Page 145 of In at the Deep End

He laughed. “Jigsaw was a character, wasn’t he?”

“So where now?” Matt replaced his helmet, then put on his gloves.

“West Wight.” Owen gestured to the town of Newport. “Which is a world away from this.”

The ride from Carisbrooke to Chale felt different.

Perhaps it was because Matt no longer clung quite so tightly every time they approached a bend. His movements had become instinctive, his body leaning with the bike instead of against it. Or perhaps it was the way Matt’s hands had migrated from Owen’s hips to his waist without either of them mentioning it.

Whatever the reason, Owen found himself smiling.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Matt observed over the intercom.

“I’m driving.”

“Liar.”

Owen chuckled. “Okay, I’m concentrating.”

“You’re smiling.”

“You can hear smiling now?”

“I can hear yours.”

Owen laughed outright. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I make no promises.”

The conversation faded as another series of winding roads carried them through sleepy villages and rolling countryside. Matt’s grip tightened as Owen accelerated out of one bend, then relaxed again.

Earlier, every bend had made him tense. Now his movements matched the bike as though he’d been riding pillion for years.

It felt natural, no hesitation anymore, no uncertainty, just quiet trust. At some point during the ride, Matt had stopped holding on because he was nervous.

Now he held on because that was where his hands wanted to be.

Owen wasn’t sure why that thought warmed him quite so much.

Matt had reacted to the castle with the enthusiasm of an excited schoolboy, reading every information board, asking questions that made Owen stop and think.

Owen had visited Carisbrooke before, but somehow, seeing it through Matt’s eyes had made it feel new again. He found himself remembering details he’d long forgotten simply because Matt wanted to know them. Stopping longer than usual because Matt had spotted something Owen had always walked past. Laughing when Matt declared Charles I had displayed ‘remarkably poor decision-making skills’ when he’d regularly eaten twenty-course meals and had grown too fat to escape through the bars.

I was right to bring him.

The thought arrived so quietly it barely registered.

He’d wanted Matt to have a break from the dissertation, to stop thinking for a while.

Owen realised he’d stopped thinking too.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he wasn’t comparing today with visits he’d made before. He wasn’t remembering where Ben had stood, or which cake they’d favoured in the tearoom.

Today wasn’t trying to recreate anything.

It was simply… today.

He pictured Matt standing in Osborne House, probably armed with a dozen questions.