Disappointment tugs at the corner of my chest — not sharp, just enough to feel it.
I cover it with a nod. “Of course.”
“I could come back after?”
That snaps my gaze to hers. She’s smiling now, a little sly.
“You mean,” I say slowly with a grin, “you’re not completely heartless?”
“No,” she replies, standing on tiptoe to kiss me again, slower this time. “Just occasionally obligated.”
I pull her in, let her lean into me for a moment. Her presence softens the room, like everything settles where it’s meant to the second she walks in.
I rest my chin lightly against her hair and murmur, “So… what does it take to score an invite to this legendary family birthday bash?”
She pulls back, laughing as she looks up at me. “You want to come?”
I open my mouth to give a half-joking answer — something flippant. But nothing comes.
Do I?
“I mean…” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Why not?”
Her smile falters slightly, curiosity flickering behind her eyes. “You’d really want to come to a family do? It’s not glamorous. Cake, sandwiches, a bit of Prosecco if you’re lucky. Lots of shouting over music.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t sound worse than a Ministry meeting.”
She tilts her head. “You’re not joking.”
“No,” I say, slowly now, frowning a little at myself. “I’m not.”
It hits me then — how strange that is. I haven’t gone tomy ownfamily things in years. Not since Mum and Dad passed. Since it all stopped meaning what it used to.
Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. I stopped showing up. Stopped needing to. No one expected it. No one asked.
I look at her. At the way she’s watching me, thoughtful, her hands still gently curved around my waist.
And for the first time in a long while, the idea of being someone else’s guest, being part of something that’s not about business obligation… doesn’t feel suffocating.
It feels… possible. I didn’t see it until now, but I need this. It proves we’re more than “casual”.
“You don’t have to say yes,” she says softly, reading something in my silence.
“I know,” I reply. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
She studies me for a second longer. Then nods once, slow. “Okay.”
And just like that, something shifts between us again — no big moment, no fanfare. Just a quiet step further into each other’s lives.
The sauce starts to bubble behind me. I glance at the hob.
“Right,” I say, reaching for the spoon. “You might want to sit. I can’t promise a culinary masterpiece but I think it is edible.”
She leans against the counter, eyes shining. “This already beats every takeaway I’ve ever had.”
“You know how to praise a man, Stardust,” I reply with a wink. Her laughter fills the space, and suddenly the kitchen doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like ours.
The village hall smells like old wood, lemon cleaning spray, and at least five different kinds of finger food.
