Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The train cut steadily through the winter countryside, windows fogged with condensation, the landscape rolling past in blurred washes of muted green and damp brown beneath a sky the color of faded porcelain. The rhythm of the wheels was constant, a low percussion that matched the beat of her restless foot. Marci Dawson sat with her knees drawn slightly inward, boots tapping idly against the floor, the weight of her worn leather bag slouched beside her like an old companion.

London stretched far behind her now—its restless hum muted, her tattoo studio with the familiar scent of ink and antiseptic receding into memory, her cluttered flat with paint-stained mugs, stacks of sketchbooks teetering precariously, and unfinished canvases leaning against the walls like ghosts of her ambition.

At twenty-six, she had carved out a life there through stubbornness, raw talent, and sheer refusal to bend to the narrow path her mother always imagined for her. The days were erratic—sometimes full of clients and laughter and adrenaline, sometimes lonely and quiet, spent sketching until the early hours with music humming low through tinny speakers. It was a life that belonged entirely to her, jagged and unpredictable, fragile in ways she didn’t always admit—like glass that might crack if pressed too hard. Yet even in its fragility, it was hers, and she clung to that truth like a talisman.

Her arms lay loose in her lap, the inked stories etched across her skin catching the faint light as the train curved past another row of frost-dusted hedges.

Tattoos were her language, her armor, her rebellion and her offering all at once. Every needle stroke carried a piece of her—her vision, her defiance, her hunger to create something permanent in a world where permanence was always slipping through her fingers. But even as she watched the black lines dance against her pale skin, her mother’s voice threaded through the silence, steady and insistent. “You can’t do this forever, Marceline. When are you going to settle down? Get a real job, meet a nice man, start a family?” The words had been stitched into her since adolescence, following her from the kitchen in Holmes Chapel to the studio in London, and now into the thrum of the train itself.

She hated that name—Marceline—too long, too heavy, a relic of someone else’s story. But her mother never abandoned it, saying it with the same reverence she reserved for their French great-grandmother, the woman who had carried her stubborn streak across the Channel. To her mother, Marceline was a legacy. To Marci, it was a reminder of everything she had run from.

Still, returning home meant returning to the orbit of those expectations. She could already picture her mother bustling around the dining room, fussing with the tablecloth, straightening dishes that didn’t need straightening, scanning her daughter with hawk-like precision for evidence of a life misaligned with her hopes. Haircut too sharp. Eyeliner too dark. Tattoos far too visible. Home always had a way of shrinking Marci back into the frustrated teenager she used to be—restless, cornered, misunderstood. Yet for all the tension, there was one anchor pulling her back with genuine warmth: her brother.

Theo had always been her compass. Two years older, steady where she was sharp, protective where she was reckless. He had been her shield when the house grew heavy with criticism, the one who’d slip her chocolate bars during exams, whispering conspiratorially that she was meant for more than a narrow little life.

Now, older and softened by fatherhood, he carried a new kind of weight—patience, warmth, a quiet pride that steadied her even from a distance. Marci’s chest eased when she thought of him waiting at the station, tall and smiling, his daughter in tow.

Ella—her little niece with curls wild as brambles and questions spilling like water—was the true light at the end of this journey. The child adored her, tugged on her sleeve and begged to see sketches, once declaring her a superhero after spotting the vibrant sleeve tattoo on her arm. Theo had doubled over laughing, pride gleaming in his eyes, while Marci tucked the moment into her memory like something she could take out and hold whenever she needed it.

The train gave a sudden lurch as it crossed an iron bridge, the wheels clattering loudly, the river below flashing silver through the fogged glass. Marci leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane, watching frost gather on the edges of the banks, the trees skeletal and dark against the sky. She liked this in-between space—hovering between cities, between selves, suspended in a place where no one expected her to be anything at all.

In London, she was Marci: sharp edges, stained hands, quick tongue, the girl who made art permanent. Here, moving inexorably toward Holmes Chapel, she would be Marceline again whether she wanted to or not.

Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket, a missed call lighting the screen with her mother’s name. She didn’t open it. She could already imagine the conversation—the sigh, the pointed questions, the inevitable comparison to neighbors’ daughters who had settled neatly into careers and families. Marci would parry the questions with half-smiles, dodge with casual shrugs, lean into her niece’s laughter as distraction. She had perfected that dance long ago.

Exhaling slowly, she fogged the window once more, tracing an absent line through the condensation with her fingertip.

Ahead of her lay the village streets she knew by heart—the brick houses, the crooked high street strung with Christmas lights, the smell of her mum’s roast chicken spilling from the oven, the echo of Ella’s feet skipping across the kitchen floor. The thought tugged her in two directions at once—toward warmth, comfort, love—and toward the old weight of expectation, the quiet threat of being folded back into someone she no longer was.

Holmes Chapel was drawing nearer with every turn of the wheels. And Marci sat suspended, a woman straddling two lives, two selves—one of her own making, and one she could never quite leave behind.

The announcement came first as a low crackle through the overhead speaker, a burst of static swallowed by the clatter of wheels on iron. Then the conductor’s voice rolled through the carriage—cheerful, practiced, with the kind of warmth only a northern accent could carry.

“Next stop—Holmes Chapel. Please remember to take all your belongings with you and mind the gap between the train and the platform. Holmes Chapel, next stop.”

The words rippled through the carriage like a bell struck in a quiet church, jolting Marci from her reverie. For the past three hours she had been drifting between half-sleep and daydreams, watching the countryside peel past her window, fields stretched taut under frost, hedgerows blurred into olive smudges. The ride itself wasn’t long by any measure—three and a half hours was nothing compared to some of the tattoo conventions she traveled to—but the weight of what waited at the end of the line made every minute stretch. Time had slowed to a crawl, as though the train were dragging her not just north but backward—back into an old version of herself, into streets lined with familiarity and expectation.

Her thighs buzzed with nervous energy. The boots tapping against the metal floor picked up pace, echoing faintly in the quiet carriage. She folded her arms tighter over her chest, inked swallows and roses disappearing under her sleeves, as if hiding them might soften the scrutiny she knew was coming. She could already feel her mother’s eyes on her—eyes that seemed to take inventory before they met her own, scanning her dyed-black fringe, the silver rings stacked on her fingers, the bold tattoo that curled like smoke down her arm.

Marceline, why can’t you just wear a nice dress for once—Marceline, when will you grow out of this—Marceline, you can’t build a life on drawings and ink—

Marci shut her eyes, pressing her forehead harder to the glass as if she could block the remembered cadence of that voice. She hated that name—Marceline—frilly, ornate, weighed down by history. A French great-grandmother she’d never met, a family legend pressed upon her at birth like a hand-me-down heirloom she’d never asked for. Everyone else called her Marci. Everyone but her mother.

And yet—despite the certainty of disapproval, despite the lectures she could almost script word for word—she was going home. The thought sent an odd ache through her chest, equal parts dread and longing. Because Holmes Chapel wasn’t only her mother’s world, all lace doilies and Sunday roasts and small-town gossip. It was Theo’s world too.

Theo, with his steady grin and the kind of patience she envied, the brother who used to sit cross-legged on the floor of her room, spinning wild plans for the lives they’d both lead once they escaped. Theo, who somehow found happiness in a neat little semi-detached and a nine-to-five, who had traded guitars for nappies without losing that easy warmth in his eyes. And Ella—little Ella, with her tumble of curls and her endless whys, who had perched on Marci’s knee in July and traced her sleeve tattoo with chubby fingers before declaring her aunt her favourite person.

The conductor passed by again, his uniform smelling faintly of damp wool and tea, nodding to passengers as he went. “Holmes Chapel next, ladies and gentlemen—Holmes Chapel is our next stop.” His voice carried down the aisle, cheerful and matter-of-fact, the final punctuation on her long, dragging journey.

Marci sat back, fingers curling around the strap of her bag. Three and a half hours—how had it felt so endless? Every field, every cluster of cottages, every church spire had seemed to conspire against her, stretching time thin. Now, with the announcement still hanging in the air, her stomach gave a nervous twist. In less than ten minutes, she’d step off the train and into her mother’s sharp-eyed orbit, into Theo’s embrace, into Ella’s delighted squeal.

The brakes squealed and the train shuddered to a final crawl. The carriage tilted with movement as passengers shuffled into the aisle, voices rising in fragments of chatter. Coats rustled, zippers rasped, a child whined about the cold. Through it all, the conductor strode past once again, voice ringing out above the din—“This is Holmes Chapel. Please mind the gap when exiting the train—Holmes Chapel station.”

The words landed in Marci’s chest like a stone. She remained seated as the others pressed forward, a woman gripping the strap of her bag so tightly the leather creaked, her boots fixed to the metal floor. It would be so easy to stay right here, to let the doors hiss shut and feel the train gather speed, carrying her away into the blank spaces of the map where no one knew her name, let alone insisted on calling her Marceline. She could vanish for days, weeks even, until the pull of her mother’s voice grew faint enough to ignore.

But Theo would be waiting on the platform. And Ella too, bouncing on her toes, mittened hands reaching out for her. That thread tugged again—gentler, warmer, irresistible. With a breath that clouded the glass one last time, she pushed herself up, slung the bag over her shoulder, and turned toward the aisle just as the first passengers began to spill out onto the frost-streaked platform.

The doors hissed open, releasing a breath of cold air that rushed into the carriage, sharp and metallic with the scent of wet stone and diesel. People pressed forward in a shuffle of boots and bags, their voices rising in a dozen directions, but Marci stayed seated for a moment longer, her black-clad legs drawn in, her oversized skeleton sweater draped over her like armor. The knitted fabric still smelled faintly of her flat in London—coffee, ink, and the faint sweetness of her shampoo.

She adjusted the cap on her head, tugging the brim lower, the camo print shielding her face from the glare of fluorescent lights spilling across the platform. Her fingers brushed the leather strap of her bag, the soft weight at her hip grounding her as she finally rose. Her boots hit the floor with a muffled thud, laces tied into clumsy knots, black faux fur brushing against the hems of her leggings. She moved slowly, deliberately, as though each step toward the open doors might still be reversed.

The conductor’s voice echoed once more down the aisle, steady and reassuring—“Holmes Chapel station, ladies and gentlemen. Please mind the gap as you alight the train. Holmes Chapel.” His words pushed at her like a tide, reminding her there was no turning back now.

She stepped onto the platform, the air colder than she expected, damp enough to sting her lungs. The stone beneath her boots was slick with frost, glistening under the dull orange lamps. For a heartbeat she simply stood, the noise of the departing crowd blurring into a distant hum.

Then—clear, bright, piercing through everything—came the sound she’d been aching to hear. A squeal. High-pitched, delighted, the unmistakable cry of a child who had been waiting far too long.

Marci’s head snapped toward it, her chest tightening all at once. And there she was—Ella. Two years old, cheeks flushed pink against the cold, curls tumbling wild beneath a woolly hat, mittened hands waving frantically as she bounced in place. Her little niece, her babygirl, her sunshine, her very heart standing on the platform and calling her home with nothing more than joy.

Marci felt her throat constrict, her knees weakening as if the weight of three and a half hours—or months, or years—collapsed into this one moment. She moved faster now, bag bouncing against her hip, the brim of her cap slipping as she half ran across the platform.

Theo was there, steady as ever, his tall frame hunched slightly to keep a hand on Ella’s shoulder, but his grin stretched wide when he spotted her. But Marci barely saw him at first. All she saw was the little girl breaking free from her father’s hand, running clumsily on short legs, arms outstretched, squealing again and again as though she might burst from happiness.

Ella’s tiny boots slapped against the stone platform, her mittened hands flailing in front of her as if momentum alone carried her forward. “Auntie! Auntie!” she squealed, the word tumbling out as “An-tee!” in her small, imperfect voice. Her curls bounced under her hat, cheeks flushed as pink as rose petals, eyes wide and sparkling like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Marci’s throat closed tight, a laugh breaking out of her anyway as she dropped to her knees, arms open wide. The little girl collided with her chest with surprising force, giggling breathless as she wrapped her arms around Marci’s neck. The mittens scratched against Marci’s cheek as Ella squeezed as hard as her two-year-old strength would allow.

“Oh, my babygirl,” Marci whispered against the top of her niece’s hat, pressing a kiss there. Her arms circled Ella, holding her close, as if she could fold the entire world down into this one embrace. “I missed you so much.”

Ella pulled back just enough to look at her, her lips parting in a grin that showed all her tiny teeth. “Miss you, An-tee,” she said, the “s” soft and slurred, but the words like an arrow straight through Marci’s chest. “Miss you lots.” She patted Marci’s face clumsily, mitten landing against her cheek. “Cold!” she declared, wrinkling her nose.

Marci laughed, tears prickling behind her eyes. “I know, baby. It’s freezing out here, huh? Good thing you’ve got your hat.” She tugged gently on the edge of Ella’s knitted beanie, earning a squeal and a wiggle.

Behind them, Theo’s voice rang warm and amused. “Careful, Ella. Don’t knock your aunt flat on the ground the second she steps off the train.”

Marci glanced up, grinning at the sight of her brother. He stood a few feet away, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, a smile tugging wide at his face. His eyes, the same shade as hers, gleamed with something caught between laughter and relief. Her grin widened, her chest swelling with a warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for.

Ella wriggled against her, still latched around her neck like a little barnacle, giggling at the sound of her father’s voice. “Da-da!” she chirped, turning her head just enough to spot Theo over Marci’s shoulder. Her mittened hand shot out in his direction, waving wildly. “Da-da, look! An-tee!” She patted Marci’s cheek again with a proud sort of triumph, as if she’d been the one to deliver her safely home.

“I see, bug,” Theo chuckled, crouching a little closer now, his voice low and fond. “You found your auntie, didn’t you? Practically tackled her to the ground.”

Marci shifted Ella higher on her hip, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she looked at her brother properly.

Time had softened him in ways she hadn’t expected—his jaw a little more square, the lines around his eyes deeper, but his smile was the same one that used to coax her out of hiding when she’d slammed her bedroom door as a teenager. He looked older, steadier, with fatherhood written all over him.

“You’re taller,” Marci said softly, almost in disbelief, though it wasn’t really about his height. It was about the way he carried himself now, grounded and sure.

Theo huffed a laugh. “Or maybe you’ve just been away too long.” He straightened, reaching out to tug at the strap of her bag before she could argue. “Here—give me this. You’ve already got your hands full.”

Reluctantly, Marci let him take it, still balancing Ella, who showed no intention of letting go. The little girl buried her face in Marci’s shoulder, muffled words spilling out that only half made sense—“My An-tee. Mine. No go.”

Marci’s throat tightened, her arms wrapping instinctively around her niece. “Don’t worry, sunshine,” she murmured, kissing the top of Ella’s wool hat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Theo watched them with a look that was equal parts amusement and tenderness. “She’s been asking for you every day, you know. Every night at bedtime—‘An-tee draw? An-tee come?’ I think she was starting to believe you lived on the moon.”

Marci laughed, though her eyes stung again. “Might as well, the way mum makes it sound.”

Theo smirked knowingly, slinging her bag over his shoulder. “You’ll survive. You always do. And you’ve got backup now.” He tapped Ella’s back gently, coaxing a squeal from her. “Don’t you, bug?”

Ella lifted her head, eyes shining, and repeated the only word that seemed to matter. “An-tee!” she shouted again, loud enough to make a couple of passersby glance over with small smiles. Then, quieter, she added, “Stay.”

Marci pressed her cheek to her niece’s warm one, whispering, “Always.”

Theo cleared his throat, jerking his head toward the station exit. “Come on, then. Let’s get you both out of the cold before she turns into a popsicle.”

Marci stood, shifting Ella more firmly onto her hip, the little girl’s weight a familiar anchor pressed against her. Ella’s cheek rested on her shoulder, soft and warm beneath the knit of her hat, her mittened fist clutching the edge of Marci’s oversized sweater as though letting go might make her aunt vanish again. Marci’s heart clenched at the thought—how long had it been since she’d felt so needed?

Theo fell into step beside them, adjusting the strap of her bag on his shoulder as they moved toward the station exit. The crowd had mostly thinned now, leaving behind only the echo of footsteps and the low hum of the train preparing to depart again. The glass doors at the end of the platform fogged with the press of cold air outside, and each step closer made the chill bite sharper.

Ella shifted against her, small voice breaking the silence. “Cold,” she mumbled, nuzzling deeper into Marci’s neck. Her breath was warm, a tiny puff against Marci’s skin. “No like cold.”

Marci tightened her grip, rubbing her niece’s back in slow circles through her puffy jacket. “I know, baby. Just a minute more and we’ll be warm.” She glanced at Theo, who offered a sympathetic smile as he pushed open the heavy door for them.

Outside, the station forecourt spread out beneath the dull glow of streetlamps. Cars idled with exhaust puffing white into the night, their headlights cutting through the mist. The pavement gleamed slick with frost, crunching faintly under their boots. Marci tucked her chin down, adjusting the brim of her cap as the wind snatched at her hair.

Theo nodded toward the car park. “We’re just over there,” he said, leading the way. “She’ll crash as soon as we get moving.”

Ella, as if defying him, lifted her head with surprising energy. “No nap!” she declared, voice muffled by her hat. Then she giggled, proud of her rebellion, before dropping her head back onto Marci’s shoulder with a yawn.

Marci laughed softly, pressing another kiss into her niece’s curls. “Looks like someone’s already halfway there.” Theo glanced back at them, his expression softening. For a moment, in the glow of the streetlamp, Marci saw not just her brother but the boy who used to sneak biscuits into her room and tell her she could be anything she wanted. He gave her a look that said welcome home without needing the words.

And as they crossed the lot toward his car, Ella humming nonsense into her shoulder, Marci felt it again—that strange tug in her chest, both heavy and light at once. The pull of family, of belonging. Of finally, finally being home.

Theo clicked the fob, and the car lights blinked to life across the lot. The backseat was already prepared—tiny car seat buckled in the middle, a pastel blanket folded neatly on top. Marci’s throat tightened at the sight of it, at the smallness of Ella’s world contained within those straps and cushions.

She eased the little girl down gently, coaxing her arms through the straps with practiced care, even though it had been months since she’d last done it. Ella murmured in protest, wriggling slightly, but her exhaustion won out. “No nap,” she mumbled again, voice slurred with sleep as Marci tightened the buckle. Within moments, her breaths evened, lashes fluttering closed against pink cheeks.

Marci tugged the blanket over her, smoothing it around her niece’s chin, and pressed one more kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, sunshine,” she whispered.

By the time she climbed into the passenger seat, Theo was already settled behind the wheel, turning the engine over with a low rumble. The heat stuttered to life, blowing faintly warm air into the cabin as he eased them out of the lot. For a while, the car was filled only with the sound of the tires crunching over frost, the rhythmic hum of the road, and Ella’s soft little snores from the back.

Marci leaned her head against the window, watching streetlights pass in glowing streaks. “She’s so much bigger than last time,” she murmured.

Theo glanced at her, one hand loose on the steering wheel. “Three months is a long time at her age. She learns something new every day. Keeps me on my toes.” His smile flickered, proud and tired all at once. “She’s…everything.”

Marci let that sink in, the truth of it plain in his voice. Then, quietly, she asked, “And Olivia?”

The name hung between them, heavier than the mist outside. Theo’s jaw flexed, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. For a moment he didn’t answer, only tapped his thumb against the wheel. Finally, he exhaled. “She’s in Manchester now. Got a flat near the uni. We split custody—weekends, holidays when she can. She loves Ella, I won’t take that from her. But…” He shook his head. “It just didn’t work. Not the way I wanted it to.”

Marci studied his profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. He looked older when he said it—tired in a way that went deeper than the sleepless nights with a toddler. She reached across the console, her fingers brushing his arm. “I’m sorry, Theo.”

He shrugged, but his mouth curved into something softer, something resigned. “Don’t be. We tried. And Ella’s happy. That’s what matters.” From the backseat, Ella stirred, letting out a tiny sigh before resettling into her dreams. Both of them turned instinctively, watching her small chest rise and fall, the blanket shifting with each breath. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Some nights, I think maybe I failed her. You know? Couldn’t give her the picture-perfect family. Couldn’t keep it together.”

Marci shook her head firmly. “No. You didn’t fail her. Look at her, Theo. She’s loved. She’s safe. That’s all a kid needs.” She paused, swallowing the ache in her throat. “You’ve always been the best at protecting people. You were that for me, and now you’re that for her. Don’t ever doubt it.”

His eyes flicked to hers, bright with something unspoken, before he looked back at the road. “You always know what to say.”

Marci smirked faintly. “Yeah, well, don’t tell Mum. She still thinks I don’t say the right things about anything.”

That drew a laugh out of him, quick and real, filling the car like warmth. “God, she’s going to start the second we walk in, you know.”

Marci rolled her eyes, sinking deeper into her seat. “Yeah. But at least I’ve got my backup crew this time.” She tilted her head toward the backseat, where Ella slept like the embodiment of peace.

Theo’s smile lingered as he merged onto the quiet country road, hedges blurring past in the darkness. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ve got you now.”

The tires crunched over gravel as he turned into the narrow drive, headlights sweeping across the front garden and lighting up the house Marci had once known like the back of her hand. The curtains in the sitting room glowed warm against the winter dark, lamplight spilling in soft yellow squares across the frosted lawn.

Marci’s breath caught when she saw the shape in the window. Her mum stood there, framed by lace curtains, hands clasped tight against her middle, her posture stiff with the anticipation that always seemed to hang between them. Even from the car, even blurred by the glass, Marci could picture the look on her face: the restless eagerness to see her daughter, softened and soured all at once by the silent list of criticisms she was ready to unleash.

Theo cut the engine, and the car hushed into silence, leaving only the faint tick of cooling metal and Ella’s gentle breaths in the backseat. Marci stayed frozen in her seat, cap brim low over her eyes, fingers twisting at the hem of her sweater.

She didn’t move.

Theo glanced at her, reading her hesitation as easily as he always had. “She’s excited you’re here,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of patience he reserved for both his sister and his daughter.

Marci huffed a humorless laugh, eyes fixed on the silhouette at the window. “Excited to ask why I’m still single? Or why I’ve ‘ruined’ my arms? Or why my hair’s so dark? Or why there’s holes in my face?” She rubbed her thumb over the chain of her bag strap, grounding herself. “I just… need another minute.”

Theo didn’t answer right away. He let her words hang there, the edges of them sharp and bitter, filling the quiet of the car.

Outside, the glow of the porch light made the frost on the hedges sparkle faintly, like the whole world was holding its breath. Marci kept her gaze fixed on the silhouette in the window, unwilling to turn toward her brother and see the pity she half expected in his eyes.

Her thumb still traced the leather strap of her bag, again and again, like a rosary bead. She’d known this moment was coming from the second the train pulled out of London, but knowing it and being here were two different things entirely. Her reflection in the glass offered a reminder of why her mother’s face would tighten the second she opened the door.

The girl her mum remembered had lighter brown hair—warm chestnut in the sunlight, easy to braid, easy to pin up for Christmas photos. That girl was long gone. Now, the hair that framed Marci’s face was box-dyed black, flat and glossy, a shade that swallowed the light instead of catching it. She’d done it herself in the tiny bathroom of her London flat, rinsing dye out of the ends with paint-stained fingers, laughing when the water ran dark and stained her towel.

And her face—God, her face was no longer the blank canvas her mother always preferred. Her left eyebrow carried a small hoop glinting under the streetlamps, silver against pale skin. Her septum was pierced, too, a delicate ring that sat between her nostrils, and both nostrils themselves carried studs that caught the faintest glimmer whenever she moved. None of it had been a grand rebellion, not at first. The girls at the tattoo studio had needed someone to practice on—hands steadying on her skin as they perfected their techniques—and she had offered herself without hesitation. She wore the proof of their practice now like a constellation across her face.

To her mother, it would be another list of grievances. Marceline, why do you insist on doing this to yourself? Marceline, your face is the first thing people see. Marceline, no man is going to want to marry someone with holes in her nose. The words were already alive in her head, scrawled across her memory in her mother’s voice.

Marci pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth, steadying herself, and finally leaned back into the car seat. “I just don’t want to walk in there and see it in her eyes, you know?” she muttered, softer now. “That pause before she hugs me. That flicker where she’s already disappointed.”

Theo’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, though the car was already off. He turned his head, really looking at her now, his face lit in halves by the glow of the dashboard and the soft wash of the porch light. “She’ll have her opinions,” he said simply. “She always does. But you’re still her daughter. And you’re still my sister. Nothing you put in your face or on your skin changes that.”

Marci let out a low laugh, this one less sharp, though her stomach was still coiled tight. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Doesn’t have to be easy,” he said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “It just has to be true.”

From the backseat, Ella stirred with a small sigh, the sound soft as a cat’s mewl. Marci turned instinctively, her heart softening as she watched her niece’s mittened hand twitch against the blanket, lips parting on a quiet dream word. It steadied her more than anything Theo could have said.

She drew a breath, slow and deliberate, and closed her eyes for a moment. Alright. One minute more. Then we face it. The silhouette in the window hadn’t moved. Still waiting. Still watching.

The cold air hit the moment she opened her door, sharp and bracing, filling her lungs with frost as she stepped out into the night. The gravel shifted beneath her boots, crunching with each step as she rounded the car. She tugged the strap of her bag over her shoulder, the familiar weight grounding her even as her nerves stirred again. Across the hood, Theo was already opening the back door, leaning in to unbuckle Ella.

The little girl stirred at the sound, her small body shifting under the blanket. “Da-da?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, eyes blinking open to the glow of the porch light.

Theo’s reply was instant, low and tender. “Yeah, bug. Da-da’s here.” He freed her from the straps with practiced ease, one hand cradling the back of her head so it wouldn’t bump as he lifted her out. Ella sagged against his shoulder, cheek pressed to his coat, arms looping lazily around his neck. Her eyes blinked open again, and this time she caught sight of Marci standing nearby. “An-tee,” she whispered, the word more exhale than voice, before slipping back toward sleep.

Marci’s chest ached at the sound. She reached out and smoothed a curl back under Ella’s wool hat, fingers lingering a moment before dropping to her side.

Together, the three of them walked toward the house. The porch light hummed above the door, its glow catching on the frost that outlined the brick. Through the window, the silhouette was no longer still—movement shifted the curtains, and then the door creaked open before they even reached it.

Their mum stood framed in the doorway. Margaret Dawson—though everyone in town called her Maggie—was small in stature but carried herself with a presence that always seemed to fill the room before her words did. Her hair, once the same soft brown as Marci’s had been, was now streaked heavily with gray, twisted back in a bun that had begun to fray after a long day. Deep lines bracketed her mouth and eyes, carved there not just by age but by years of working, worrying, and fending for two children when their father had vanished.

Arthur Dawson had left when Theo was ten and Marci was barely eight—walked out with promises of work in Manchester that turned quickly into silence. No money, no letters, no explanations. Just absence, leaving Maggie to stretch paychecks from her shop job into meals that sometimes didn’t last the week. Marci remembered the echo of slammed doors, the way her mother’s voice broke the night she realized he wasn’t coming back. That wound had never healed cleanly, and it left Maggie sharp-edged, quick to hold on and quicker to criticize.

Now, standing in the doorway with lamplight behind her, Maggie’s sharp eyes went first to Theo, softening as they always did. “Theodore,” she said, voice clipped but warm underneath, as though his very name steadied her. Her gaze lingered on the child in his arms. “And my Ella girl.”

Then her eyes shifted to Marci. They flicked once over the cap, the box-dyed black hair tucked beneath it, the glint of silver in her eyebrow and nose. A pause. Subtle, but Marci felt it like a hand pressing to her chest. “Marceline,” her mother said at last. The name carried the weight of generations, of expectation, of disappointment and love knotted together.

Marci’s grip tightened on the strap of her bag, but she forced herself to stand straighter, to meet her mother’s gaze head-on.

Maggie stepped aside to let them in, the scent of roast chicken and lemon polish wafting from the warm hallway. Her eyes softened again when they landed on Ella, small arms curled around Theo’s neck. She reached out to brush the back of her fingers across the toddler’s cheek. “Cold out, isn’t it? Come in before she catches it.”

Theo led the way, ducking his head as he carried his daughter inside. Marci lingered one heartbeat longer on the threshold, the night at her back and the weight of her mother’s gaze before her, before finally stepping across into the house she had once called home.

The hallway was warm, almost stifling after the bite of the night air, and the scents hit her all at once—roast chicken lingering from earlier, lemon furniture polish, the faint mustiness of old carpets that no amount of scrubbing ever seemed to erase. Marci’s boots scuffed against the worn runner as she stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her.

Maggie was already fussing, guiding Theo toward the sitting room. “Go on, Theodore, put her down on the sofa. She’ll sleep a bit before supper.” Her voice softened as she reached to tug the blanket higher under Ella’s chin, her eyes gentling in a way Marci had never seen directed at herself.

Marci lingered in the doorway, fingers still tight around her bag strap, feeling both out of place and too deeply rooted all at once. The house hadn’t changed—the same floral wallpaper climbing the hall, the same chipped photo frames lining the sideboard. Her school picture still sat there among them, teeth crooked, hair wild, and Marci wondered if her mum ever noticed how the girl in the frame was gone, replaced by the one standing here now with black hair and silver rings glinting against her skin.

Maggie’s gaze turned to her, sharp but not unkind. “Marceline, you look frozen. Go and shower before you catch your death.”

Marci blinked. “I’m fine, Mum—”

“No arguments.” Maggie’s tone brooked none. She wiped her hands on her apron, eyes flicking once more over her daughter’s dark hair, her piercings, the sweater that hung loose on her frame. “I laid some clothes out on your bed. Something decent. We’ve been invited to the neighbours’ for dinner, and I won’t have you turning up looking like you’ve just crawled off a train.”

Marci’s stomach tightened. “Neighbours?”

Maggie arched a brow. “Anne Twist. You remember—just across the way. She insisted we come. Said it’s been far too long since we all had a proper catch-up. And you’ll want to see Harry, won’t you? Him and Gemma are both home for the holidays.”

The words landed with a strange thud in Marci’s chest. Harry Styles. The boy who’d lived across the street, who’d carried her mum’s shopping once or twice, who had smiled at her with that easy sweetness but never looked long enough to see her properly. And Gemma—Gemma who’d been Theo’s age, closer to him, someone he’d trailed behind through the village lanes.

Theo looked up from where he was tucking Ella into the corner of the sofa, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gemma’s back? God, I haven’t seen her in years.”

Maggie’s eyes softened at him. “Yes. She’s doing well. You’ll enjoy catching up.” Then her gaze flicked back to Marci, that familiar pause, the measuring look. “So go on, Marceline. Wash the journey off. Put yourself together. We leave in an hour.”

Marci wanted to protest, to say she was too tired, that she hadn’t seen her own bed here in months and didn’t want to face old neighbours and old ghosts in the same night. But Theo caught her eye, the quiet encouragement in his look steadying her.
She exhaled slowly, loosening the strap of her bag at last. “Fine. I’ll shower.”

“Good girl,” Maggie said briskly, already turning back toward the kitchen as if the matter were settled.

Marci headed up the narrow stairs as they creak under her boots, every step familiar, every sound a reminder of years she had spent climbing them with slammed doors and muttered curses in her wake. The air grew cooler as she reached the landing, the heat from the kitchen below fading into shadows. Her old bedroom waited at the end of the hall, the door still painted in the pale lavender her mother had chosen when she was eight, chipped now at the corners where she’d once pinned posters that left faint rectangles of sun-bleached paper behind.

The room was smaller than she remembered, as childhood rooms always seemed to shrink when revisited. The wallpaper had faded, its floral print soft and outdated, and the shelves still held a handful of books she hadn’t bothered to take when she left—a collection of dog-eared novels and half-filled sketchpads from school. The bed was neatly made, tucked tight with hospital corners her mother favored, the quilt smoothed flat.

And there, laid across it, were the clothes.

A cream cardigan, its knit delicate and prim, folded carefully beside a dark skirt that looked like it had been plucked from a department store clearance rack. Next to them, a blouse—pale pink, buttoned to the collar, stiff from too much starch. A pair of tights lay folded on top, their color an unflattering beige that made Marci’s stomach twist. The shoes placed neatly on the floor were not hers either—flats, polished and practical, the kind her mother believed made a girl “presentable.” She stood in the doorway, taking it in, her throat tightening. The clothes looked like they belonged to someone else entirely. Someone smaller. Softer. Someone her mother still believed she could coax back into existence if she dressed her the part.

But the sizes were wrong—she could see it instantly. The skirt too narrow at the waist, the cardigan cut for shoulders slimmer than hers. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t have fit into them. The sight hollowed her out, made her feel both invisible and exposed. These weren’t just clothes—they were a statement, a quiet attempt at rewriting her, a refusal to see her as she was now.

To Maggie, Marceline Dawson was still a girl who should fit into pale pink blouses and beige tights, who should soften her edges until they slipped neatly into the mold laid out for her.

Marci let her bag slip from her shoulder, the strap clinking softly against the floor as it landed. She stepped further inside, running her fingers over the cardigan’s knit. It was smooth, unused, bought with the kind of hope that stung. Her jaw tightened as she imagined her mother smoothing it out earlier, laying it across the bed with care, convinced it would make her daughter look “nice” for the neighbours.

But it wasn’t hers. It had never been hers.

She turned away from the bed, her gaze snagging instead on the mirror propped in the corner. The reflection that met her was jarring against the backdrop of the room—black box-dyed hair spilling out from under her cap, silver glinting in her eyebrow and nose, tattoos just visible at the cuff of her sweater. She looked nothing like the girl the clothes were meant for. And for the first time since stepping into the house, she felt a strange steadiness at the sight. She knew exactly who she was.

The sound of voices drifted faintly up from downstairs—her mother clattering in the kitchen, Theo’s low baritone responding, Ella’s babbled giggles rising in between. The house hadn’t changed. Her mother hadn’t changed. But Marci had, and no cardigan or skirt laid out on an old bed could make her otherwise.

She gathered her things and turned toward the small adjoining bathroom, leaving the carefully chosen clothes untouched, their neat folds stark and out of place against the life she had built for herself.

The light buzzed faintly as she closed the door behind her, setting her bag down on the counter with a quiet thud. The mirror was unforgiving in its honesty—every long hour on the train written across her face, every dark strand of box-dyed hair clinging to her cheeks, every silver glint of her piercings catching under the harsh light. She pushed her damp fringe back, eyes flicking over the eyebrow hoop, the septum ring, the studs in either nostril. They had already been catalogued in her mind—signposts of who she was now. But it was her skin, more than anything, that told the real story.

Tattoos had become her language. Her craft. Her shield.

She let the sweater fall from her shoulders, fabric crumpling on the tile floor, and there she was—mapped in ink from collarbone to calf.

The mirror didn’t reflect a blank canvas anymore, but a living gallery of the years she had spent learning to draw on skin instead of paper. Her left arm was a sleeve of chaotic devotion: suns with sharp rays, spider webs curling around her elbow, cherubs armed with arrows, snakes and flowers tangled together in defiance. The other arm carried its own patchwork—lines bold and unapologetic, like the marks of every apprentice shift she had taken when the shop downstairs from her flat had first let her hold the machine steady.

Her legs were no less crowded, black shapes stamped into pale flesh—barbed wire curling tight around her thigh, a rabbit mid-leap with flowers blooming at its feet, the numbers 19 and 61 stark in their simplicity. Every mark was a milestone, each one tied to a night at the shop, to laughter echoing against tiled walls, to the nervous thrill of seeing her work outlast the paper she used to fill sketchbooks with.

The ink climbed her torso too: a lily sprawled delicately across her ribs, fine lines bending with her breathing; a set of bat wings stretched across the dip of her back, shadowed and dark; and under her ribs, a jagged tribal design she’d let one of the younger artists practice on, the lines biting sharp against her softer skin. On her upper thigh, in blackletter script, a joke made permanent—kiss my ass—the letters bold and brash, softened only by the small red heart stamped beside them.

Marci studied the whole of herself in the mirror, steam already beginning to blur the edges. This was what she had built. This was what she carried. Ink that told her story more truthfully than words ever could. Ink that kept people at a distance when she wanted it, that gave her confidence when her mother’s voice tried to strip it away.

She twisted her wrist, watching the way a sunburst glared back at her, its rays cutting across the line of her arm. She thought of the shop beneath her flat in London—the buzz of the machines, the smell of antiseptic, the stacks of needles waiting for her hand. That was her sanctuary, her church. Here, in Holmes Chapel, it felt like armor.

Turning from the her reflection, she stepped into the shower, the water rushing over her, hot enough to sting. Shampoo foamed in her dark hair, sliding in pale suds over black lines and into the valleys of her tattoos. The ink glistened under the spray, slick and shining, like it was alive. She stood there until her muscles loosened, until the day and the journey seemed to bleed from her body down the drain.

When she finally shut the water off, she dragged a towel over her skin, droplets clinging stubbornly to the edges of her ink. She reappeared in the fogged glass when she wiped it clean with the heel of her hand. Tattoos and piercings, black hair heavy against her shoulders—this was who she was. Not the pale pink blouse laid out on her bed. Not the girl her mother still pictured when she said Marceline.

She met her own eyes in the mirror, steady and unflinching, and knew she wouldn’t be dressing in anything but herself tonight.

The steam still lingered in the bathroom when she padded back into her old bedroom, towel clutched tight around her, hair damp and dripping against her shoulders. The clothes her mother had laid out waited obediently on the bed—they looked sterile in the warm lamplight, lifeless, untouched. Like a costume for someone who didn’t exist anymore.

She didn’t even spare them a second glance. She pulled open her bag instead, tugging it closer by the leather strap, the contents spilling with the kind of lived-in mess that was hers alone. Crumpled shirts, rolled leggings, a tangle of chains and rings in a velvet pouch, a small makeup bag with smudges of eyeliner on its zipper. The things that smelled like London—like ink, cigarettes, late nights in the shop when the buzz of machines hummed steady until two in the morning.

She tossed the towel aside and dressed in what felt like armor. Black trousers first—slim, worn soft at the knees, a pair she’d stitched herself after catching them on a nail at the studio. A cropped black tank top followed, clinging to her damp skin, the neckline sharp enough to show the lilies curling along her ribs when she moved. Over it, she slipped her favorite sweater—the oversized black one patterned with the stark white skeleton print, sleeves long enough to swallow her wrists. It wasn’t “decent” by her mother’s standards, but it was hers. She liked the way it draped, liked how the white bones stretched across her chest, liked how it made people stare and then look away.

From her bag she pulled her jewelry: rings slid onto fingers, cold silver against her skin, and a chain necklace with a charm that dangled low against her collarbone. She adjusted the rings in her piercings, twisting the studs in her nostrils until they sat comfortably, turning her eyebrow hoop so the ball caught the light. Each small click and twist was grounding, a ritual of becoming herself again.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, dragging her makeup bag onto her lap, and leaned toward the mirror propped on the dresser. Her eyeliner went on sharp, black wings flicked outward like claws, thick enough to match the dark weight of her hair. She dabbed a touch of shadow into the crease of her eyelids, smudged it until it looked deliberate, not messy. Mascara came last, thickening her lashes until they curled like spider legs. When she pulled back, she recognized the face staring back—familiar and fierce, not softened for anyone.

Her boots were next, pulled from the bottom of her bag with their heavy soles and thick fur lining, still dusted with city grime. She laced them up tight, double knots in the laces, the weight of them grounding her as much as the tattoos crawling across her skin. Standing, she tugged the hem of her sweater down, and slung her bag across her body.

The clothes on the bed still sat untouched, pale and neat and silent. They didn’t belong to her anymore. They never had.

What she wore now wasn’t polished or respectable in the eyes of Holmes Chapel. But it was honest. And when she walked into Anne Twist’s house tonight, into a room filled with people who thought they knew her, she’d rather be seen for what she was than what her mother wanted her to be.

She gave herself one last glance in the mirror—black hair framing a face edged with silver, sweater draped loose over inked arms, boots planted solidly on the worn carpet of her childhood room. She smirked faintly, tugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, and turned toward the door.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it was her.

She tightened her grip on the banister as she descended the narrow staircase, boots thudding softly on the worn carpeted steps. The sweater hung loose over her frame, the stark white skeleton print vivid against the black knit, sleeves falling almost over her fingers. Her damp black hair fell in a heavy sheet down her back, eyeliner drawn sharp as a blade, silver glinting in her eyebrow and nose. Every detail of her outfit was a deliberate refusal of the pale cardigan and skirt still laid out upstairs.

The murmur of voices drifted up from the sitting room—the low hum of Theo, the occasional clatter of their mum fussing in the kitchen. But before she could even step off the last stair, a squeal broke through the house.

“An-tee!” Ella’s voice, shrill and delighted, and then the thunder of tiny feet against the carpet. The two-year-old came charging from the sitting room, curls bouncing under her little hat she’d refused to take off indoors, mittened hands outstretched. Marci barely had time to crouch before the toddler collided with her legs, clinging with all the strength her small body could muster.

Marci laughed, bending to scoop her up. “There’s my sunshine,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to her niece’s warm cheek. Ella squealed again, wrapping her arms around Marci’s neck, little mitten patting at her aunt’s face.

“An-tee!” she repeated, then tapped the sweater with a proud grin. “Bones!”

Marci barked out a laugh, hugging her tighter. “Yeah, baby. Bones.” She bounced Ella lightly on her hip, the weight of her niece grounding her in a way nothing else could.

From the kitchen doorway, Theo appeared, his expression caught between amusement and fondness. “She hasn’t stopped asking for you,” he said, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “I swear, she’s been practicing that squeal just for this moment.”

Marci smirked, brushing her nose against Ella’s. “Best sound I’ve heard all day.” But before she could lose herself entirely in her niece’s joy, another presence filled the room. Their mum, Maggie, stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She froze mid-step when her eyes fell on Marci.

The pause was immediate. Subtle, but heavy. Her gaze swept once, head to toe, cataloguing every detail—the box-dyed black hair, still damp and curling at the ends; the dark, winged eyeliner; the piercings glinting in the light; the sweater with its skeleton bones stretched across the chest; the boots that left faint flecks of city dirt on the carpet.

“Marceline,” she said at last, voice clipped.

Marci’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t drop her gaze. She shifted Ella slightly on her hip, the toddler oblivious to the tension, now tugging playfully at one of Marci’s earrings.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I laid out clothes for you upstairs.”

Theo straightened, the edge in his sister’s posture enough to make him wary. “Mum—” he started.

Marci cut him off gently, voice calm but steady. “I saw them.” She smoothed Ella’s curls with one hand, using the motion to ground herself. “They don’t fit.”

Maggie’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes lingered on the skeleton print again, the word bones no doubt echoing after Ella’s gleeful shout. She let out a quiet breath through her nose, setting the dish towel down on the arm of a chair. “We’re going to Anne’s for dinner,” she said finally, her voice edged with disapproval but softened by the presence of her granddaughter. “Try to be…presentable, Marceline.”

Marci shifted Ella higher on her hip, the little girl’s curls brushing her chin as she clung tighter, thumb stuffed sleepily into her mouth. The weight of her niece steadied her, rooted her, even as her mother’s words pressed sharp into the room.

“This is presentable,” Marci said, her voice calm but firm, one hand smoothing down Ella’s back. “I’m not twelve, Mum. I don’t need you picking out my clothes.”

Maggie’s brows pinched, her gaze flicking to the piercings that glinted under the lamp. “It’s not about being twelve, Marceline. It’s about respect. About not walking into someone else’s home looking like…” Her words trailed, and she shook her head, lips tightening again. “Like this.”

Theo cleared his throat, tone even but edged with warning. “Mum.”

But Marci spoke first, her grip on Ella tightening as the little girl hummed nonsense against her shoulder. “Like what? Like me? Because this is me, Mum. The tattoos, the piercings, the hair. It’s not a phase, it’s not a mistake. It’s who I am.”

Ella pulled her thumb free long enough to repeat, delighted, “An-tee!” before dropping her head back against Marci’s chest.

The sound made Marci soften, her lips brushing her niece’s hair. Then she looked back up at her mother, meeting her gaze squarely. “And if Anne Twist has a problem with that, that’s her business. But I don’t think she will.”

Theo ran a hand over his jaw, smirking faintly at his sister’s defiance. “Anne’s not going to care, Mum. Neither will Gemma. Or Harry. They’ve known us our whole lives. You’re the only one worrying.”

Maggie’s eyes darted toward him, sharp. “Theodore, you don’t understand. People notice. People talk.”

Marci gave a short laugh, not cruel, but edged. “Let them. It won’t be the first time.”

For a long moment, the room hung heavy with silence—Maggie’s disapproval like a weight pressing down, Theo’s patience bracing against it, Ella’s small hums and sighs the only gentle sound. Finally, Maggie’s shoulders slumped, the tension leaking out with a tired exhale. “Fine,” she said, voice resigned, her gaze softening again only when it returned to the little girl in Marci’s arms. “But don’t embarrass me, Marceline.”

Marci’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She kissed Ella’s hair and murmured, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Theo reached for his coat, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath, “Christ, this is going to be a long night.”

The door creaked open with a groan, and the cold air rushed in at once, crisp and damp, carrying the faint smell of chimney smoke and wet leaves. Marci adjusted Ella on her hip as they stepped outside, the little girl’s weight snug against her, small fingers curled tight into the collar of her sweater. Ella’s cheeks flushed pink immediately, her eyes wide as she looked around, humming to herself in that way she did when she was curious.

Maggie’s voice called from behind them, still in the kitchen: “I’ll be right along! Just finishing with the chicken.” The clatter of pans followed, sharp and familiar, before the door closed again, leaving the three of them on the front step.

Theo jammed his hands into his coat pockets and nodded toward the house across the street. “Come on then. Anne said seven.”

The village was quiet at this hour, the winter dusk hanging low, clouds washed in purple and gray above the rooftops. Frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the gardens, glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlamp.

Marci’s boots crunched softly against the gravel as she followed Theo down the path, Ella resting her head on her shoulder one moment, then popping up the next to point her mittened hand at the light in the Twist’s window. “Light!” Ella chirped, grinning proudly.

“That’s right, sunshine,” Marci murmured, pressing a kiss to her niece’s temple. “Light.”

Crossing the street tugged at memories whether she wanted them or not. The row of houses, nearly identical in their brick and trim, felt frozen in time. The Dawsons’ front hedge, now trimmed back neatly, had once been the place she crouched behind with Harry during endless rounds of hide-and-seek, his lopsided grin daring her to run before his sister found them. The lamppost on the corner had been their makeshift goal line, the base where Theo and Gemma lingered, always older, always cooler, always talking about things Marci and Harry were too young to be included in.

She glanced sideways at her brother, his profile calm, mouth tipped faintly in the memory of his own. He had always been closer to Gemma—two years older than Marci, just enough to be on the same wavelength. They’d biked to the sweet shop together, whispered secrets on long summer nights when she was left out.

Marci had been younger, stuck with Harry, the boy who was kind enough but never more than background noise. He’d been polite, sweet even, but never looked at her twice.

Now, walking toward that same front door years later, her stomach gave a strange twist. She adjusted Ella again, the little girl giggling at the bounce. “Up, up,” Ella demanded, even though she was already in her aunt’s arms.

Theo chuckled. “She thinks you’re a jungle gym.”

Marci smirked faintly, blowing a strand of damp hair out of her face. “That’s alright. She can climb all she wants.”

The three of them reached the curb. The Twist house glowed golden through the windows, warm against the dim evening, wreath hanging neatly on the door, the faint shadow of Anne moving about inside. A knot formed low in Marci’s chest—anticipation, nerves, maybe both.

Theo slowed at the gate, his hand brushing against the latch before he glanced at her. “Funny, isn’t it?” His voice was quiet. “Feels like nothing’s changed, and everything has.”

Marci shifted Ella’s weight, staring at the door across the path. “Yeah,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Ella squirmed in her arms, clapping her mittens together. “Din-din!” she squealed, little legs kicking with excitement.

Theo laughed under his breath and pushed the gate open. “Guess we’d better not keep her waiting.”

The gate creaked as it swung shut behind them, the sound startling in the quiet of the street. Marci adjusted Ella higher on her hip, feeling the familiar ache pull at her shoulder from the little girl’s weight, though she didn’t mind it. If anything, the closeness steadied her. Theo walked just a half-step ahead, his breath visible in the cold, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets.

The Twist house loomed larger with every step, though it wasn’t truly any bigger than their own. Same brick, same sloping roof, same garden path lined with hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives. But to Marci it felt heavier, soaked in years of memories.

She could still see Harry at ten years old, darting out of the front door barefoot, hair sticking up in every direction, Gemma shouting after him as he laughed and bolted down the lane. She could still remember summer nights when Anne’s kitchen windows were thrown open, the smell of baking drifting across the street, her laugh carrying over like a song.

Now those windows glowed warmly against the winter night, wreaths hung neatly on the glass panes of the front door, a small lantern flickering cheerfully on the step. It looked inviting—homey, safe—but her chest tightened anyway.

Theo glanced back at her as they reached the path. “Don’t look so nervous,” he murmured, his tone light but his eyes kind. “It’s just dinner.”

Marci huffed, shifting Ella again when the toddler began kicking her boots happily against her aunt’s thigh. “You mean it’s dinner where Mum expects me to play nice, and Anne gets to look me up and down like I’m still sixteen, and Harry—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

Theo smirked knowingly, one brow raised. “Harry what?”

Ella squealed before Marci could answer, bouncing in her arms. “Knock, knock!” she demanded, patting Marci’s shoulder with her mitten as if to hurry her forward.

Marci laughed softly, kissing her niece’s temple. “Patience, sunshine. We’re getting there.” They mounted the front steps, the wood groaning faintly under their weight. Marci’s boots felt suddenly too loud, too heavy against the old boards.

Theo reached the door first but didn’t knock, turning instead to his sister. “You alright?”

Her fingers curled a little tighter into Ella’s jacket, grounding herself in the child’s warmth. “Yeah,” she said, though it came out softer than she intended.

Her gaze lifted to the wreath—green pine sprigs wound with red ribbon, perfectly festive, perfectly Twist. She took in the polished brass of the door handle, the way the curtains inside fluttered slightly as if someone had just passed by. The sounds of laughter echoed faintly within, muffled but unmistakable.

Marci’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just a door. It was a threshold into a life that had run parallel to hers all these years, one she had walked beside but never truly entered.

Ella wriggled again, giggling. “Din-din now?” she asked, eyes bright, completely unbothered by the weight pressing on her aunt.

Marci exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Yeah, baby. Dinner now.” Theo reached out, his hand resting briefly against her arm—a small, wordless reassurance. Then he lifted his knuckles and rapped against the door.

The knock echoed through the glass panes, quick and sure, and then the sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. A moment later it opened wide, spilling warm lamplight and the rich smell of roast into the cold night.

“Hello, you lot!” Anne Twist’s voice was bright, her smile warmer still. She reached first for Theo, pulling him into a quick hug. “Theo, love—it’s been far too long.”He grinned, squeezing her back before stepping aside so Marci could shuffle in with Ella clinging to her hip.

Anne’s eyes moved to them next, softening instantly. “And Marci—just look at you.” There wasn’t a bite in her tone the way their mother’s voice often carried, just genuine surprise, as though she couldn’t quite reconcile the girl from across the street with the tattooed, black-haired woman standing in front of her now.

“Anne,” Marci murmured with a small smile, adjusting Ella’s weight as the little girl squirmed.

“And who’s this sweet thing?” Anne cooed, tickling the edge of Ella’s mitten.

“Ella,” Theo said proudly, his chest puffing a little. “My daughter.”

Ella giggled, hiding her face in Marci’s neck, then peeking out again with a shy, “Hi.”

Anne’s laugh rang out like a bell. “Oh, she’s perfect. Come in, all of you, before you freeze solid on my doorstep.”

The three of them stepped inside, the warmth wrapping around them immediately. The hallway smelled like rosemary and pine, with faint carols playing somewhere deeper in the house. Family photos lined the walls—Gemma and Harry in their school uniforms, Anne smiling at some seaside holiday, snapshots of a life Marci had watched from just across the street. The patterned rug on the floor was the same one she remembered tripping over during hide-and-seek, years ago.

“Mum? Who’s here?” a voice called from the back, low and warm, older now but still recognizable. Marci’s heart kicked against her ribs. Footsteps approached, steady, and then he appeared. Harry.

He filled the hallway as he came into view, taller than she remembered, broader too. The last image in her mind—gangly limbs, ganglier curls—didn’t match this man at all. His shoulders had filled out, posture easy in a way that only came from years spent standing on stages and in rooms where every eye was on him. The baby-faced boy she’d once seen on the telly was gone, replaced by someone sharper around the edges, someone who seemed carved out of the last ten years.

Harry wore a dark navy jumper, simple but cut well, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms so the ink sprawled down his skin in stark patterns—ships, swallows, stars, leaves—a patchwork that seemed to tell its own story. His trousers were tailored, loose at the ankle, paired with polished boots that clicked faintly against the wood floor. There was nothing flashy about the clothes, nothing that screamed for attention, but they fit him—quiet confidence, understated, the kind of style that whispered instead of shouted.

His hair was still thick, curling loose around his temples, though shorter now, deliberately styled with just enough mess to make it look effortless. Stubble dusted his jawline, soft but undeniable, and when he pushed a hand through his hair it revealed rings glittering on nearly every finger—silver, gold, chunky stones, the kind of accessories that might look gaudy on anyone else but looked natural on him.

Ten years had left their mark. Not just in the tattoos or the stubble, but in the way he carried himself. In the set of his shoulders, the steady gaze that didn’t dart away nervously like it once did. He’d been gone from Holmes Chapel nearly a decade, living a life that was bigger than anything their small street could contain. Stadiums, travel, cameras flashing, headlines shouting his name—it was all there in him, even in the quiet moment of standing in his mother’s hallway.

And yet, there was still something familiar in the slope of his smile, in the way his green eyes softened as they flicked toward Ella’s curls, then lingered, unexpectedly, on Marci.

She hadn’t seen him in years. Not properly. Not like this. And the truth struck her fast and sharp—Harry Styles was no longer the sweet boy next door. He was a man who had spent ten years becoming someone the world watched. And now, somehow, he was standing in front of her again.

He paused at the mouth of the hallway, hand braced lightly on the doorframe as if he’d only meant to poke his head in and check who had arrived. But when his eyes landed on the small group gathered in the foyer, he stilled. His gaze swept past Theo first, a quick smile of recognition breaking over his face. Then it shifted—drawn inevitably to the little girl nestled against Marci’s hip, Ella’s mittened hand still patting at her aunt’s shoulder.

“Blimey,” Harry murmured, his voice warm and rough-edged from years of use, softened now by surprise. “Didn’t realize you had a little one.”

Marci blinked, thrown for a moment. “What?”

His eyes flicked to hers briefly—green, steady, with that half-spark of curiosity she remembered from when he was younger—but lingered mostly on Ella. His smile broadened, dimples pressing faint into his cheeks, his voice dropping as if instinctively gentle for a child. “She’s gorgeous. Yours?”

The words landed with a strange weight. Marci’s stomach gave a quick twist, though she kept her grip steady around Ella’s small frame. Ella giggled at the attention, ducking her head into Marci’s neck before peeking back out, thumb halfway to her mouth. Before Marci could respond, Theo barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Not hers, mate. She’s mine.” He stepped forward, patting Ella’s curls affectionately. “This is Ella. My daughter.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted, the surprise flickering across his face before he let out a soft, low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re a dad now.” He grinned at Theo, shaking his head as though the thought of his old friend with a child was something he hadn’t quite imagined. “That’s brilliant.”

Theo shrugged, though his pride was obvious in the way his hand lingered on Ella’s back. “Yeah. She’s a handful, but she’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Harry’s smile softened further, genuine. “I can tell. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger already.”

Ella squealed at the sound of his voice, wriggling against Marci’s hip. “Hi!” she chirped suddenly, mitten waving in Harry’s direction.

He laughed, a low rumble. “Hi, love,” he said warmly, giving her a small wave back. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?” Marci couldn’t stop the faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her chest still buzzed with the awkwardness of his assumption.

Harry turned back to her then, really looking at her for the first time, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “And you…” His voice slowed, curiosity lacing through it. His gaze skimmed over the black hair, the piercings glinting in the warm light, the tattoos crawling out from beneath her sweater sleeves. He hesitated. “Sorry, have we…? I feel like I should know you.”

The question hung there between them, heavier than she expected, his recognition not immediate, not certain. After all these years, after all those summers and afternoons spent side by side, Harry didn’t even realize who she was.

Anne, standing just behind him now, broke the silence with a small chuckle, her hand brushing his shoulder. “Oh, darling, honestly. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize her. That’s Marci Dawson.”

His head snapped back to her, green eyes wide, disbelief breaking across his face. “Marci?” he repeated, the word nearly disbelieving as it left his lips.

Her smirk sharpened, a brow arched as she adjusted Ella on her hip. “The one and only.”

He stared at her then, properly this time, as though the years had been stripped away and replaced with something he’d never expected to see.

Chapter Text

Anne’s hand lingered on Harry’s shoulder, her laughter warm in the narrow hallway. “Oh, Harry, honestly. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize her. That’s Marci Dawson.”

For a moment, the house was nothing but the sound of Ella’s tiny breaths and the faint hiss of the kettle coming to a boil in the kitchen.

Harry’s eyes snapped back to her, the disbelief etched clear across his face. “Marci?” he said again, slower this time, as if trying the name on for size, as though it didn’t quite fit the woman standing before him.

“The one and only.” Marci’s voice came out lower than she meant it to, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she adjusted Ella’s weight. The little girl squirmed happily in her arms, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.

Harry blinked, his gaze roaming over her like he was re-reading a story he thought he knew by heart but no longer recognized. His eyes lingered on the dark fall of her hair, the sharp wings of her eyeliner, the glint of metal in her nose and eyebrow, before dropping briefly to the skeleton print stretched across her sweater. His mouth parted slightly, like he meant to say something, but no words came.

The heat from the house pressed heavy on Marci’s skin, still sensitive from the shower. She shifted on her feet, her sweater clinging damply to her shoulders, and with a small huff she pulled it over her head in one motion. The black tank underneath clung to her, thin straps slipping against pale skin, the bold curve of lilies and shadowed lines along her ribs suddenly bare in the lamplight. The air prickled cool across her skin, making every inked line stand out sharper—the sunbursts on her arms, the swallows caught mid-flight, the curling stems of flowers wrapping around her forearms.

Ella squealed with delight, pointing a mittened hand at the ink revealed on Marci’s shoulder. “Pretty!” she shouted, drawing the word out into two delighted syllables. She patted the tattoo with her tiny palm as if to claim it for herself.

But the reaction wasn’t shared by everyone.

From the kitchen doorway, Maggie’s face pinched as she returned, hands still dusted with flour from rolling out pastry. Her eyes landed on Marci’s bare arms, scanning the riot of ink with a sharp flicker of disapproval she didn’t bother hiding. “Marceline.” Her voice was tight, edged with that familiar note, the one that carried every unsaid criticism. “You couldn’t leave that thing on for one evening?” She gestured faintly toward the discarded sweater, now lying in a crumple on the armchair.

Marci’s jaw tensed. She smoothed a hand over Ella’s back, the child’s warm little body grounding her, though she could feel her mother’s eyes burning into her skin. “It was boiling in there, Mum,” she said evenly. “I’m not going to sit through dinner sweating just so you can pretend I’m someone I’m not.”

Theo’s gaze flicked between them, a silent warning not to let it spiral. He set Ella’s baby changing bag down by the stairs and cleared his throat. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Let’s not start.”

Anne, still standing nearby, shot Maggie a look that was half-amused, half-reproachful. “Oh, Maggie, leave her be. She looks lovely.” Her eyes softened as she turned back to Marci, voice lilting with genuine fondness. “You’ve grown up beautifully, love.” Her voice hung like soft fabric in the tension-thick air—gentle, almost maternal, smoothing down the jagged edge between mother and daughter.

Marci blinked, a little caught off guard by the warmth in it, the sincerity. There was no edge, no judgment, no hidden agenda buried beneath pleasantries. Just fondness. Honest, unfiltered fondness. She swallowed thickly, offering Anne a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite meet her eyes but was grateful all the same. “Thanks, Anne,” she murmured, brushing a hand down the back of Ella’s coat as the toddler rested her head on Marci’s shoulder again, thumb in her mouth.

Anne’s gaze flicked to the child—Marci’s little shadow—and her entire expression softened into something almost misty. “She’s gotten so big, hasn’t she?” she said more quietly, her voice shifting into that timbre only used for babies and old friends. “Oh, she’s just the image of Theo when he was small. Big eyes, same little pout.”

Theo gave a mock groan behind them. “Alright, alright, let’s not traumatize her with any more comparisons to me.”

Marci smiled faintly, stepping forward as Anne ushered them in. The warmth of the Twist household seeped into her bones almost immediately—radiators hissing, kitchen smells floating through the house, and the glow of yellow lamplight pooling against wood floors that creaked in all the familiar places. It smelled like rosemary and red wine, cinnamon and something roasting low and slow. Like home, but not hers.

Framed photos lined the walls—some she remembered from when they were kids, some new. One of Harry on stage, backlit in violet, a guitar slung across his front. One of Gemma in cap and gown. One of Anne, Harry, and Gemma all together on a beach, laughing at something outside the frame.

Marci’s stomach twisted slightly. Her family had never done posed portraits like that. The few photos they’d had—the ones before their dad left—were tucked into a box in the attic somewhere. She doubted Maggie had looked at them in years.

They walked down the hall, the house sighing around them in that way old houses do. Ella had gone quiet on her shoulder, big eyes wide as they took in new sights. Theo reached for the toddler then, carefully transferring her from Marci’s arms to his own with practiced ease.

“There we go, bug,” he murmured, planting a kiss to her curls. “Let Auntie catch her breath.”

Marci flexed her shoulders slightly once her niece was gone, the familiar dull ache settling into her arms from carrying the toddler so long. Her tank top had shifted, exposing more of the tattoo that wrapped along the back of her right shoulder. She adjusted it idly, sensing her mother’s eyes on her again.

Maggie had come in behind them, silent and stiff, her mouth pressed into that line it always formed when she was biting back something sharp. Her arms were crossed now, eyes locked on the curve of ink peeking out from Marci’s shoulder blade. Not a word passed her lips, but the silence was thunderous.

Anne clapped her hands together. “Right! Shoes off if you like, coats can go in the hallway. There’s mulled wine in the kitchen if you’re old enough, apple juice if you’re not,” she winked at Ella, who blinked back solemnly. “Dinner should be ready in about fifteen.”

Theo helped Ella out of her tiny coat, passing it to Marci to hang. He cast her a quick glance as he turned away—a mix of solidarity and subtle warning. Not now. Just breathe. It’s fine.

Marci peeled off her boots, lining them beside the door where a pair of heeled leather ones sat neatly next to worn-out white sneakers. Harry’s, she guessed. They looked lived in. Comfortable. Not the glossy celebrity look she might’ve expected.

Her pulse picked up again when she felt, more than saw, him enter the room. His footsteps were quieter than Theo’s, and when she glanced up, there he was—Harry. Still watching her like he couldn’t quite place her. Like he was trying to fit the version of her he once knew with the one now standing in his mum’s hallway, black box dye and half her life inked across her skin.

But before either of them could say anything, Anne’s voice rang out again from the kitchen. “Harry, be a dear and grab the napkins from the drawer? Marci, love, you want to help me set the table?”

Marci hesitated. Behind her, she felt her mother stiffen again, probably annoyed that Anne was treating her like a welcome guest instead of the family disappointment. But before Maggie could say anything—or before Marci could second-guess it—she nodded. “Sure,” she said, stepping forward into the kitchen. “I’ve still got the muscle memory from 2008, I think.”

Anne laughed. “I’d bet you do. Some things don’t change.” Her laughter filled the kitchen, warm and easy, wrapping around Marci like steam rising from the stovetop.

The room looked almost exactly as it had when she was a kid—cream cabinets with slightly chipped paint, the same faded floral curtains over the window above the sink, the clatter of utensils in the same old drawers. The air was heavy with the scent of rosemary and roasted lamb, spiced wine simmering low, butter and garlic folded into mashed potatoes. It was the kind of domestic warmth that should’ve been comforting, but for Marci it stirred something else—nostalgia cut through with the reminder of all the years she’d spent running from rooms just like this.

Anne moved about with practiced ease, pulling plates from cupboards, brushing flour dust from her apron. “Here we are,” she said, sliding a stack of dishes toward Marci. “You remember where everything goes?”

Marci nodded faintly, setting the stack against her hip as she took them to the dining room table. “Yeah. Forks on the left, knives on the right. Napkins under forks. Or at least, that’s how you drilled it into us.” She shot Anne a crooked smile over her shoulder.

Anne chuckled. “Well, someone has to make sure you all grow up civilized.”

From the doorway, Theo leaned against the frame, arms crossed as he watched his sister. “Good luck with that,” he muttered with a teasing grin.

Marci rolled her eyes but didn’t rise to it. She began laying the plates around the long oak table, the wood gleaming under the chandelier. Each place setting seemed so neat, so deliberate—wine glasses already waiting, tiny sprigs of holly tied around the napkin rings. She felt clumsy amongst it, her tattoos flashing under the lamplight every time her arm stretched across the table.

Harry appeared then, napkins in hand, rings clinking softly as he held the folded fabric out to her. “Here,” he said, voice low but kind. Their fingers brushed again in the exchange, his callused skin grazing hers. “Guess some things really don’t change. You still get roped into setting the table.”

Marci smirked, shaking out a napkin. “Old habits die hard, I guess. Though I don’t remember you ever volunteering.”

He tilted his head, curls falling into his eyes. “That’s ‘cause I didn’t.” His grin deepened, dimples cutting sharp. “You were always better at it.”

The words caught her off guard—compliment, nostalgia, maybe both—and she ducked her head back to her task, smoothing the napkin flat. Her chest felt oddly tight.

Anne bustled back in then, clapping her hands together. “Perfect, perfect. Look at this—it’s like no time has passed at all.”

From the corner, Maggie’s voice came sharp but quiet, as if she couldn’t quite help herself. “Plenty of time has passed.” Her eyes lingered on Marci’s bare arms, the ink sprawled over her shoulders and forearms, but she said nothing more, letting the words hang.

The silence that followed Maggie’s words wasn’t loud, but it was dense—the kind that prickled just under the skin, noticeable even beneath the clatter of plates and the hum of the oven still working in the background. Marci didn’t flinch, but she did pause. Her hand hovered above the last fork, fingers curled in a loose grip, jaw tight.

Theo looked up from where he was crouched beside Ella’s chair, buckling her booster seat into place. “Mum,” he said, voice low, caution layered under the familiar exhaustion of someone who’d heard this kind of comment too many times.

Marci exhaled through her nose. Calm. Controlled. She set the final fork down with precision and looked across the table, her eyes meeting Maggie’s. “That’s kind of the point,” she said simply, no edge in her tone, just truth. “Time passed. I changed.”

Maggie didn’t respond, not really. Her lips pursed, her chin tipped slightly upward, as if bracing herself against the weight of her own disappointment. But she didn’t speak again. She turned instead toward the platter of roasted lamb, adjusting its position like it had offended her.

Anne, ever the hostess and well-practiced peacekeeper, cleared her throat gently. “Well, I think the tattoos are beautiful. All of them look like stories.” She smiled at Marci, warm and steady. “You’ve always had an artist’s heart, darling. I remember your sketchbooks—back when you used to draw in the garden with your legs kicked up the wall.”

Marci blinked at her, caught off guard by the gentleness in Anne’s voice, the memory it plucked from a faraway place. She smiled, slow and real this time. “Still have those sketchbooks,” she said. “They’re stacked in my studio. Right next to the ink bottles.”

Harry, standing at the edge of the dining room now, tilted his head. “Studio?” he asked, brows lifting with genuine interest.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Shop below my flat. I work there most days. Design appointments, walk-ins, all sorts. It’s small, but it’s mine.”

He gave a low whistle, eyes flicking over the tattoos that wrapped down her left arm. “Not bad for the girl who used to draw dragons on her jeans in gel pen.”

Marci laughed, surprising herself. “Some of my finest work.”

Ella clapped her hands suddenly, echoing the laugh. “An-tee funny!”

Theo ruffled his daughter’s curls. “She’s the funniest,” he said with a wink. Maggie didn’t laugh. She didn’t speak. Instead, she smoothed the front of her blouse and moved toward the sideboard to fetch the serving spoons, her silence louder than anything she could’ve said.

Marci’s eyes followed her, but only for a beat. Then she pulled out the chair beside Ella and slid into it, leaning over to press a kiss to the toddler’s cheek. “Ready for din-din, sunshine?”

“Yummy!” Ella crowed, kicking her feet with excitement.

Anne circled the table, placing a jug of gravy in the center. “Alright, everyone—seats, please. Let’s eat while it’s hot.” Her voice was firm but kind, the matriarch of this mismatched little gathering.

Harry moved to the seat across from Marci. Gemma appeared from the hallway, kicking off her boots and setting her phone aside as she joined them with a wave. “Sorry—work call. Hey, Marci.”

“Hey,” Marci said, offering a smile. “Been a while.”

“Ten years, give or take,” Gemma replied. “You look—”

“Different?” Marci finished for her, eyebrow raised.

Gemma grinned. “I was gonna say ‘cool as hell,’ but yeah. Different works too.”

The table buzzed with the start of dinner: dishes being passed, plates loaded with vegetables and meat, a glass of red wine nudged Marci’s way by Anne’s hand.

Maggie sat last, taking the seat at the far end of the table, diagonally from her daughter. Her eyes flicked once to the skeleton print still visible on Marci’s tank top, then quickly to her own plate.

As the meal settled into motion, Marci let the warmth of the food and the chatter around her begin to chip away at the tension. Theo asked Gemma about work. Anne told Ella she looked like a Christmas pudding in her red jumper. Harry cracked a joke about missing his mum’s Yorkshire puddings when he was on tour. And through it all, Marci sat with her tattoos exposed, her niece beside her, and the weight of her mum’s silence on her back—pressing, but no longer defining.

And across the table, Harry kept glancing at her—not in that polite, detached way people sometimes do when they don’t know what to say—but with curiosity. Like he was still trying to piece together how the girl from number seven had grown into someone so sharp, so self-made, so unmissable. Marci noticed. And she didn’t look away.

“So,” he said suddenly, clearing his throat, “do they all have meanings? Or are you one of those ‘I got this on a whim in Berlin at 3AM’ kind of people?”

Marci snorted. “A bit of both, but most of the little ones are from apprentices for practice.”

Harry’s brows shot up, fork forgotten halfway to his mouth. “Practice?” he echoed, leaning forward like she’d just revealed some great secret. “You mean… like on a grapefruit? Or—” his eyes flicked to her arms, a smirk tugging at his lips, “—on you?”

Marci raised one brow, setting her glass back down with a soft clink. “On me,” she said, a little too smoothly, as if she hadn’t been through the conversation a thousand times before. She tipped her chin toward the small scattering of rougher tattoos along her forearm—a shaky star, a spiderweb that didn’t quite line up, the jagged chaos script. “When you work in a shop, somebody’s got to be the canvas. Better me than a paying client.”

Theo chuckled around a mouthful of potatoes. “She’s basically the patron saint of rookie tattoo artists. All her limbs are covered in their practice runs.”

“Not all,” Marci shot back, smirking. “Just most. You’re welcome, Theo. Means when you finally get brave enough, you won’t end up with one that looks like a toddler drew it.”

Harry laughed then, head tipped back, the sound warm and startled. “God, that’s brilliant. So you’re telling me—” he gestured vaguely with his fork toward her arm, “—half of those are, what, apprentices learning how not to ruin someone’s skin?”

“Exactly.” She shrugged. “They’re not perfect, but they’re part of the story. And honestly? I like them. They remind me where I started.”

His eyes lingered, green and searching, like he was trying to piece together every story etched into her skin. “And the other half?” he asked, voice softer now.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one inked arm over the other. “Those are mine. The ones that mean something. Pieces I designed. Or ones I sat for because I needed them.”

“Needed?” he repeated, curious.

Her smirk sharpened into something a little more self-deprecating. “Yeah. Tattoos are like… armor. Or therapy. Depends on the day.”

From the head of the table, Maggie made a quiet, unimpressed noise and set down her fork. “Or just a way to mark yourself up until there’s no skin left,” she muttered.

The words scraped against the edges of the moment, souring it, but before silence could fall too heavy, Anne jumped in, cheerful as ever. “Oh, Maggie, don’t be like that. I think they’re fascinating. Bodies as canvases. There’s a sort of poetry to it, don’t you think?”

“Poetry’s usually written on paper,” Maggie replied flatly.

Harry, unfazed, turned his grin back on Marci. “I’ve got a few of those myself,” he said, lifting his arm just enough that the edge of his ship and rose tattoos peeked out from under his rolled sleeve. “Some done by friends, some after nights I probably shouldn’t have had a tattoo gun anywhere near me.”

“Ah,” Marci said, tilting her head with mock solemnity. “So you are a ‘Berlin at 3AM’ type after all.”

He laughed, delighted, and pointed his fork at her. “Guilty. But—” he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret across the table, “—none of mine are practice scribbles. That makes you braver than me.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Or dumber.”

“Brave,” he insisted, that grin back in full force. “Definitely brave.”

Theo glanced between them, an amused crease in his brow. “God, it’s like watching teenagers flirt at prom.”

Marci groaned. “Shut up.”

Harry only laughed harder, green eyes glinting as though he’d just been handed the best Christmas present he could ask for. “Don’t worry, Theo. I’ll keep it presentable.”

Anne beamed at them both, clearly entertained, while Maggie pressed her lips tighter, as though each laugh pulled them further from the image she wanted her daughter to be.

But for once, Marci didn’t care. The warmth in her chest was louder than her mother’s disapproval, louder than the clink of dishes, louder than the voice that had followed her home from London.

And by the time the last of Anne’s roast potatoes had disappeared and the wine bottle stood nearly empty, the table had shifted into that loose, comfortable haze that came after a good meal. Plates were pushed aside, napkins left crumpled, and conversation had mellowed into pockets—Gemma leaning across to catch Theo up on her new job in London, Maggie listening with stiff politeness, and Anne refilling cups like a woman who thrived on keeping everyone settled.

But Marci hardly noticed any of it.

She was leaning back in her chair, head tipped toward Harry, who sat opposite her, elbows braced on the table as if he’d forgotten entirely that anyone else was there. They weren’t flirting—at least not in any way they would admit—but they were trading stories like cards, each one sparking another round of laughter.

Harry had told her about a disastrous early tour moment when his trousers had split on stage in front of twenty thousand people, his cheeks still pink at the memory. Marci countered with the time one of her apprentices had accidentally tattooed their own thigh while adjusting a machine, the scarred smiley face still etched into their skin. He laughed so hard he nearly tipped his chair back.

At one point, he leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Alright, but tell me—what’s the worst tattoo request you’ve ever had?”

She smirked, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “That’s easy. A guy once came in asking for a giant QR code on his chest. Said it linked to his SoundCloud.”

His jaw dropped before he burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“Swear on my life,” she said, grinning wide. “I didn’t do it, though. I told him I wasn’t about to make his breakup mixtape a permanent part of his anatomy.”

Across the table, Gemma caught Theo’s eye, her brows arching. He only shook his head, lips quirking like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Anne, meanwhile, watched the pair with that sly, motherly satisfaction of someone who had witnessed a spark she didn’t dare name. She topped up Maggie’s wine as though to distract her from the way her daughter was glowing under the attention of the boy next door—now the man across the table.

Marci wasn’t blind to the glances. She caught the way her mum’s jaw clenched every time her laughter carried louder than it should, the way Theo’s lips pressed together as though holding back commentary. But Harry didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. He kept aiming jokes directly at her, kept widening his eyes when she rolled hers, kept telling stories just to hear her laugh.

And she did laugh. More than she meant to. More than she had in weeks, maybe months. It wasn’t careful laughter, the kind she measured in front of clients or old friends. It was unguarded, belly-deep, the kind that made her eyes sting and her ribs ache.

Harry’s green eyes lingered on her every time she came down from it, like he was cataloguing the sound for later.

When Anne brought out a plate of mince pies, Marci felt flushed, not from the heat of the kitchen but from the steady pull of Harry’s gaze. It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t obvious—but it was there, like a thread drawn taut between them across the table.

Gemma broke the spell with a sly little grin, her voice lilting as she reached for a pie. “Well, some things never change,” she said, eyes darting between them.

Theo snorted softly, muttering, “Yeah, some things definitely do.”

The clatter of forks and the scrape of chairs signaled the slow unraveling of dinner, the room settling into that familiar post-meal lull. Anne rose with the same brisk cheer she always carried, clapping her hands once. “Alright, you lot, let’s clear some of this before it turns into a proper mountain.” Gemma volunteered for tea duty, Theo went across the road to wrestle Ella into pajamas, and Maggie lingered behind Anne, already reaching for another stack of plates.

Marci stood automatically, gathering glasses by their stems. Before she could take more than two steps, Harry rose too, sliding in beside her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll help,” he said, already scooping up a few crumpled napkins and the empty pie dish. His shoulder brushed hers as he passed, close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne, something sharp and woodsy beneath the lingering roast and wine.

In the kitchen, the sounds of family dinner blurred into a softer hum, muffled through the doorway. It was just the two of them by the sink, rinsing dishes, moving around one another with the ease of people who’d done this before, years ago, maybe even in another life.

Marci stacked the glasses neatly; Harry scrubbed at the casserole dish, water running hot and steaming between them. Every so often their hands bumped as they reached for the same thing. Each time, his grin tugged wider, hers turned sharper.

“You know,” he said finally, flicking water from his fingers toward her, “we’re doing far too much work for being the guests.”

She snorted, brushing droplets off her tank top. “Pretty sure you live here.”

“Details, details.” He leaned one hip against the counter, watching her over the rim of his lashes. For a moment, the banter faded. He lowered his voice, conspiratorial, the words wrapped in a grin that didn’t quite hide the glint in his eyes. “Actually…I’ve got an idea. Want to sneak off? Take a walk? Or, uh—head up to the roof?”

She froze with a plate still in her hands, eyebrow arched. “The roof?”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “Got something to show you.” He reached into his pocket just enough to flash the twisted end of a joint, quick and sly before tucking it back. “Thought you might appreciate it more than another lecture about settling down.”

Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, sharp and delighted. “Seriously? You’re still the boy sneaking behind the shed with a lighter and a secret?”

His grin deepened, dimples cutting sharp. “Only now I can roll better. And the company’s improved.”

She set the plate down, drying her hands on a towel, her pulse thrumming in her throat. She could hear her mum’s voice in the dining room, hear Anne fussing over the tea, but here in the kitchen it felt like a bubble had closed around them—like they’d stepped out of the house and into their own quiet. His gaze didn’t move from Marci’s face, waiting, the invitation hanging unspoken but heavy in the air.

And for the first time since stepping off the train, she felt the tug of mischief loosen something inside her chest. The same mischief that had made her sneak out as a teenager, the same that still carried her through nights in the city. She tilted her head, mouth quirking, and considered the boy she used to know—the man now standing in front of her, tattoos peeking out from his shirt sleeves, grinning like he already knew her answer.

She then crossed her arms, tattoos shifting like a moving mosaic under the warm kitchen light. “And what exactly are we escaping to? Because if you’re about to suggest sneaking up onto your mum’s roof in the middle of December, I’m not sure that’s better than being interrogated about my life choices over dessert.”

He tilted his head, curls brushing his temple, eyes glinting. “You’d be surprised. It’s not just any roof. I’ve done some improvements since the last time you saw it.” He paused, then let the word drop like a lure between them: “Fairy lights.”

She let out a bark of laughter, startling even herself. “You did not.”

“Swear on my life,” he said, still half-smiling, half-serious. “Come see. Just for a bit. Ella’s occupied with her pudding, Theo’s got her, Mum’ll be fussing over the gravy for hours. And Maggie, well… We’ll be back before any of them know we’re gone.”

Marci glanced toward the dining room. She could hear Ella’s little voice, high and sing-song, babbling happily as Anne tried to coax another bite of carrots into her. Maggie’s voice wove through, clipped and precise. It would be so easy to sit back down, to play the part she always did—quiet, careful, half-swallowed.

But Harry was still watching her, waiting, like he was offering a dare she hadn’t realized she wanted. She felt the weight of his gaze linger on her inked arms, then flick back up to her face.

She arched a brow. “If I freeze to death out there, Styles, that’s on you.”

His grin broke into something brighter, triumphant. “Deal.” He leaned closer, just for a moment, close enough that she caught the faintest hint of smoke clinging to his jumper, warm and woody. “But I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He grabbed the cream from the fridge and set it on the counter as a decoy, then jerked his chin toward the back door. “Go on. I’ll follow you out.”

They slipped out the back door like they had as children, only this time she wasn’t trailing behind him with scraped knees and a guilty grin. The cold air rushed to greet them, but this time she didn’t mind. Frost painted the grass a silvery white, sparkling faintly beneath the scattered glow of the streetlamps. The Twist house stood quiet behind her, its windows glowing with firelight, the muffled warmth of Anne’s hospitality spilling faintly through the curtains.

He was already halfway up the narrow trellis at the side of the house before she’d even realized what he was doing. His boots pressed easily against the slats of wood, his hand bracing against brick, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath the ink that snaked along his skin—the tiny black heart, the swallows, the words etched into him like a secret hymn.

Marci followed, tucking her hair behind her ears, the black strands still damp and sticking slightly to her skin. Her tank top left her arms bare, her own ink stark and unignorable against the pale winter night. The air nipped at her shoulders, but when she hoisted herself onto the roof, the cold seemed almost secondary to the sight that spread out before her.

The rooftop was just as she remembered, yet transformed. He hadn’t been joking about the lights—strings of warm yellow fairy bulbs looped along the edges of the roof tiles, casting everything in a soft amber glow. The familiar dark shingles glistened faintly with frost, crunching beneath her boots as she steadied herself. A couple of thick plaid blankets were spread out neatly on the flat stretch near the chimney, their faded fabric anchored with an old tin biscuit tin that had been repurposed as a makeshift table. On top of it sat two chipped mugs, already filled with something steaming, and a half-empty packet of chocolate digestives folded over to keep them crisp.

The glow of the lights bounced off the glass of the mugs and gleamed against the metal of Harry’s rings, against the dark ink etched into her own arms. The whole scene felt impossibly intimate, as if they had stepped out of time—back into the secret games of childhood, only rewritten with the weight of ten years between them. The street below was quiet, save for the crunch of Theo’s footsteps as he carried Ella back into the house, leaving Marci and Harry silhouetted together under the winter sky.

He settled onto the blanket with easy grace, legs stretched out, hands braced behind him, shoulders relaxed against the slope of the roof. The fairy lights softened the sharpness of his features, gilding the curls at his temple, glinting off the cross on his hand. Beside him, the biscuit tin wobbled slightly until he steadied it, then fished something from his pocket, holding it casually between his fingers—the slim twist of paper unmistakable in its shape.

He didn’t say anything yet, just glanced up at her with a slow, mischievous smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth, green eyes catching hers in the amber glow.

She lingered at the edge of the blanket, arms wrapped loosely around herself, the night air biting sharper than she’d expected. The fairy lights painted her in soft amber, but the glow did nothing against the chill that crept up her bare arms. She exhaled, watching the puff of her breath vanish into the dark, and muttered, half to herself, “Brilliant. Left my sweater inside like a dumbass.”

He chuckled, low and warm, leaning back on his elbows. “Still hopeless, aren’t you? All those tattoos and piercings, but no sense to grab a jacket before climbing onto a roof in December.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile that pulled at her mouth betrayed her. “It was warm inside,” she said defensively, rubbing her hands over her arms for friction. “Didn’t exactly plan on roof-hopping.”

“You mean sneaking away with me wasn’t part of your evening itinerary?” His grin widened, that dimple flashing as he tilted the joint lazily between his fingers. “Shocking.” She shook her head, sinking onto the blanket beside him at last, knees pulled up toward her chest.

The fabric was cold against her legs at first, but the faint warmth left from his body was still there, seeping slowly into her skin. He shifted closer, just enough to close the gap without making it obvious, and offered the joint with a slight raise of his brow. “Here. Might warm you up quicker than a jumper.”

Marci took it, her fingers brushing against the rings on his. The metal was icy from the night, but his skin was warm beneath. She raised the joint to her lips, inhaled slow, the ember flaring in the soft dark. She let the smoke fill her chest, heavy and hot, her lungs burning with the sharp bite of it. She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and held it there—steady, deliberate—before exhaling in a long, smooth stream. The cloud drifted upward in ribbons, curling white against the black night, illuminated by the fairy lights that blinked lazily along the roof’s edge. For a heartbeat, she almost looked like she belonged to the smoke itself, part of it, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her tattoos stark in the golden glow.

When she lowered her head again, Harry was staring. Not casually, not the way someone might glance without meaning to, but watching. His eyes followed every shift in her mouth, every line of ink revealed by her bare arms as she passed the joint back, her fingers steady.

“What?” she asked finally, one brow arching, her voice calm but edged with challenge.

He took the joint, lips quirking like he’d been caught but wasn’t sorry for it. “You’ve changed,” he said simply, smoke slipping from his lips in a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Her mouth twitched into a wry smile. “No shit.” She gestured at her arms, the swirl of tattoos catching the light. “This kind of gave it away?”

“That,” he said, glancing at the ink before his gaze found her face again. “The hair. The piercings.” His eyes lingered on the glint of silver at her septum, then the hoop in her brow. “But not just that.” He shrugged lightly, the rings on his fingers catching against the biscuit tin. “You carry yourself different. Stronger.” The words hit harder than she expected, slipping under her skin like the smoke still sitting in her chest.

She scoffed to cover the way they settled in her. “You sound like a self-help book. Next you’ll tell me I should ‘live, laugh, love.’”

He laughed, genuine this time, dimples cutting deep. “Christ, no. I’d never say that.” He took a slow drag, watching her again as he inhaled, like he wanted her to notice he’d copied the way she had—holding it, deliberate, before releasing it into the dark.

She shook her head, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Not when I’m curious,” he said, voice dropping into something lower, steadier. He tapped ash into the tin lid and shifted slightly closer, the blanket pulling tighter between them. “I’m just… trying to figure out when the hell I stopped recognizing you.”

She tilted her head toward him. “You never really saw me. You and your sister were close with Theo. I just kept to myself.”

He shifted beside her, the blanket pulling snug across her arm as he leaned in a little more, elbows on his knees. He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t deflect with a joke. His green eyes stayed on her, steady and searching, like he wanted to dismantle the distance she’d put between them with nothing but his gaze. “Marci,” he said, softer now, almost careful. “That’s not true.”

She huffed out a humorless laugh, flicking ash neatly into the tin before resting the joint between her fingers. “It is. We were… what, fifteen? And you were already writing songs in your room and running off with Gemma and your mates. You barely noticed when I was there. Which is fine,” she added quickly, trying to sound unaffected. “I was just the little sister tagging along, remember?”

His lips pressed into a line, and for a moment his expression looked guilty, thoughtful. He leaned back against the chimney, eyes never leaving her face. The fairy lights painted faint amber across his cheekbones, his jaw shadowed by stubble.

“I remember you nicking my CDs,” he said finally, breaking the silence with something halfway between a tease and a confession. “You swore you hated my music, but my Fleetwood Macwent missing the same week you started humming ‘Dreams’ in the garden.”

She blinked, thrown off balance. “That’s not—” She broke off, a grin tugging at her lips despite herself. “Alright, maybe I borrowed it. But only because you wouldn’t shut up about Stevie Nicks.”

He leaned back against the chimney again, his rings glinting as he reached for it, smirk curling slow and sure across his face. “Well,” he said, voice dipping low with that easy lilt, “good thing now, yeah—since I’m friends with her.”

Marci froze mid-pass, her eyes narrowing as she let him take the joint. “What?”

He laughed at her expression, smoke curling from his lips in a practiced ribbon before he tilted his chin toward her. “Stevie. Stevie Nicks. We’ve had tea. She plays me songs before anyone else hears ’em.”

Marci stared at him for a long second, then barked out a laugh that was louder than she intended. “You—what? You’re friends with Stevie bloody Nicks?”

He grinned like a schoolboy who’d just gotten away with murder. “Mmhm. Been a few years now. Met her backstage in London, actually. Took her a cake—carrot cake, her favorite.” He tapped ash into the biscuit tin, shrugging like it was the most casual detail in the world. “She called me her love child after that. Said she and Mick must’ve made me by accident.” His smile softened into something fond, touched with disbelief even now. “Told me I was the son she never had. I nearly cried on the spot.”

Marci blinked, jaw slack, before shaking her head. “Of course you did. You’ve always been a bloody teacher’s pet.”

That earned her a burst of laughter, his shoulders shaking under the blanket they shared. “Better than being a menace with a biro, scribbling all over the garden furniture.”

She smirked, flicking him a look. “You still owe me for that, by the way. Mum blamed me for the picnic bench.”

“I was twelve!” he protested, though the grin didn’t falter. “You said I was rubbish at drawing, so I had to prove a point. Didn’t know permanent marker was, you know, permanent.”

Marci laughed again, tipping her head back, her black hair falling loose against her inked shoulders. The smoke she’d been holding slipped out in a steady, practiced stream, curling upward and dissolving into the December dark. Harry’s eyes followed it, then fell back to her face, lingering on the curve of her mouth, the gleam of silver in her septum.

“You’ve gotten good at that,” he murmured, watching her exhale. “Smooth.”

She smirked, passing the joint back to him. “Practice,” she said, her voice low, a faint rasp in her throat. “Same as the tattoos.” He took it from her fingers, and for a moment neither moved, his rings brushing her knuckles, his gaze steady and unreadable. He drew in a long breath, then leaned back, smoke spilling from his lips as he exhaled slowly into the night.

Down below, the muffled sound of Anne’s laugh drifted out through the kitchen window. The clink of dishes. The singsong babble of Ella’s voice. Life continued just a few meters beneath their feet, but up here it felt separate—like the two of them were suspended in their own little pocket of air and light, the roof their secret world again.

He glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth curling as though he couldn’t quite hold it back. “You know,” he said finally, his tone half-teasing but touched with something else, something that lingered. “Stevie might call me her love child, but… I’m starting to think she’d bloody love you.”

Marci let out a laugh, quick and sharp, though her chest felt unsteady. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous,” he said, shrugging, his grin pulling wider. “Just saying—you’d get on. Ink, black hair, wicked laugh…” He gave her another sidelong look, a little slower this time. “She’d think you were brilliant.”

Marci shook her head, biting back another laugh, but the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. The joint burned low between his fingers, glowing faintly in the night, and she couldn’t quite ignore the way his gaze kept returning to her as if each story she told, each laugh she let slip, only pulled him further in.

She tugged the blanket tighter across her shoulders, trying to hide the heat blooming under her skin. “Brilliant, huh? You forget, Styles, I spent most of school with ink-stained fingers and ripped tights. Hardly the picture of brilliance.”

He smirked, flicking ash neatly into the biscuit tin. “Yeah, well. So did I. Except swap the ink stains for detention slips.” He leaned back, stretching his long legs out along the roof tiles, boots scuffing against the frost. “Remember Mr. Colton? Used to lose his mind every time I showed up late for maths.”

She snorted, the laugh spilling out before she could stop it. “Late? You barely ever showed up. Theo and Gemma would study together, and you’d be off writing bad lyrics in the back of your notebook.”

His grin widened, dimple sharp in the glow of the fairy lights. “They weren’t bad. Just… unpolished.”

“Unpolished?” She let out another laugh, shaking her head. “Harry, you literally wrote a song about a bag of crisps.”

He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, eyes wide. “That was a metaphor, thank you very much.”

“For hunger?”

“For longing!” he insisted, breaking into laughter himself. “Christ, you’re ruthless. I’d forgotten.”

The joint passed back and forth between them again, smoke curling around their heads like another blanket, another shared secret. Her cheeks ached from smiling, her stomach sore from laughing so freely. The warmth of the high was sinking into her muscles now, loosening everything that had felt knotted tight for weeks—maybe years. Maybe even her whole life.

She shifted, stretching her legs out beside his, their knees brushing under the blanket. “Alright,” she said, smirking at him. “Since you’re feeling nostalgic—tell me the most embarrassing thing you’ve done in the last ten years.”

He chuckled, dragging on the joint before handing it back to her. “How long have you got?”

“All night,” she shot back, smoke slipping from her lips in a smooth stream. “I actually have a couple of joints in my bag at the foot of my bed.”

His head tipped back, laughter spilling out of him in a low, surprised rumble that misted into the night. He stared at her like she’d just offered the punchline to the best joke he’d ever heard, green eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve been here all of five minutes and you’re already planning a rooftop stash?”

She smirked, holding the joint between her fingers with practiced ease before bringing it to her lips once more. She inhaled, slow and steady, holding the burn deep in her chest before releasing a stream of smoke into the cold air. “Don’t sound so shocked. You’re not the only one who came prepared.”

“Prepared?” He shifted beside her, their knees brushing again under the blanket, the contact sparking in a way that felt sharper than the cold. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

She shrugged, tapping ash neatly into the tin before passing the joint back to him. “Some people bring Christmas biscuits, I bring a couple of rolled joints. Everyone’s got their traditions.”

He let out another laugh, shaking his head as he took it from her. “God, Dawson, you’ve changed.” He raised the joint to his lips, fingers curling around it just so, and inhaled, his eyes still on her through the faint haze. He held it in, long and controlled, before leaning back to exhale toward the night sky. The smoke caught briefly in the fairy lights, glowing before dissolving into the dark. “Not that I’m complaining. Makes me feel a little less like the delinquent I was at sixteen.”

She leaned her head against the chimney behind them, her dark hair spilling loose over her shoulders, the glint of silver from her piercings catching the light. “Delinquent? Please. You were choir boy compared to me.”

“Choir boy?” His dimple appeared as his grin widened. “That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me that.”

“It fits,” she teased, stretching her legs further, boots scraping against the frosted tiles. “All curls and dimples, polite to the neighbors, sneaking biscuits from my mum’s kitchen when you thought no one was watching.”

He laughed again, warm and easy, before handing the joint back. “And here I thought I was mysterious.”

“You?” She let the smoke fill her lungs, smiling against the burn before breathing it out in a smooth stream. “You were about as mysterious as a bad haircut.”

He gasped in mock offense, though his grin never faltered. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” she shot back, her lips twitching. “Those curls had a mind of their own.”

His laugh tumbled out unrestrained, genuine, the kind that made his shoulders shake and his head tip forward until his curls brushed against his forehead. The sound of it settled into her chest, warm and familiar in a way she hadn’t expected. For a moment, she just watched him, her own smile refusing to fade, even as the night pressed cold around them.

He caught her watching and stilled, his laughter softening into something quieter. He licked his lips, the ember of the joint burning low between his fingers as he glanced back at her. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, voice dipping into that low, teasing lilt again. “You’ve been holed up in London, tattooing strangers, collecting piercings, dyeing your hair black—and you’re telling me all this time you’ve been sitting on your bed with a stash waiting for the right moment?”

She tilted her head, her grin curling sharper now, edged with mischief. “Maybe I was waiting for the right company.”

That shut him up. For a second, his lips parted as if to reply, but nothing came out. He looked at her, really looked—her eyeliner smudged slightly at the corners from laughter, tattoos inked into every bare inch of her skin, the smoke curling like a halo around her head—and he swore he didn’t recognize the girl he’d once walked past without a thought.

The ember glowed faintly between his fingers, and he stubbed it out carefully in the tin, the silence stretching long and loaded between them. Down below, the muffled sound of Anne’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, distant and small compared to the pulse of whatever had settled here on the roof.

He exhaled slowly, his breath misting white in the cold. “Christ, Marci,” he said under his breath, almost to himself, the words slipping free before he could stop them. “When did you get so hot?”

The words hung between them, heavier than the smoke and sharper than the cold, threading through the quiet hum of the fairy lights. She froze, her pulse tripping hard in her chest. She hadn’t expected him to say that—not out loud, not with that raw edge of honesty in his voice. For a beat, all she could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, the joint forgotten between her fingers.

He didn’t look away. His gaze held hers steady, green eyes glinting in the amber light, his expression half a smirk, half something she couldn’t quite read. The night stretched taut around them, the world below hushed and distant, as if this moment existed only for the two of them.

And Marci, silent and stunned, realized she’d never imagined the boy next door would ever see her like this.

Not then.
But now.
Now he did.

Chapter Text

Marci lay in the narrow bed of her old childhood room, cocooned beneath the familiar quilt that smelled faintly of lavender sachets and laundry powder. For the first hour she had tried—really tried—to fall asleep, burying herself in the covers, tucking her face into the pillow that still had faint traces of sun-faded cartoon stars from when she was a kid. But every time she closed her eyes, the night replayed itself in vivid fragments: the twinkle of fairy lights, the curl of smoke between them, Harry’s laugh ringing in her ears.

She shifted onto her side, then her stomach, then back again, the mattress springs groaning like they remembered her restless teenage years. It didn’t help. The room felt too small, too still, like it was pressing down on her, and her thoughts refused to quiet. Every time she exhaled, she swore she could see his face again in the cold air, his words still caught in her chest. When did you get so hot? He’d said it so casually, so offhand, but the way he’d looked at her—it hadn’t been casual at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the quilt over her head as if that could block it out. But the darkness there was worse, filled with every version of Harry she’d ever known: the boy with the wild curls who’d sat on the curb strumming a beaten-up guitar, the lanky teen who used to laugh too loudly in Theo’s room, and now this version—the man with the rings and the low voice, with shoulders broader than they had any right to be, who sat under fairy lights and made her laugh until she forgot herself.

With a groan, she shoved the quilt down and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The glow from the streetlamp outside spilled through the curtains, striping the walls with pale orange light. Her heart was still unsettled, tapping an uneven rhythm against her ribs. She lifted a hand to her face, pressing her palms over her eyes until colors bloomed behind them. When she finally dropped her hand, the room blurred into indistinct shapes, soft-edged and shifting.

“Ugh,” she muttered under her breath. She reached toward the nightstand, fumbling until her fingers closed around the familiar plastic frames. Sliding her glasses on, the world snapped back into focus—the bookshelf lined with old paperbacks, the cluster of mismatched candles she used to light at midnight, the faded posters still pinned crookedly to the wall. It was like stepping into a time capsule she hadn’t asked for.

She exhaled, pushing herself upright, the quilt slipping down to pool at her waist. Her skin still hummed faintly with the memory of shared warmth under a blanket that smelled like woodsmoke and him. She told herself it was the weed, the wine, the strangeness of being home. She told herself it was just nostalgia.

But when she caught sight of her reflection in the old mirror above the dresser, her breath stalled.

The mirror was the same one she’d stared into a hundred times as a teenager—back when she’d scowl at her unruly hair and the acne that seemed to bloom across her chin every exam season. The same mirror she’d leaned into with a black eyeliner pencil clutched too tightly in her hand, trying to get the wings sharp, only to smear them and start again. Now, the glass caught the low amber glow spilling through the curtains, outlining the curve of her shoulders, the ink crawling across her arms like ivy. Her tattoos glistened faintly in the half-light: the snake twined up her arm, the delicate script beneath her collarbone, the constellation dots scattered like tiny stars. They looked like they belonged there. She looked like she belonged in them.

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and studied herself with something between disbelief and defiance. The girl who used to shrink at the dinner table, tugging her sleeves down past her wrists, was gone. But it was still strange—alien, even—to see the evidence of it staring back at her.

His voice echoed in her head, softer than the December wind rattling the windowpanes. It made her stomach twist. It shouldn’t matter what he thought. She’d built a whole life without him in it, an entire existence in London that had nothing to do with the boy across the road. And yet… she couldn’t stop remembering the way his green eyes had caught on her, wide with something between disbelief and wonder, like he’d been blindsided.

She leaned closer to the mirror, running a fingertip along the line of her own jaw, then down the curve of ink at her shoulder. For a second she tried to see what he’d seen, tried to imagine herself through his eyes—not Theo’s little sister, not Maggie’s difficult daughter, but someone new entirely. Someone worth looking at twice.

Marci huffed out a laugh at herself, low and humorless. “Get a grip,” she muttered, dropping her hand and falling back onto the mattress. The ceiling stretched blank above her, lit by the glow from the streetlamp outside. She tugged the blanket up over her chest and moved her glasses slightly so she could press her palms into her face, as she tried to smother the thought before it bloomed into something more dangerous.

Her palms stayed pressed to her face until the heat of her breath dampened her skin, until the thrum of her pulse finally steadied. When she dropped her hands again, the room looked different somehow—still the same wallpaper she’d once scrawled doodles on, still the same bookshelf sagging with dog-eared paperbacks, but smaller, more suffocating. Being here again made her feel sixteen and cornered, except now she was twenty-six with half her skin covered in ink and a life in London that didn’t fit inside these walls.

She turned onto her side, the quilt twisting around her legs, and her gaze caught on the corner of the room where her bag slouched against the dresser. Black canvas, frayed at the zipper, patches sewn in from gigs she’d been to and trips she barely remembered sober. She’d tossed it there earlier, intending to unpack in the morning, but now her mind snagged on it with sharp insistence.

Her joints.

The thought clicked into place, and suddenly her chest loosened. She sat up again, shoving her glasses more firmly onto her face as she pushed the blanket aside. The floor was cool under her feet as she padded across to the bag, crouching down to tug at the zipper. The smell of London still lingered faintly in its depths—ink cartridges, antiseptic wipes, the sharp tang of smoke that clung to her clothes no matter how many times she washed them.

She dug through sketchbooks and crumpled t-shirts until her fingers brushed the small metal tin she always kept tucked near the bottom. She pulled it out, flipping the lid open with a practiced flick of her thumb. Inside, neatly wrapped like tiny secrets, were two joints she’d rolled before catching the train north. Insurance, she’d thought. A lifeline for nights just like this one.

She smiled despite herself, a small, private curve of her mouth. Always prepared.

Sinking back onto the bed, she crossed her legs and balanced the tin on her knee. The room was silent except for the faint whistle of the wind at the window, but the weight of the day pressed heavy in her chest—her mum’s disapproving looks, Theo’s careful smiles, Anne’s kindness, Ella’s arms around her neck. And layered over it all, Harry’s voice. Harry’s eyes. The way his words had curled around her ribs and refused to let go.

Marci let the lid of the tin snap shut with a soft click, the sound almost too loud in the silence of her childhood room. She held it in her palm for a moment longer before setting it aside, rubbing at the tight ache behind her eyes with the heel of her hand. The weight of the day still clung to her like damp clothes, and she knew—just knew—that lying down again would only send her thoughts spinning until dawn.

Her gaze drifted toward the chair in the corner, where an old, oversized hoodie slouched over the backrest. Dark navy, soft with age, its cuffs frayed from years of anxious fingers tugging at loose threads. Theo’s hoodie. She’d stolen it the summer before she left for London, stuffing it in the bottom of her bag while he was distracted with a football match. It had become her armor in those early months away—smelling faintly of washing powder and home, swallowing her whole when the city felt too big. Even now, it carried the ghost of her brother in its threads.

She stood, tugging it over her head in one fluid motion. The fabric fell long past her hips, sleeves sliding over her wrists. She tucked her hands briefly into the kangaroo pocket, the gesture automatic, before pulling the tin inside and slipping her lighter in after it. The faint clink of metal against metal was muffled by the cotton, but still she froze, holding her breath, listening for any sign of movement from the hallway. Nothing. Just the quiet groan of the old house settling against the winter wind.

She padded barefoot to the window, heart thumping in her throat. The latch creaked when she twisted it, the sound sharp in the stillness, and she winced, glancing over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door. Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her. Maggie Dawson had always been a light sleeper, the kind who could hear the stairs groan from two rooms away. Marci knew better than anyone—she’d been caught enough times sneaking out at fifteen.

She eased the window open inch by inch, the cold air rushing in to sting her cheeks, raising goosebumps along her bare thighs beneath the hoodie. The night outside stretched black and endless, the rooftops frosted silver under the moonlight, the streetlamps casting long orange pools on the empty road below.

She swung one leg over the sill, careful, her toes searching for the familiar jut of the gutter pipe. Her fingers gripped the frame, steadying herself as she slipped through, the cotton of Theo’s hoodie snagging briefly on the old latch. She cursed under her breath, tugged it free, and stilled again, listening. Silence.

Slowly, she pulled herself onto the roof, boots crunching faintly against the thin crust of frost. The cold bit into her skin immediately, sharp and unyielding, but it was better than the stifling weight of her room. Up here, the air felt open. Free.

She crouched low, scanning the darkened street, the soft glow from Anne Twist’s house across the way, the faint hum of wind threading through the chimneys. No footsteps. No shifting shadows behind curtains. Just her, the night, and the tin nestled in her pocket like a secret heartbeat.

Marci pulled the window almost shut behind her, leaving it open just a crack so she could slip back in later without a fight. Then she stood fully, drawing in a slow breath of the icy air. The village looked like something out of a snow globe from this height—quiet, suspended, waiting.

She tugged the sleeves of Theo’s hoodie down over her hands, her fingers brushing against the outline of the tin in the pocket. A crooked smile tugged at her mouth as she reached for the lighter, the flame already imagined in her mind, ready to chase away the last of the day’s heaviness.

She pulled the tin from her pocket, the chill of the metal biting against her palm. She settled onto the sloped roof tiles, knees bent, the hoodie bunched around her legs. The cold gnawed at her bare skin, but she hardly noticed—it was the anticipation, the way her fingers itched to strike the lighter, the faint thrill of being up here alone, perched above the sleeping street like she was outside of time.

She rolled one of the joints between her fingers, slow, deliberate, the paper soft and fragile against her skin. The lighter was warm from her pocket, the metallic weight familiar. She thumbed the wheel, ready to coax a flame into life—when something flickered in the corner of her vision.

Movement.

She stilled, her breath catching. Across the road, Anne’s house glowed like a lantern against the dark, its curtains drawn but not fully tight. For a moment Marci thought she imagined it—the sway of a shadow, a figure moving behind the gauzy fabric. Then the front door creaked, faint but distinct, carrying across the still winter air.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat as the door clicked shut behind him, muffling the hum of voices and clink of teacups. The night swallowed him whole. The air was sharp enough to sting his lungs, every breath pluming pale against the lamplight. For a moment, he just stood there on the front path, tilting his head back to look at the sky.

The stars were clearer here than anywhere else—no city glow to drown them out, no cameras flashing in his periphery. Just pinpricks of light scattered across a velvet-black canvas, the kind he used to trace with his finger as a boy while lying in the same garden. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that. In London or Los Angeles, the nights were noisy, always moving—traffic, voices, neon signs that never shut off. Here, the silence felt almost alive.

But it wasn’t silence, not really. The hedgerows rustled as something small—maybe a hedgehog, maybe a fox—scuttled through the frost-bitten leaves. An owl called somewhere farther off, the low sound carrying across the fields beyond the last row of houses. Even the air itself seemed to hum, alive with the tension of winter, the weight of Christmas lights swaying faintly in the breeze.

Still, his mind refused to quiet. He had tried. He’d gone into his room after the roof, after the laughter and the smoke and the way Marci had looked at him under the fairy lights—like she wasn’t sure who he was anymore, and he wasn’t sure who she’d become, but somehow, impossibly, it fit. He’d stretched out on his bed, stared at the ceiling plaster he used to cover with posters of bands, and waited for sleep. It hadn’t come. All he saw when he closed his eyes was her face, framed in that dark hair, silver catching the glow of the lights.

So here he was, shivering in the garden like a teenager sneaking out for air, though no one could really stop him now. He was a grown man, nearly twenty-seven, his name on billboards halfway across the world. And yet, in this village, he felt sixteen again.

A pair of headlights flared down the lane, cutting briefly across his face. He squinted as a car rolled past, its tires crunching on the frost, the hum fading into the distance. For a moment, he imagined it was her in the passenger seat—her booted foot up on the dash, her black hair spilling forward as she laughed at some joke only she could tell. He shook the thought off with a muttered curse, dragging a hand over his jaw.

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. Not about her. Not about Theo’s little sister. Except—Harry stopped seeing her that way the second she’d stepped into the entryway of his childhood home. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been ready for it, but there it was. She wasn’t the quiet shadow trailing after them anymore. She was… something else entirely. And he couldn’t get the image of her—bare shoulders, ink gleaming in the soft glow, smoke curling from her lips—out of his head.

He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, but the chill never reached the place where the thought of her still smoldered. The village felt almost too quiet, like it was holding its breath, but his mind wouldn’t stop moving. Every memory from years ago was elbowing its way to the front—snapshots of her as she’d been, sharp-eyed but quiet, hovering on the periphery of him and Theo and Gemma. Marci had always seemed to fade into the background, sketchbook balanced on her knees at the kitchen table, headphones dangling from her neck, rolling her eyes whenever the three of them got too loud.

Back then, he hadn’t thought twice about it. She was just Theo’s little sister, someone who existed around the edges of his world. He remembered the streak of paint on her jeans when she was thirteen, the way her hair never seemed to do what she wanted it to, the permanent ink smudges on her fingertips. If he was being honest, he’d chalked it all up to a kind of teenage awkwardness—endearing, maybe, but invisible in the way things often are when you’re a teenager and desperate to be anywhere but here.

But tonight… Christ, tonight had ruined that neat little box he’d put her in.

It wasn’t just the tattoos, though he couldn’t stop tracing them with his eyes—the way the black ink wound over her pale arms, the tiny details catching the fairy light like they were alive. It wasn’t just the piercings either, though the glint of silver at her brow had snagged his gaze more than once, like a spark catching tinder. It was her. The way she’d laughed at his stupid stories—proper laughed, head tipped back, eyes crinkled, voice carrying across the roof like a song. The way she’d fired back, quick and cutting, leaving him grinning like an idiot and reaching for another joke just to keep it going.

And the way she looked at him. That was the part undoing him most. Because it wasn’t the wide-eyed awe he’d grown used to on the road, wasn’t the polite interest of people who only wanted to get close to Harry Styles. No, her gaze had been sharp, amused, unafraid to roll at him when he was being ridiculous. And then, just for a flicker, it had softened—like she’d seen through the swagger, like she remembered the boy under all the noise and ink and headlines.

He dragged a hand through his curls, exhaling hard enough to fog the air. What the hell are you doing, mate? She was still Marci Dawson. Theo’s little sister. Maggie’s daughter. The same Marci who used to sit across the breakfast table, stabbing her toast with a butter knife while her mum nagged and Theo played mediator. Harry wasn’t supposed to be up on rooftops with her, wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the way her voice felt like smoke and honey when she said his name. And yet—he couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t unsee her. That version of her from tonight—the one with the sharp eyeliner, the inked arms, the crooked grin that made his chest hitch—kept pushing its way to the front of his mind, blotting out everything else.

He tipped his head back again, eyes on the stars, as if the vastness could steady him. But the night only seemed to magnify the echo of her laugh, the phantom warmth of her shoulder brushing his, the sudden jolt when he realized just how much she’d changed.

He had come outside to clear his head, to breathe, to walk and shake off the restlessness, to let the cold air work its way into his bones and numb whatever was simmering under his skin. But his eyes kept sliding up to the rooftops across the narrow street, to the glow of fairy lights he himself had strung there years ago.

At first he thought he was imagining it—the faintest silhouette perched against the slope of tiles, the kind of shadow your brain invents when you’ve spent too much time staring at stars. But then the shadow shifted, a hand moving, a glint of orange flaring and then dimming. Smoke unfurled in the air, curling into the winter dark.

Marci was sitting there with her knees pulled up, Theo’s old navy hoodie drowning her frame, the hood pushed back so her dark hair spilled loose around her shoulders. Her glasses caught the lamplight, two glints of gold and reflection that made his chest hitch. Harry hadn’t even known she still needed them—back when they were kids, she’d taken them off constantly, embarrassed, fumbling around blind rather than be seen wearing them. Now she wore them without apology, the frames sliding down the bridge of her nose as she tilted her head, lighting the joint with the flick of her lighter like it was second nature.

He couldn’t look away. She wasn’t the shy girl tucked behind a sketchbook anymore; she was sharp edges and soft laughter, smoke curling around her like a crown. The sight tugged at him, made the night seem electric. His boots scuffed against the pavement as he drifted out into the lane, neck craned back to keep her in view. He barely registered the low hum of an engine until headlights swung across him.

“Oi! Watch it!” a driver shouted, swerving just enough to miss him. The horn blared, sharp and startling in the quiet street.

Harry stumbled back to the curb, throwing up an apologetic hand, a laugh bubbling out of him despite the thrum in his chest. He could feel the rush of air from the car as it sped past, could hear the tires hiss against the frost, but all he could think about was how she must’ve seen the whole thing. Sure enough, when he dared to glance up again, she was leaning forward on the roof, wide-eyed behind those glasses, one hand clutching the edge of her hoodie, the other still holding the glowing ember of the joint.

He laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head at himself. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew she couldn’t hear the words. He lifted one hand, slow and deliberate, and gave her the smallest of waves—half a greeting, half an admission that he’d seen her all along.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. His small wave—hesitant, almost sheepish—broke something open inside her chest, a pressure valve releasing, though it left her breathless all the same. She raised her hand slowly, the joint balanced between two fingers, and gave a brief, almost reluctant wave back. Smoke slipped past her lips as she did it, curling in delicate wisps that glowed gold under the lights. The gesture was small, but the way his shoulders seemed to ease when he saw it sent an unexpected heat rushing through her veins, warmer than the hoodie could ever provide.

He lingered there, not moving, his boots planted against the frost-crusted pavement. He tilted his head just enough to catch her in full, green eyes glinting with something unreadable, and for the first time she wondered if he wasn’t as steady as he looked. If maybe the thrum she felt in her own chest was mirrored in his.

She took another drag, holding it in until her lungs ached, then let the smoke roll out smooth and slow. From up here, she knew she must look nothing like the girl he remembered—the one in hand-me-down jumpers and messy braids. Now she was ink and silver, eyeliner smudged from laughter, legs folded under her to keep her toes from freezing off, Theo’s hoodie pulled tight like a shield.

And still, Harry was staring.

She tucked the joint back between her lips, free hand braced against the cold tile, hoodie sleeves dangling loose past her knuckles. She arched one brow at him, wordless, daring him to look away first. He didn’t.

When he finally shifted, his weight rocking from one boot to the other, and the frost crunching softly underfoot, it looked like he might turn back toward his mum’s front door, tuck his hands in his pockets, and disappear into the glow of the kitchen. That would’ve been easier—for both of them. Safer. But instead he exhaled hard, jaw set in that stubborn way Marci remembered all too well, and stepped off the curb.

Her breath caught.

The village lane between their houses stretched like a strip of silver glass, glazed with frost and lit in patches by the weak orange lamps. Harry didn’t rush, but there was intent in his stride, every step carrying him closer until the distance between them shrank into something small enough to make her pulse stumble. The joint trembled between her fingers, the ember glowing low, smoke curling upward in thin, lazy ribbons. She pressed it to her lips, more to busy herself than anything else, and watched him cross beneath the fairy-lit eaves of her mum’s house.

He stopped at the bottom of the path, tipping his head back to find her again. Up close, she could see the way his curls caught the light, damp at the edges from the mist in the air. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, breath puffing in quick bursts as if the short walk had been more of a sprint.

“Bloody hell, you really are up there,” he muttered, half to himself, but his voice carried across the quiet.

She didn’t answer, just smirked around the joint, shifting so the hoodie’s sleeves slid down her wrists. She tapped ash onto the tile, her legs folded under her to keep her feet from going numb. She should’ve told him to go back inside—that this wasn’t smart, that Theo would kill him if he knew—but her tongue stayed stubbornly still.

Harry looked up at the trellis along the side of the house, the same crooked wooden slats they’d both used as kids to sneak up onto the roof. He rubbed his palms together, blew out another steady breath, then shot her a grin that was equal parts boyish dare and reckless challenge.

“You’re not gonna make me stand down here alone, are you?” he said, voice low, carrying. Before she could roll her eyes, he grabbed hold of the trellis and started to climb. His boots slipped on the first rung, the frost slick beneath them, and for a split second her heart lurched into her throat. “Shit—” he hissed under his breath, one hand fumbling for the next slat as the wood groaned. He caught himself, chest pressed against the side of the house, and let out a shaky laugh. “Still got it. Mostly.”

She exhaled through her nose, smoke curling around her face, though her fingers dug into the tiles as if she could steady him from across the roofline. “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, but her heart thudded in a way that betrayed her.

He climbed higher, shoulders flexing under the heavy coat, his fingers gripping the wood. When he finally hauled himself onto the roof, he swung one long leg over and stumbled onto the tiles beside her, landing with a crunch of frost and a breathless grin.

“Bloody hell,” he said again, brushing frost from his coat sleeve, cheeks still flushed pink. “Forgot how dodgy that thing is.”

She smirked, tilting the joint toward him in silent offering. “Yeah,” she said, voice low, smoke curling between them as the fairy lights blinked overhead. “Still looks like you’re about to fall on your arse. Just like you almost got hit.”

He let out a laugh, that same deep, unguarded one that always seemed to rumble right through him, and took the joint from her fingers. “You saw that?” he asked, his voice roughened by the cold air and the smoke still lingering in his lungs. He tipped his head back, drew in a slow breath, then exhaled, the plume drifting up and catching in the fairy lights above them.

She shifted, one leg stretching out again, the other tucked beneath her to keep her toes from freezing. She watched him through the faint haze, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. “Hard not to,” she said, adjusting the hoodie around her shoulders. “You nearly became roadkill. Would’ve been a shit headline, don’t you think? ‘Global superstar flattened by Vauxhall Corsa outside mum’s house.’”

He grinned around the joint, teeth flashing white in the low light, and shook his head. “Bet the tabloids would’ve still found a way to blame me for it. ‘Styles throws himself at unsuspecting motorist. Very dramatic. Classic Harry.’”

That pulled a laugh out of her—unexpected, unguarded, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle it, but it slipped out anyway, warm and real against the sharp night air.

His grin only widened, his dimple cutting deep. He passed the joint back, their fingers brushing again—warm skin against cold rings, brief but enough to make her pulse stumble. He held her gaze deliberately this time, letting the silence between them stretch before he added, softly, “I’ve missed that sound. You laughing like that.”

The words caught her off guard. She froze, joint halfway to her lips, then shook her head quickly, as if batting them away. “You heard me laugh like that about 3 hours ago just over on your roof. The only difference now is that it’s on mine.”

His grin faltered into something softer, the mischief easing at the edges of his face. The dimple lingered, but his eyes—green, steady—shifted, catching hers like he couldn’t quite let go of the moment. Smoke curled lazily from the joint still in her hand, the ember glowing red against the dark as she lifted it to her lips. She drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, before exhaling in a stream that rose between them, ghostlike, only to vanish into the cold December air.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, threaded with something she couldn’t name. “But it feels different here.”

She quirked a brow, half in challenge, half to cover the way her pulse had picked up. “Different how?”

He shrugged, his shoulders brushing hers under the blanket of night. “I don’t know. Over there, it still felt like I was on my turf, yeah? Like I could hide behind the same walls I’ve always had.” His gaze flicked up at her roofline, the fairy lights glinting in his curls when he moved. “But here—this is you.” He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom window behind her. “Your space. Your roof. And you let me cross the bloody street anyway.”

She snorted, shaking her head, though her stomach twisted at the quiet honesty in his words. “I didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet for you. You nearly fell on your arse climbing up here.”

That earned her another laugh, though it was softer this time, touched with embarrassment. “Nearly. Didn’t though.”

“Barely.”

“Alright, barely,” he conceded, his grin pulling crooked. “But worth it.”

“Oh yeah? Worth it how? You’ve been on this roof a bloody billion times smoking with Theo and Gemma.”

Harry tilted his head, grin still tugging at one corner of his mouth, but his eyes didn’t waver from hers. The smoke curled from the ember in his hand, drifting between them like a veil before the night air swallowed it whole. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice low, warm. “I’ve been up here before. A hundred times. More. But never like this.”

Marci narrowed her eyes, leaning back on one palm, the hoodie sleeve slipping down her wrist. “Don’t get poetic on me now. You’re not that deep.”

That pulled another laugh from him, quiet but genuine, his dimple deepening as he shook his head. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.” He tapped ash carefully against the tile before holding the joint out to her, his fingers lingering when they brushed hers. “This roof’s seen everything, you know? Every secret I wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. Theo and Gemma and me, sneaking cigarettes, talking about running away, about the things we wanted that felt impossible. But we never…” He trailed off, catching her gaze again, the words hanging suspended in the frosted air. “We never sat like this.”

She arched a brow, taking the joint from him and drawing in a slow inhale, holding it in her lungs until the burn turned sweet, until her chest ached. She exhaled smooth, smoke unfurling in a ribbon that brushed past his cheek, lit amber by the fairy lights above them. “This meaning,” she said finally, lips curling into a smirk. “you asking me how I got so hot under your breath three hours ago and I had to pretend like I didn’t hear it?”

He stilled, his laugh catching somewhere in his throat as if her words had knocked the air clean out of him. For a second, all he could do was stare at her—smoke still curling faintly around his face, breath misting in the cold, eyes wide with the realization that she had, in fact, heard him. Every syllable.

Her smirk sharpened, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression too—something softer, more uncertain—as she flicked ash off the end of the joint and leaned back on her free hand. The fairy lights overhead wobbled gently in the winter wind, throwing shards of amber across the slope of the roof, gilding the sharp edges of her tattoos where the hoodie sleeves had slipped back. She looked half like the girl he remembered and half like someone he was only just meeting now, and that blend—the familiar and the completely new—tied his stomach into knots.

He dragged a hand across his mouth, buying himself a second. Then another. “Right,” he said finally, voice quieter than before, steady but not as casual as he wanted it to be. “So you did hear that.”

She tipped her head, glasses sliding slightly down her nose, eyes glinting through the lenses. “Hard not to. You weren’t exactly subtle.” She took another drag, slow and deliberate, holding it just long enough to make the point before exhaling toward the sky.

He scrubbed a palm over his curls, laughing under his breath, the sound rough and unguarded. “Bloody hell.” He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the stars as though they might give him a script to follow. “Guess the weed didn’t keep me as quiet as I thought.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, lips twitching. But her chest felt tighter than her smirk suggested, her pulse tripping quick and uneven. She hadn’t meant to bring it up, not really. The words had slipped out on instinct, sharp and defensive, like most of her banter. But now that they hung between them, she couldn’t deny the way the air felt heavier, charged, thick with something neither of them could laugh away.

He turned his head, eyes finding hers again. His grin softened, slow and deliberate, dimples tugging at the edges but never quite lightening the intensity of his stare. “I meant it, you know.” Her throat went dry. He let the words settle, unhurried, like smoke curling into the night. “Didn’t realize it until I saw you standing in that entryway, holding Ella like she was the only thing keeping you tethered. But—” he broke off, swallowing, his voice dropping lower. “You’re not the girl I remember, Marci. Not even close. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t’ve said it out loud, but…” He trailed off, shrugging helplessly, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I did.”

The joint burned low between her fingers, ember glowing brighter each time the wind swept across the tiles. She stared at him, trying to find the joke in his expression, the out, the easy punchline. But there wasn’t one. Just him, sprawled on her roof in a heavy coat, curls tumbling into his eyes, green gaze locked steady on hers like he didn’t care if she made him regret every word.

She looked away first, inhaling deep, her lungs protesting against the smoke she barely tasted. “You really are high,” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

He laughed, low and quiet, though there was no apology in it. “Maybe. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, not exactly, but it wasn’t unbearable either. It was sharp, humming, alive with everything unsaid. The fairy lights swayed gently, casting soft halos across the frost, and for a heartbeat she wondered if the whole village could feel the shift happening on this roof.

She tapped the last bit of ash into the gutter, stubbed the joint out carefully, and tucked her knees tighter beneath her hoodie. Her chest ached with the weight of the moment, the weight of his stare. She didn’t know what to say, not yet—not when her mind was still tangled in smoke and memories and the dizzying echo of his voice.

So Marci said nothing.
And Harry, for once, let the silence be.

The silence stretched, long and fragile, stitched together only by the hum of the fairy lights above them and the far-off whistle of the wind curling through the hedges. She pulled the hoodie tighter across her body, sleeves swallowing her hands, but it wasn’t enough—the cold seeped in anyway, creeping up her bare ankles where her sleep pants rode high. She shifted her weight on the roof tiles, drawing her knees closer to her chest until her toes disappeared beneath her thighs. The sudden movement sent another ripple of frost skittering down the slope, tiny crystals breaking loose and tumbling into the gutters below.

She tried to keep still, to ignore the way the December air cut into her, but then another breath fogged up her glasses, soft white clouds blooming across the lenses and blurring out the stars. She let out a frustrated huff, dragging her sleeve across them in a clumsy swipe, only to smear the condensation more. The world stayed hazy, his outline a shifting silhouette of broad shoulders and curling hair beside her.

He noticed. Of course he did. She could feel the weight of his attention before he even moved. He shifted, his coat brushing against her arm under the blanket of night, and without saying a word, he reached out. His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of her glasses, careful, almost tentative, before he tugged them from her face. For a heartbeat she panicked at the sudden blur of the world—but then his hand was steady in her lap, the frames resting there as if he’d known exactly what she needed before she’d asked.

“You’re hopeless,” he muttered, voice low, carrying just enough for her to hear. His breath drifted in the cold, a pale ribbon that mingled with hers in the air between them. He rubbed his palms together briskly, then, without thinking, lifted one and set it gently against her knee. His hand was warm even through the thick cotton of Theo’s hoodie bunched around her legs, thumb brushing absent circles over fabric as if to coax heat back into her.

Harry’s palm stayed against her knee, steady, his thumb dragging slow, absent arcs into the fabric as though he could will the warmth through. But the truth was, the night was too sharp, the cold too insistent. The roof beneath them was dusted in a thin sheen of frost, each tile brittle with ice, and even the fairy lights strung above couldn’t disguise the fact that it was well past midnight—maybe one, maybe later. The kind of hour when the village slept heavy, curtains drawn tight, the world outside reduced to breath and bone and silence.

She tried to pretend she didn’t care, tried to force her shoulders not to shiver, but another gust of wind cut straight through the hoodie, slipping icy fingers down her spine. She drew her knees closer under her chin, tucking her toes deeper beneath her thighs. It was useless—her skin still prickled with the bite of the cold. She inhaled sharply, the joint trembling between her fingers, and pulled smoke deep into her lungs, holding it there until it burned. When she exhaled, the haze curled white in the air, mingling with her fogged breath, veiling her face.

He watched her through it, jaw tightening. He let his hand linger one beat longer on her knee before pulling back, only to slip his arm around her shoulders in one decisive motion. He tugged her gently into his side, tucking her closer against him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Come here,” he murmured, low and easy, though there was no humor in his tone this time—just quiet insistence.

She stiffened, caught between bristling and giving in, but the warmth radiating off him was immediate, undeniable. The weight of his arm around her shoulders sank deeper the longer he held it, as though he was stitching her in place against him.

She felt the rise and fall of his chest through the thickness of his coat, the warmth seeping through the thin cotton of Theo’s hoodie and it rattled her more than she wanted to admit. She shifted slightly, not to move away, but to adjust the angle of her knees, tucking her toes more firmly beneath her thighs, trying to hide how cold they were. The frost bit at the edges of her bare feet, but his body heat pressed in like a shield, wrapping her in something steadier than the hoodie ever could.

Her fingers fumbled with the joint, the ember glowing soft and red as she lifted it to her lips again. She inhaled deep, pulling the smoke into her chest, letting it burn sharp against her lungs. For a heartbeat she held it, eyes half-lidded, the fairy lights blurring above her, the village stretched quiet and frozen beneath. Then she exhaled, long and slow, the smoke spilling from her lips in a steady ribbon. It curled upward into the night, mingling with the mist of her breath until the air between them was fogged with the proof of what they were doing.

He didn’t shift away. If anything, his thumb dragged slow, absent arcs against Marci’s shoulder through the hoodie, the kind of thoughtless gesture that made her stomach twist tighter. His jaw brushed her temple when he dipped his head slightly, as if he were angling closer to listen, though neither of them had spoken yet.

The silence pressed heavier, no longer the comfortable kind that had stretched between them when they were laughing over half-burned joints and stupid stories. This was sharper, threaded with all the things neither dared say, humming with tension that refused to dissolve.

She stared at the smoke dissolving into the stars, heart pounding uneven, trying to steady her breath. But the words slipped out anyway, rough around the edges, ragged with more than the cold. “Christ, Styles,” she muttered, her voice low, fogging white in the air between them. Her shoulders hitched under his arm, hoodie bunching. “What the hell are we doing?”

Harry’s arm didn’t move. If anything, his grip on her shoulder tightened just slightly, his thumb dragging another absent-minded stroke through the thick cotton of the hoodie. He didn’t answer right away, didn’t rush to fill the silence the way he so often had when they were younger—covering awkward pauses with a joke, a grin, a ridiculous story. This wasn’t that kind of silence. This one was taut, stretched thin, the kind of silence that made every heartbeat sound like a drum.

She turned her face away, watching the pale ribbon of smoke fade against the winter sky. Her glasses were still sitting uselessly in her lap, lenses smeared and fogged, so the stars bled at the edges, soft halos of white scattered across black. The blur was almost comforting—safer than looking too closely at him, safer than acknowledging how solid he felt beside her.

The words still hung between them, heavier now that they’d been spoken aloud. It had spilled free with the smoke, like an exhale she couldn’t hold in any longer. And yet, even as the question burned on the cold air, she realized she wanted an answer.

He shifted, the roof tiles groaning faintly beneath the weight of him as he leaned back just enough to catch her profile. His breath was steady, drifting in soft clouds that mingled with hers, his eyes searching her face with something that looked dangerously close to honesty. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice quiet, stripped bare of its usual bravado. “But it feels a hell of a lot like something I don’t want to stop.”

His words landed heavy, sending a pulse through her chest she wasn’t ready for. She curled tighter into herself, tucking her knees up again, toes pressed against the roof tile to keep from shivering. The ember at the end of the joint had burned low, ash threatening to crumble, so she stubbed it out carefully against the gutter, flicking the last trace of it into the night. The sudden absence of it—the ritual of passing it back and forth, the excuse for their hands to brush—left her feeling exposed.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and forced a scoff that didn’t quite land. “You don’t want to stop,” she echoed, her voice sharp but thinner than she meant. “That’s not exactly reassuring, Styles.”

He huffed out a laugh, though it lacked its usual ease. He shifted again, closer this time, until the bulk of his coat pressed against her side, his arm firm across her shoulders. “Not reassuring, maybe,” he said, his tone dipping lower, steadier. “But it’s the truth.”

Her chest pulled tight, every muscle braced, but she didn’t move away. The cold still seeped into her bare feet, the night still pressed sharp against her skin, but his warmth anchored her in place. She stared at the street below—silent, empty, the frost gleaming under the weak glow of the lamps—and for the first time in years, she felt like the whole village was watching, like the rooftops and the hedgerows and even the stars were leaning in to see what she would do next.

She exhaled slowly, breath fogging pale in the dark, and let the weight of his arm sink into her bones. Her question still hung unanswered, really—because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Because maybe the answer wasn’t about the roof, or the weed, or the nostalgia of being home. Maybe it was simpler, sharper, something that had been waiting years to surface.

She tipped her head back against his shoulder, just barely, letting the contact linger for the span of a heartbeat. “You’re gonna make this complicated,” she murmured finally, the admission slipping free before she could bite it back. “And if Theo finds out…”

Harry’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her, as if her words had pulled something taut inside him. His laugh this time was little more than a huff of breath against the top of her hair—short, humorless, though his dimple flickered for half a second before it disappeared. “Oh, I know,” he said quietly, the weight of the admission heavier than the words themselves. “Doesn’t matter if he and I go back years. Doesn’t matter if we’ve got all those memories stitched together—Gemma, him, me. If he thought for a second I was—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing, breath clouding the space between them. “He’d kill me. Tear me to bits before I could even try to explain.”

Marci closed her eyes briefly, the picture of it too easy to conjure. Theo, her anchor, her shield, her older brother who never let anyone so much as look at her sideways without stepping in—he wouldn’t even hesitate. He’d see this, see Harry, and all that easy fondness he carried for him would vanish in a heartbeat. She could practically hear his voice, sharp and furious, cutting through the air like glass. Out. Now. Before I make you regret breathing in front of her.

The thought made her stomach twist, and her breathing started to pick up. Her chest rose faster, each inhale sharp against the back of her throat, the cold air burning on the way in. She could feel her pulse hammering beneath her skin, quick and uneven, like it was trying to climb out of her body.

Images of Theo crowded her mind, overlapping, too vivid—him slamming a pint glass down on a pub table, his voice pitched low and dangerous; him shoving a boy against the wall outside the village shop when he caught wind of a rumor; him standing in front of her at seventeen, broad-shouldered and fierce, telling their mum to leave her alone because he’d take care of it.

He was protective in the way that never wavered, never softened, and Marci had loved him for it. Relied on it. But now that love tangled with panic, because she knew exactly how far it could stretch.

Her fingers trembled where they were tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, and she pressed them tighter against her palms, nails digging into her skin until it hurt. She tried to steady her breathing, but the more she thought of Theo’s face—his fury, his betrayal—the quicker the air seemed to catch in her chest. She imagined him walking out onto the street right now, looking up at this roof, seeing Harry’s arm slung across her shoulders, their bodies pressed close in the cold. She imagined the silence that would follow, thick with disbelief, before it cracked into something violent.

Beside her, Harry must have felt the shift in her body, because his thumb stilled where it had been tracing idle patterns on her arm. His gaze dipped down, green eyes searching her profile through the dark. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady but softer now, careful. “You alright?”

She kept her eyes closed, jaw clenched. “No. No.. I can’t.. Harry I can’t do this—“ The words snagged in her throat, trembling out of her on uneven breaths. Her chest was too tight, as though someone had looped a band of iron around her ribs and was cranking it tighter with every inhale. Her lungs burned—not because of the smoke lingering in them, but because every breath felt wrong. Too shallow, too fast, clawing against the edges of her body like they’d never be enough.

Her hands, tucked inside the sleeves of Theo’s hoodie, were useless against the shaking that had taken over, fingers twitching, nails biting crescent moons into her palms. Her heart hammered hard enough that it felt like she could hear it in her ears, each thud frantic, uneven, deafening.

She wasn’t here anymore, not really. She was caught in the storm of what-ifs, in Theo’s imagined voice breaking through the quiet, in the sick certainty that all of this would end in fire and fury.

Harry recognized it instantly. That sharp edge in her voice, the way her body had stiffened under his arm, the frantic rhythm of her breath—he knew it like he knew his own scars. Panic. Not nerves, not restlessness. A full-body betrayal, when your mind screamed at you that everything was collapsing and your body followed suit. He’d lived it too many times, backstage before shows, alone in hotel rooms where the walls felt like they were closing in, even in his mum’s kitchen when the noise in his head got too loud. He knew it intimately, the way it stole the ground out from under you and convinced you you’d never get it back.

So he didn’t shush her, didn’t brush it off with empty comfort. He didn’t say it’s okay—because he knew that was the last thing she’d believe. Instead, his thumb shifted, firm and slow against her shoulder, not letting her drift too far away. His voice followed, low and deliberate, threading through the chaos inside her like an anchor.

“Marci,” he said, steady as stone. “You’re right here. With me. On the roof. You feel that?” He pressed his forehead onto hers, solid, grounding. “That’s me, keeping you steady. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her breath came sharp, uneven, chest stuttering as she shook her head, eyes still clamped shut.

“Alright,” he murmured, adjusting slightly, as though he’d expected that. “Then don’t think about breathing yet. Don’t force it. Just listen to me, yeah? Just me.” His words were soft, rhythmic, giving her something else to hold onto.

He tipped his head slightly, angling his mouth nearer to her ear so she wouldn’t miss a single word. “Tell me what you hear right now. Not up here.” He gestured vaguely toward her head, though she wasn’t looking. “Out there.”

“The-Theo—“ The word broke jagged in her throat, catching on a sob she hadn’t meant to let free. Her breath stuttered, fogging white against the night, her chest tightening so sharply she winced. “He’ll—he’ll kill you, Harry. If he sees this. If he even thinks—” Her voice cracked, thinning to nothing as her lungs fought for air. “I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t want you to hurt him. I don’t want any of us—”

Her words tangled, collapsing under their own weight, her chest heaving. The thought of Theo’s face, sharp with betrayal, was too much. Her anchor. Her shield. The one person who had never left her behind—and now here she was, on a frozen roof, tangled in something that could unravel all of it. Her brother’s love. His trust. Even Harry’s. The panic folded inward, sharp and unforgiving, until the pressure finally cracked.

The tears came before she could stop them, hot and relentless, sliding down her cheeks into the cold air. She hated it—hated the way they made her feel weak, exposed. She tried to swallow them down, biting hard on her lip, but they kept spilling, wetting the collar of Theo’s hoodie where they slipped free.

“Don’t—” she gasped, voice breaking as she shoved lightly at his chest, her hands still trembling inside the sleeves. “Don’t look at me like this. Please, Harry, don’t.” She pushed harder, the heel of her palm pressing against the wool of Harry’s coat, but it was clumsy, weak—her panic stealing the strength from her arms. She hated herself for it, for the fact that even now she couldn’t force him away.

Her palms faltered against the dense wool of his coat, trembling where they pressed into him, but she left them there anyway. Not because she wanted the contact—God, no—but because she needed the pressure, needed something to push against while the panic wound itself tighter through her chest. It was easier to fight him than to face what was happening inside her. Easier to shove than to let herself collapse.

She dragged in another ragged breath, too fast, lungs burning with the weight of it. The cold stung her throat raw, and still it didn’t feel like enough, didn’t reach the hollow ache that seemed to sit just beneath her ribs. Her heart kept hammering, wild and furious, like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest, and she let the panic rise higher, building walls around her. If she let herself give in to it—if she wrapped it around her like armor—it meant she wouldn’t have to think about the warmth of his arm around her shoulders, or the quiet steadiness in his voice. She wouldn’t have to think about what this meant.

Her head shook violently against his forehead, strands of her dark hair falling forward, sticking damp against her cheeks where the tears had already cut a path. “I can’t,” she whispered, the words breaking again, sharp with desperation. “I can’t do this. I can’t—” Her breath shuddered, catching on the edges of a sob, but she pressed forward anyway, clinging to the panic because it was safer than admitting anything else. “He’ll hate me. He’ll hate you. And then what? We lose everything. I lose everything.”

The word echoed in her head, everything, so loud it drowned out the quiet world around her. The village beneath them, the owl in the fields, the hum of the fairy lights—it all dimmed, blurred into nothing but the sick certainty that she was standing on the edge of ruin. Panic became her shield, her proof, her excuse. If she clung to it hard enough, maybe she could convince herself she didn’t feel the heat of Harry’s body against hers, or the way his thumb had stilled mid-circle but hadn’t left her arm.

Her tears kept spilling, hot against her frozen skin, dripping down her jaw to the collar of Theo’s hoodie. She hated it. Hated being seen like this, messy and undone, when every part of her life in London was built on control—the needle steady in her hand, the lines of her art crisp, her walls unshakable. Here, on this roof, those walls had collapsed, and the only thing she could build fast enough was panic.

Her hands pressed harder against Harry’s chest, but not enough to move him. It was just movement, just proof that she still had control over something—over herself, at least. “Don’t—don’t stay,” she gasped, voice shaking as she pushed against him again, futile and weak. “You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t even—”

Her words fractured into the cold air, breaking apart like shards of glass scattered across the tiles. She pushed against his chest again, harder this time, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her. It was nothing like the strength she wanted to summon—nothing like the force she imagined when she pictured herself tearing away, slipping off this roof, sprinting barefoot through the frost-slick street until the night swallowed her whole.

The thought grew sharp, visceral: run. Run until her lungs gave out, until the sting of the air cut deeper than panic. Run past the hedges, past the sleeping houses, until the village was nothing but a blur of memory in her rearview mirror. Run so fast she wouldn’t have to hear her own brother’s voice, or her mother’s sighs, or Harry whispering truths that cut too damn close. The roof tilted beneath her, and for one dizzy second she could see herself doing it—swinging her legs over the edge, ignoring the bite of the frost, dropping to the grass below, and bolting.

Her chest tightened at the image, a sick surge of adrenaline rushing through her veins, urging her forward. Her whole body screamed for motion—legs coiled, muscles taut, desperate to obey the instinct to flee. Get out. Get out before it all comes crashing down.

Her muscles made the decision before her mind did. She shoved once, hard enough that the coat beneath her palms shifted, then twisted away from him. Her glasses clattered against the tiles where they slid from her lap, but she didn’t look back. She scrambled to her knees, breath rasping, and in one frantic motion swung her legs over the edge of the roof. The cold bit through the thin fabric of her sleep pants, the tiles slick beneath her bare feet, but she barely felt it. Adrenaline carried her, pulsing through her veins, drowning out everything else.

“Marci—” Harry’s voice snapped sharp behind her, but she didn’t give him time.

Her palms slapped against the gutter as she braced herself, and then she let go.

The drop wasn’t far, the grass below rimmed with frost. The impact jarred up her legs, biting through the soles of her bare feet, but she stayed upright, stumbling only once before her body carried her forward. The shock of the cold seared her skin, but it didn’t matter—her instincts had taken over. Run. Just run.

The village stretched quiet around her, the rows of houses slumbering, their curtains drawn tight, their gardens frosted white. Her breath burned as it tore through her throat, ragged and uneven, but she pushed harder, her toes scraping against gravel, her calves screaming as they carried her farther down the lane. Her chest ached with every inhale, the panic still coiled tight, but the motion gave it shape, gave it direction. She wasn’t trapped on a roof anymore—she was flying, fleeing, burning through the dark like her survival depended on it.

Her tears blurred her vision, streaking hot against the cold sting of the wind. She swiped at them with the sleeve of the hoodie, angry at their persistence, but more fell, rolling freely down her cheeks as she pumped her arms harder. Her lungs begged her to stop, to slow down, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t. If she stopped, the weight of everything would crash down again. Theo’s imagined fury. Her mother’s voice. Harry’s steady, unrelenting presence beside her, telling her she didn’t have to run.

But she did. She had to.

Her feet slapped against the frost-hardened pavement, her breath coming in wild gasps. The village she had known all her life blurred past her: the familiar hedges, the crooked lamppost at the corner, the stone wall where she’d scraped her knees as a child. Each landmark disappeared behind her as though she could outpace the history, as though leaving them behind meant she could escape the version of herself tied to them.

The hoodie flapped against her body, too big, sleeves dragging past her fists, Theo’s scent still clinging to the fabric like another tether she wanted to outrun. Her hair clung damp to her cheeks, strands flying wild behind her as the cold bit harder at her skin.

Her body screamed in protest, lungs raw, legs numb, feet bruised from the frozen ground, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The need to run swallowed everything else—logic, fear, even the part of her that wondered if Harry was still watching from the roof, still calling her name into the night.

The only thing that mattered was distance.

Distance from the roof. Distance from Harry’s steady warmth. Distance from the truth that had pressed too close, too sharp.

She ran until the houses thinned, until the fields opened wide and endless before her, glistening with frost under the spill of the moonlight. And there, in the middle of the lane, chest heaving, throat burning, she slowed just enough to stagger, hands braced against her knees. Her breath tore ragged from her lungs, hot tears stinging against the bite of the wind.

Her lungs burned as if she’d swallowed fire, the night air slicing her throat raw on every gasp. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, relentless, unmoored, and the silence of the fields pressed in on her until it felt deafening. The lane stretched out in both directions, silvered by moonlight and rimmed with frost, but to her eyes—blurred without her glasses—it was all just shapes and shadows, smudges of hedgerow and fence posts, the world softened into a haze that only made her feel more unsteady.

Her knees buckled. She sank hard to the ground in the middle of the lane, gravel biting sharp through the thin fabric of her sleep pants. The cold raced up through her bones, but she didn’t care. She tipped her head back toward the night sky, hair sticking damp to her cheeks, and opened her mouth. The scream ripped out of her like something untamed, raw and feral, clawing its way up from the hollow ache in her chest. It tore through the silence, echoing out across the empty fields until it felt like the whole village could hear her breaking.

She screamed again, harsher this time, voice cracking, dissolving into sobs that burned hot against the freezing air. Her hands slammed against the pavement, fingers scraping against the rough grit of the road, sleeves dragging down and catching on tiny stones. The tears came harder, faster, spilling freely now, blurring the already shapeless world into nothing but light and shadow and sound. She hated it—hated the weakness of it—but she couldn’t stop.

The hoodie clung too heavy to her shoulders, suffocating in its warmth. It smelled too much like him—like Theo, like safety, like every memory she was running from. Every inhale dragged the scent deeper into her lungs, and it felt like another weight pressing her down, like another reminder of the people she was failing. With a frantic, clumsy tug, she yanked at the sleeves, fingers fumbling against the cuffs until she finally tore it over her head. Her hair tangled, static clinging, but she didn’t care. She hurled the hoodie to the frozen ground beside her, her chest heaving as though shedding it could free her.

The cold hit her skin immediately, sharp and unrelenting, raising goosebumps across her bare arms. Her tattoos glistened faintly under the spill of moonlight, black lines and bursts of color painted across her skin, exposed now to the night air. She wrapped her arms around herself anyway, shivering violently, knees pressing into the gravel as she tried to hold herself together.

She wanted to claw the panic out of her chest, to tear it free with her own hands, but all she could do was scream again, voice wrecked and raw. The sound fractured in the empty lane, scattering into the dark until it dissolved into silence. All that was left was her—bare-armed, shivering, blind without her glasses, and kneeling in the middle of the road with the taste of smoke and salt and fear thick on her tongue.

Her breath came in gasps, uneven, but slower now, like her body was beginning to surrender to exhaustion. The armor of panic still clung to her, sharp and suffocating, but it felt heavier than before—less like a shield, more like a weight she couldn’t crawl out from under. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, hating herself for every tear, for every sound that had torn its way out of her throat. She hated being seen like this. And Harry—Harry had her glasses and he’d seen too much already.

She could only pray he wasn’t out here too, watching her fall apart under the same moonlight that had once made her feel untouchable.

Chapter Text

Marci stayed hunched over in the lane, breath tearing through her chest, each exhale fogging the air before vanishing into the night. The world was a smear of shadow and light without her glasses—just the vague suggestion of hedges, the smudge of a streetlamp halo, the dark shapes of houses she could have navigated blindfolded at sixteen. And yet, without that blur of plastic and glass perched on her nose, she felt anonymous, untouchable. No one could really see her like this.

Except she could feel it. The weight of his eyes.

The cold bit harder at her skin now that she’d thrown off Theo’s hoodie. Frost pressed up through the thin cotton of her pajama bottoms, sharp as needles against her knees, but she didn’t move. Her palms were scraped raw from slamming them against the road, tiny pinpricks of blood blossoming in the creases of her hands, but even that sting was a relief compared to the churn in her chest. The panic was still there, coiled and relentless, and she clutched at it like armor. If she kept it wrapped tight enough, maybe it would keep her from unraveling completely. Maybe it would remind her why she couldn’t let this happen, not with him.

Somewhere down the lane, a car door slammed. The sound cracked across the silence, loud enough to make her flinch. A pair of footsteps followed—slow, steady, unmistakably heavy. She straightened, blinking uselessly into the blur of dark shapes, heart leaping again. For a moment she thought maybe it was just some neighbor coming home late, some stranger she wouldn’t have to explain herself to.

But then the figure stepped closer, and even without her glasses she knew. The gait, the outline of broad shoulders, the way he half-tilted his head as though listening for something—her pulse recognized him before her eyes could. “Bloody hell, Marci,” Harry’s voice carried softly across the frozen air, tinged with a laugh that barely stuck. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Her chest heaved, every breath catching sharp in her throat, the cold night air burning as it rushed in and out of her lungs. Her knees throbbed against the frozen gravel, her bare toes curling instinctively against the bite of frost, but she stayed still, silent, staring at the smudge of his shape as he drew closer. She didn’t move, didn’t answer. Words sat like stones in her mouth, too heavy to dislodge.

He didn’t push her for them. He just closed the distance with the same careful steadiness he’d had on the roof, every footfall measured, unhurried, until he stopped directly in front of her. For a beat, he stood there, letting the air between them settle. Then, with a quiet sigh, he crouched down, his coat shifting around him as he lowered himself onto the same frost-bitten ground she knelt on.

His presence filled the space—solid, undeniable. She turned her face away, blinking furiously against the tears that still streaked hot down her cold skin, but he didn’t need her gaze. He reached forward, gentle but firm, and caught her wrists before she could curl them tighter into her lap.

She startled at the contact, instinctively trying to pull back, but his grip was steady without being forceful. His thumbs pressed lightly against her pulse points, grounding her, before he coaxed her hands open. The blood was smeared already, rubbed raw from her earlier slamming fists against the road, darkened at the edges where the cold air had slowed it. She hadn’t even felt it—not until now, when his calloused fingers brushed over the tender spots with careful precision.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered again, softer this time, his voice tucked low like he was afraid of scaring her further. The rough edge of concern sat heavy in the words. He tilted her hands under the pale spill of moonlight, green eyes narrowing at the sight of her raw skin. “You didn’t even know, did you?”

She blinked at him, dazed, chest still rising too fast. She shook her head faintly, her voice failing her. The sting finally reached her now that he’d drawn her attention to it, and she hissed softly through her teeth. Her nails, bitten short, were rimmed with dirt and blood. Her lifeline tattoo that curled faintly across the base of her thumb was smeared, the ink almost distorted under the red sheen.

His brows pulled tight, his jaw ticking. “Jesus…” He exhaled slow through his nose, a curl of white breath dissipating into the frozen air between them. His hands stayed around hers, thumbs brushing gentle arcs across the backs of them as though to calm the sting, even if he couldn’t take it away. “Out here with no shoes, no jacket, bleeding into the road in December. You’re freezing.”

The words should have sounded scolding, but his tone was too quiet, too soft, weighted with worry instead of anger. She hated that it made her throat tighten all over again. She wanted to snatch her hands back, to shove them against her thighs and pretend none of it mattered, but his warmth seeped into her, undoing her resolve piece by piece.

Her tears came faster, dripping off her chin onto their joined hands. He didn’t flinch. He just adjusted his grip, steady, patient, letting her shake and bleed and fall apart while he stayed crouched in front of her, the frozen gravel digging into his knees too. The night was still except for the distant cry of the owl again, low and mournful, and the faint buzzing hum of the fairy lights strung across the lane.

“You’ve done enough hurting yourself for one night,” he said finally, his voice so steady it almost steadied her. He lifted her hands higher, just slightly, his thumbs brushing once more across her bloodied palms. “Let me hold this, yeah? Just for now.” He didn’t wait for her to agree. He shifted forward on his knees, his boots scraping grit, and slipped his hands beneath her elbows, coaxing her upright with a strength so careful it felt like a question.

She swayed against him, legs unsteady, her scraped palms stinging as the cold bit deeper into the torn skin. She wanted to resist, to cling to her armor of panic, but her body betrayed her, leaning into him as though she’d been waiting for someone to catch her all along.

“Easy now,” he murmured, steadying her with a firm hand at her waist. “I’ve got you. We’ll get you warm.”

She let him guide her, her breaths still uneven but not as jagged as before. Her bare feet stung with every step across the frozen lane, the gravel biting sharp enough to leave her hissing between her teeth. He noticed instantly, tightening his arm around her as if he could shield her from the winter itself. He didn’t comment on her missing shoes or the hoodie she’d flung aside in desperation—he just kept her moving, step by steady step, until the dark shape of his car loomed out of the blur ahead.

He opened the passenger door first, gently coaxing her toward it. “Sit,” he said, his voice low, not sharp but certain. Her scraped palms leaving faint smudges against the cold leather upholstery. It made her shiver, her damp skin prickling, but at least she wasn’t kneeling in frost anymore.

He closed her door gently, the sound muted in the stillness of the sleeping street, before circling back to the roof. She could see him only in smudges without her glasses, but she heard the scrape of his boots on gravel, the faint creak as he bent down. A pause. Then he straightened, hoodie in hand, the dark shape of it swinging from his arm. He glanced back at her through the window, and even through the blur she could feel the weight of his eyes, steady, unflinching.

When he slid into the driver’s seat beside her, the cold rushed in again before he pulled the door shut, sealing them in together. The quiet hum of the car wrapped around them, a softer kind of silence than the brittle air outside. He didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, he set Theo’s hoodie gently on her lap, the fabric still icy from the ground.

“Forgot this,” he said, his voice calm, no accusation in it—just a fact. His rings clicked softly against the steering wheel as he settled his hands at ten and two. He looked over at her once more, the streetlight catching the edge of his jaw, the dark shadows of his tattoos visible where his sleeve had slipped up. “We’ll go to Mum’s. Get you warm. No one has to know you ran, alright?”

Marci didn’t trust herself to answer. Her throat felt raw, her chest hollow, but she nodded faintly, clutching the hoodie in her lap like it was a shield she couldn’t quite bear to put back on.

Outside, the village lay quiet, every house shuttered and sleeping. Inside the car, it was just them—the hum of the engine when he finally turned the key, the low rustle of his coat as he shifted into gear, and the unspoken weight between them.

He guided the car forward slowly, headlights cutting across the frost-silvered lane, and though it would have been only a short walk back across the street to Maggie’s, he didn’t take her there. Instead, he steered the car toward Anne’s, as if the decision had already been made, as if the only thing that mattered now was keeping her close, keeping her safe, no matter how close to dangerous the air between them had already become.

The tires crunched slow and deliberate over the gravel as he eased the car back into his Mum’s drive, the headlights sweeping briefly across the hedges and the pale brick of the house before he killed the engine. Silence fell heavy again, thicker than the night outside, the kind that made every small sound—her uneven breaths, the faint tick of the cooling engine—echo in the stillness.

She sat curled into herself, knees drawn in, Theo’s hoodie bunched in her lap. Her palms throbbed where the scrapes had begun to sting properly now that the adrenaline was ebbing. Her toes were numb, pressed against the floor mat, and the cold still clung to her skin despite the car’s brief warmth. She stared down at the blur of her own hands, at the half-moons of blood along her tattoos, refusing to lift her head.

Beside her, Harry shifted, the leather seat creaking. She felt—rather than saw—his gaze land on her, steady and unflinching. He sat there for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel before stilling. Then his voice came, low and careful, filling the quiet space between them. “You scared the hell out of me.” His words weren’t sharp—no edge of anger, no lecture—just quiet truth, heavy with the weight of someone who meant every syllable. “Saw you drop off that roof and thought—” He cut himself off, jaw working. “I don’t know what I thought. Just… don’t do that again. Please.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to snap that it wasn’t about him, that he didn’t get to ask anything of her. But the way he said please, raw and unguarded, stole the words from her. She stared harder at her lap, at the blur of fabric and blood, and forced herself to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I didn’t mean to—” Her voice cracked, thin and hoarse. She tried again, quieter. “I just had to get out. I couldn’t breathe.”

“I know,” he said simply. His voice had that steady weight again, the one that anchored instead of smothered. “Believe me, I know what that feels like.” He let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve had more nights than I can count where I thought running would fix it. Where I thought maybe if I just kept moving, I’d outrun my own head.” His gaze softened, though she couldn’t quite see it, only feel it. “But it never worked. Not once.”

Her chest pulled tight again, not with panic this time, but with the sting of recognition. She pressed her nails into the hoodie, holding back the urge to cry again. “So what did you do?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

He was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost reluctant. “Found someone who’d sit with me through it. Who didn’t tell me to stop. Didn’t tell me it was all fine. Just… stayed.” He shifted, turning more fully toward her. “That’s what I’m trying to do now. Stay. Even if you think you don’t want me to.”

Her breath hitched again, though it wasn’t the jagged kind this time—it was softer, slower, like her lungs were beginning to ease back into rhythm. She blinked against the blur of her unfocused vision, his features still softened into vague shapes in the glow of her porch light. His hand was still warm on her arm, thumb pressing steady, anchoring her like he had on the roof. It should’ve unsettled her more than it did. She swallowed, her throat raw from screaming, and dragged her sleeve across her damp cheeks.

The hoodie still lay across her lap like a barrier, but it didn’t feel as protective anymore—it felt heavy, too heavy, a reminder of Theo’s presence even across the street. Her fingers picked at a loose thread in the fabric, twisting it tight until it bit into her skin.

“Who did you find?” she asked finally, the words small and cautious. She wasn’t even sure why she’d said them. Maybe it was just nosiness, a natural instinct to fill the silence. Maybe it was something else—something sharper and quieter and infinitely more dangerous. The possibility that part of her really did want to know who had been allowed into the places she had been locked out of for so long.

Harry let out a slow breath and leaned back against the driver’s seat, his profile coming into sharper focus now that she’d slipped her glasses on again. She could see the way his jaw flexed, the way he rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip before speaking, like he was stalling for time. “Couple people, here and there,” he said finally. “Friends. Bandmates. People who… understood, I s’pose. Or at least pretended to.” His voice was low, quiet, carrying that faint rasp of weariness she remembered from the few times she’d seen him on telly after the show. “But the only one who ever really stayed? Who actually saw me and didn’t… expect me to be someone else?” He hesitated, his eyes flicking to hers in the dim glow. “That was your brother.”

She blinked, throat tightening again. Of course it was Theo. Who else would it be? Theo, who’d been everyone’s anchor, not just hers. Theo, who had this way of making people believe they weren’t just enough, they were everything. It made sense that Harry would have clung to him too. And yet—something sharp twisted inside her, hot and restless.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, thin and barely there. “So he gets to be the one you needed, huh? Figures.” She laughed softly, a broken little sound that didn’t feel like laughter at all. “I’m just—what? The kid tagging along? The one you tolerated?”

Harry’s head snapped toward her again, green eyes sharp now, catching in the light. “Don’t,” he said firmly. Not cruel, not harsh, but enough to cut through her self-loathing before it spilled over. “Don’t you dare say that. I never—never—just tolerated you. Not once.”

“But you did. We talked about it earlier. You said you didn’t know where to put me. You said I carried myself different. Said you stopped recognizing me—“

He shook his head hard, cutting across her words before she could build them into something heavier, something that would dig its claws in and stay. “No,” he interrupted, the single syllable sharp in the cold air. “That’s not what I meant, Marce. Not at all.”

She went still, breath caught in her throat, the hoodie still clenched in her lap like a shield. He leaned in closer, elbows braced against his knees, the streetlamp light sliding across the hard line of his jaw.

“I meant—” he broke off, dragging a hand through his curls like he needed the movement to keep from saying too much all at once. His rings caught the glow, flashes of silver in the dark. “I meant I didn’t see you changing. I didn’t notice it happen. One second you were just… the kid next door who wouldn’t shut up about sketching skulls in her maths book. And then suddenly—” His eyes swept over her, lingering too long on her bare shoulders, the ink curling there, the piercings she hated her mum seeing. “Suddenly you’re sitting on a roof, stealing my joint, looking like… like this. And I’m standing here wondering how the fuck I missed it.”

“You didn’t miss it,” she said finally, her voice steadier now, though still rough from crying. She sniffed, wiped her sleeve under her nose, and laughed without humor. “You just weren’t here to see it happen. You left, remember? You went off and turned into… all of this.” She gestured vaguely at him, the motion sharp and shaky at once. “And I… I stayed. I finished my GCSEs, my A-levels, did the whole bloody small-town act. We lived in the same world once, and then you ran off and made a new one. So yeah—you didn’t recognize me because you weren’t around to watch me become anything.”

Her words hung in the frosted air, brittle as glass. She immediately regretted saying them, the bitterness in her tone scraping against the part of her that still ached for him to understand. She hugged herself tighter, hoodie bunched in her lap, bare arms shivering in the December chill.

Harry didn’t flinch, though. He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable in the dim amber glow from the porch light. His hand stayed steady on her wrist, even when she tried to tug it back. “You think I wanted to go?” he asked finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

“Didn’t you?” Her voice cracked, small and brittle, though she forced herself to keep speaking. “Everyone was proud—Gemma, Theo, the whole bloody village. You got out, you made it, and I was the last one to know. Nobody even said a word to me until you were already gone.”

The words tumbled out harsher than she meant, each one cutting sharper against her throat. She hated how it sounded—like jealousy, like a child sulking over being left behind—but that’s what it had felt like. Left behind. Forgotten.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his green eyes flicking over her face as if he was trying to read every thought she wasn’t saying aloud. His grip didn’t loosen, his thumb still pressing gently at the inside of her wrist, steadying her pulse as if he could will it to slow.

“Marce…” he started, and then faltered. His free hand raked through his curls, tugging them back roughly before falling to his knee again.

Her throat worked as she tried to steady her breathing, the words catching and tumbling out unevenly. “No, don’t twist it, Harry. I’m not—” she shook her head hard, her damp hair clinging to her temples, “—I’m not saying I wanted you stuck here. I’m glad you found it, the singing, the band, all of it. Honestly, I am. You were always meant for… bigger things.” She swallowed, pressing her thumb into the raw sting of her palm as if it could keep her grounded. “But one day I was sat in Mr. Adam’s class, sketching stupid skulls in the margins while you and Jonny were laughing in the back row, and the next you were—” she broke off, her voice wobbling, “—you were gone. Off to London. Off to stages. Off to… everything. And I just… stayed.”

The admission cost her something. It scraped its way out of her chest like glass, sharp and reluctant, and she instantly wanted to snatch it back, swallow it whole before he could really hear the marrow-deep ache in it.

Harry didn’t move at first. He just sat there in the driver’s seat, the car engine ticking quietly as it cooled, the windows fogging faintly around them. His hand was still hovering near hers, his rings glinting like pale fire in the glow from the porch light. He looked at her with an intensity that made her want to fold herself back into the hoodie and vanish, but at the same time she hated how much some traitorous part of her wanted him to keep staring.

“Stayed,” he repeated under his breath, as though he were trying the word out for the first time. His voice was low, soft enough that it almost dissolved into the hum of the cooling engine. He reached down again, fingers brushing hers before he curled them gently around her hand. He turned it over, exposing the raw scrapes across her palm. A faint crease cut through his brow as he studied the streak of blood smudging across her skin. “You didn’t just stay,” he said quietly. “You built a whole life, Marce. You carved it out yourself. I saw the photos—your work’s everywhere now. People walk into your shop and leave with your art on their skin forever. That’s not nothing.” He lifted his gaze back to her, his thumb grazing the edge of one cut, feather-light. “That’s bigger than anything I’ve done.”

She snorted, quick and sharp, though her voice still trembled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re selling out stadiums, for fuck’s sake. You’re… you’re Harry bloody Styles. The whole world—” She broke off, shaking her head again. “Don’t say stupid shit just because I’m falling apart in your mum’s driveway.”

He leaned back slightly, but not enough to pull away. His hand still cupped hers, steady and sure. “I’m not saying it ‘cause you’re falling apart,” he said. “I’m saying it ‘cause it’s true. D’you know how many nights I wanted to come home? Just… slip across the road, see if your light was on, hear you laugh about something ridiculous? But I’d put the telly on, and there I’d be on it, singin’ songs, and it felt like—like maybe I didn’t get to have both. The band, the tours, and…” He trailed off, his gaze softening on her face. “And the girl who stayed.”

Her chest clenched, her breath catching hard enough to sting. She looked down at her lap, where Theo’s navy hoodie sat crumpled, a smear of her blood staining the cuff. Her knees throbbed beneath the thin cotton of her sleep pants, the sting sharper now that she was sitting still, and she dug her nails into the fabric as if that could distract her from the warmth of his hand still wrapped around hers.

“Harry,” she whispered, shaking her head, voice breaking in a way she hated. “Don’t do this. Don’t—don’t make it something. Not with me. Not when…” She trailed off, her throat tightening around the name she couldn’t quite say. Theo’s face flashed in her mind, the thought of his fury like a blade pressing against her ribs. “Not when it’ll just hurt. Him. Or you. Or me.”

For a moment, the air inside the car was too heavy to breathe. Outside, the frost glittered faintly in the wash of the headlights, the rest of Holmes Chapel dead quiet, every window dark.

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t try to fill the silence with platitudes. He only sat there, still holding her scraped hands in his, as if he’d made some unspoken decision. After a beat, he nodded once, almost to himself as the hum of the car faded into silence, leaving only the sound of their uneven breathing and the faint ticking of the engine cooling down. “Alright,” he said softly. “Come on.”

He slid out of the car and came around to her side. The door creaked open, letting in another sharp gust of December air. She hesitated, clutching the hoodie against her chest, but before she could protest, he crouched again, his hand warm and steady as it closed around hers, careful not to brush too hard against the raw scrapes. He eased her to her feet, his touch anchoring her, and she hated how much she needed it. “Easy,” he murmured, his coat brushing against her bare arm as he helped her steady. “I’ve got you.”

She let him. She let herself lean into that steadiness, just for a moment, her knees trembling beneath her.

As he guided her toward the porch, he reached into his jacket and pulled out her glasses. The lenses caught the porchlight, spotless now, no trace of the smudges she’d left earlier. He held them out with a small, quiet smile. “Cleaned these for you. Figured you’d want the world back.”

Her fingers brushed the cool metal frames as she took them, slipping them onto her face. The blur sharpened into clarity instantly—the frost glittering on the gravel, the pale brick of the house, and his face, close enough for her to see the way his eyes lingered on hers. He looked steadier now, though something restless flickered beneath the green.

She clutched the hoodie tighter in her arms, as if it could shield her from everything she’d just felt. The front window of the house glowed warmly, lace curtains drawn but lamplight spilling out like an invitation. Somewhere inside, Anne and Gemma were both sleeping peacefully upstairs. And here she was, shivering in the driveway with Harry, blood drying on her hands, her heart beating far too fast for 2AM.

He gestured toward the door with a small tilt of his head, voice low and certain. “Let’s get you inside.”

She hesitated, the worn cotton of the hoodie pressed hard against her chest like it could shield her from him, from herself, from the way the night had tilted sideways. Her knees trembled when she shifted her weight, a dull throb spreading from the scrape through the bone. She opened her mouth to argue, to insist she was fine, but the words dissolved into the cold air.

He didn’t wait for permission. He slid his hand lower, fingers lacing around hers, steady but not insistent, and gave the gentlest tug. “Come on,” he said again, softer this time, as though coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding. His palm was warm despite the chill, calloused from guitar strings, grounding her in a way that made her chest squeeze.

The gravel crunched under his shoes as he led her across the drive. Each step sent a twinge up her shin, but she bit down on it, willing herself not to stumble again. When they reached the porch, he leaned his shoulder into the door, careful not to jostle her, and pushed it open. The hinges creaked in protest.

Inside, the air was warmer, scented faintly of rosemary and the remnants of whatever Anne had cooked hours ago. The house was hushed, steeped in the kind of cozy quiet that only came in winter nights, when even the walls seemed to be sleeping.

“Sit,” he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. He guided her to the worn wooden counter, then without asking, he slipped an arm around her waist and lifted her easily up onto the surface.

She made a small sound of protest, half indignation, half surprise, but he ignored it, settling her carefully as though she might break. “Harry—” she started again, but he was already reaching into the cabinet above the sink, pulling down a battered tin box she recognized instantly. The old first aid kit, edges dented from years of use, the white cross faded. He set it on the counter beside her, flipping it open with one hand.

“Still where she keeps it,” he muttered, almost to himself, as if it comforted him to know some things hadn’t changed. He took out a bottle of antiseptic and a clean cloth, his movements steady, practiced. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You shouldn’t have ran like that.”

She exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a sigh. “I wasn’t exactly planning on having a panic attack and jumping off the roof from you tonight” Her voice was thin, frayed at the edges, like a thread pulled too taut. She tried to mask the wobble in it with a crooked smile, but the sting in her palms and the hollow in her chest betrayed her.

He didn’t answer right away. He poured the clear liquid over the cloth, the sharp, chemical scent rising between them.

She hissed when the soaked fabric touched her scraped skin, the antiseptic biting deeper than the gravel ever could. “Bloody hell—” she flinched, trying to pull back, but his hand tightened, firm without being harsh.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the slow sweep of his thumb as he dabbed at the grit and blood. His voice was calm, maddeningly calm, as if he were used to putting broken things back together. “I didn’t mean it like that. When I said I didn’t know where to put you. I meant—I blinked, and suddenly you weren’t just you anymore. You’d grown up. You weren’t the kid next door. And I—” He cut himself short with a quiet exhale, lips pressing into a line.

She swallowed, shifting against the countertop’s cold edge. She hated that she couldn’t see him clearly, that she had to piece together his face in fragments—the shadow of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the dark fall of curls over his forehead. “You didn’t seem to mind,” she said, softer now, though her words still trembled. “You didn’t mind leaving. You didn’t even say goodbye. One day you were just there with him, laughing, and then—then you were gone. And I was still here. Just… me. Just the one you could leave behind.”

That cracked something open inside her, and for a beat she couldn’t breathe. The heat of the kitchen made her scraped knees sting all the more, blood drying into a stiff, rust-colored crust against the thin cotton of her pajamas. Her hands throbbed in his grip.

His head lifted at that, sharply enough that she caught the movement even through her blurred vision. His expression sharpened, then softened almost immediately, but not before she saw the flicker of hurt.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, weighted. Not harsh—just final, almost pleading. “Don’t do that. Don’t say I didn’t care. I might’ve been young and stupid, yeah, but I never—never—looked at you like you were something to leave behind.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting the burn at the back of her throat. The hoodie still sat heavy in her lap, smelling of the outside, and she wanted to shove it away again, to throw the memory of his presence out into the frost. Instead she stayed rooted, half from pain, half from the fact that his hand was still wrapped around hers, warm against the bloodied skin.

“Then what?” she asked finally, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the refrigerator. “If it wasn’t that. Who was it, Harry? Who was it you wanted to stay for?”

He stilled, the antiseptic cloth hovering above her other hand now. His green eyes flickered over her face, taking her in like he hadn’t been doing exactly that since he found her in the lane.

“You already know,” he said quietly. His thumb brushed across her knuckles again, gentler this time, and his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite sorrow. “But if you’re askin’… it was you, Marce. Always was.”

The words landed between them with the same weight as her own confession out on the road. She felt her body jolt, her stomach plummeting and twisting all at once, like the ground wasn’t as solid under her feet as it should’ve been. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest, heat rising despite the icy draft still curling in from the half-open door.

She gripped the counter tighter, nails biting into the wood now instead of her skin, and for a long moment she just stared at him—at the lines that hadn’t been there ten years ago, at the steady curve of his shoulders, at the way his gaze didn’t flinch or falter.

Her lips parted. “Harry—“ She stopped, the word hanging there like a thread she wasn’t sure she should pull. She blinked behind her glasses, breath hitching, then pushed the hoodie tighter around herself before finishing, quieter, “You can’t just walk back into my life after ten years and—” Her voice cracked, her throat burning, tears threatening again. “—and look at me like that.”

His jaw worked, the muscles ticking as though he were biting down on words too sharp to release. He stayed where he was, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his coat brushing against her arm, close enough that the scent of smoke and something sharper—aftershave, maybe, or just him—wrapped around her. He didn’t flinch when her voice broke, didn’t look away when her eyes glassed over again.

“I can’t not,” he said finally, voice rough, a rasp of truth that seemed to scrape its way out of him. “I can’t unsee you, Marce. I can’t un-hear that laugh. I can’t un-feel—” He stopped, exhaled hard, then shook his head like it would rattle the rest loose. “Ten years or not, it doesn’t change what’s staring me in the face right now.”

Her throat burned. She wanted to be furious at him, to shove him away with all the force she hadn’t been able to summon on the roof, but his words cracked her open instead. She pressed her palms against her thighs, hissing when the raw skin beneath the bandages protested. The pain was sharp, grounding, but it didn’t stop the truth from flooding in.

“You don’t get it,” she whispered, almost to herself, eyes darting down to her lap. “Theo will kill you if he even thinks—” Her voice caught, choking on the weight of her brother’s name. “And Mum already looks at me like I’m some disappointment. If she knew…” She trailed off, shaking her head, her black hair falling into her eyes. “It’d ruin everything. It’d ruin me. It’d ruin you. It’d ruin Theo.”

Harry shifted, his hand leaving hers only long enough to set the first-aid cloth back in the tin before he leaned in again, his palm curling against her knee, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the fabric of her sleep pants. “I know what he’s like,” he murmured. “I know what she’s like. But I also know you. And you’re not a disappointment. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

She let out a strangled laugh, half sob, half disbelief. “Brave? Harry, I just bolted off a bloody roof and skinned myself because I couldn’t handle you looking at me.”

“And you came back,” he countered instantly, voice still soft but steady, like he’d rehearsed this kind of gentleness. “That’s brave. You came back.”

The kitchen was too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence between them. Somewhere above, the pipes groaned softly as if the old house were shifting in its sleep. She wanted to vanish, to crawl back under her quilt and let the dark swallow her whole. But his words clung to her, his presence anchoring her in place.

She shook her head again, muttering under her breath, “I didn’t come back. You drove to me when I fell to my knees and screamed twice. You brought me back.”

He froze at that, the strip of gauze still slack between his fingers. For a second he looked almost winded, like her words had knocked something out of him that he hadn’t braced for. His eyes lifted to hers—sharp green blurred faint through her lenses, though she could see enough to know he wasn’t laughing now.

“Maybe I did,” he said at last, voice quieter than the hum of the fridge. He looped the bandage around her knee, careful not to brush the raw skin with anything harsher than his fingertips. “Maybe I’ll keep doin’ it, too. Every time you run, I’ll come find you. Don’t care if it’s down the road or all the way back in London. I’ll bring you back.”

Her throat tightened, heat pressing up behind her eyes until her vision swam again—not that she could see much without her glasses anyway. She hated it, hated the idea of him watching her crumble in the road, hated even more how part of her was grateful he had. That gratitude was dangerous, heavier than her mother’s disapproval, more terrifying than Theo’s fists.

“You can’t keep doing that,” she whispered, pressing her fingers into the counter again, hiding her bandaged hands in the folds of the hoodie. “You can’t—because I’ll let you. And then where does that leave me, huh? Where does that leave us?”

The word slipped out before she could stop it—us. It seemed to hang in the warm kitchen air like smoke, impossible to pull back.

He looked up at her again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned in the glow of the lamplight. He straightened slowly, resting both hands on the counter either side of her thighs, leaning in without quite closing the space. “Maybe,” he said carefully, almost as if he were choosing each word with the weight of a promise, “maybe it leaves us not pretending anymore.”

Her breath caught. The warmth of the kitchen pressed heavy, but she still felt the icy bite of the night clinging to her skin, the sting of her raw palms and bloody knees. She wanted to argue, to laugh, to throw up some sharp remark that would put the walls back in place. But all that came was one word, “Harry—“ Her voice fractured on his name, thin and uncertain, and for a heartbeat it was the only sound in the room besides the steady tick of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the radiator pipes. The old house seemed to be holding its breath around them, every shadow leaning closer, every beam of lamplight sharpening the edges of the moment.

He didn’t move at first. His hands stayed braced on either side of her, not trapping, just there—an anchor, steady and unshakable. His face hovered close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint sweetness of the wine still lingering on it, curling across her cheek. His green eyes—clear now that she wore her glasses again—searched hers with a focus that made her pulse stutter.

She shifted against the counter, the sting in her knees flaring as the thin cotton of her sleep pants tugged across the dried scrapes. She wanted the discomfort to keep her tethered, to keep her from tipping into the dangerous pull that thrummed in the inches between them. But instead her body betrayed her, leaning forward just slightly, drawn toward him like it had been inevitable since the moment he saw her in the doorway.

He noticed—of course he did. His lips curved, slow and knowing, though there was no teasing in it now. He tilted his head, bringing himself closer, the silver glint of his rings catching the light as one hand brushed the edge of her knee again. “Say it again,” he whispered, his voice lower, rougher. “My name. Just like that.”

Her heart kicked so hard she thought for sure it would wake the whole house. She stared at him, her mouth dry, her chest tight, her mother’s voice hissing in the back of her mind, her brother’s face flashing in her thoughts. She could hear the floor creak faintly above them—his mum shifting in her sleep, or maybe just the old bones of the house settling—but every sound only seemed to close the walls in tighter.

She shook her head, whispering, “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes dropping to her mouth, then flicking back up. “So are you.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside was silent, the frost still glittering across the lane. Midnight—or maybe closer to two. Everyone upstairs lost in dreams, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the kitchen below.

He shifted one hand to her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her skin just below the metal glint of her septum ring. The gesture was careful, reverent, as though he knew she could still bolt, as though one wrong move might shatter her completely. He just looked at her like he’d been waiting a decade for this—the same way he had looked at her on both roofs, like she was something rare and burning that he hadn’t realized he wanted until it was right in front of him.

Her breath stalled, caught halfway in her chest, and she hated how badly she wanted to lean into that touch. The pad of his thumb was warm despite the cold still clinging to his coat, and the gentleness of it unraveled her more than any sharp word or teasing grin ever had. She stared at him through the blur of her glasses, through the haze of smoke still lingering faint in the air, and for once she didn’t feel like she had to fill the silence.

Her mother’s voice buzzed at the back of her mind—Marceline, cover your arms… Marceline, behave…—but it was fading now, drowned out by the low hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock on the wall, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was ridiculous, Marci thought, how much space one boy could take up in her chest after all these years. Ridiculous, and terrifying, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

She blinked slowly, and when her lashes lifted, she found his gaze fixed on her mouth again, then flicking back to her eyes as though he couldn’t quite help himself. His hand lingered at her jaw, fingers brushing a stray hair from her cheek, knuckles grazing her temple like he’d done it a thousand times before. Her glasses slid a fraction down her nose as she looked at him, the lenses catching a dull reflection of the kitchen light. She should’ve pushed them back up, should’ve broken the eye contact before it burned right through her, but she couldn’t move—couldn’t do anything but sit there on the counter with the faint sting of antiseptic still prickling at her knees and his hand cradling her jaw like it belonged there.

Up close like this, he was impossibly familiar and utterly foreign all at once. The constellation of tiny tattoos scattered across his arms peeked from beneath the cuff of his jacket, dark against his skin. His rings were cool where they rested against her, the faint scent of smoke and something citrusy clinging to him like a shadow. He was still the boy who used to kick a football against her garden wall, still the boy who once groaned when she blasted Paramore too loud from her bedroom window—and yet now he was a man whose presence filled the kitchen, whose body heat seeped through layers of fabric and left her shivering for reasons that had nothing to do with the December air.

Her body seemed to move before her mind could catch up. The smallest shift forward—barely a breath, barely a tremor—and suddenly the tips of their noses brushed, feather-light, a fleeting press that sent a current through her chest so sharp it almost stole the air she’d just fought so hard to reclaim.

His gaze softened when he felt her lean in, when the edge of her nose skimmed his again. He tilted his head just a fraction, not enough to seal the space but enough to acknowledge it, to make it clear he felt it too. His thumb brushed once more along her jaw, slow, reverent, and his voice came out low, almost unrecognizable in its restraint. “Careful,” he murmured. “I might take that as permission.”

Her stomach dropped, twisting into something equal parts dread and want. The word hung between them, permission, sharp and dangerous, sparking along her nerves. She could hear her mother’s disapproval like an echo in her bones, could imagine Theo’s face if he knew, could already taste the wreckage this would bring. And yet, even with all of that crowding her chest, she didn’t move back.

The kitchen seemed to shrink further, the walls bending in, the ceiling pressing low. Midnight, maybe one, maybe later—the world outside was still and frozen, the street empty, the fields glazed silver. Upstairs, Anne and Gemma slept, safe in their rooms. Down here, though, the air was anything but still.

She drew in a shaky breath, her lips brushing the edge of his as she whispered, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The words trembled, half-mocking, half-raw, but she couldn’t disguise the way her voice caught on the last syllable, couldn’t disguise the shiver that rolled through her when Harry’s hand pressed just a little firmer against her hip.

His grin flickered across his mouth, but his eyes never left hers, steady and searching, as though he were trying to memorize the exact way she looked in this moment—blurred glasses, inked arms, sleep-creased tank top and all.

The moment was balanced on a knife’s edge—her breath caught, his hand warm at her hip, their noses brushing as if the universe itself had leaned in to press them together. One inch closer and everything would change. One inch closer and there would be no going back.

Then the floor above them groaned. A door clicked softly, followed by the faint creak of the stairs. Both of them froze, the sound of slippered feet padding down the staircase pulling them apart like a sudden tide. His hand dropped from her hip, his warmth slipping away so quickly it left her cold again. He took two quick steps back just as the kitchen doorway filled with a familiar silhouette.

Anne appeared, wrapped in a pale blue dressing gown, her hair loose around her shoulders in soft waves. The lamplight caught the silver threaded through the brown, but her face carried the same kind lines Marci remembered, the same warmth that had made her feel, once upon a time, like she belonged in this house more than her own. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, yawning lightly before blinking at them.

“Oh,” she said softly, her voice a gentle murmur in the stillness of the kitchen. “I thought I heard the door.” Her gaze swept from Harry to Marci, then caught on her perched on the counter, bare feet curled against the cabinet, Theo’s hoodie wrapped around her shoulders like armor. “Marci, darling,” Anne breathed, her expression shifting, eyes soft with something closer to worry than reproach. “What on earth are you doing up at this hour?”

Marci opened her mouth, fumbling for some explanation, but Anne’s gaze had already dropped lower. The lamplight caught the faint red stains spreading through the knees of her sleep pants, the bandages wrapped clumsily around her palms. Anne’s brow furrowed, concern knitting across her face as she stepped closer.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice aching in the quiet. “You’re hurt.” She reached gently for one of Marci’s hands, careful not to touch the bandages, her touch feather-light as if afraid of causing pain. “What happened?”

Marci’s throat went tight. The instinct to brush it off, to shrug, to make some flippant remark burned on her tongue, but it stuck there, heavy and sour. She glanced sideways at Harry—still standing close, trying and failing to school his expression into something casual. His hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to step back in, to explain, to protect.

But Anne’s gaze was only on her, gentle and steady. No judgment. No sharpness. Just the kind of soft, unwavering concern Marci couldn’t ever remember receiving from her own mother. It made her chest ache worse than the sting of her raw skin, made her want to cry again for a reason that had nothing to do with panic.

Marci pulled in a breath, shaky but steadier than before, and forced a small smile she didn’t quite feel. “It’s nothing,” she said quietly, though her voice betrayed the crack in her armor. “Just—tripped. That’s—That’s all.”

Anne’s eyes flicked between her and Harry, searching, but she didn’t press. She only smoothed a hand over Marci’s dark hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with the same tenderness she’d shown when Marci was a girl sneaking biscuits from her kitchen. “Well,” she said gently, “whatever it was, you don’t need to be out there in the cold. Let’s get you warm, hm? I’ll make us both some tea.”

Her words settled over the kitchen like a quilt, soft and certain, leaving no space for argument. She moved with quiet purpose, her slippers whispering against the worn tile as she crossed to the stove. The kettle was already half full from earlier—Harry must have been about to put it on before everything spiraled—and she lifted it with both hands, setting it gently onto the hob. The familiar click of the ignition sparked, followed by the rising hiss of gas flame.

Marci sat rigid on the counter, fingers twisting in the sleeves of the navy hoodie as if she could anchor herself in its fabric. The warmth of the kitchen seeped slowly back into her chilled skin, thawing her toes one by one. Her knees ached dully where the gravel had bitten deep, but the pain felt muted under the throb of everything else—her racing pulse, her burning cheeks, the ghost of Harry’s thumb brushing along her jaw.

He busied himself with the mugs, clinking ceramic against the counter. He moved with a kind of forced nonchalance, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, as though the act of rinsing and setting the cups upright could mask the charge that still hummed between them. Every so often his gaze flicked toward her—quick, almost guilty—before sliding away again.

Anne, for her part, seemed to notice far more than she allowed on. She pulled two mismatched mugs down from the cupboard herself, setting them beside his in a neat line, and laid out the battered sugar tin and the jar of instant coffee, just in case. “You always did like yours far too sweet,” she said over her shoulder, not specifying who she was talking to. Her voice carried the kind of warmth that left no one out.

Marci swallowed hard, her throat still raw, and forced herself to look up. “Still do,” she admitted, her voice thin but steadier now.

Anne turned then, and her smile deepened, soft lines creasing around her eyes. “Good. Then we’ll make it the way you like. Can’t have you thinking we’ve forgotten how to look after you.”

The words hit something deep in Marci’s chest, something she hadn’t realized she’d been aching for. She nodded, blinking fast behind her glasses, and ducked her head again. She didn’t trust her voice not to break.

He cleared his throat, setting a spoon down a little too loudly against the counter, as if to fill the silence. “I’ll get the milk,” he said, already moving toward the fridge.

Anne’s eyes lingered on him for a beat, something unspoken in her expression—something that made Marci’s stomach twist. It wasn’t suspicion, not really. It was softer than that. Knowing. As if she could see the thread stretched tight between the two of them, glowing in the dim kitchen light, and was quietly deciding to let it be.

The kettle began to whistle, sharp and shrill, breaking the moment apart. Anne turned back to it, lifting it off the flame with practiced ease. He set the milk down beside her, then leaned against the counter opposite Marci, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes met hers briefly, steady, unreadable, before flicking away again.

Marci pulled the sleeves of Theo’s hoodie down over her hands, covering the fresh white bandages beneath. The movement was automatic, a shield, though she already knew Anne wasn’t going to press. Still, the sting in her palms pulsed like a reminder: of the road, of the cold, of the weight of panic and the weight of Harry’s hands steadying hers.

Anne poured hot water into the mugs, steam curling up between them, filling the kitchen with the earthy scent of tea leaves. “Here we are,” she said warmly, sliding one mug toward Marci, one toward Harry. She kept her own in hand, cradling it as if it were enough to warm her all the way through. “Now. Sit, drink, both of you. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

Marci wrapped her sore hands around the mug, grateful for the heat sinking into her skin. The steam curled upward in thin, ghostly ribbons, fogging the lenses of her glasses until she finally tugged them off and let them dangle from her fingers. She set them on the counter beside her bag and blinked against the blur, content to let the world smear at the edges. It was warm between her palms, grounding her the way nothing else seemed able to.

Anne settled at the table with her own tea, her presence a soft anchor in the stillness. She didn’t press for more details, didn’t scold, didn’t remind her daughter of all the ways she might have been different if only she’d listened. Instead, she let the silence breathe, the occasional clink of her spoon the only sound between them. It felt…safe.

He leaned against the counter across from Marci, one ankle crossed over the other, hands curled loose around his mug. He didn’t look away this time. Every so often, his eyes would catch hers, and she’d glance down quickly at the swirling surface of her tea, cheeks hot behind her fogged-up lenses. When she took a sip, the ceramic edge tapped against the bandages on her palm, and she felt the sting echo up her arms.

The warmth of the kitchen seeped into her bones, loosening the tight coil in her chest. For a moment, she let it be enough—just the steady rhythm of Harry’s breath somewhere near her, the quiet comfort of Anne humming under her breath as she stirred her tea, the hum of the radiator filling the silence they didn’t seem eager to break.

Halfway through her tea, she set the mug down with a soft clink. The liquid had gone lukewarm, but she wasn’t drinking anymore anyway. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her hoodie, pulling at a loose thread. The words lodged in her throat for a moment before she finally pushed them out.

“I should—” Her voice cracked again, and she cleared her throat, softer this time. “I should probably head back. Mum’ll lose her mind if she wakes up and I’m not there.”

The air shifted. Anne looked up from where she was tracing idle circles on her mug, her expression immediately falling into that gentle frown that Marci had known since childhood. “Marci…” Anne’s voice was all soft edges, laced with worry rather than reproach. “You don’t have to run off. It’s freezing out. Stay and finish your tea at least. I’ll not have you limping across the close in the middle of the night.”

Across the counter, Harry’s knuckles tapped once against the wood, restless. “She’s right,” he said, quieter now, almost cautious. “It’s late. Theo’ll sleep through the morning, you know he will. Ella too.” His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, then back to her, softer this time. “No one’s going to mind.”

Marci shook her head, the motion sharper than she meant it to be, sending a loose strand of hair across her face. She slid off the counter, hissing when her knees protested the movement, the hoodie slipping further down her arm as she adjusted her balance on bare toes against the cold tile. The chill that rushed up from the floor made her wince, but she didn’t let it stop her. She needed to move, needed to put some distance back between herself and the way his gaze had just peeled her open.

“She’ll mind,” she said finally, her voice low but certain. “Mum will mind. She always does.” She hugged the hoodie to her chest as though it might absorb the sting in her voice, as though it could keep her from splintering under the weight of her own admission. Her eyes flicked up to Anne, then away, the glasses slipping again, turning the world into soft-edged blurs. “You know what she’s like.”

Anne’s frown deepened, but there was no sharpness behind it, only that same patient ache that made Marci want to cry. “Oh, love,” Anne murmured, shaking her head just slightly. “You give her too much credit. She doesn’t mean half the things she says. She’s just… set in her ways. Always has been. Don’t let her make you feel small.”

He straightened from the counter then, setting his untouched mug aside with a quiet clink. He didn’t say anything right away, just moved toward Marci, slow and deliberate, as though not to spook her again. He stopped a step away, close enough that she could sense the warmth radiating off him, close enough that she could see—through the foggy smudge of her glasses—the faint crease between his brows.

“She’ll mind,” she repeated, her voice rough, her grip on the hoodie white-knuckled. “She’ll wake up and see me gone and it’ll be a whole thing. She’ll tell me I’m careless. That I’m selfish. That I—” she bit the words off, swallowing hard.

Anne reached out, brushing her shoulder with a light touch that felt like an embrace. “We all know how she can be, darling. Don’t carry it alone.” Her tone was soft, but steady. She didn’t look at him this time, though Marci could feel the question hanging in the air between them, unspoken.

His jaw tightened, but he only nodded once, as though agreeing silently with his mum. “I’ll walk you back,” he said, his voice rough but certain. “No arguing. Not lettin’ you cross that road barefoot with your knees like that.”

For a moment Marci considered pushing back—telling him she didn’t need him, that she didn’t need anyone—but the ache in her legs was sharp, her palms stung with every throb of her pulse, and her mother’s voice was already echoing in her chest. She sighed, soft and reluctant. “Fine.”

Anne pressed a kiss to her temple, the way she always had when Marci was small. “I’ll put the kettle on again. Come straight back in if you need to, Marci.”

Marci nodded, the wordless gesture heavy in her throat. The kitchen smelled of steeping tea and roasted chicken cooling on the counter, and for a moment she almost wished she could stay, sink into Anne’s warmth and let it wrap around her like it used to when she was small. But the thought of her own mother waking up to an empty bed, to proof that Marci had ‘run off again,’ clenched at her stomach like a fist. “I’ll go,” she murmured again, softer this time, as if repeating it would convince herself. She slid off the counter, careful to keep her weight balanced so her knees didn’t buckle, and winced when the cold tile met her bare feet.

He was there before she could take a step, his hand at her elbow again, steady and warm. He bent to scoop up the hoodie where it had slipped halfway off her shoulders earlier, giving it a brisk shake before draping it firmly back around her. “Don’t argue,” he said quietly, leaning closer so Anne wouldn’t overhear. “Let me do this, yeah?”

She opened her mouth to tell him no, to insist she was fine, but the look in his eyes stopped her—the same look he’d given her on the roof, that mix of worry and something sharper, something she didn’t dare name. She closed her mouth again, lips pressing thin, and simply nodded.

Anne busied herself with pouring more hot water into her own mug, pretending not to watch too closely though Marci could feel her gaze on the back of her neck. “I’ll see you in the morning, love,” Anne said gently, giving her hand one last squeeze. “Sleep well. And don’t let your mother fuss too much.”

Marci let out a low laugh, dry and quiet. “Not much chance of that.”

Harry opened the door, and the cold night came rushing in again, a slap of air that made her draw Theo’s hoodie tighter around herself. He touched the small of her back as she stepped past him into the frosted dark, guiding her toward the path without a word. The gravel crunched under his boots, her own bare feet making softer sounds against the frozen earth.

The village was silent, the rows of brick houses dark but for the faint yellow glow of lamps behind curtains. Their own house across the lane looked smaller than she remembered, its garden gate leaning just so, the roofline uneven in the half-light. Every shadow seemed to hold memory: afternoons sprawled on the grass with a sketchbook, nights spent staring across at the boy next door who’d never once looked back at her like he had tonight.

“Your mum’s not gonna skin you alive,” he said finally, his voice low, almost amused, though there was a careful edge beneath it. “Not with me walkin’ you back.”

She huffed, clutching the hoodie tighter, the fabric damp with frost against her chest. “You don’t know her like I do.”

He shot her a look, his dimple threatening even in the half-light. “I grew up across the road, remember? I know Maggie. I know she loves you, even if she’s got a funny way of showin’ it.”

Her laugh was short, sharp, almost bitter. “Funny way’s one word for it.” She pushed open the groaning gate as it swung inward, the hinges protesting like they always had. The sound seemed to rip through the stillness of the lane, far too loud, and she winced, shooting a quick glance up at the darkened windows of her mother’s house. No movement yet, no shifting behind the curtains—but she knew how lightly Maggie slept. One wrong breath, and she’d be at the top of the stairs, sharp words loaded like bullets.

He nudged the gate closed behind them, the latch clicking shut with a soft metallic snap. He stayed close, just half a step behind her, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. The crunch of their footsteps over the frost-bitten gravel filled the silence, each step measured, deliberate. “You always did hate that gate,” he murmured suddenly, breaking the silence with a small huff of amusement. “Remember how you used to try and climb the hedge instead? Tore your jeans nearly every summer.”

She glanced back at him, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. “Yeah, well. The hedge was less judgmental.”

That earned her a low laugh, warm in the freezing air. “Think I remember you falling straight through it once.”

“I meant to,” she shot back, though her voice softened around the edges. “It was all part of the plan.”

“Right.” He tilted his head, giving her that half-smirk again, dimple cutting sharp in the porch light. “Suppose that’s why you came out with twigs in your hair, lookin’ like a woodland creature that’d lost its way.”

The words slid between them, quiet, deliberate, like a secret only she was allowed to hear. She forced her gaze back to the door, the brass knob gleaming faintly under the light.

They climbed the steps together, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow space. She reached for the knob, the cold metal biting at her raw palm, and hissed before she could stop herself. Harry’s hand appeared instantly, steadying hers, his touch gentle but firm as he covered her hand with his own and turned the knob for her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispered, though the words lacked conviction.

“Maybe not,” he said softly, holding the door open for her, “but I want to.”

The warm rush of air from inside curled around her as she stepped over the threshold, the scent of roasted chicken and wood polish pulling her straight back into childhood. For a moment she stood in the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, unsure whether to keep walking or to turn back. Behind her, he lingered in the doorway, shoulders broad against the frame, green eyes following her with quiet intensity.

Then, upstairs, a floorboard groaned. Another. The faint creak of weight shifting across old wood. Marci froze. And sure enough, her mother appeared on the stairs, robe pulled tight, her hair mussed but her eyes sharp and awake. The lamplight washed her face in amber, softening the lines time had carved, though her frown was unmistakable.

“Marceline?” Maggie’s voice was hushed but heavy, carrying the weight of reproach even in its quietness. She looked from her daughter on the counter to the figure by the door, and Marci swore she felt the floor tilt beneath her bare toes. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Maggie asked, narrowing her eyes. She came the rest of the way down, one hand tightening the sash of her robe. “Where were you wandering at this hour?”

Marci’s first instinct was to tuck her hands further into Theo’s hoodie sleeves, to hide the blood blooming through the cotton, but she knew—she knew—that Maggie’s gaze had already swept across them. Her mother’s mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line, but she didn’t comment. She never asked if Marci was okay; she never had.

Marci’s own voice scraped its way up, brittle and defensive. “I just needed some air. Didn’t realize I had to file a report.”

Maggie’s brows arched. “It’s two in the morning. You think I don’t notice when my daughter’s gone? You can’t just disappear, Marceline. You’ve got responsibilities here.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully upstairs, toward Ella’s room.

“Responsibilities? I don’t even live here anymore, mum. What kind of responsibilities do you think I have?” Her words came out sharper than she meant, but she couldn’t take them back. They seemed to hang in the air between them, heavier than the steam rising from the mugs back in Anne’s kitchen.

Maggie tightened her robe around her and drew herself up in that way she always had, a schoolteacher’s posture even in the middle of the night. “You’re her aunt,” she said, chin tilting toward the ceiling again, as if Ella’s very existence could be weaponized. “She looks up to you. You don’t get to just… vanish, not when she’s under this roof. What if she woke and needed you?”

Marci barked a laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. “She didn’t. She’s asleep. She doesn’t even know I left. You’re the one keeping score.”

Maggie’s frown deepened, and she moved closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight. She folded her arms, her presence filling the little kitchen in a way that made Marci’s chest close in on itself.

“You think this is about me keeping scoremothering could slip free, because she knew how it would land, how quickly it would curdle the fragile softness Anne had left behind.

Maggie’s chin lifted higher, the lamplight sharpening the lines of disapproval carved into her face. “Don’t you use that tone with me, Marceline,” she said, the syllables of her full name clipped and precise. “I don’t care if you’ve got your own flat in London or a little shop with pictures in the window. You’re back in my house, and you’ll remember how to behave under it. I won’t have you setting a poor example for Ella.”

The words landed like stones in Marci’s chest. Her fingers curled tighter around Theo’s hoodie, the fabric rough against the raw sting of her palms. The house felt suddenly smaller, the warm smell of the heat clicking on turning her stomach.

“I didn’t vanish into the night to go get drunk and make a fool of myself,” Marci said, her voice low, clipped, trying not to shake. “I just… needed some air. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“Well, I noticed,” Maggie shot back. Her eyes flicked again to the frayed bandages, lingering long enough that Marci wanted to shove her hands into her pockets and keep them there. But then—nothing. No question. No rush forward, no ‘Are you alright, love?’ the way Anne had offered so easily. Just that same, familiar weight of judgment pressing into her chest like a thumb on a bruise.

Before she could find words sharp enough to match, Harry shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing hers in a deliberate reminder. He leaned one elbow on the counter, close enough that she felt his warmth at her side. “She’s fine,” he said, steady, his eyes fixed on Maggie. “I was with her.”

Maggie’s lips pursed. “With you.” It wasn’t a question, though it landed like one. Her tone was clipped, but it wasn’t venomous—more like a test, probing for cracks. Her gaze slid to Marci’s bandaged hands again, and then up to Harry, lingering with a mix of suspicion and something softer, older, that made Marci’s stomach knot tighter.

He didn’t flinch. He just gave the smallest shrug, his expression unreadable but his presence solid, unwavering. “Yeah,” he said. “With me. She wasn’t alone.”

For a beat, Maggie said nothing. The kettle gave another impatient click as the water cooled, and she turned away, pouring it anyway into her mug, the steam rising in a gentle cloud around her face.

“Mm,” she said finally, stirring her tea with a spoon that clinked against the porcelain. “You know how your niece wakes up lookin’ for you. If she finds your bed empty, she’ll cry.”

Marci’s jaw clenched. Her knees twinged in protest, but she straightened her shoulders anyway, gripping the hoodie in her hands. “Then I should head upstairs,” she said, softer this time, though there was still a sharpness in her tone she couldn’t sand down. “I don’t want her to think I’ve gone.” She slid past Harry without another word, her bare feet whispering against the cold linoleum as she stepped into the hall. The hoodie was still clutched tight to her chest, bunched into a ball that she hugged like armor. Every step up the stairs made the wood creak and sigh, and she winced at the sound, half expecting her mum to call after her again, half hoping she wouldn’t.

But Maggie stayed silent, back to her daughter, spoon clinking rhythmically in her mug. The only sound from her was the faint rustle of her robe as she shifted her weight, as if the ritual of stirring her tea was far more important than watching Marci climb the stairs she hadn’t walked in years.

Marci’s vision blurred at the edges, glasses fogged from the warmth of the kitchen, the air thick with steam and smoke that clung stubbornly to her hair. She didn’t risk another glance back. If she did, she wasn’t sure whether she’d see disapproval or something worse—pity. And she couldn’t bear either.

So she climbed, one hand grazing the banister, the other holding onto the worn cotton of Theo’s hoodie. At the landing, she paused, listening to the muffled silence of the sleeping house: Ella’s soft breathing through the cracked nursery door, the faint murmur of her mother setting down her cup. Then she slipped into the little room that used to be hers, shutting the door with a quiet click that seemed to echo louder than a slammed one.

Chapter Text

The house was awake before the sun was.

Marci stirred to the faint creak of pipes in the walls, to the muted patter of feet racing across the upstairs landing, and to the high, bubbling laughter that only ever belonged to Ella. The sound reached her before her eyes even opened, and for a suspended moment she let it wash over her. There was something about waking in her childhood bedroom again—the slope of the ceiling above, the faint scent of lavender that had seeped into the curtains years ago—that made her feel younger and heavier all at once.

The air carried the unmistakable blend of Christmas morning: the sharpness of pine from the tree downstairs, the sweetness of whatever candle Anne had lit to cover the smell of last night’s roast, the faintest trace of dust stirred up by footsteps and excitement. She curled onto her side and stared at the patterns of frost that had crept across the window in the night, delicate veins of white against the pale blue outside.

Somewhere below, the kettle shrieked again. Muffled voices rose and fell—Theo’s gentle baritone, Maggie’s brisk commands, the high-pitched squeal of tissue paper being torn apart. She could picture it without leaving her bed: Ella sitting cross-legged on the carpet in her Christmas pajamas, hair sticking up in wild tufts, her cheeks pink with anticipation as she tugged at the corner of wrapping paper until it gave way. Theo would be watching with that soft smile he tried to hide, pretending to sip his tea while his eyes softened in a way they never did with anyone else. And Maggie—Maggie would be orchestrating, directing, commenting on the mess.

Marci let her head sink deeper into the pillow. The weight of last night still pressed against her chest, her mother’s words echoing in the silence she’d wrapped herself in after climbing the stairs. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t want Ella to think she’d disappeared, but she’d also needed to get away. Her own skin had felt too tight, tattoos prickling under the heat of Maggie’s disapproval.

Now, in the gentle morning light, the walls seemed to whisper all the years she’d spent here—late nights sneaking music into her headphones, the outlines of old posters still faintly visible on the paint, the dent in the skirting board from when Theo had tripped chasing her down the hall. She should feel comforted. Instead, the familiarity felt almost foreign, like she’d returned as a guest rather than a daughter.

She pulled on a jumper, sleeves tugged down past her wrists, though the fabric only scratched against the ink that never quite stopped itching. She could still hear her mother’s voice from the night before: why would you do that to yourself? And then Anne’s, softer, warmer, the kind of maternal tone that soothed instead of stung.

Downstairs, Ella squealed again—something high-pitched, then the unmistakable clatter of a toy being unwrapped and immediately put to use. Marci smiled despite herself, pressing her palm against her chest to steady the uneven rhythm of her heart. That sound, at least, felt like home. She stayed there for a beat, letting the sound unfurl through her ribcage like a small mercy. Ella’s joy was loud enough to drown out the remnants of last night’s heaviness, at least for a moment. Marci breathed into it, let her shoulders fall, and then pushed herself up, drawn toward the noise the way a moth is drawn to light.

The stairwell was steep, the banister polished smooth with years of use. Her fingers trailed along it as she descended, each step releasing a muted groan that made her tread carefully, almost reverently, as though the house itself might shush her for interrupting. The light downstairs was golden and uneven, spilling from lamps left on overnight and the soft blink of fairy lights strung along the tree. Shadows danced in the corners where wrapping paper had already begun to scatter, bright crumples of red and green tossed aside without thought.

The living room opened before her, a familiar stage reset for Christmas morning. The tree still stood proud in its corner, branches bending under the weight of baubles collected over decades—some glossy and new, others chipped and faded, each one a piece of history. The faint crackle of a fire whispered under the chaos, logs collapsing inward as embers pulsed. The room smelled of warmth: pine and burnt sugar, the faint smoke of kindling, and a sweetness she couldn’t quite name—cinnamon, maybe, or cloves lingering from mulled wine the night before.

Ella was at the center of it all, of course. She was a blur of curls and flannel pajamas, legs folded messily beneath her, surrounded by treasures both opened and unopened. A stuffed rabbit dangled from one hand, its ear already pressed to her cheek, while at her feet a plastic toy car had been liberated from its box and immediately enlisted into noisy service across the floorboards. Her cheeks glowed pink, her lips parted in a constant stream of excitement, and her entire being seemed to radiate light.

Theo sat nearby, half reclined on the sofa with the posture of a man both exhausted and utterly content. A mug rested loosely in his hand, steam curling up and catching the morning light, while his eyes followed Ella’s every movement. There was that smile again, the one Marci always noticed—gentle, unguarded, reserved only for his daughter. In its presence, he seemed softer, stripped of the heaviness he carried everywhere else.

Beyond him, Anne moved through the space with quiet efficiency, gathering scraps of paper into neat piles, her hair tucked behind her ears in the same practical way Marci remembered from Christmas mornings during her childhood. She hummed under her breath, something tuneless but soothing, like she was weaving peace into the corners of the room.

And then there was Maggie. Marci’s gaze caught on her mother instantly, though she wished it hadn’t. Maggie stood straighter than anyone else, her arms crossed lightly, her lips pressed into that expression that was neither displeasure nor approval but some sharp line between. She watched Ella with fondness, yes, but it was the curated kind—like a portrait being assessed for flaws rather than a moment simply enjoyed. Her eyes flicked now and then to Theo, softening with pride, before darting elsewhere, calculating, assessing. Marci’s chest tightened with the familiar weight of it, the silent tallying of her mother’s approval and disapproval etched across the air.

She hovered in the doorway for longer than she meant to, unseen or unacknowledged, taking in the tableau like an outsider peering through glass. Her body ached with the duality of it: the fierce warmth of belonging to Ella, to Theo, to this little pocket of joy—and the cold reminder that she would never quite fit into the shape her mother demanded.

Movement pulled her attention sideways, subtle but certain. Against the glow of the Christmas tree, Harry was there. He sat on the rug, long legs folded with an ease that didn’t belong to the pop star on magazine covers but to the boy she remembered, lanky and grounded, the boy from across the way. His head was bent toward Ella, hair falling into his face, and though his hands rested idle on his knees, there was something steady about his presence, a quiet anchor in the swirl of holiday chaos. The firelight gilded the ink on his arms and traced the line of his jaw. He looked as much a part of the room as the tree itself, as though he had always belonged here, in this space, with these people.

Marci’s breath snagged in her chest. She hated how it felt like a betrayal—that small, unbidden warmth she felt seeing him there, settled among her family, part of her morning. It unsettled her more than her mother’s sharp looks ever could.

Still, she stepped down the final stair, the soft fibers of the old carpet pressing against her bare feet, and crossed the threshold into the living room. No one noticed her arrival immediately—not Theo, lost in Ella’s joy; not Maggie, lost in her own sharp watchfulness; not even Harry, bent close enough to hear every squeal Ella let loose.

It was Ella, of course, who looked up first. “An-tee! An-tee! An-tee!” The stuffed rabbit tumbled from her grasp as she scrambled upright, legs wobbling beneath her. Wrapping paper clung to her pajama bottoms, but she paid it no mind as she launched herself across the carpet, curls bouncing wildly.

Marci bent instinctively, arms opening just in time to catch the small body barreling toward her. Ella crashed into her chest with the force of unfiltered joy, little arms wrapping tight around her neck.

“An-tee, ‘wake!” she announced, pulling back just enough to press her forehead clumsily against Marci’s chin.

“I’m awake, sunshine girl,” Marci murmured, brushing a curl from the girl’s face. Ella smelled of warm milk and sleep, of sugar already stolen from the morning’s table, of that baby-sweetness that still clung even as she grew taller by the week.

Across the room, Anne paused in her quiet tidying, her eyes softening as she took in the sight. She leaned against the arm of the sofa, a faint smile curving her mouth as though something about the picture before her was achingly familiar. Harry, seated cross-legged near the tree, shifted almost imperceptibly, his gaze drawn to the pair. The firelight caught on the green flecks in his eyes as he watched—steady, intent, but with a kind of gentleness that betrayed nothing.

“See! See!” Ella wriggled down, tugging insistently at Marci’s hand. “Toy! Car! Vroom vroom!”

She tugged so hard Marci nearly stumbled, laughter slipping out before she could stop it. “Alright, alright, show me.”

Ella plopped down on the floor in a nest of discarded paper, her small fingers grasping the bright plastic car. She pushed it across the wood with both hands, the sound loud and uneven, then looked up with expectant eyes. “Vroom, An-tee! Vroom car!”

Marci knelt beside her, knees pressing into the worn carpet. “That’s a fast one, isn’t it? Vroom.” She nudged the car gently back toward Ella, exaggerating the sound until Ella giggled, high and sharp, clapping her hands.

“Mine car!” Ella declared, hugging it to her chest, then immediately held it out again. “An-tee car.”

“You’re sharing with me?” Marci asked softly.

“Share!” Ella repeated proudly, though the word came out more like shayuh. Her eyes shone as if she’d gifted Marci something priceless.

Marci took the car, turned it once in her hand, then slid it back across the paper-strewn floor. “Thank you, baby girl. That’s very kind.”

Ella squealed again, the sound piercing and sweet, and crawled into Marci’s lap as though she’d always belonged there. Her small body was warm and solid, her hair tickling Marci’s cheek as she leaned back against her chest. “An-tee stay?” she asked suddenly, her voice muffled against Marci’s jumper.

The words caught her off guard. Simple, innocent, but heavy with meaning. Marci pressed a kiss into her curls, breathing her in. “I’m right here.”

Ella tipped her head back, eyes wide, thumb slipping absent-mindedly into her mouth. She gazed at Marci with that unflinching trust only children possessed. “An-tee home,” she murmured around her thumb, half-question, half-truth. Marci’s throat tightened. She smoothed a hand down Ella’s back, the soft rise and fall of her breathing grounding her.

In this small, perfect moment, the chaos of the night before, the sharp edges of her mother’s voice, the ache of being caught between two worlds—all of it blurred at the edges.

For Harry, the moment pressed against something deep in his chest, something he hadn’t expected to stir. He’d seen countless versions of tenderness in his life—on stages, in interviews, in fleeting glances between fans and their friends—but this was different. It wasn’t performative, wasn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but Ella’s. And yet here he was, witness to it, caught in its quiet orbit.

Marci held the little girl like she was built for it, like Ella’s small body had been carved to fit against her heart. The way her hands moved—steady, protective, smoothing curls and tracing the curve of a tiny shoulder—spoke of instinct, not practice. And that unshakable calm in her, the kind that anchored Ella’s whirlwind of excitement, seemed to radiate outward until the whole room softened around her.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone look so completely present. Fame had taught him how rare that was—how much of life slipped through people’s fingers while they were distracted, worried, rushing forward. But Marci wasn’t anywhere else. She wasn’t scrolling through her phone, wasn’t peeking over Ella’s shoulder at who might be watching. She was just there. With her. For her.

And it undid him a little.

He never truly known Marci, not beyond the edges of childhood, when she’d been Theo’s little sister with sharp eyes and sharper silences. Back then, he hadn’t known where to put her—whether to fold her into his own circle or leave her to her own orbit. Now, watching her, he wondered if he’d underestimated her all along.

Something about the picture before him—the ink on her skin against the softness of a child’s cheek, the steady rhythm of her breathing keeping time with Ella’s—struck him as beautiful in a way that wasn’t showy or polished. It was real, raw, unselfconscious. It made his chest ache with a longing he couldn’t immediately name.

The fire popped behind him, pulling him back for a second, but his gaze never wavered. He was aware of his mum, too, of the way her lips had curved into a private smile, her hands pausing in their work as if she didn’t want to break the spell. And he didn’t want to either.

For once, he didn’t feel like the center of the room, didn’t feel the pressure of eyes or expectations. He felt like a boy again, sitting cross-legged at a friend’s house, watching something fragile and important that he wasn’t sure he was meant to see.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.
Until, she looked up at him.

For Marci, it was like being caught mid-thought, mid-breath, as though something private had been exposed. She hadn’t realized he’d been watching—hadn’t expected his gaze to be the one to cut through the soft blur of wrapping paper, firelight, and Ella’s small warmth pressed against her chest.

Her stomach tightened, a flutter that unsettled more than it soothed. His eyes were steady, not invasive, but there was something in them that felt almost too much. Like he’d seen beyond the sharp edges she’d spent years building, into the tender part of her she only ever let Ella and Theo reach.

It made her ache.

For so long, she’d worn her life like armor: tattoos etched across her skin as proof she belonged to herself, a shop built with her own hands, a flat stacked above it where she could close the door and keep the world out. With her mother’s voice forever at her heels—reminding her of everything she wasn’t—Marci had learned to hold her softness close, hidden. Safe.

But now, here it was, laid bare in the open, pressed into the curve of her niece’s small body. And Harry—of all people—was the one to witness it. The boy she’d grown up skirting around, the one who had always belonged so easily everywhere, watching her as if she were the center of something worth holding onto.

She wanted to look away, to bury her face in Ella’s curls and retreat into the safety of the moment. But her eyes lingered, caught by the quiet pull of his. He didn’t look at her like her mother did, with scrutiny, with calculation. He didn’t look at her like Theo did, protective but wary of her breaking. He looked at her like he saw her—this version of her, with ink under her skin and love carved deep into her chest—and wasn’t afraid to hold it.

It was disarming. Dangerous, even.

Her throat tightened again, for a different reason now, and she smoothed a hand down Ella’s back just to keep her fingers busy. She felt the child’s small breath against her collarbone, the easy trust in the way Ella’s thumb stayed tucked in her mouth, her little body folded into Marci’s lap as though no other place in the world existed.

But then, Theo noticed.

It was subtle at first—the way his head lifted slightly from where he’d been watching Ella moments before, his mug of tea paused halfway to his mouth. His gaze swept the room almost unconsciously, and then it landed squarely on Marci, on the way her eyes lingered a little too long on Harry.

He didn’t miss things. He never had when it came to her.

Theo’s mouth flattened, a crease forming between his brows. He leaned back into the sofa, cradling the mug in both hands, as though the warmth of it might temper the protective fire beginning to rise in his chest. His eyes flicked between them—Marci curled on the floor, Ella nestled trustingly in her lap; Harry, cross-legged a few feet away, gaze anchored like he couldn’t help it.

Harry felt the weight of it almost immediately. A shift in the air, a prickle of awareness down the back of his neck. He dragged his gaze from Marci with effort, blinking hard as though to shake himself free. When his eyes found Theo’s, there was no mistaking it: Theo was watching him.

For a moment, neither man moved. Theo’s eyes were steady, sharp in a way that didn’t need words. He didn’t glare—he rarely did—but there was a warning in the weight of his gaze, a reminder that he’d always stood as a buffer between his sister and the world. That he wasn’t about to stop now.

Harry shifted under it, stretching his legs out across the rug as if the casual sprawl could dissolve the pressure. He reached for a stray scrap of wrapping paper, folded it once between his fingers, then let it fall back to the floor. It was a small, pointless movement, but it gave his hands somewhere to go while he endured Theo’s unspoken question: What are you doing?

Between them, Marci bent lower over Ella, smoothing her niece’s hair from her face. She could feel the change in the air, prickling at the edges of her awareness, but she refused to lift her head. Instead, she anchored herself in the solid weight of Ella in her lap, the rhythmic pull of her small breaths, the way her warm body molded so easily to her own.

Ella babbled happily against her, thumb slipping free of her mouth as words tumbled out in fragments. “Car go vroom… an’ bunny… bunny sleepy. Night-night, bunny.” She reached for the stuffed rabbit she’d abandoned earlier, dragging it up by one ear and pressing its face into Marci’s jumper. “Shhh, bunny.” Marci let out a soft hum, rocking slightly where she sat, her hand patting an easy rhythm on Ella’s back. “More car,” Ella announced suddenly, shoving the toy into Marci’s hand. Then, with her other, she tapped Marci’s chest firmly. “An-tee car.”

Obliging, Marci pushed it gently along the carpet, her mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. Ella clapped in delight, the sound bright and piercing, then echoed herself with a triumphant, “Vroom-vroom!” before collapsing against Marci’s shoulder again.

Harry watched the scene with his jaw tight, trying to keep his gaze trained on the child but failing whenever his eyes caught on Marci’s profile—the softness there, the way her mouth curved for Ella in a way it rarely did for anyone else. It was disarming. He could still feel Theo’s scrutiny pressing against the side of his face, but he didn’t look back this time. And Theo shifted, the sofa creaking under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mug cradled loosely in his hands. His eyes flicked from Harry to Marci to Ella, his protective silence louder than any reprimand might have been.

“An-tee… look!” Ella chirped suddenly, lifting the rabbit high in the air as if presenting a prize. “Bunny fly!” She tossed it, giggling when it landed awkwardly in Marci’s lap, then squealed again, “Catch, An-tee!”

Marci dutifully scooped it up, brushing imaginary dust from its fur before handing it back. “All clean,” she whispered, low enough that only Ella could hear. She snuggled it close, thumb returning to her mouth as she sank against Marci once more, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

The room should have been warm with holiday comfort—wrapping paper, firelight, a child’s laughter—but beneath it all, a current ran sharp and unspoken. Theo watching. Harry watching. Marci pretending not to notice.

And Ella, blissfully oblivious, babbling into the quiet: “Bunny sleepy. Bunny nap. Night-night, An-tee.” Her small words carried through the space like a balm, but they did nothing to erase the truth—the kind of truth that couldn’t be spoken out loud, not yet.

Harry rose slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the room. His legs unfurled from the rug, joints protesting faintly as he straightened. He dusted a stray ribbon from his trousers, half a nervous habit, half an excuse not to meet Theo’s eyes again.

“I’ll get more tea,” he murmured to no one in particular, voice quiet enough not to demand an answer. Anne hummed absently in response, still tidying a pile of paper.

Marci didn’t lift her head; Ella’s thumb had found its way back into her mouth, her breath evening out into the soft rhythm of a toddler teetering toward sleep.

But Theo noticed. He always noticed. He set his mug down on the low table with a muted clink and rose, stretching his shoulders as if to shake off stiffness. His eyes followed Harry toward the kitchen door, steady, calculating. Then he pushed himself to follow, footsteps measured but certain.

The kitchen was cooler than the living room, the scent of pine and fire replaced by something sharper—tea leaves, the faint tang of citrus from a cut orange left on the counter, last night’s roast lingering in the air. The kettle sat waiting, its metal body fogged with steam from earlier. Harry moved toward it, movements practiced, like someone who’d done this in this house many times before.

Theo leaned against the doorway for a moment, arms folded loosely across his chest. He watched in silence as Harry poured water into his mug, the liquid swirling dark around the bag. Only when Harry set the kettle back did Theo speak. “You looking for something, Harry?” His voice was low, even, but carried a weight beneath it—a protective edge that sharpened the question.

Harry turned, mug in hand. He managed a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just tea.”

Theo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Mm.” He shifted further into the room, closing the distance until he was opposite Harry, the counter between them. “Looked like more than tea, the way you were sat out there.”

The words landed heavy in the air.

Harry’s jaw tightened; he glanced down at the mug, at the faint curl of steam rising from it. He took a careful sip, buying himself a moment before answering. “Ella’s brilliant,” he said finally. “Easy to get caught up watching her.”

Theo’s mouth flattened, the crease between his brows deepening. “Wasn’t Ella I was seeing you watch.”

The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid. The hum of the refrigerator filled the gap, the faint tick of the old clock above the sink marking each second.

Harry set the mug down on the counter with deliberate calm, his rings clicking softly against the ceramic. He didn’t argue, didn’t deny it—because there was no point. Theo had always been sharp, always seen more than he let on.

For a moment, the kitchen seemed to hold its breath. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, underscored by the faint crackle of the fire through the wall. Harry braced his hands on the edge of the counter, the familiar cool surface grounding him, and let his eyes settle on the swirl of steam curling from his tea.

Theo didn’t move. He stood rooted in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest, his frame blocking the warm light from the living room behind him. He looked every bit the older brother—solid, immovable, the gatekeeper who’d always been there when Marci needed someone to stand between her and the sharp edges of the world.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low but edged with steel, “she’s been through enough. Doesn’t need another person turning her upside down just because they don’t know what they want.”

Harry lifted his eyes then, steady but softened at the edges. He exhaled slowly, fingers drumming once against the counter before stilling. “I’m not here to hurt her, Theo. Never have been.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. He pushed away from the doorway and stepped further into the kitchen, his boots muffled against the old tile floor. “Maybe you believe that,” he said. “But believing it and living it aren’t the same. She’s not—” he paused, searching for the right word, “—she’s not just someone you can come back to when it suits. Not a song you write and move on from. She’s my sister. She’s Ella’s world. She deserves better than… uncertainty.”

Harry felt the weight of Theo’s words as keenly as the weight of the mug in his hand. The steam curled between them, the faint citrus tang from the counter mingling with the earthiness of the tea, but the air was thick, charged with something old and unspoken. He forced himself to meet Theo’s eyes again, though every muscle in his jaw ached with the effort of keeping still.

Theo’s expression was unreadable at first—flat, a mask he’d perfected after years of shouldering responsibility he never asked for. But then his mouth twisted, a line pulling down, and Harry saw it clearly: not anger, but fear dressed up as steel.

“You think I don’t see it,” Theo said, voice quieter now but still carrying the weight of a warning. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “But I’ve had my eyes on her since we were kids. I hear things, Harry. I know the way people talk. I know what they expect from her, what they’ve taken from her. I’ve seen lads play at being interested just long enough to take what they want, and then leave her with the mess. I won’t let that happen again.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Theo’s hand came down flat on the counter, not in violence, but in emphasis. The sound cracked against the quiet kitchen tiles, a punctuation mark. “When she was seventeen,” Theo went on, his eyes darkening with the memory, “some idiot from town thought he could take advantage. Thought because she was sweet, because she said yes to a walk home, he could push her further. I found him the next day by the laundromat. Put him straight through the brickwork before he could open his mouth.” There was no bravado in the words, no smugness. Just fact. A line drawn years ago and never erased. “I’d do it again,” Theo said simply. “In a heartbeat. Because she’s all I’ve got. She’s all Ella’s got. You—” He gestured at Harry with a sharp tilt of his chin. “—you step into her world, and you decide you want to be part of it? That’s not something you can dip in and out of when you’re home between tours. That’s her life. That’s my niece’s life. You walk in and then walk out again, you’ll tear them both apart.”

Harry absorbed the words like blows. His fingers tightened around the mug in his hands until his knuckles ached. The steam curled up into his face as it dampened his lashes, but he didn’t move away. He let the silence stretch, listening to the tick of the kitchen clock, to Ella’s muffled sing-song from the living room—“Bunny fly, An-tee, bunny fly!”—before he finally spoke.

“I get it,” Harry said quietly. His voice was calm, but there was a rasp underneath, born from nights onstage and words swallowed down. “She’s… she’s not someone I’d ever play with, Theo. Not then, not now. I was—” he paused, exhaled through his nose. “I was a kid, and I didn’t know what to do with how much I cared about her. I made a mess of it. That’s on me. But don’t stand there and think I don’t know who she is, or what she deserves. I do.”

Theo tilted his head, watching him closely. He’d known Harry since they were both too young to drink, back when Harry’s world was pubs and football pitches and long nights in garages with guitars. He remembered the way Marci had looked at him back then—bright-eyed, hopeful, as if she could already see something in him the rest of the town hadn’t noticed yet. That memory soured in his mouth, the way warm beer did.

“She’s not the same girl you used to write songs about,” Theo said. His voice had lost none of its edge. “She’s been helping me raise Ella, taking care of her studio down in London, fighting Mum at every turn. She doesn’t need to be another name in a verse, or a story you tell in L.A. when you’re bored.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Harry’s reply came faster this time, almost cutting across him. He set the mug down again, stepping forward just enough to close the distance between them. His green eyes were earnest, open in a way that left little room for pretense. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to realize what I lost when I left.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I wouldn’t hurt her again. I couldn’t.”

Theo’s jaw flexed. He wasn’t a man swayed easily by words; he’d heard promises crumble too many times, watched them dissolve into excuses. “Harry,” he said, voice low, “I watched her pick herself up after that last time. I watched her smile for Ella when she wanted to fall apart. I’ve put lads twice your size against a wall for less than what you’ve already done. Don’t think I won’t do it again, no matter who you are.”

They both let another long, tense beat come between them. The sound of Ella’s voice carried through the wall again—“An-tee, bunny dance again. Hop, hop, hop!”—followed by Marci’s low laugh, soft and unguarded, like a balm. The sound twisted hard in Theo’s chest, because he knew exactly what that laugh had cost her to keep alive. Pride, yes. But fear too—fear that it could all be shattered again.

He shifted, bracing both hands against the counter now, leaning in as though to shorten the space between him and Harry. His jaw worked, teeth clenched, until the words came out like gravel.

“You’re not just some lad sniffing around her, H. If you were, this would be simpler. I’d scare you off, maybe put you in the ground if you didn’t listen.” His eyes narrowed, the fire in them unyielding. “But you—you’re different. You were one of my best mates. I’d have bled for you once. Would’ve died for you.” He shook his head, a sharp exhale. “And now I’m standing here thinking if you hurt her, I’ll have to kill you instead.”

Harry’s breath caught, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He let the words hang there, brutal and unpolished, because he knew Theo wasn’t posturing. Theo never postured.

He pressed on, his voice growing rougher, edged with memory. “You don’t know the half of it. The things I’ve done to keep her safe while you’ve been gone.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing once across the narrow kitchen before turning back. His mouth twisted. “There were blokes—London boys who thought her tattoos meant she was reckless, that owning a shop meant she was fair game. You know what I did? Put Ella with Mum for two days, got on a train, found them. Threatened the hell out of them. Nearly went too far more than once.” His chest heaved. “Would’ve, if she hadn’t stopped me. She knows. She was there when she was seventeen, begging me to let go before I broke some bastard’s skull against the laundromat wall. She knows what I’m capable of.”

Harry felt the weight of it settle between them, sharp as glass. He’d seen Theo protective before—at school, in pubs, outside gigs when someone got too close—but this was something else entirely. This was brotherhood sharpened into weaponry, a loyalty that had hardened into a vow.

Theo’s voice dropped, low and dangerous now. “You walk in here with your big world, your fame, your tours, and you look at her like she’s the only thing you see. And maybe she is. But if you think for a bloody second you can give her less than everything—if you think you can break her again—I’ll ruin you. Not because I hate you. Not because I want to. But because she’s mine to protect. She’s all I’ve got. I’m all she’s got. And I won’t let anyone—anyone—take her peace away.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around them, every word Theo had spoken clinging to the walls like damp. Harry felt it seep into his bones, heavy, unshakable. This wasn’t the protective teasing of an older brother, the kind that came with a laugh and a clap on the shoulder. This was the kind of promise that had been written into Theo’s marrow the day Marci was born, hardened through years of standing between her and the sharpest corners of the world.

Harry’s throat was dry. He wanted to speak, to close the gap with something steady and certain, but for a moment he only stood there, his breath loud in his own ears, the hum of the refrigerator a strange counterpoint to his hammering pulse. He thought of Marci, of the way her eyes had caught his earlier, soft and unguarded with Ella in her arms. He thought of the years he’d been gone, of the silence that had stretched like a canyon between them.

Slowly, he shifted his weight off the counter, setting his mug aside. His rings caught the light, glinting briefly as if mocking the distance between his world and hers. “Theo,” he said, his voice low but firm, “you’re right to protect her. You always have been. But don’t stand there and think I don’t understand what she means. I’ve had… everything, all of it. The world at my feet. And none of it mattered the way she does.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed, skepticism cutting through any softness in Harry’s words. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Words are cheap. You should know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” Harry admitted, without hesitation. “I’ve sung them, written them, sold them. And I know how little they weigh if you don’t back them up. But I’m not standing here to give you a lyric, Theo. I’m telling you—I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence stretched. Theo’s stare was unrelenting, searching Harry’s face for cracks, for weakness, for anything that would prove him a liar. And Harry let him look, let the scrutiny burn.

From the living room, Ella’s voice floated in again, muffled but clear enough: “An-tee, bunny jump high! Jump, jump!” Marci’s laughter followed, rich and low, wrapping around the words like music. The sound of it tore through Harry—sweet and sharp, filling him with something that felt like longing and regret tangled into one.

Theo heard it too. He exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy, resigned. He pressed his palms against the counter, leaning forward, and for a moment Harry thought Theo might lunge.

“You hear that?” Theo asked, his voice low but serrated. He jerked his chin toward the wall that separated them from the living room. Marci’s laugh rippled again, soft and unguarded, followed by Ella’s babbling giggle. “That sound. That’s all that matters to me. That’s what I’ve bled for. That’s what I’ll burn the whole world down to protect.”

Harry stood rooted, the weight of Theo’s stare pinning him where he was. He had no answer that didn’t feel small.

Theo leaned in closer, close enough that Harry could see the sharp lines carved into his face from years of carrying too much, close enough to smell the faint bitterness of tea and the faintest trace of cigarettes clinging to his jacket. His voice dropped further, nearly a growl. “She is my blood, Styles. My baby sister. I raised her when Mum was too busy tearing her down. I carried her home drunk at sixteen when some bloke tried to take her past what she wanted. I’ve sat outside her shop overnight because she called me from London shaking after some bastard followed her home.”

The memories painted themselves sharp behind Theo’s eyes. He was somewhere else for a moment—back in the alley behind the laundromat, fists bloody, Marci’s voice shrill in his ear begging him to stop; back on the late train to London, rage boiling through him as he rehearsed threats he meant every word of. He swallowed hard, dragging himself back into the present.

“You’re not just anyone sniffing around her,” Theo said again, his tone harder now. “You’re my mate. The one I would lay down my life for. And that makes it worse, not better. Because if you break her—if you so much as chip that laugh of hers—I’ll have to do something I can’t take back. To you.”

The words hung between them like a blade, gleaming and final.

Harry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away. He let the silence burn, let Theo’s fury press against him. Then, slowly, he nodded once. “I understand,” he said quietly. His voice was steady, but there was a rasp beneath it, raw with the weight of being seen as both friend and threat.

Theo studied him for a long, punishing beat. Then his mouth twisted, not into a smile but into something darker—grim recognition. “Good,” he said, his tone flat, final. He pushed back from the counter, the movement sharp, his boots heavy against the tile as he turned toward the doorway.

Before he left, he glanced back once over his shoulder. “Don’t make me choose between my sister and my best mate, Harry. Because I swear to God, I won’t hesitate.” And then he was gone, swallowed by the glow of fairy lights and the sound of Ella’s bubbling joy.

Marci felt Ella’s small body grow heavier against her lap, her niece’s thumb tucked firmly in her mouth now, her curls damp against Marci’s collarbone with the heat of play beginning to fade into drowsiness. The morning hum had settled into something quieter—paper crinkling under Anne’s careful hands, the low hiss of the fire, Ella’s soft babble slowing into half-formed words that only Marci seemed to understand.

She was smoothing her hand down Ella’s back when she felt it. The shift.

Theo stepped back into the room, his boots dragging the faintest trace of grit across the old carpet. To anyone else, he looked the same—mug in hand again, shoulders broad, expression neutral. But to Marci, who had spent her whole life watching her brother hold himself together, the difference was clear as a crack in glass. His shoulders were too tight, pulled up near his ears. His jaw was locked, his lips pressed into a line that wasn’t thoughtless but deliberate, controlled.

Her eyes flicked past him, almost on instinct, to the doorway behind him. Harry hadn’t followed. Her chest tightened.

Ella stirred, pressing the stuffed rabbit into her aunt’s chest with a muffled, “Bunny nap, An-tee.” Marci kissed the top of her curls, kept her smile soft for the girl’s sake, but her eyes never left Theo.

He sank onto the sofa, setting his mug down on the table with too much care, like even the weight of ceramic might snap something inside him. Anne and Maggie gave him cursory glances, but didn’t say anything—too preoccupied with folding discarded paper into neat stacks. Marci, though, felt her skin prickle with the tension rolling off him.

“What did you do?” she asked quietly. Her voice was low, careful, threaded under Ella’s humming. Theo didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, the stubble catching against his palm, eyes fixed on the fire as if it could burn away whatever had just been said. “Theo,” Marci pressed, sharper now, though still hushed, mindful of the little girl against her chest. “What did you say to him?”

His eyes finally flicked up to hers, and in them she saw it—the old steel, the protective fire that had driven him all their lives. He didn’t need to answer for her to know, but she wanted to hear it anyway. “Nothing he didn’t need to hear,” Theo muttered, voice low and gravelly.

Her stomach twisted. “Christ, Theo.” She rocked Ella gently as the girl shifted in her lap, the soft squeak of a yawn escaping her lips. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Theo cut in, firm but still quiet, his gaze holding hers. “And I will. If it’s him, if it’s anyone. I’m not letting someone waltz in here, look at you like that, and risk breaking you all over again.”

Marci’s pulse jumped, anger prickling hot at the edges of her skin. She smoothed Ella’s hair down, kissed her crown, and whispered, “Shhh, baby girl,” before she lifted her eyes back to Theo. “You don’t get to make that call for me. Not anymore.”

His expression hardened, his chest rising with a slow, measured breath. “I’m not making a call for you. I’m making sure you’re not left bleeding when Harry walks away. That’s my job, Marci. It’s always been my job.”

Her throat tightened, a mix of fury and something achingly familiar—because she remembered. She remembered standing outside the laundromat at seventeen, her palms raw against his shoulders as she begged him not to kill the boy who’d cornered her. She remembered his eyes, wild and desperate, when he said, I’ll do it for you, don’t stop me. She remembered dragging him back, sobbing, swearing she didn’t need saving like that. And now, here they were again, his protection burning just as hot, but turned against someone who—God help her—had once been theirs.

“You don’t get to threaten him,” she whispered, her voice sharp but contained, wrapped tight to keep Ella safe from its edge. “Not Harry. Not anyone. Not like that. Do you understand me?”

Ella stirred again, letting out a soft hum, thumb still in her mouth. Marci tightened her hold, her whole body angling protectively around her niece even as her eyes blazed at Theo.

Theo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice pitched low so only she could hear. “If he hurts you, Marci, there won’t be a wall strong enough to stop me. I need you to understand that.”

Her heart hammered, fury rising like bile, but she swallowed it down—for Ella. Always for Ella. She rocked her gently, eyes never leaving her brother. “And I need you to understand,” she said, each word slow and deliberate, “that I am not seventeen anymore. I don’t need you throwing yourself into fights for me. I don’t need saving. What I need is for you to trust me to choose who I let close.”

The words settled sharp and final between them. His gaze flickered, his mouth tightening, but he didn’t answer. Not here. Not in front of Ella.

Marci turned her face back down toward her niece, pressing a kiss into her curls, her anger burning silent behind her eyes. She would never raise her voice in front of Ella, never fracture the girl’s little cocoon of safety. But inside, her fury coiled tight, waiting for the moment the child was fully asleep—when she could finally unleash it.

The room was warm, saturated with late-morning light that spilled through the lace curtains. The tree twinkled lazily in the corner, a few of its baubles tilted from Ella’s over-eager hands. Wrapping paper still littered the rug in torn ribbons, the scent of pine and smoke blending with something sweeter drifting from the kitchen—mince pies Anne had set out earlier, the faint tang of oranges Maggie had insisted on studding with cloves. It should have been idyllic, the kind of Christmas morning captured in glossy photographs. But beneath it ran a current so sharp Marci could almost taste it in the back of her throat.

Ella shifted in her lap, letting out a tiny hum, her bunny clutched to her chest. Marci smoothed her hand down the child’s back, forcing her breath steady, eyes on the soft crown of curls even as she felt the room bristle around her.

The sound of footsteps broke through the hush—measured, deliberate, the creak of the floorboards at the kitchen threshold. Harry stepped back into the room, mug in hand, his shoulders rolled back as though bracing against an invisible weight. He looked the same to anyone else—tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, curls still slightly damp from the morning shower, rings glinting in the shifting light. But Marci, who had known him in fragments since childhood, caught it at once: the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze skimmed the room before settling, carefully, nowhere in particular.

Anne looked up first. She offered him a small, easy smile, as if to stitch the room back together with warmth. “Tea all sorted?” she asked, her voice light, maternal, filling the cracks no one else would acknowledge.

He nodded, lifting the mug slightly in answer. “Yeah.” His voice was steady, but quieter than before.

Marci, despite the coil of anger thrumming in her chest, felt her mouth soften almost against her will. Ella’s small weight in her lap had steadied her, muted the sharp edges of her thoughts for the moment, and when her gaze flicked toward Harry, she caught him in the glow of the fairy lights, his curls haloed in gold. Something in her chest loosened, just slightly, enough for the corner of her mouth to tilt upward—a soft smile, small but real.

And he saw it. He felt it like a spark, sharp and unexpected. For a heartbeat he wanted to return it, to let her know that despite the words traded in the kitchen, despite the weight pressing down on him, he was still here—for her, for this. But the memory of Theo’s voice came crashing back, low and dangerous: If you break her again, I’ll ruin you.

So he dropped his gaze instead, pretending to fuss with his mug, the steam clouding the air between them. His lashes lowered, shutting her out, as if looking back would cost him something he couldn’t afford.

She felt the shift instantly. Her faint smile faltered, curling back inward. She pressed another kiss to Ella’s curls, hiding her face there, her fingers absently tracing the lines of the child’s small back.

Across the room, Theo’s jaw flexed as though he’d seen the whole exchange without needing to look directly. Maggie crossed one leg over the other, her lips pursed in silent judgment, and Anne’s soft hum picked up again, trying to smooth the jagged silence that had crept back in.

Ella stirred faintly, her small body shifting as though she could feel the change in her aunt’s heartbeat. The rabbit slipped a little in her grip, nearly tumbling from her lap before Marci steadied it. That was the moment—the reminder of how small, how fragile Ella still was—that broke through Marci’s storm just enough. She let out a breath, long and low, and shifted her arms beneath the girl’s weight.

Slowly, carefully, she pressed her free hand against the floor and rose to her feet. Every movement was deliberate, her body curved protectively around Ella’s small frame so as not to jostle her. The child’s legs dangled limp over Marci’s arm, bunny pressed tight to her chest, lashes resting in soft crescents against flushed cheeks. Her thumb had slipped free, leaving a trace of damp against her chin, but her breathing stayed steady, unbothered.

The room seemed to pause as Marci stood. Anne glanced up, hands stilling on the stack of wrapping paper in her lap. Maggie’s sharp eyes followed her, lips pursed in faint disapproval as though the simple act of carrying her niece upstairs was somehow worth commentary. Theo’s gaze flicked quickly toward her, the crease between his brows deepening, and Harry’s head turned just slightly, his eyes following the shift of movement though he tried not to linger.

Marci ignored them all and adjusted Ella against her shoulder, tucking her niece’s curls beneath her chin. The child gave a soft sigh in her sleep, her tiny fingers clutching Marci’s jumper as though sensing she was being moved. “Shh, love,” Marci whispered, more breath than voice, pressing her lips to the crown of Ella’s head. Her steps toward the hallway were slow and careful, the old floorboards groaning faintly under her bare feet. She could feel every gaze on her as she walked—Anne’s watchful and warm, Maggie’s sharp and silent, Theo’s heavy with guilt and something unreadable, Harry’s weighted with something else entirely. But she didn’t look back.

At the foot of the stairs, she paused, shifting Ella higher against her chest. The rabbit dangled by its ear from Ella’s loose grasp, its soft body brushing against Marci’s arm as she reached out to steady herself on the banister. The fairy lights from the tree flickered at her back, reflecting faintly in the polished wood, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. Step by step, she climbed, the sound of the family below fading into a dull murmur behind her. Each groan of the stair seemed louder in the hush, each creak marking her slow retreat from the room that felt suffocating and sharp. She moved with a steadiness born of practice, the same way she had carried Ella up countless times before after long afternoons at the shop, after family dinners when the child had fallen asleep curled against her.

At the top of the landing, she nudged the bedroom door open with her shoulder, the familiar scent of lavender washing over her. The small bed was already turned down, the soft quilt patterned with stars waiting. Marci lowered Ella carefully onto the mattress, easing the bunny from her grasp just long enough to tuck it beneath her arm again. The child stirred once, thumb finding her mouth automatically, before sinking deeper into sleep.

Marci lingered a moment longer, her hand brushing over the quilt to smooth a wrinkle that didn’t matter, watching Ella’s tiny fingers curl around the ear of her rabbit. The steady rise and fall of the child’s chest was a small comfort, a reminder that at least one thing in this house was pure and untouched by the tangle of adult tempers. She let her hand slip away, easing back with practiced grace so the mattress barely shifted.

With a care that came from years of loving this little girl like her own, Marci leaned down and pressed one last kiss into the crown of Ella’s curls. “Sleep, baby girl,” she murmured, her lips brushing warm against the soft hair. Ella sighed again, burrowing deeper into her pillow, and Marci felt her heart tighten with both tenderness and a sharp edge of protective anger.

Straightening to her full height, she lingered by the bed, watching until she was sure Ella had melted into deeper slumber. The child’s small breaths evened out, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm so steady it almost soothed Marci’s racing pulse. Almost.

But not quite.

The moment Marci stepped back into the hallway, the hush of Ella’s room dissolved, replaced by the muffled tones from the sitting room below—Anne’s soft, deliberate murmur, the occasional scrape of china on saucers, the faint hitch in Harry’s voice as he answered her. And beneath it all, that thick, electric silence still hummed. The house itself seemed to hold its breath.

Marci pulled the door nearly closed, leaving it ajar just enough for the hallway light to spill across Ella’s quilt. She rested her hand for a heartbeat on the wood, grounding herself, then slipped into her own room.

Her jacket was draped over the back of a chair. She slid one arm into a sleeve, then the other, tugging it snug around her shoulders. The act felt like armor—something to hold her together as much as it was protection against the chill that lingered in the old house. She paused at the mirror only long enough to scrape her hair into a loose and low knot. The skin beneath her eyes still held the bruised tint of a short night; she didn’t bother to cover it. Jacket on, boots pulled over bare feet, she padded back down the hall and eased the door near-shut behind her. Ella’s soft breathing floated through the narrow gap like proof of goodness.

The landing was colder than the bedroom. Downstairs, the murmur swelled again—the scrape of a chair, the polite clink of china. She took the stairs with the learned care of someone who knew which step complained loudest, shoulders squared, the knot of fury in her chest honed to something colder, cleaner.

At the bottom, she crossed the living room without looking at anyone. Maggie’s gaze snagged against her like a hook; Anne’s softened, wordless in its worry. Theo’s hand hovered over his mug, stilled. Harry’s eyes flicked up and then away. The fairy lights blinked benignly on, oblivious.

“I’m stepping out,” she said to the room at large, voice low and even.

“Take a scarf,” Anne called after her, already half-rising.

“I’m fine,” Marci replied, not unkindly. She wasn’t. But she didn’t want to be tended. The back door stuck on the swell in the frame; she forced it open with a practiced shove and stepped into the cold.

Morning had dragged its pale light over the small garden—grass stiff with frost, a birdbath glazed in thin ice, the fence a dark sawtooth against the washed-out sky. Her breath bloomed in the air. Somewhere down the street a dog barked; somewhere closer, a neighbour’s radio whispered an old Christmas song through thin walls.

She sank onto the low step, palms braced against the rough concrete, shoulders hiked against the bite. The cold was good—honest, bracing. It made the anger inside her feel less like a wildfire and more like a blade she could hold by the handle.

The door clicked again behind her. For a second she thought it would be Anne with a scarf anyway, or Theo with another decree. It was Harry.

He didn’t speak at first. He let the door settle quietly back into its frame and stood a respectful distance away, hands in the pockets of his jumper, breath huffing in small clouds. The tattoos at his wrist were startlingly dark against winter-pale skin; his rings flashed when he flexed his fingers, restless.

“If you’ve come to check I haven’t frozen to the step,” she said eventually, eyes on the frosted grass, “you can report back that I’m stubbornly alive.”

He walked slowly closer to her, even though she wasn’t looking at him, and she could feel his warmth suddenly next to her. “Didn’t think otherwise.” His voice was softer outside, stripped of the kitchen’s hum.

They stayed like that for a moment as robin flicked across the fence and landed, head cocked, as if to judge them.

“What did he say?” she asked, not looking up.

Harry was quiet long enough that she thought he might pretend not to understand. Then, “What you think he did.”

A humorless breath left her, something that might’ve been a laugh if it had softer edges. “Threats, then.”

“He’s scared,” Harry said. “And he’s… Theo.”

“That’s not an excuse.” She sighed and kept looking at the frostbitten grass ahead of them. “He thinks I break like glass. I don’t.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She turned finally, pinning him with a look that wasn’t cruel but refused to be gentle. “Because you left once and I survived that too. I learned how to stand up straight in rooms where people were waiting to knock me down. I’ve held Ella through night terrors and stood in my shop doorway at 2AM telling a man twice my size he wasn’t coming inside. I am not—” her breath smoked in the air, “—a song you can set down and pick up when it suits.”

He flinched, not dramatically, but like she’d found a bruise he already knew he had. “I know,” he said again, steadier. “And I’m sorry for the ways I made you doubt that you’d ever be anything but a whole person on your own. That’s on me.”

Silence settled. Somewhere a car door slammed; a gull knifed the milky sky with a raw caw.

“I don’t want him fighting my fights,” she said at last, voice lower. “And I don’t want you pulling your gaze off me because he told you to either. I saw you drop it, you know. Like your eyes were hot to the touch.”

A flush climbed his throat. He huffed a rueful sound. “Didn’t mean to make you think I was… ashamed.”

“What did you mean to make me think?” She didn’t say it unkindly. She wanted him to say the thing he was clearly holding behind his teeth.

He let a hand leave his pocket, dragged his knuckles across his mouth. When he spoke, it came out without decoration. “That I’m here. Not for the morning. Not for a nostalgic walk down the lane. I’m here because I’ve thought about you for years and I’m tired of pretending it’s an old ache. But I also know I don’t get to arrive with a suitcase of apologies and ask you to make space.”

Her fingers tightened around the mug, the heat now bearable. “You don’t,” she agreed. “You also don’t get to be scared of Theo and call it respect.”

“Fair.” He blew out a breath, a white ribbon in the air. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t tell him I’d back away. I told him I wouldn’t hurt you. Difference between cowardice and care. I’m aiming for the second.”

“Words are cheap,” she said, echoing Theo without meaning to. It sat bitter on her tongue. “But I heard you.”

He shifted, boots crunching on frost. “Then let me do something unfancy. Like… take the bin bags out without being asked. Wash up. Be there when Ella wakes up and wants to show someone the same toy for the tenth time. Walk you to the shop later if you need to fetch anything. Not grand gestures. Just… presence.”

That landed somewhere tender she’d been bracing against. She kept her face turned slightly away, watched her breath dissolve. “You think I’m impressed by washing up?”

“I think you’re impressed by not being managed.”

That pulled a real huff of breath from her, the corner of her mouth threatening a smile she tamped down. “Clever.”

“Occasionally,” he said, and didn’t push his luck by stepping closer.

Behind them, a faint scuff against the door. Marci didn’t turn; she could tell by the gravity of the air who it was.

“Do you need something, Theo?” she called without raising her voice.

The door opened a fraction. Theo’s silhouette filled the gap, shoulder to jamb, head low. His voice was pitched careful. “Anne’s plating bacon. She asked me to get you. I—” His silhouette lingered in the crack, the cold air framing him sharper than the glow spilling from inside. His eyes flicked once more toward Harry, a cut-glass warning without words, before settling back on Marci.

“Anne’s plating bacon,” he repeated, voice gentler this time. “She asked me to get you.”

Marci straightened, the frost biting her palms where they pressed against the wooden banister. She didn’t look at Harry yet; she couldn’t, not with Theo measuring every breath between them. “I’ll be in,” she said, even, her tone calm enough to deny him more reason to stay.

Theo’s jaw worked, like he wanted to push, but he only gave a small nod and eased the door closed again, the latch catching soft as a sigh.

Silence fell thicker for his absence. Marci let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders softening just a fraction.

Harry shifted, his boots scraping against grit. His hands were still in his pockets, but his gaze wasn’t evasive this time—it was fixed on her, steady despite the faint flush still riding his neck. “Didn’t mean to make things harder.”

“You didn’t.” She finally turned to look at him, the faintest smirk tugging the edge of her mouth despite the storm still low in her chest. “You just have a talent for standing in places you’re not supposed to.”

His lips curved, rueful and quiet. “Story of my life.”

Marci tilted her head, studying him, the frost clinging to her lashes making the moment feel more fragile than she liked. “Then you’d better learn how to stay put. Because I don’t have the patience for someone who runs at the first shadow.”

“I told you,” he said, voice low but sure, “I’m not here for shadows. I’m here for you.”

Her heart gave a stubborn, traitorous kick. She wrapped her arms around herself, partly against the cold, partly to keep from reaching across the space between them. “Then come inside,” she said finally, her voice steady but her pulse anything but. “You said you weren’t after grand gestures. Well, start small. Sit at the table. Eat bacon. Deal with my brother’s glare without folding.”

Harry’s smile deepened, something warm threading through the frost of the morning. He nodded once. “Fair enough.”

And for the first time since she’d walked out into the cold, Marci let him fall in step behind her, the sound of his boots following hers toward the glow of the house.