He hooks his arm through Matilda’s again and leads the way, pride straightening his spine. Watching them together — his fragile strength and her quiet warmth — does something to me I can’t explain.
At the table, I spot the name cards:Henry Chase,Matilda Green,James Chase.She must have called ahead to make sure he’d be beside me. My throat tightens again.
We sit. The hum of the room fills the gaps where my words should be. Normally, I thrive at events like this — confident, untouchable. But tonight, with both of them beside me, I feel strangely small. Not in a bad way. Just… human.
Dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter. Matilda charms everyone at the table — she always does. I catch myself just watching her, completely useless at hiding how she affects me. When she smiles, something heavy lifts off my shoulders.
I want to tell her everything. How grateful I am. How much she’s changed me. How much I—
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
She notices me staring. “Are you nervous?” she asks softly.
“Yeah… a bit.” I rub my hands down my thighs, realising they’re damp with sweat. God, I’m pathetic.
She reaches over and covers my hand with hers. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. And if the judges are stupid and you don’t win, I’m still incredibly proud.”
“Really?” I ask, too quickly.
“Of course. Just being nominated is huge. You do amazing work, Henry. You should be proud of what you’ve achieved.”
Her hand squeezes mine gently. “Your mum would be proud too.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I swallow around the lump forming in my throat and look away, pretending to study the stage lights so she won’t see my eyes glossing over.
I hold her hand tighter, selfishly, grounding myself in her touch.
Then the microphone cracks to life, and the ceremony begins.
Dad pats my shoulder. “Here we go, son.”
I think about letting go of Matilda’s hand, but her grip tightens. So I don’t. I hold on — too long, probably — but I need it.
The presenter’s voice echoes through the hall, warm and theatrical. The screen behind him fills with images of architecture, innovation, design. Then my building —Fenbank House— flashes up, and my chest expands with pride.
As the speech goes on, Dad leans toward me. “Which award are you up for again?”
“RIBA Emerging Architect of the Year,” I whisper.
His eyes glisten. “I’m so proud of you, son.”
“I haven’t won anything yet.”
“You’ve already won, Henry. Recognition like this doesn’t come easy.”
I look away before I embarrass myself by tearing up.
“Did I hear you right?” Matilda whispers. “Emerging Architect of the Year?”
I grin. “Did I not tell you?”
“No, you bloody didn’t. Henry, that’shuge!”
“Yeah, well, no pressure,” I mutter, laughing softly. “I’m also up for the Stephen Lawrence Award — probably just an honourable mention.”
She turns toward me, smiling like I’ve just invented light itself.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
