“You’ve really thought this through.”
“I had a month,” I say softly.
A month of knowing. A month of planning. A month of not telling you.
His fingers tighten around mine again.
“And where exactly are you planning to do all this?”
I hesitate.
Because this is the point in the conversation I was hoping might somehow evaporate.
Mark notices immediately.
His eyes narrow.
“Philip.”
I look at the ceiling.
“Temporarily unresolved.”
“Philip.”
I sigh.
“My house is rented out and laws forbid me to kick the tenants out. So, I’m staying in an Airbnb.”
Mark’s nose wrinkles immediately.
I turn my head.
“It’s in Bermondsey,” I say defensively. “So not a tragic one.”
His mouth twitches.
“That is not the point.”
“I know, but it sounded less pathetic with location context.”
Mark gives me a look that says he is allowing exactly one sentence of nonsense before returning to the issue.
I exhale.
“Sophie offered, obviously. Repeatedly. But I cannot live in a house where Noah is awake at six and Jamie asks forensic questions before coffee. I love them very much in carefully managed doses.”
That gets the faintest laugh out of him.
“So yes. Airbnb. While I flat hunt.”
Mark studies me for a second.
Then says, very simply, “Stay with me.”
I blink.
“At your house.”
