You Were Safer Without Me

~Nathan~

Another aircraft.

Another mission finished.

Another stretch of sky between me and home.

I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes as the transport aircraft began its descent towards RAF Northolt.

All I wanted was a shower, my own bed, and enough uninterrupted sleep to forget what day it was.

Preferably in that order.

Ten days away wasn’t particularly long by our standards. We had done shorter operations that had taken more out of me and longer ones that had somehow felt easier, but this one had dragged. Too many nights with barely any sleep. Too much waiting. Too much time spent watching people who were watching someone else while pretending none of us were watching anyone at all.

At least it was done.

The source was out.

We were coming home.

That should have been enough.

I stretched one leg out as far as the cramped space allowed and immediately regretted it when the muscles in my lower back protested.

Fuck.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen them.

“You look like shit.”

I opened one eye.

Elliot Walker was sitting across from me with his arms folded over his chest and a grin that suggested he was far too pleased with his observation.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I closed my eye again.

There were five of us in Field Detachment Seven.

Dominic Keane was our team leader and, at thirty-seven, had somehow developed the patience required to deal with the rest of us without murdering anyone. He was calm when everyone else was losing their heads, annoyingly difficult to provoke, and had a way of giving an order without ever needing to raise his voice.

Owen Barrett was our medic. Thirty-two, married, sensible enough that I occasionally wondered what the hell he was doing with us.

Jamie Holt was our marksman and breacher. Twenty-eight, competitive about absolutely everything and physically incapable of admitting when someone else was better at something than he was.

Then there was Elliot.

My best friend.

And quite possibly the most irritating bastard I had ever met.

“I’m serious,” he continued.

“I know.”

“Your eyes look dead.”

“Feel dead.”

“You need a drink.”

That got both of my eyes open.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I need a bed.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I like my bed.”

Jamie looked up from whatever he was doing with his phone.

“That sounded sadder than you intended.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned.

Elliot leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs.

“One drink.”

I stared at him.

There was no such thing as one drink with Elliot.

I had known him long enough to understand that one drink meant the first drink before somebody suggested darts, then somebody got hungry, then Jamie decided he could beat everyone at something, and somehow three hours disappeared.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“We’ve been stuck together for ten days.”

“Exactly.”

Owen laughed from two seats down.

Elliot placed a hand dramatically over his chest.

“That actually hurt.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

Dominic didn’t bother looking up from the document he was reading.

“Leave him alone, Walker.”

“Thank you.”

Elliot turned towards Dominic.

“You’re coming too.”

“No.”

“You see?” Elliot looked back at me. “This is why morale is so low.”

“Our morale is fine,” Dominic said.

“It could be better.”

Jamie snorted. “Your morale would improve if someone gave you a pint.”

“My morale would improve if someone gave me six.”

“That,” I said, “is exactly why I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Elliot pointed at me.

“You’re driving.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

I should have known then that I had already lost.

---

By the time we touched down, I had somehow agreed to one drink.

One.

I made that very clear.

Repeatedly.

Nobody listened.

We changed out of anything that would draw unnecessary attention before leaving Northolt. By the time I walked towards the car park, I was back in clothes that actually belonged to me—dark jeans, a white T-shirt and the brown-and-black checked overshirt I’d thrown into my bag before we left England.

I wore it open, the sleeves pushed up along my forearms.

My watch sat heavy around my wrist, and my dark trainers felt infinitely better than boots after ten days.

My Jeep waited where I had left it.

Large.

Grey.

Ridiculously impractical according to my mother.

Perfect according to me.

The lifted Wrangler sat high on oversized black wheels, the grey body broken up by black trim and a heavy front bumper that my mother had once looked at for a long moment before asking whether I was preparing for London traffic or the apocalypse.

I still hadn’t answered her.

I unlocked it.

Four men immediately followed me.

I stopped beside the driver’s door and looked back.

“What?”

Elliot opened the passenger door.

“What do you mean, what?”

“Why are all of you following me?”

Jamie already had one of the rear doors open.

“You agreed to drinks.”

“I agreed to a drink.”

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

Owen climbed into the back.

“You’re the designated driver now.”

“I don’t remember volunteering.”

Dominic walked past me.

“You argued for too long. That counts as consent with this lot.”

Traitor.

Five grown men fitting into a Jeep was technically possible.

Comfortable was another matter.

Elliot claimed the passenger seat before anyone could challenge him, leaving Dominic, Owen and Jamie across the back.

Jamie immediately complained.

“Move your leg.”

“That is my leg,” Owen said.

“I know. Move it.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Would you like me to detach it?”

“Could help.”

Dominic sighed.

I started the engine.

“Everyone alive?”

“No,” Jamie said.

“Good.”

I pulled away.

Elliot had connected his phone to the sound system before we had even left the car park.

Of course he had.

Music filled the Jeep.

Loudly.

I reached for the volume.

He slapped my hand away.

“Driver drives.”

“Driver owns the fucking car.”

“Details.”

I gave him a look.

He turned it louder.

From the back seat, Dominic said, “Walker.”

Elliot lowered it by exactly one level.

I laughed despite myself.

The roads gradually changed as we moved through west London, familiar streets replacing airport fencing and military concrete.

The July evening was still bright, the sun hanging lower now and throwing long shadows across the streets. The upper windows of buildings caught flashes of gold as we passed, while patches of pavement left damp by an earlier shower reflected the fading sunlight.

I drove.

Elliot changed songs every thirty seconds because apparently no song in existence deserved to reach its second verse.

Jamie complained about his choices.

Owen defended one of them.

That somehow turned into an argument about a band none of us had listened to regularly in years.

Dominic told them all they sounded twelve.

I barely contributed.

Not because anything was wrong.

I was simply empty.

The kind of tiredness that settled behind my eyes and into my bones.

My body had made it back to London before the rest of me had caught up.

I knew we were moving through Chiswick because I recognised the area eventually, though I couldn’t have said exactly when I had decided to drive there.

There hadn’t been a plan.

No destination.

Just roads.

Turns.

Elliot’s terrible music.

Then I noticed a pub on the corner, its windows glowing warmly against the slowly fading summer light.

I slowed.

A dark sign above the entrance read:

THE HAWTHORN

“There,” I said.

Elliot looked over.

“There?”

“You wanted a drink.”

He peered through the windscreen.

“Works for me.”

I found somewhere to park.

One drink.

Then home.

That was the plan.

---

The Hawthorn felt welcoming the second I stepped inside.

The place had the kind of atmosphere you couldn’t manufacture by buying expensive furniture and dimming the lights.

Dark wood.

Old photographs.

Deep green walls.

Warm globe lights hanging on long chains from the ceiling.

A broad wooden bar curved through one side of the room, polished smooth from years of elbows, glasses and hands. Patterned tiles framed it against the old wooden floor, and rows of bottles caught the amber light from behind the counter.

The last of the summer daylight still filtered through the windows, mixing with the warmer glow inside.

Framed photographs and prints covered one wall in no particular order.

Some looked decades old.

A few men sat at the bar.

Two couples occupied tables near the windows.

Someone laughed near the back.

There was music playing somewhere, but low enough that nobody had to compete with it.

It smelled faintly of beer, wood polish and whatever had recently come out of the kitchen.

I liked it immediately.

Jamie noticed the dartboard first.

Naturally.

“Oh, yes.”

Owen followed his gaze.

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“You were going to challenge me.”

“I was.”

“No.”

“You scared?”

Owen stopped walking.

There it was.

Exactly the reaction Jamie wanted.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Then play.”

Elliot joined them instantly.

“I’m in.”

“You weren’t invited,” Jamie said.

“I don’t require invitations.”

Within thirty seconds, the three of them were standing near the dartboard arguing about who was going first.

I took one of the stools at the bar but turned myself around so my back rested against the edge of the counter.

Dominic sat beside me.

We watched them.

Jamie had somehow acquired darts.

Elliot was trying to take one from him.

Owen was telling them both to grow up.

“I give it two minutes before one of them gets stabbed,” I said.

“With a dart?”

“Probably.”

Dominic smiled faintly.

Then his eyes moved to me.

I knew that look.

I continued watching the others.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re here, but you’re not.”

I rubbed a hand over my jaw.

“Just tired.”

He didn’t say anything.

I glanced at him.

“Nothing more.”

Dominic studied me for another second.

He had an irritating ability to make silence feel like an interrogation.

Eventually he nodded.

“All right.”

That was one thing I respected about him.

If I said I was fine, he might not always believe me, but he knew when to leave it.

Jamie called across the pub.

“Dom!”

Dominic looked over.

“What?”

“Tell him I’m first.”

Elliot shouted, “Don’t fucking listen to him.”

Owen raised both hands.

“I don’t care anymore.”

Dominic looked at me.

I grinned.

“Go lead your men.”

“Apparently that’s what I’m doing.”

He stood, crossed the room and took the darts straight out of Jamie’s hand.

Then, without saying a word, threw first.

The dart landed close enough to the centre that Jamie immediately started protesting.

I laughed.

“Cheating bastard,” Elliot called.

Dominic calmly reached for another dart.

Then I heard it.

A laugh.

It came from somewhere behind me.

Not loud.

Not deliberate.

Just completely unrestrained.

The kind of laugh that reached the corners of someone’s eyes and pulled tears from them.

I turned towards it.

And forgot what Elliot was shouting about.

She was behind the bar, several metres away.

Laughing at something an older man seated on a stool had just told her.

For a second, that was all I saw.

Her face.

Christ.

She was beautiful.

Not in the polished, deliberate way I was used to noticing when someone wanted to be noticed.

There was something softer about her.

Something alive.

Her hair was almost black, thick and absurdly long, falling around her shoulders and down her back in loose, heavy waves. A few strands framed her face.

Her eyes were dark.

From where I sat, almost black.

Her lashes were so thick I noticed them even at a distance.

The older man beside her wore a faded baseball cap with FALKLANDS VETERAN — 1982 stitched across the front.

“I’m telling you, Rosie, it was pitch bloody black.”

She wiped beneath one eye with the back of her hand.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“George.”

“I swear on Tillie.”

That only made her laugh harder.

I found myself smiling without knowing the story.

George leaned an elbow against the bar.

“There I was, twenty-one years old, hadn’t slept properly in God knows how long, and I see this shape standing there in the dark. Upright. Completely still. Thought it was the bloody captain.”

The girl pressed her lips together, already failing to keep from laughing again.

“So I straighten up. Properly. Best bloody salute of my life.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

George looked offended by the question.

“A coat.”

Her mouth fell open.

“A coat?”

“Someone had hung the bastard thing over a bit of equipment. Hat on top and everything.”

She stared at him for half a second.

Then dissolved.

“George! Really?”

“I stood there saluting it.”

She bent forward over the bar, laughing so hard she had to put the glass she was polishing down before she dropped it.

George was laughing too now.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long?”

“Long enough for three men to see me.”

She covered her face.

“Oh, no.”

“One of them laughed at me whenever he saw me, for the next six months.”

Another tear escaped her eye.

She wiped it away.

I should have turned back around.

I didn’t.

She picked up the cloth again, still smiling to herself, and finished polishing the glass before placing it on the shelf behind her.

That was when I properly noticed what she was wearing.

A loose white open-knit cropped top fell over a fitted white vest beneath it, the knit wide enough that the simple layer underneath showed through. The sleeves were long and relaxed around her wrists.

A long leopard-print skirt started high at her waist and fell almost to her ankles, moving around her legs whenever she stepped.

Black platform Converse were visible beneath the hem.

It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did.

It did.

She reached for another glass.

Then turned.

Towards me.

Our eyes met.

She stopped.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that I noticed.

One long second passed.

Then another.

Colour slowly rose into her cheeks.

Interesting.

Her gaze dropped briefly before coming back to mine.

And she smiled.

Fuck.

That smile.

She walked towards me.

I turned properly towards the bar before she reached me, resting one forearm against the polished wood.

“Evening,” she said. “What can I get you?”

Her voice was warm.

Soft, but not shy.

Up close, her eyes weren’t black.

Dark brown.

Deep enough that they looked almost black until the light caught them.

And those lashes were ridiculous.

I realised I was staring.

“Just an alcohol-free lager, please.”

“Sure.”

She gave me another small smile.

“Coming right up.”

Then she turned away.

I watched her go.

Apparently ten days without proper sleep had destroyed my ability to behave like a normal human being.

Behind me, somebody cheered.

I had completely forgotten there were four other men in the building.

She returned less than a minute later and set the drink down on a coaster in front of me.

“There you go.”

“Thanks.”

She looked directly into my eyes when she said it.

Not past me.

Not towards the next customer.

At me.

Then she smiled again.

My brain, which normally worked perfectly well around women, apparently decided to stop functioning.

By the time I smiled back, she had already turned away.

I watched her for a moment.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I picked up my drink.

Cold.

Alcohol-free.

Exactly what I had asked for.

I took a sip.

George was still at the other end of the bar.

She moved back towards him.

He pushed his empty glass an inch in her direction.

She immediately shook her head.

“Nope.”

George widened his eyes innocently.

“I haven’t asked for anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

He grinned.

She picked up his glass.

“That’s enough for tonight, George. What’s Tillie going to say?”

George gave a deep sigh as if she had just ruined his entire evening.

“Tillie doesn’t need to know everything.”

“She will when you walk through the door.”

“Traitor.”

She smiled.

George slid off the stool and reached for the light jacket he had draped over the back of it.

“That’s why you’re my favourite, love. Always know when to send me home to my Tillie.”

Her expression softened.

“You get home safely.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“George.”

He chuckled and pulled his jacket on.

“I’m going.”

She watched him head towards the door.

There was something about the way she did it that held my attention.

She didn’t simply glance after him.

She followed him with her eyes until he reached the entrance, like a mother watching a child cross the road alone for the first time.

George opened the door.

Warm evening air drifted briefly into the pub, carrying the faint sounds of traffic and voices from outside.

He lifted one hand towards her without turning fully around.

She lifted hers back.

Then he disappeared into the lingering summer light.

When she turned towards the bar again, her eyes found mine.

I smiled.

She smiled back.

And there it was again.

That strange little hit somewhere in my chest.

Not unpleasant.

Just unexpected.

I took another drink.

Dark eyes.

Long lashes.

Beautiful smile.

Apparently my brain had decided those were the three most important facts in existence.

A hand hit me between the shoulder blades.

Hard.

“What are you doing?”

I jolted forward slightly.

“Fuck’s sake.”

Elliot dropped onto the stool Dominic had abandoned.

“You playing?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Can’t be bothered.”

He stared at me.

I kept my face neutral.

His eyes narrowed.

My gaze betrayed me.

It moved past him.

Straight towards her.

Elliot followed it.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Oh, no.

“Ah, I see.”

I looked at him.

“Don’t.”

“Can’t be bothered.”

“Elliot.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Right.”

I nudged him hard with my elbow.

He laughed.

“Fuck off.”

“What? I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

He turned towards the bar.

I caught his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering a drink.”

“No, you’re not.”

He looked down at my hand.

“I’m thirsty.”

He raised his hand.

I considered physically dragging him off the stool.

Too late.

She saw him.

And came over.

“Hi,” she said. “What can I get you?”

Elliot smiled like the absolute bastard he was.

“Pint of lager, please.”

“Sure.”

“And—”

I kicked his foot.

He ignored me.

“—if you could add your number for my friend here, that would be great.”

Her eyes widened.

I closed mine.

“Jesus Christ.”

When I opened them again, she was looking at Elliot.

Then at me.

Her cheeks turned pink.

A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

Elliot looked unbearably pleased with himself.

“Ignore him,” I said.

She bit back a smile.

“I’ll get your drink.”

Then she turned and walked away.

I looked at Elliot.

“You’re a dick.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No, because apparently a man who can walk into places with people shooting at him has forgotten how to speak to a woman.”

“I spoke to her.”

“You ordered a lager.”

“That counts.”

“It does not.”

She returned with his pint.

Placed it in front of him.

No paper.

No number.

Nothing.

Elliot looked beside the glass.

Then under the coaster.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Anything else?”

“No,” I said immediately.

Her eyes moved to mine.

That little smile returned.

“Enjoy.”

Then she walked away.

Elliot watched her for a moment.

Then turned towards me with exaggerated sympathy.

“What can I tell you? I tried. You’re not her type.”

I laughed despite myself.

“Fuck you.”

He took his pint and stood before I could elbow him again.

“You’re welcome!”

I shook my head as he went back towards the dartboard.

Idiot.

I took another sip of my drink.

I had barely touched it.

That was fine.

I wasn’t there for the beer anymore.

For the next hour or so, I found myself watching her whenever I thought I could get away with it.

Not constantly.

I still spoke to the others.

Still laughed when Jamie accused Dominic of cheating.

Still watched Owen land a dart badly enough that Elliot nearly fell over laughing.

But my attention kept drifting back towards the bar.

Towards her.

She moved easily through the place, clearing glasses, taking orders, talking to customers she clearly knew by name.

She laughed often.

Not that same helpless laugh George had dragged out of her, but small ones.

Easy ones.

She seemed to know everyone.

And everyone seemed to know her.

A man at one table said something as she passed and she leaned down to hear him better.

An older woman near the window reached for her hand briefly as they spoke.

She smiled at both of them.

Warm.

Open.

There was nothing forced about it.

Then she stepped around the end of the bar to collect glasses from a nearby table.

My eyes followed her.

And that was when I properly registered the rest of her.

Holy fuck.

The long skirt didn’t hide nearly as much as I had initially assumed.

Her waist was narrow beneath the cropped knit.

Her hips weren’t.

Neither was her arse.

She had the kind of body that made a man’s thoughts change direction without asking permission.

Soft.

Curved.

Feminine.

Very fucking sexy.

I looked back at my drink.

Christ.

I had known women in plenty of countries.

Met them in bars.

Hotels.

Restaurants.

At parties.

Some had become one night.

Some two.

A few had turned into short relationships that never became serious enough for either of us to pretend they were going anywhere.

I liked women.

I enjoyed sex.

I had never had much difficulty approaching someone I wanted.

Usually, if I was attracted to a woman, I knew exactly what I wanted from the situation.

And usually I knew how to get there.

With her?

I could have flirted.

Could have waited until the end of her shift.

Could have turned on whatever charm Elliot insisted I possessed and tried to get her into my bed.

The thought crossed my mind.

Of course it did.

I was not fucking dead.

But almost immediately, something in me rejected it.

Not her.

Not like that.

I didn’t want one night.

And that was strange considering I didn’t even know her name.

I wanted to know why George seemed so fond of her.

What made her laugh like that.

Whether her eyes looked as dark outside this lighting.

What she did when she wasn’t standing behind this bar.

What she sounded like when she was angry.

What she ate for breakfast.

Ridiculous things.

I barely knew the woman.

Yet somehow approaching her had become infinitely more difficult than trying to take her home would have been.

That was embarrassing.

I stared at the coaster beneath my glass.

Go talk to her.

Simple.

I looked up.

She was speaking to another customer.

Fine.

In a minute.

A minute passed.

Then another.

I did absolutely nothing.

Pathetic.

Eventually Jamie appeared beside me.

“We’re heading out.”

I checked the time.

Longer had passed than I realised.

“Already?”

He stared at me.

“You wanted one drink.”

“Right.”

That had been me.

Apparently.

Dominic was pulling on his jacket.

Owen had his phone out, probably messaging Allison.

Elliot was finishing whatever remained in his glass.

I turned towards the bar.

She was behind the till.

I lifted my hand slightly to get her attention.

She saw me and came over.

“You ready to settle up?”

“Yeah. All five, please.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“All five?”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“Or responsible?”

I smiled.

“Unfortunately both.”

She smiled back.

“I’ll get it.”

She went to the till.

I watched her print the receipt.

Then she did something with her hand beneath the counter that I couldn’t see.

A few seconds later she returned.

She told me the total.

I pulled the notes from my wallet and handed them over.

She took them.

Then held out the receipt.

There was another piece of paper with it.

Smaller.

Folded once.

I looked down.

A phone number was written across it.

For a second I simply stared.

Then I looked up at her.

She was smiling.

“For you,” she said.

Her eyes flicked towards Elliot.

She wrinkled her nose.

“Not your friend.”

I laughed.

Across the room, Elliot immediately shouted, “I heard that!”

Her cheeks flushed.

She gave me one more smile before turning away to deal with someone waiting farther down the bar.

I unfolded the paper again.

A number.

Her number.

I pulled out my phone.

Elliot appeared over my shoulder.

“Well?”

“Go away.”

“She gave it to you, didn’t she?”

I turned slightly so he couldn’t see.

“Fuck off.”

“That means yes.”

“Car,” Dominic called from near the door.

I opened a new contact.

Then stopped.

I didn’t know her name.

Fuck.

I looked towards the bar.

She was speaking to a couple at the other end.

I could call her over.

Ask.

“Nathan!”

Jamie.

“Some of us would like to get home before breakfast.”

I looked at the empty name field.

Then typed:

The Hawthorn

Saved.

Temporary.

I’d ask her when I messaged.

If I messaged.

Who the fuck was I kidding?

I was going to message her.

I put my phone away and followed the others towards the door.

Just before I stepped outside, I looked back.

She had come around the bar again and was standing beside one of the tables, talking to a customer while gathering two empty glasses.

Her back was partially towards me.

My eyes dropped.

Straight to the curve of that leopard-print skirt.

Fuck.

That arse.

I dragged my gaze back up before I embarrassed myself completely.

As if she felt me looking, she turned her head.

Our eyes met across the pub.

She smiled.

I smiled back.

Then Elliot shoved the door open beside me.

“Are you coming, Romeo?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I followed them outside.

The door closed behind me, leaving the warmth and laughter of The Hawthorn behind as we stepped into the soft July evening.

The sky still held the last traces of daylight above the rooftops.

A folded piece of paper sat safely in my pocket.

And somehow, despite every exhausted muscle in my body screaming for sleep, I suddenly didn’t feel nearly as tired as I had two hours ago.

By the time I pulled away from The Hawthorn, Elliot had already started.

“So.”

I kept my eyes on the road.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re going to.”

From the back, Jamie laughed.

“He’s got you there.”

Elliot twisted in his seat to look at the others.

“Did you see her give him the number?”

“Yes,” Owen said.

Dominic sounded bored. “The entire pub saw.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

“Can we talk about literally anything else?”

“No,” Elliot said.

“Great.”

He turned back around, still grinning.

The folded piece of paper in my pocket suddenly felt much more noticeable than a folded piece of paper had any right to.

I had her number.

I still didn’t have her name.

That seemed ridiculous.

“You saved it, didn’t you?” Elliot asked.

I glanced at him.

“What?”

“Her number.”

“Why do you care?”

“That means yes.”

“Christ.”

“What did you save her as?”

I said nothing.

His head slowly turned towards me.

“Nathan.”

“Leave it.”

“You don’t know her name.”

Jamie barked out a laugh from behind us.

“Oh, that’s fucking brilliant.”

“Fuck all of you.”

Elliot was laughing now.

“What did you put? Hot Pub Girl?”

“No.”

“Leopard Skirt?”

“No.”

“Nice Arse?”

I shot him a look.

That only made him laugh harder.

“The Hawthorn,” I muttered.

There was a beat of silence.

Then the Jeep erupted.

Even Dominic laughed.

I shook my head.

“Glad everyone’s enjoying themselves.”

“The Hawthorn,” Elliot repeated, wiping at his eye. “Romantic.”

“I didn’t know her fucking name.”

“You could have asked.”

“Yes. Thank you, Walker. I’m aware of how names work.”

“You forgot how talking works about two hours ago.”

I reached across and shoved his shoulder.

He laughed and turned the music back up.

I let them take the piss.

I was too tired to fight properly.

And, if I was being fair, I deserved at least some of it.

***

Elliot was first.

He lived in Ealing, in a modern flat that suited him almost suspiciously well for someone whose idea of housekeeping usually involved moving yesterday’s clothes from the floor to a chair.

I pulled up outside his building.

He opened the door but paused before getting out.

“Message her.”

“Shut up.”

“Tonight.”

I frowned at him.

“Why tonight?”

“Because if a woman gives you her number and you wait three days to use it, you’re a dick.”

“I wasn’t planning on waiting three days.”

“Good.”

He climbed out.

Then bent back down through the open door.

“And if you need help composing the message—”

I started pulling the door towards me.

“Goodnight, Elliot.”

He caught it.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Love you too.”

“Fuck off.”

He slammed the door and slapped the roof of the Jeep twice.

I watched him head towards his building.

Best friend or not, there were days when I seriously considered leaving him in another country.

Tonight had been close.

I pulled away.

Owen was next.

Hammersmith.

He spent most of the drive looking at his phone, and when I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, there was a small smile on his face.

“Allison?” I asked.

He looked up.

“Yeah.”

“Checking you’re actually coming home?”

“She stopped believing my estimated arrival times about three years ago.”

“Smart woman,” Dominic said.

Owen laughed.

“She says there’s food in the fridge and if I wake her up, I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

Jamie leaned forward between the seats.

“You’re definitely waking her up.”

“Why?”

“You walk like a fucking elephant.”

“I’m a medic. I can make your death look accidental.”

Jamie settled back.

“Fair.”

When I stopped outside Owen’s building, he grabbed his bag from the floor.

“Cheers, mate.”

“See you.”

He looked at all of us.

“Try not to kill each other before Monday.”

“No promises,” Jamie said.

Owen shut the door.

A few seconds later, the three of us watched him disappear through the entrance.

“Bet Allison’s awake,” Jamie said.

“Definitely,” Dominic replied.

I pulled away again.

Dominic and Jamie both lived in Putney, in different apartment buildings along the same quiet residential street.

I had never understood how that happened.

Jamie insisted it was coincidence.

Dominic insisted he’d lived there first and therefore Jamie had followed him.

Jamie denied it every time.

Tonight was no different.

“You moved there nine months after me,” Dominic said from the back.

“I didn’t even know where you lived.”

“You’d been to my flat.”

“Once.”

“Three times.”

“Was I sober?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Doesn’t count.”

I smiled as I turned into their street.

By now, even Elliot’s music was gone, and the Jeep felt strangely quiet without Owen and his occasional attempts to stop everyone else arguing.

I stopped outside Jamie’s building first.

He opened the door.

“Sunday tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t call me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

He climbed out, then leaned down and looked towards me.

“Unless she rejects you.”

I stared at him.

He grinned.

“Then definitely call me.”

I gave him the finger.

He laughed and closed the door.

Dominic climbed into the front passenger seat before I could pull away.

I glanced at him.

“You comfortable?”

“Much.”

“Bit late.”

“Should have made Walker sit in the back.”

“He’d have complained for two hours.”

“He complained anyway.”

“True.”

His building was barely a minute farther down the road.

I pulled over.

Dominic reached for the door, then stopped.

“You sure you’re all right to drive?”

There it was again.

Not intrusive.

Just Dominic.

“Yeah.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“Richmond isn’t far.”

“I know.”

He studied me for a second.

I gave him a look.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Fuck off.”

I laughed.

That got the faintest smile from him.

“Get some sleep.”

“That’s the plan.”

He opened the door.

“Night, Lockwood.”

“Night.”

Then I was alone.

Finally.

***

It was after eleven by the time I headed towards Richmond.

The roads had quietened.

Not completely—London never really did that—but enough that driving no longer felt like negotiating with several thousand people at once.

The sky had finally darkened, the last trace of the long July evening gone from behind the rooftops.

I drove with the music off.

Silence felt good.

For about thirty seconds.

Then my mind went straight back to her.

Of course it did.

I could still see that smile.

The way she had looked at me before walking over.

The colour creeping into her cheeks.

“For you. Not your friend.”

I smiled to myself.

Ridiculous.

I didn’t even know her name.

My phone sat in the centre console.

I glanced at it.

No.

Driving.

Later.

The familiar streets of Richmond eventually appeared around me, leafy and quiet at this hour, large houses sitting back behind walls, gates and hedges.

Home.

Just the word loosened something in my chest.

I turned onto our street and slowed as the house came into view.

Red brick.

White stone detailing.

Tall windows.

Dark front door.

The place was large without being ridiculous, set behind a low wall and mature greenery that my mother cared about significantly more than I did.

Several windows downstairs were dark.

So were the ones upstairs.

Good.

Mum was probably asleep.

I pulled onto the drive and parked the Jeep in front of the garage.

For a moment I just sat there.

Engine off.

Hands still on the steering wheel.

Silence.

Home.

I exhaled slowly and let my head fall back against the seat.

I could quite easily have slept there.

The thought was dangerously tempting.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and bag and forced myself out.

The front door opened quietly.

I stepped inside and locked it behind me.

The house was almost completely dark, apart from a small lamp left on in the entrance hall.

Mum.

Always.

I slipped off my trainers and carried them rather than risk making more noise than necessary.

My phone lit up in my hand.

A message.

Not new.

I hadn’t checked it earlier.

Mum: Drive carefully when you finally head home. Goodnight, darling. x

Sent forty-three minutes ago.

I smiled.

I hadn’t answered.

She was almost certainly asleep by now.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and headed upstairs.

My bedroom was at the rear of the house.

Large.

Dark.

Quiet.

Exactly the way I liked it.

The walls were deep charcoal, softened by warm wood and neutral fabrics. A wide bed sat against the main wall, dressed in dark grey and black, looking better than anything I had seen in the last ten days. A low bench stood at its foot. One side of the room opened into my walk-in wardrobe, the other towards the desk by the windows.

Beyond that was my bathroom.

I dropped my phone onto the bedside table.

The travel bag went straight into the bathroom.

Mrs Roland could deal with the rest of it tomorrow.

Or Monday.

Or whenever she decided I had once again proven myself incapable of unpacking a bag like a functioning adult.

She had been working for us for years and had long since stopped pretending to be impressed by me.

I stripped off as I walked into the bathroom.

Overshirt.

T-shirt.

Jeans.

Everything went into the laundry basket.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

I did look like shit.

Elliot had been right.

I hated that.

Dark shadows sat beneath my eyes. My hair needed cutting. Stubble had grown heavier across my jaw during the last few days because shaving had fallen very low on the list of things I cared about in Amman.

I turned away.

The shower came on hot.

I stepped beneath it and closed my eyes.

Fuck.

That was good.

Water ran over my head, shoulders and down my back.

I planted both palms against the tiled wall and stood there.

No voices in an earpiece.

No radio.

No car engine.

No checking windows.

No watching doors.

Nothing.

Just water.

Ten days.

Amman.

A British source whose cover had been compromised badly enough that getting him out had become the only sensible option.

Simple on paper.

Find him.

Confirm who was watching him.

Work out how exposed he was.

Build a safe route.

Extract.

Nothing about it had been simple once we got there.

We had spent days watching the people watching him.

Hours sitting in vehicles that turned into more hours sitting in different vehicles.

Two nights moving him between temporary locations because the first route became unusable.

The heat had been relentless.

Sleep had come in scraps.

Twenty minutes here.

An hour there.

The final extraction had run several hours longer than planned when a route we had expected to use became too risky.

Nobody had been hurt.

The source was safe.

We had done exactly what we had been sent there to do.

Successful operation.

End of story.

Except my body apparently hadn’t received the message yet.

I rolled my neck.

A knot between my shoulders protested.

“Fuck.”

I stayed beneath the water longer than necessary.

Eventually I washed, switched the shower off and stepped out.

By the time I walked back into the bedroom, wearing only dark pyjama bottoms and a white vest, I was practically asleep on my feet.

I dropped onto the bed.

Not elegantly.

Just fell.

The mattress gave beneath my weight.

Perfect.

I stretched both arms above my head.

Pain pulled through my lower back.

“Fuck.”

I stopped moving.

A few seconds later, the muscles loosened.

I closed my eyes.

Bed.

Home.

Sleep.

Finally.

Then I saw dark brown eyes.

My eyes opened.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I stared at the ceiling.

Her laugh came next.

Then her smile.

Then—

No.

I was not going to think about her arse while lying in bed.

I lasted approximately four seconds.

Fuck.

I turned my head towards the bedside table.

My phone.

Her number.

I had almost forgotten.

Almost.

I pushed myself upright and grabbed the phone.

00:14.

Too late?

Probably.

She worked in a pub.

Maybe not.

She could still be there.

Or she could be home.

Or asleep.

I opened my contacts.

The Hawthorn.

I laughed quietly.

Pathetic.

I opened a new message.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Hi. Nathan here.

Delete.

Hi, it’s Nathan. From the pub.

Delete.

Jesus Christ.

I had interrogated armed men with less hesitation than this.

I tried again.

Hi. We met at the pub tonight. Nathan.

I stared at it.

Basic.

Painfully basic.

Fine.

At least it didn’t make me sound like an idiot.

Probably.

I hit send before I could delete it again.

Delivered.

I placed the phone beside me.

Then immediately picked it back up.

Nothing.

Of course nothing.

It had been three seconds.

I dropped it onto the mattress.

Lay back.

Closed my eyes.

She’d answer tomorrow.

Or she wouldn’t.

No.

She had given me her number.

She’d answer.

Probably.

I reached for the phone again.

Still nothing.

“Jesus Christ.”

I put it down.

This time I left it there.

I meant to move properly onto the bed.

Pull back the duvet.

Turn the lamp off.

Do something vaguely resembling going to sleep like a normal person.

I didn’t.

***

When I woke, something was wrong.

My back was on the mattress.

Both of my feet were on the floor.

I stared at the ceiling.

What the fuck?

Then I remembered.

I had apparently fallen asleep exactly where I’d been laying across the bed, when I threw myself on it last night.

I laughed under my breath and dragged one hand over my face.

My neck hurt.

My back hurt.

Everything hurt.

Fantastic.

Then I remembered the message.

I sat up too quickly.

“Phone.”

Not on the bedside table.

I looked around.

Nothing.

I pulled the duvet aside.

No.

Checked the floor.

No.

Then I shifted.

Something hard pressed into my lower back.

I reached beneath myself.

My phone.

“Brilliant.”

I unlocked it.

One new message.

I was suddenly very awake.

The Hawthorn: Hi, Nathan. I didn’t see your message last night. So… good morning. Rosalie. :)

I stared at it.

Rosalie.

I read it again.

Rosalie.

That suited her.

Somehow.

Beautiful name.

I glanced at the time.

08:22.

The message had arrived fifteen minutes ago.

I changed the contact name immediately.

Rosalie

Much better.

Then I typed.

Me: Beautiful name, Rosalie. Good morning to you too.

Send.

I lay back against the headboard.

Waited.

I told myself I wasn’t waiting.

I was absolutely waiting.

A few minutes later, the phone vibrated.

Rosalie: Thank you. :)

I smiled.

My thumb was already moving.

Me: Working today?

The three little dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Rosalie: No. Sundays are my day off.

Me: Got anything planned?

Her response came quicker this time.

Rosalie: Well, apart from being extremely lazy, no. You? Working today? :)

I laughed.

Me: No. My plan looks suspiciously similar to yours.

Rosalie: So very productive, then.

Me: Exactly.

A pause.

Then another message appeared.

Rosalie: What do you do?

I stared at the question for a moment.

There were ways of answering it without answering it.

I could have been vague.

Most people in my position were.

But there was no reason to lie to her.

Not about what I was.

The details were classified.

The job itself wasn’t something I needed to invent.

Me: Military intelligence. Special operations.

Her reply took longer this time.

Then—

Rosalie: Oh.

I smiled.

Another bubble appeared almost immediately.

Rosalie: Okay. I’m guessing that’s about as much as I’m allowed to know, otherwise you’d have to kill me. :D

I laughed aloud.

Actually laughed.

Me: More or less. ;)

Rosalie: Good to know.

Another message.

Rosalie: Did you get back from a mission yesterday? Is that what you call it?

Me: Mission works. And yeah.

Rosalie: Cool. :)

Rosalie: I’ve never met anyone who works in military intelligence before.

I considered my answer.

Me: Trust me, I’m nothing special.

Her response came almost immediately.

Rosalie: Hmm. Maybe.

My eyebrows rose.

Cheeky.

Before I could answer, another message appeared.

Rosalie: But I’d still like to get to know you better. If you want to.

I stopped smiling for half a second.

Then smiled even more.

There it was.

No games.

No pretending she wasn’t interested when she clearly was.

Just said it.

I liked that.

A lot.

Me: I want to get to know you too.

I stared at the screen.

Typed another sentence.

Deleted it.

Typed it again.

Fuck it.

Me: I have to admit, you had me a little mesmerised last night. And that isn’t easy for me to admit. :D

The message delivered.

I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck.

Maybe too much.

Maybe—

The phone buzzed.

Rosalie: You did too.

I read it once.

Then again.

Another message came through.

Rosalie: That wasn’t easy for me to admit either, but I don’t know why, so there. :)

I laughed.

She was fucking adorable.

I sank a little farther against the headboard.

Me: Since your only plan is being lazy, would you like to meet somewhere today?

Then:

Me: Dinner? What kind of food do you like?

Her answer took about a minute.

Rosalie: Can we improvise?

I waited.

Rosalie: Meet outside the pub and let fate decide.

I grinned at the screen.

Let fate decide.

Of course she’d say something like that.

Me: We can do that. Five?

Rosalie: I’ll have to check my schedule.

I frowned at the phone.

Then caught myself smiling before the next message even arrived.

Rosalie: Okay. I’m free. No plans. ;)

I laughed.

Me: Good. Five it is.

Rosalie: Five it is. :)

My thumb hovered for a moment.

Me: See you, Rosalie.

A few seconds later:

Rosalie: See you, Nathan.

I didn’t put the phone down.

I just sat there looking at the messages.

At her name at the top of the screen.

Rosalie.

I had met women all over the world.

Some I’d slept with.

Some I’d seen for a few weeks.

A few for a couple of months.

Nothing ugly.

Nothing dramatic.

Just relationships that had never gone deep enough to become difficult when they ended.

I knew attraction.

I knew lust.

I knew the easy rush of meeting someone beautiful and knowing exactly where the night was likely to go.

This wasn’t that.

Or maybe some of it was.

I was definitely attracted to her.

Holy fuck, was I attracted to her.

But that wasn’t what had me sitting in bed smiling at my phone like an idiot.

I wanted to talk to her.

That was the strange part.

I wanted to hear her laugh again.

I wanted to find out why she spent her Sunday mornings talking about fate with a man she had met less than twelve hours ago.

I wanted to know who she was.

Rosalie.

Something about her had got under my skin before I even knew her name.

I couldn’t explain it.

Not yet.

Maybe there was nothing to explain.

Maybe I’d meet her at five and realise I had built something up in my head because I was exhausted and she had beautiful eyes.

Maybe we’d have dinner.

Talk.

Laugh.

See where it went.

That should have felt ordinary.

It didn’t.

I looked at the time again.

08:36.

Eight hours and twenty-four minutes.

Christ.

I had survived ten days in Amman on almost no sleep.

Apparently waiting until five o’clock was going to be the difficult part.

I smiled and dropped my phone beside me.

Rosalie.

Today.

Five o’clock.

I couldn’t fucking wait.