for. When he straightens, Alec’s still watching him.

Paul squeezes his arm once more before reaching for the door. “I’ll be back.”

Alec nods again, thinner this time. “I know.”

Ellie drives like she always does—one hand loose on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio until she finds something low enough not to demand attention. Paul sits angled toward the window, jacket zipped too high, watching the coastline blur past in streaks of salt-grey and green.

For a while it’s just the hum of the engine and the rattle of loose change in the cup holder. Paul’s thumb worries at the seam of his sleeve, small repetitive motion he can’t stop.

“You don’t have to keep looking like you’re off to your own execution,” Ellie says finally, eyes on the road. Her tone is light, but not mocking.

He huffs, breath clouding the glass. “Feels like it, though.”

“Yeah, well. Different kind of trial. No jury, no sentencing.” She glances at him quick, then back. “Just your sister, getting off a train.”

“That’s the thing.” He laughs briefly.

Ellie doesn’t push. She just lets the silence settle again, softer this time, filled with the splash of tyres over puddles. 

“She said she wants to come. That’s already different, yeah? You’re not dragging her.”

He nods, doesn’t trust his voice. His reflection in the glass looks older, drawn thin by the weeks behind him. He thinks of Alec at the door, the weight of his hand on his arm. He thinks of Ellen’s last text: see you soon.

Ellie shifts in her seat, flicks on the wipers as drizzle streaks across the windscreen. “If it goes sideways, we bail. Get coffee, make excuses, whatever. You won’t be standing there on your own.”

Paul swallows, throat tight. “I know. I just—” He stops, rubs his palm over his face. “The last time we saw each other was… intense. I know most of the things she said she didn’t really mean but…”

Ellie tilts her head, waiting.

“But they stick,” he finishes. “And I see she’s trying, and I’m trying, but I don’t know if it will mend things or just… rip them open again.”

The road curves, wet tarmac gleaming in the drizzle. Ellie takes it easy, one hand loose on the wheel. “Maybe it’s not about one or the other. Sometimes you’ve got to let it open before it can close right.”

Paul lets out a thin breath through his nose. “Sounds like something Farah would say.”

“She’s smarter than you, then.” Ellie glances at him, quick, not unkind. “And she’s right. Doesn’t mean you won’t hate parts of it. Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt. But you’re not walking into it alone, Paul.”

His eyes are fixed on the blurred hedgerows rushing past. His hand drifts to his pocket, feels the faint weight of the lighter still there, and he grips it hard.

The car park is half-empty, puddles shining under weak May light. Ellie pulls into a space without asking, kills the engine. The sudden quiet makes Paul’s pulse louder in his ears.

“Right,” she says, unbuckling. “Last chance to leg it.”

He huffs, but it comes out thin. His hand stays clenched on his knee a second longer before he forces it open. “Wouldn’t get far.”

Ellie leans across, taps the back of his hand with two fingers. Not much, but it steadies him more than he expects. “C’mon.”

Inside, a handful of people mill about, waiting. Paul scans the departure board though he already knows the time, the platform. His throat’s too tight to swallow.

They stand near the barrier, close enough to see the track curve in. Ellie stuffs her hands in her coat pockets, rocking on her heels like she’s just here for a lift. Paul folds his arms, watches the tunnel dark, heart hammering.

The tannoy crackles. Train approaching. He feels it before he hears it, a low rumble through the floor.

Ellie tilts her head at him. “Ready?”

Paul doesn’t answer. His jaw works once, twice. Then he nods, small, like it costs him.

The brakes scream the train to a halt, metal on metal echoing up into the rafters. Paul’s shoulders lock tighter with every second, eyes fixed on the carriage doors as if willing her not to be there.

And then—she is.

Ellen steps down onto the platform, bag strap cutting across her chest. Her hair’s damp at the ends, darker from the rain, curling the way it always did when they were kids and walked home through storms. She’s thinner than he remembers, cheeks hollowed in a way that makes something in him ache. But she’s there. Moving.

She pauses, scanning the crowd. The years between then and now shift and blur—he sees her at ten, barefoot on kitchen tiles; at eighteen, eyeliner thick enough to mask the bruises under her eyes; at twenty, walking away from him with her jaw set like stone. The shapes collapse into the woman standing a few feet away, and for a dizzy moment Paul can’t breathe.

Ellen pushes damp hair back from her face, just the same gesture she’s always had, quick and impatient. Her eyes cut over the platform, searching.

Ellie shifts beside him, shoulder brushing his arm. She doesn’t say anything, just waits until Ellen’s gaze lands on them. It does. And Paul feels it hit like a blow. Recognition first, then something unreadable. Not warmth. Not yet. But not nothing either.

Ellen blinks once, like she’s testing the sight of him against memory. The set of her shoulders doesn’t change. On his elbow Ellie’s fingers close around his sleeve, subtle enough that it’s theirs alone.

Ellen’s eyes flick between them, sharper now. She jerks her chin toward Ellie.

“That him?”

Paul blinks, startled. “What?”

“Your copper.” The word lands flat. “That him?”

Ellie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer, just looks at Paul.

Heat floods his face. “No—this is Ellie. My friend.” He stumbles on the word, like it isn’t nearly enough. “Alec’s at home.”

Ellie raises her brows, lets out a short laugh. “Am I Alec? Christ, I’d have to grow about a foot, grow a beard, and lose my fashion sense. Do I look like a man?”

Something shifts in Ellen’s jaw, not relief exactly, but a loosening. She glances away, shoulders hitching as though she’s bracing herself all over again.

“I dunno. Subjective. Once you’ve been in the scene for so long, you learn to stop assuming.” She shrugs. “Paul used to get taken for a lass all the time.”

Paul rolls his eyes. Ellie glances at him, trying to hide her curiosity.

The train behind them hisses, doors closing, the platform crowd thinning around their stillness. Paul clears his throat, words catching on the scrape of air.

“D’you—want to get coffee? Place across the road’s quiet.”

Ellen shrugs again, still not looking at him. “Sure.”

It’s the smallest concession, but it pulls something taut in his chest. Ellie gives him the briefest nudge with her elbow—go on, lead the way.

Paul nods, swallowing hard, and falls into step beside his sister. Not touching, not even close, but the shape of walking together again after so long feels strange enough to make his skin buzz. They find a booth by the window, rain smudging the glass. Paul fidgets with a sugar packet, the silence running too long.

Ellen stirs her coffee though she hasn’t added anything, then flicks her eyes to Ellie.

“So what’s your deal?”

Ellie raises a brow. “My deal?”

“You babysitting him?” Ellen’s tone is flat, but there’s a shadow of a grin at the corner.

Paul splutters. “Jesus, El.”

Ellie leans back, perfectly dry. “Someone has to. He’s very high-maintenance.”

A short snort slips out of Ellen before she can catch it. “True.”

Paul exhales, tension loosening by a hair. The silence after isn’t sharp—just awkward, unsure.

He tries. “The train wasn’t bad?”

Ellen shrugs. “Same as always. Screaming kids, no legroom. Could’ve been worse.” Her gaze flicks back to him, quick, assessing. “You look… better than I expected.”

“Thanks, I think,” He huffs.

“Not a compliment,” she says, but softer than it might’ve been months ago.

Ellie sips her tea, staying out of it until Ellen glances her way again. “And you’re just… here. For backup?”

Ellie shrugs. “Taxi driver. Buffer, if needed. Call it what you want.”

Ellen studies her for a beat too long, then nods once like she’s filing that away. “Fair enough.”

Paul rolls the sugar packet between his palms until it splits a little at the corner. “I wasn’t sure you’d really come.”

Ellen leans back, arms folded. “I wasn’t either.” The words hang a moment before she adds, quieter, “But here I am.”

Something in Paul’s throat pinches. “Yeah. Here you are.”

Ellen shifts, restless. “Look, about the last time… I don’t—” She stops, starts again. “I was out of my head. Said things I didn’t mean. Not all of them, but enough.”

“So did I.”

Their eyes catch for a second, sharp and unsteady, before they both look away.

Ellie breaks it, leaning her elbows on the table. “Alright. Ground rules. Nobody’s on trial here. You’ve both done that enough. Coffee, normal conversation, then you can cry, or fight, or hug it out later. Deal?”

Ellen’s laugh is a dry puff, but not unkind. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” Ellie corrects.

Paul lets out a thin breath. He nods. “Deal.”

They lapse into lighter talk—the station renovations, the weather, the price of coffee. It’s not much, but it’s more than silence. Each word stretches something between them taut, but not breaking. When Ellen excuses herself for a smoke, Paul watches her through the glass, shoulders hunched, lighter sparking twice before it catches. He presses his hand flat against the table.

Ellie nudges his foot under the booth. “See? She came.”

Paul nods, throat thick. “Yeah. She did.”

Ellen slides back into the booth, smoke clinging faintly to her jacket. She takes a sip of coffee, then sets the cup down with both hands wrapped around it. Her eyes flick to Ellie.

“So. What do you actually do?”

Ellie blinks. “Do?”

“For work. For life. Whatever.” Ellen’s tone is even, but it carries that edge Paul recognises—the not-quite-interrogation she uses when she’s trying to steady herself.

Ellie leans back, unfazed. “Detective Sergeant. Broadchurch CID.”

Ellen’s brows lift, just slightly. She looks at Paul. “You’ve got a type, then.”

Paul shifts in his seat. “El—”

But Ellie cuts in, tone even. “Not his type. I’m divorced, two kids, The only thing Paul and I share is a mutual dislike of paperwork.”

Paul glances at her, caught between gratitude, and something else he can’t name. Ellie meets his look just long enough for it to register before she turns back to Ellen.

Ellen squints. “And Alec?”

Something small passes between them at that—Paul’s mouth quirking, Ellie’s brow tilts—a silent acknowledgement of a man not even in the room, and how much space he takes up in both their lives.

“That’s him,” Ellie says. “The boss. Tall, broody, scowls at everything. Paul’s… found a way of dealing with him.”

Heat crawls up Paul’s neck. He doesn’t look at Ellen, doesn’t look at Ellie either, just focuses hard on the sugar packet under his fingers.

Ellen leans back, arms folded, eyes narrowing like she’s measuring something she can’t quite see. “Found a way,” she repeats, slowly. “Right.”

Ellen stirs her coffee though she hasn’t added anything to it. Her eyes move between them again, slower this time. “Alright. I just need to know who’s who before I walk into it. Too many unknowns, and I bolt.”

Paul clears his throat. “No one’s out to trip you up, El.”

“So, how’d you meet?”

Paul shifts in his seat, thumb worrying the edge of the sugar packet until it bends. “Work. Sort of. Alec’s the DI here. Ellie’s his partner.”

“Partner,” Ellen says in the same tone as her usual hmm. Her eyes flick to Ellie, sharp. “And you just… all happened to make friends?”

Ellie doesn’t bristle. She tilts her head, mouth twitching like she’s heard worse a thousand times. “Not exactly. More like… forced proximity. Small town, big case.”

Paul clears his throat, trying to ease the edge. “And after that, it just… carried on. After a while.”

Ellen’s gaze slides back to him, narrowing a fraction. “Carried on,” she repeats, as if testing the shape of it.

Ellie leans back, unbothered. “He’s hard to get rid of, your brother. Turns out that can be a good thing.”

Ellen lets out a low hmm, stirring a coffee she hasn’t touched. It doesn’t sound dismissive, not exactly—more like she’s filing the information somewhere private, weighing it against the picture she’s been building in her head.

Paul shifts in his seat, uneasy with the silence, but Ellen doesn’t push further. She just lifts the cup at last, takes a sip, and says, quieter, “We’ll see.”

Ellie’s phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen. “Work. I’ll leave you two to it.” She slides out of the booth, squeezing Paul’s shoulder as she passes. “You’ve got this.”

Paul nods, throat tight. He watches her go, then checks his own phone under the table. Two messages sent—one to Nate, one to Alec. Just dots, the shorthand they all know. He slides the phone back in his pocket before Ellen can clock it.

When she comes back in from her smoke, her eyes flick to the empty seat, then to him. “So. Just us.”

“Yeah.”

They don’t linger in the café. The air outside is brighter than he expects, sharp with sea salt and faint tar from the pier. Ellen falls into step beside him, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.

For a while they walk in silence, the gulls overhead filling it. Then she tips her chin toward the town. “So what is all this, then? Broadchurch.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What is it? Not the tourist board version,” she says. “Not the dry stuff you give strangers. I mean—what is it to you? This place. These people. Your life now.”

Paul’s mouth opens, then closes again. He kicks at a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. “It’s… different every day. Some mornings it feels like a second chance. Other days it’s just a place to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But it’s mine.”

Ellen hums, eyes on the sea. “And the cop?”

Paul’s throat works, but he doesn’t look at her. “Part of it,” he says quietly. “A big part.”

“Show me places then. Not tourist crap.”

“What places?”

Ellen shrugs, eyes forward. “You know what I mean. Not tourist bull. Show me the stuff that’s yours. Like… the rock you touched every time on the way to the church or some shite like that.”

He lets out a short laugh. “You remember that?”

“‘Course I do,” she says, a little sharp, like he’s daft for asking. “You’d stop, and tap it like it gave you powers. Drove me mad when we were late.”

Paul’s chest tightens, something caught between fondness and shame. He trails his fingers over the stone as they pass, muscle memory more than choice.

“Didn’t think you noticed,” he says.

Ellen huffs, smoke rough in her laugh. “Couldn’t bloody not, could I? You were always making rituals out of nothing.”

He half-smiles, faint, rueful. “Guess I still do.”

“Good.” She kicks at a pebble, watching it skitter down the pavement. “Better than making ghosts out of nothing.”

Paul swallows, doesn’t answer. The tide shushes against the shore, filling the silence until she says: “Well? You gonna show me or we turning into salt here?”

They cut away from the high street, feet crunching over damp gravel until the harbour opens up. Paul gestures to a battered wooden bench angled toward the water. The paint’s long gone, greyed to driftwood by the salt.

“This is where I end up most mornings,” he says. “Not exactly holy ground, but the gulls don’t mind me.”

Ellen eyes the bench, then drops onto it without ceremony. “It’s bloody uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” Paul admits, sitting beside her. “Guess that’s part of it. Reminds me I’m still here.”

“Sap.”

She sits with him long enough that he almost believes she feels what he means. 

They keep walking, away from the water and up toward the lane that skirts the green. Paul slows at a crooked old ash tree leaning toward the road. Its bark is scarred with initials, half of them already swallowed by new growth. He rests his hand against it, fingers splaying in the grooves. 

“It always made me think of— something I read once,” he says, voice low, careful. “About the name carved into the palm of a hand. Couldn’t forget it, even if you wanted to.”

Ellen glances at him, wary, but he doesn’t look away.

“I know it’s daft to you. But— it stuck with me. Like even when something’s healed over, the mark doesn’t vanish. It becomes part of the tree.”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything. Then she laughs, brash. “Trust you to turn vandalism into scripture.”

Paul’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t argue. Tries to hide the tinge of warmth the fact she still recognised what he was referencing, even though he tried to hedge it. His palm stays flat against the bark until the roughness steadies him.

They’ve drifted past the green, silence padding between their steps. Paul slows at the old iron gate that marks the path into the churchyard. Rust streaks the hinge, same as always. He rests his hand on the bar without meaning to, thumb brushing the same groove he’s touched a hundred times.

Ellen glances at him. “This one’s yours too?”

Paul swallows, gaze fixed on the worn grass beyond. “Yeah. Here’s where he told me. That he loved me.”

Something shifts in Ellen’s expression—surprise first, then something more complicated.

Paul lets out a low breath. “I’d said it once before. When I thought he was asleep. Didn’t know if he’d ever say it back.” He smiles, tracing the iron. “But here, he did. Right here.”

Ellen looks past him, at the churchyard, at the bench under the ash. Her voice comes quieter, almost grudging. “That explains the look on your face.”

Paul huffs, and drops his hand from the gate.

Ellen’s eyes stay on him a moment longer, narrowing. “What kind of weird relationship was that, then? You whisper it like a secret when he’s asleep, he waits until a bloody church gate to say it back?”

Paul’s mouth twists, somewhere between a wince and a smile that doesn’t make it. “Yeah, well. We’re not exactly Hallmark material, El.”

Ellen lifts her brows, waiting.

He sighs, pushes both hands deep into his pockets like he can steady them there. “I said it once when I thought he was asleep, because I was too bloody scared to say it when he wasn’t. And when he finally said it back… it was at that gate. Months later. Because he’s him, and neither of us knew how to get there any other way.”

Ellen shakes her head, a sharp little huff that could be laughter if it had more air in it. “Sounds like a disaster.”

Paul lets out a thin breath through his nose, something almost like agreement. His gaze lingers on the latch of the gate, the way the iron’s worn smooth by years of hands.

“It was,” he admits. “Was a bloody mess at times. Sometimes still is. But it’s also—” He stops, scrapes a hand down his face. “It’s also the truest thing I’ve had in years. Maybe ever.”

Ellen watches him, arms folded tight across her chest. The edge in her expression doesn’t vanish, but it softens enough that she looks less like she’s braced for a fight and more like she’s listening.

“Messy and true,” she says, after a while. “Guess that’s better than respectable and false.”

Paul glances at her, surprised by the concession. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Exactly that.”

They stand in the hush of the lane, gulls crying somewhere toward the harbour. The words don’t fix anything, but they hold—just long enough for Ellen to shift her weight, turn back toward the path.

“Show me the next place then,” she says, brisk, as if to break the moment.

Paul falls into step beside her, chest still tight, but lighter somehow. He's still watching the iron latch when Ellen breaks the quiet again.

“So this Alec,” she says, voice deliberately casual. “He always drag confessions out of you at church gates, or was that a one-off?”

Paul huffs, almost laughs. “One-off. Usually I just nag him until he gives in.”

“Sounds charming.” Her mouth twists. “And you trust him?”

“Yeah,” Paul says without hesitation. “More than I thought I could.”

Ellen nods, slowly, like she’s filing that away, like she needs to hear it in Paul’s own words before she can decide what it means. She kicks a stone off the path, watches it bounce.

After a stretch of silence, she says, quieter, “You didn’t used to tell me things like that. Not about anyone.”

Paul glances sideways at her. “Didn’t think you wanted to hear them.”

“I didn’t. Not then. But you should’ve said anyway.”

“I know. I should’ve said a lot.”

For a moment she looks at him, really looks, and her eyes are sharp but aching. Then she shakes her head like she’s brushing it off. “Alright. Enough with the tragic poetry. Show me the next thing before we start crying in public, and you’ll never live it down.”

Paul scans the path ahead, then nods toward the harbour. “Come on.”

They cut down past the green and out to the quay where the water slaps lazy against the pilings. He stops at a squat iron bollard near the corner—paint chewed off, top polished pale by years of rope.

“This is the stand-in for the rock,” he says. “If I’m coming from the church, I tap it. Once going, twice coming back. Started doing it the first week I moved here, and… never stopped.”

Ellen looks at the bollard, then at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shrugs, half a smile. “It helps.”

He taps it twice with two knuckles. The sound is small and certain.

Ellen hesitates, then reaches out, and gives it a quick, awkward knock of her own, like she’s humouring a child. “There. Blessings upon your bollard.”

He huffs, surprised into a laugh. “Thanks.”

They walk on a little. He points with his chin at the low footbridge over the stream. “That’s the other one. If the day’s gone sideways, I stop in the middle, and watch the water push through. It’s loud enough to drown things out without… you know. Drowning things out.”

Ellen leans against the rail, looking down where light threads through the ripples. “Better than cupboards,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Yeah.” He rests his forearms on the metal, not quite touching her. “Better than cupboards.”

“Any more?” she asks after a beat. “Secret Paul landmarks?”

He tips his head toward the row of shops. “The newsagent where Daisy bullied me into buying the ‘good’ pens. The third lamp on Sea View that buzzes like a wasp. And that bench up there—” He nods at a battered bench facing the water. “Sat there before a lot of things. After some, too.”

Ellen watches him instead of the view. “Alright,” she says, voice quiet but not fragile. “That’s the sort of answer I wanted.” She flicks the bollard a second time in passing. “Even the stupid tap thing.”

He doesn’t correct her. He just falls into step beside her, and they keep walking.

By the time they circle back to the station, the evening’s still holding onto its light, sky stretched pale over the tracks. Paul runs a hand through his hair, nerves twitching more than the breeze does. Ellen’s a half step behind, cigarette packet tapped absently against her palm though she hasn’t lit one.

They reach the platform just as the next train rumbles in, brakes squealing. Ellen slows, her weight shifting like she might turn back, eyes flicking over the board one more time as if it could tell her something she doesn’t already know.

Paul’s chest aches with the pull of it. He wants to reach for her, to close the space, but his arms stay locked at his sides. He’s not sure if she’d accept it, or flinch, or vanish altogether.

Ellen glances at him then, sharp and tired and something else he can’t read. She lifts her hand, not for a shake or a wave. Just her pointer finger, held between them like an old code.

It takes him a second to move, but then he mirrors her, fingertip brushing hers—small contact, almost nothing, but it knocks the breath out of him.

Her mouth twitches, half a smile, half a warning. Then she pulls back, steps onto the train without looking again.

Paul stands on the platform long after the doors slide shut, watching the windows blur as the carriages pull away. The air feels too still around him. He presses his thumb against the pad of his finger where she touched, like maybe the shape will stay.