And so many more.
It was like seeing her life laid out in pieces–simple and honest and completely unguarded. I stepped closer before I even realised, I had.
“You’ve… lived,” I murmured, tracing each photograph with my eyes. “These are incredible.”
She stood beside me now, closer than before. “Just moments that matter.”
Important moments, I wanted to say but the words stuck somewhere in my throat, because every photo felt like a softness, she didn’t always let people see. The kind of softness you protected. I looked at one picture, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a tired smile, her hand resting on Brianna’s shoulder. Her mother.
“You look like her,” I said quietly.
Brianna exhaled, not quite a smile, not quite sadness. “She loved taking pictures. Said they made time feel less slippery.”
I nodded, because suddenly the silence felt sacred.
I followed her into the living room, my steps slow. Warm lamplight poured over the cosy living room, making the tartan blankets and soft pillows look impossibly inviting. A small Christmas tree twinkled in one corner, decorated with mismatched ornaments that could only belong to a life lived honestly, not curated. Candles flickered on the coffee table beside two half-finished recipe books and a plate of gingerbread-shaped coasters. The kitchen glowed warmly, ivy trailing down shelves, cookbooks stacked near a pale-yellow kettle.
“You’ve built a home here,” I said. “Piece by piece.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I tried.”
There was something in her voice–something fragile–that made me want to step closer, to understand more. This made me realise I had to make sure she didn’t lose this place.
Instead, I cleared my throat gently. “It’s lovely.”
She smiled, soft and real, and moved to the tiny kitchen.
“Hot chocolate? I have whisky too”
I felt a laugh slip out, quiet, warm. “Sounds great.”
As she filled a sauce pan up with milk, ready to heat, I leaned against the doorway, taking her in. The way the candlelight warmed her hair. The way she hummed under her breath as she reached for mugs. The natural ease she carried in a space that held so much of her history.
“Brianna?” I said before I could second-guess myself.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
I swallowed, because for once, honesty felt easy.
“I’m really glad you invited me up.”
Something tender flickered in her eyes. Something that tightened my chest in the gentlest, most dangerous way.
“You’re eh, welcome,” she said quietly.
And for a moment, with the snow falling softly outside and the warmth of her flat wrapping around us like a blanket, I realised I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said quietly, leaning a shoulder against the doorway as she worked at the stove. “I could see how uncomfortable those women were making you.”
Brianna let out a breath that turned into a soft laugh as she poured the steaming milk from the saucepan into two mismatched mugs. The scent of rich cocoa bloomed instantly, mixing with the candlelight and the faint pine of her Christmas tree.
“They’re harmless,” she said, shaking her head with a small smile as she spooned in the cocoa powder. “Honestly, if it weren’t me, they’d be gossiping about some other poor old sod.”
“Old gossip’s I take it?” I raised an eyebrow. “I know some like that back home.”
She shot me a look over her shoulder, playful and sharp. “Let's just say, if you want to know something about someone, they will tell you.”
She uncorked a tiny bottle of whisky and poured a measured splash into each mug, swirling the cocoa until it turned glossy and dark. Then she carried them over to the coffee table, moving around the small room with the practiced grace of someone who fit perfectly inside her own space.
