I wake on Saturday morning to the sound of Lily crying somewhere down the hall, a thin, insistent wail that cuts through the grey light filtering through the curtains. For a second I don't know where I am — the ceiling is wrong, the walls are wrong, the smell of someone else's laundry detergent unfamiliar — and then it all comes back. The monitor. The kitchen. His fingers on mine.
I press my palm flat against the mattress and let the weight of it ground me. I'm in the guest room. Emma's house. Bradley's house. I'm supposed to be having a nice weekend with my sister.
My phone is on the bedside table, screen dark. I reach for it before I can stop myself, thumb swiping, and there it is — his message still at the top of the thread. *I meant what I said.* Three dots where I could reply. I haven't. I don't know if I will.
I set the phone face-down and get up.
---
Downstairs, the kitchen is already busy. Emma is at the counter in her dressing gown, hair tied back, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. Ben is at the table with a bowl of cereal, spoon halfway to his mouth, a half-built Lego spaceship beside his elbow. Lily is in her high chair, smearing a piece of toast across her tray, and Bradley — Bradley is standing at the kettle, back to me, waiting for it to boil.
I stop in the doorway. He hasn't seen me yet. His shoulders are broad under a faded grey t-shirt, the sleeves cutting into his biceps, and I can see the small red star tattoo on his left arm from here, a flash of colour against pale skin. He's humming something under his breath, low and tuneless, and the ordinariness of it — the domestic ease of him standing there in his own kitchen — makes my stomach tighten.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Emma says, glancing over her shoulder. She smiles, warm and easy, and my chest aches. "Tea's almost ready. Brad, she's up."
He turns. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second — those brown eyes, warm, unreadable — and then he looks away, reaching for a mug from the cupboard. "Tea or coffee?" he asks, and his voice is careful. Flat. Like he's talking to a stranger.
"Tea," I say. My voice sounds thin. "Please."
I sit down at the table across from Ben, who barely looks up from his cereal. "Auntie Laura, do you want to see my spaceship?"
"I'd love to," I say, and I mean it. I lean forward, letting him explain the fins and the cockpit and the little Lego astronaut he's wedged inside, and for a minute — maybe two — I forget. I'm just Laura, the good aunt, the reliable sister, the woman who makes everyone feel welcome.
Then Lily shouts "Laura!" and throws her toast at me. It lands on the table, butter-side down, and I laugh — genuinely laugh, because it's funny, because she's a toddler and that's what toddlers do. Emma laughs too, and Bradley sets a mug of tea in front of me without meeting my eyes, and everything is normal. Everything is fine.
Except his knuckles brush the back of my hand as he pulls away, and I feel it like a burn.
---
Emma's plan for the day is ambitious: shopping at the retail park, lunch at the pub with the soft play area for the kids, then a walk along the river if the weather holds. Amy is meeting us at the retail park — she's driving over from Gravesend with Max, who has to work later but will join for lunch if he can.
I nod and smile and say that sounds lovely, because it does. It should be lovely. I love my sisters. I love my nieces and nephews. I love days like this, the easy chaos of family, the laughter and the noise and the feeling of belonging somewhere.
But as I go upstairs to get ready, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror — hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes, the bruise of fatigue already settled into my bones — and I think: *You're a liar. You're pretending to be someone you're not.*
I splash cold water on my face and tell myself to stop being dramatic. Nothing happened. A look. A text. A brush of fingers. That's not an affair. That's not even a mistake. It's just —
It's just that I can still feel the heat of his eyes on me, even when he's not looking.
---
The retail park is busy, the car park full of family hatchbacks and people carriers, the air thick with the smell of fried food and exhaust fumes. Emma pushes Lily in the buggy while Ben runs ahead, darting between shoppers, and I walk beside her, hands shoved in my coat pockets, trying to stay present.
"You're quiet," Emma says, not accusing, just observant. She's good at that — noticing things without pushing. "Everything okay?"
"Just tired," I say, and it's not even a lie. "Didn't sleep great."
She nods, accepting it. "The guest room bed is a bit lumpy, isn't it? I keep meaning to replace it. Bradley says it's fine, but —" She shrugs. "You know what men are like. They'd sleep on concrete if you let them."
I laugh, but it comes out wrong — too sharp, too short — and I hope she doesn't notice. She doesn't. She's already turning to call after Ben, who's about to run into a woman carrying a stack of boxes.
We wander through the shops. Boots, then Next, then a little homeware store where Emma spends twenty minutes deciding between two different sets of tea towels. I hold Lily on my hip while Emma compares prices, and the toddler's small hand pats my cheek, sticky and soft, and I think: *This is what matters. This is real. This is the life I chose.*
But my phone buzzes in my pocket — once, twice — and my whole body tenses before I even look at it. I fish it out, heart hammering, and see a group chat from the family: Amy sending a photo of herself outside the entrance, a thumbs-up emoji, and the words "I'm here, where are you?"
Not Bradley. Of course not Bradley. He's at home, probably working in the garden or watching football or doing whatever men do when their wives are out. He wouldn't text me in the middle of the day. He wouldn't risk it.
I type a quick reply — "Coming, meet you at the café" — and put the phone away. My hand is trembling. I clench it into a fist and shove it back in my pocket.
---
Lunch is loud and chaotic, the way family lunches always are. Amy arrives with Max, who looks tired but smiles when he sees me, giving me a quick hug and asking how the drive was. I tell him it was fine, and he doesn't press. He never does. Max is the kind of person who lets silence fill itself, which I've always appreciated.
We sit at a big table near the soft play area, and the kids are manic — Ben disappearing into the ball pit every five minutes, Lily throwing chips off her tray and laughing. Emma and Amy talk about their jobs, their plans for the summer, whether their parents are managing okay. I add the occasional nod or comment, but my mind is elsewhere.
I'm thinking about the way Bradley looked at me last night. Not with lust — that would have been easier to dismiss. It was something quieter. Something that made me feel seen in a way I haven't felt in years.
I'm thinking about his message. *I meant what I said.*
I'm thinking about the way my body reacted when his fingers brushed mine — the jolt, the heat, the way I didn't pull away. The way I *wanted* to lean into it.
"Laura?" Amy's voice cuts through. "Earth to Laura."
I blink. "Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to split a pudding." She's looking at me with a hint of concern, head tilted, tortoiseshell glasses sliding down her nose. "You seem a bit distracted."
"Just tired," I say again, and it's becoming a reflex. "Late night reading."
"Ooh, what are you reading?" Emma asks, leaning forward. "Anything good?"
The book from last night flashes through my mind — the explicit scenes, the way my hand moved between my legs — and heat rushes to my face. "Just a thriller," I say. "Nothing special."
---
We finish lunch and head for the river, but the weather turns — a sudden drizzle that sends us scrambling for the car. The walk is abandoned in favour of going back to Emma's house. I don't mind. I'm tired of pretending to be present. I want to be alone with my thoughts, even if those thoughts are dangerous.
When we pull into the driveway, Bradley's car is there. I see it before I'm ready — the dark blue estate, mud-splattered, a child's car seat in the back. He must have been out somewhere, or maybe he was home all along. The thought of him inside the house, moving around, doing ordinary things while I've been replaying his words in my head all day — it makes my skin prickle.
Emma bustles in with Lily on her hip, calling out "We're back!" and I hear his voice from the living room, muffled, answering something I can't make out. I follow Emma inside, Ben trailing behind me, and I hang my coat on the hook by the door.
Bradley is in the living room, sitting on the sofa with his laptop open. He looks up when we enter, and for a second — a long second — his eyes meet mine. There's something there. Not guilt. Not shame. Something more like acknowledgment, like we're both standing on the same ledge and we know it.
Then he looks away, closing the laptop, and says, "Good day?"
"Chaotic," Emma says, laughing. "But good. Lily threw chips at the waitress."
"That's my girl," he says, and his voice is warm, amused, and I want to scream.
---
The evening passes in a blur of takeaway pizza and Disney movies. Ben falls asleep on the sofa. Lily is put to bed. Emma yawns and says she's going up, and I say I'll lock up, and Bradley says nothing at all.
I'm in the kitchen, rinsing cups, when I hear his footsteps. I don't turn around. I keep my hands in the warm water, watching the suds slide off a plate, and I wait.
He doesn't come close. He stops in the doorway — I can feel him there, the weight of his presence — and when he speaks, his voice is low.
"Laura."
I turn. He's standing with his arms crossed, his face unreadable in the dim light of the kitchen. The clock above the fridge ticks. The dishwasher hums.
"I'm sorry," he says. "For what I said. For the text. For —" He gestures vaguely. "All of it."
I should say *it's fine*. I should say *let's forget it*. That's what I agreed to. That's what would keep us safe.
Instead, I say, "I haven't deleted it."
He blinks. "The message?"
"I read it. Three times. Maybe more." My voice is steady, but my hands are shaking. I press them against the edge of the sink to still them. "And I keep thinking about what you said. About me being beautiful."
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and his jaw tightens, and I see something flicker in his eyes — something raw, something that wasn't supposed to be there.
"I shouldn't have watched," he says. "I know that. But I'm not sorry I did."
The words hang between us, heavy and electric. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud in the silence.
"I'm not sorry either," I whisper.
And then I walk past him — close enough to smell his deodorant, faint and clean — and I go upstairs without looking back.
---
Sunday morning. My bag is packed, my phone is charged, and the house is quiet. Emma is still asleep. The kids are not yet stirring. I stand in the guest room, looking at the bed where I'd lain that first afternoon, and I feel like a different person from the one who arrived on Friday.