Page 99 of Power Play
“I’m not asking you to change,” he says, quiet but firm. “I’m not trying to move in and take over your life. I just want to build something that’sours.Not yours. Not mine. Ours. Somewhere we can both be ourselves.”
I let the words sit. They sound nice. Safe. True. But still, something nags.
“I asked you why you couldn’t move in with me,” I say. “And you dodged it. Like I’d asked you to give up a limb.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I didn’t handle that well.”
“Why did it freak you out?”
He goes quiet for a long beat.
“Because your place feels like your sanctuary. It’s got rules and vibes and candles that cost more than my trainers. And mine’s... well, it’s rough around the edges, but it’s the first place that felt like home since I left my mum’s. It’s messy, yeah, but it’smine.And the thought of not coming back to it kind of rattled me.”
I soften. “So you get it.”
“Course I do.” His voice is rougher now. “I get not wanting to give up space that feels safe. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a prat.”
“You didn’t. Not now.”
Silence stretches for a second, then he asks, “Do you want me to come over?”
I do. More than I want to admit. But I shake my head.
“Not yet. I think I need to sit with this. But thank you for listening. For not bulldozing me with whatyouwant.”
“You never have to thank me for that,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Sophie, I love you. That means making space for your fears too.”
I press a hand to my chest. “I love you, too.”
Then, quieter I say, “Let’s find somewhere new. Together. Not your place. Not mine. Something else. Something that starts from scratch.”
He exhales, and it sounds like relief. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Good.” I smile into the phone. “And if you leave your socks on the floor in the new place, I will throw them out the window.”
“Babe, that’s fair.”
We hang up with soft goodnights and a sense of something clicking into place.
Not a final answer. But a first step.
And maybe, that’s all love really is; choosing each other, one small, honest step at a time.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
Estate agents are full of shit.
I know that the second we walk into the third ‘bright and airy’ flat of the morning and get slapped in the face by the stench of old carpet and fried onions. The ceilings are low, the windows foggy, and the radiator in the living room wheezes as if it’s got a smoking habit.
Sophie looks at me with one arched brow and that dry, amused smirk that saysyou dragged me out of bed for this?
I shrug. “At least it’s got character.”
“It’s gotmildew,Murphy.”
“Characterandmildew,” I say, offering my hand as though I’m presenting her a kingdom. She smacks it away and steps gingerly over a suspicious dark patch on the floor.
