“He’s staying with someone.”
Sophie goes still.
Then one eyebrow lifts.
“With someone.”
“Yes.”
She says nothing for a second, then turns and walks into the kitchen.
I follow because I know that silence.
It means interrogation with tea.
The kettle goes on. Mugs come out. She turns.
“Who is someone?”
I sit down.
“Tea first.”
“Name first.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck.
“Mark.”
Sophie pauses.
“Mark,” she repeats. “Is that a friend?”
“No.”
“A colleague?”
“No.”
“Have I heard you mention him before?”
“No.”
She leans back against the counter. “Tea can wait. Start talking.”
So I do.
Not all of it.
Not the parts that still feel too warm under my skin. Not the way his mouth had felt against mine in thehallway that morning. Not the way his hands had settled at my waist like they had been designed specifically to hold me steady while every sensible instinct in me made a break for the nearest exit.
But enough.
The pub.
The conversation.
Whitstable.
