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Outside, the air was sharper, the distant hum of people making their way down to the harbour for the annual event.

‘Thomas.’ She shivered.

He turned. ‘Now I know I’m in trouble.’ He smirked and pressed his car key fob.

Rita kept her voice even. ‘Just… don’t blur lines, yeah?’

He frowned. ‘What lines?’

‘Chloe works for us.’

A half-smile. ‘Ah right.’

Rita hesitated, watching him for a beat longer than she meant to. Something about him felt… off. ‘Are you alright, darling?’ she asked, gently.

He nodded too quickly. ‘Yeah, course.’

‘You know you can talk to me about anything.’

‘Mum! I’m fine.’

‘OK, OK, and as for Chloe,’ Rita added. ‘It’s just, she’s already proving to be a shining star with the twins and well it would be easier without any added complications, you know.’ She paused. ‘I hear Poppy’s living down here now.’

Thom’s expression shifted, just slightly. ‘Yeah.’

‘I take it you knew.’

‘Yeah,’ he repeated. ‘She’s… with someone.’

‘A doctor, I hear.’ Rita cringed inwardly at her revelation.

Thom gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, really. I’ve got no chance then, have I.’

‘That’s not how it works,’ Rita replied, a little too firmly. ‘Love or life, it’s not a competition of worth.’ Rita watched him properly now. ‘You’re alright about that, are you?’

Thom let out a breath, something caught between a laugh and nothing at all. ‘Got to be, haven’t I?’

The Porsche shot gravel as he pulled away. Rita watched him go, that familiar maternal tightness in her chest telling her he wasn’t alright at all.

Fireworks night was in full swing down at the harbour. Local shop owners and residents had come out in force, the streets already thick with chatter and laughter, a rising babble of excitement building as they waited for the main display, still thirty minutes away.

Strings of lights swung and bobbed in the breeze, casting warm pools of colour over the quayside. Out at sea, the occasional crack and thud of early fireworks broke the surface of noise, followed by scattered cheers drifting back on the wind.

The air was rich with the smell of barbecue smoke, salt and grilled meat, the scents weaving together as people queued at stalls and balanced paper plates of food. Music spilled from the pub and along the harbour wall, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses, all of it wrapped in the sharp, clean edge of a crisp November night.

Pete the Pilchard stood behind the makeshift bar that he had set up outside the front of the pub, his mutton-chop sideburns as impressive as ever, pulling pints from a keg and ladling out his infamous rum punch.

‘Drink and a burger. Tenner donation!’ he called cheerfully. It was his usual pitch: enough to cover costs, with the rest going to the RNLI.

Jago handed over a twenty-pound note and passed Rita a cup of the potent liquid. She took it, their hands brushing, and for a moment the noise of the harbour seemed to drop away. ‘Feels strange, doesn’t it? Being out on our own, like proper grown-ups.’

Jago smiled, reaching down to kiss her, brief but warm. ‘We’re allowed.’

Before she could reply, a voice cut through. ‘Well, if it isn’t Cornwall’s very own queen of kale and calm.’

She turned, surprised. ‘Max. Er… this is Jago.’

‘Her fiancé,’ Jago cut in swiftly.