Hey love, Ive got a story to share imagine its happening right here in a little flat in Manchester, the kind with peeling floral wallpaper and that lingering smell of an old iron and cats drifting up from the hallway. Emma was perched on the edge of her narrow bed, untangling her shoes because her feet were aching after a brutal shift at the vet clinic. That morning theyd just brought in a husky with a nasty knife wound. The lads from the neighbouring village said, He got into a scrap near that abandoned cottage. Emma didnt ask any more the priority was saving the dog.
She slipped off her coat, hung it on a nail, pulled back a curtain to reveal her tiny kitchen nook: a kettle, a jar of buckwheat, and a cracked mug. Beyond the wall, the tenants in flat three were still swearing. Emma had learned to tune them out ages ago. She turned on the radio Classic FM brewed a tea, and settled on the windowsill, staring at the yellow pane opposite. Just an ordinary evening, one of many, like the hundreds before it.
The room reeked of dust, old iron and catcuddles. Classic FM played a love song from the late80s. The buckwheat porridge in her mug cooled. Emma watched the opposite window where a lone figure seemed to have just come home: stripped his coat, hung it up, and sat down at a table. He looked just as solitary as she felt, though probably not in a council flat.
She traced the cold glass with a fingertip and smiled faintly. The day had been odd first the wounded dog, then him.
He showed up around lunch, cradling the bloodsplattered husky, looking oddly composed. No hat, a light coat, glasses fogged. The waiting room was a crowd of nervous and irate people, but Emmas eyes locked on him, not because he was handsome but because he stayed calm. He walked in like he knew exactly what to do.
Do you have a surgeon on duty? he asked, looking straight at her. Shes still alive.
Emma just nodded and led him to the operating theatre. Gloves, scalpel, blood. He held the dogs ears while she stitched the wound. He didnt flinch once.
After the surgery he followed her out into the hallway. The pup lay under an IV. James reached out.
James, he said.
Emma, she replied.
You saved her.
We did, she corrected, a small smile tugging at her lips.
He gave a slight grin, his gaze softening.
You didnt shake, he noted.
Its just a habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the door, about to say more, then handed her a slip of paper with a number just in case. Emma slipped it into her pocket and forgot about it till evening.
Later she pulled the scrap of paper from beside her keys. The number was neatly penned in blue ink: James.
She hadnt realised it was the start of something bigger, but a warm feeling blossomed inside, like hot tea turning into spring sunshine.
She never wrote down the number properly; it lay on the table edge, almost lost among other notes while she washed dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strange, if I called No, he wouldnt. Guys like that never call.
The next morning she was ten minutes late for work. In the reception a cranky older lady with a pug and a hoodieclad kid were already waiting. Usual shift: injuries, fleas, bites, rashes. By lunch her back still ached.
At three oclock he returned, this time without the dog, two coffees in hand and a bag of pastries. He stood at the door, a shy grin on his face.
May I? he asked.
Emma wiped her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
Youve got no excuse now, he said.
I do. Thanks for saying hi and asking me out after work, if youre not too tired.
He didnt push, didnt rush. He just asked and left the choice to her. It made things feel a little lighter.
She agreed. First just to the bus stop, then they walked through the park. He walked beside her, talking about how hed found the husky, why he chose their clinic, where he lived. He spoke plainly, no fluff. His coat was clearly pricey, and the watch on his wrist wasnt cheap.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
Im in IT, he said, grinning. Honestly, its boring codes, systems, projectors, the whole tech circus. I wish I had something real like you. Something messy, alive.
Emma laughed the first genuine laugh of the day.
He didnt kiss her goodbye, just took her hand gently and gave a light squeeze.
Two days later he came back with a leash the dog had been discharged. That was the spark.
For the next two weeks he was there almost daily. Sometimes coffee, sometimes picking up the dog, sometimes just saying, I missed you. Emma kept her distance at first, laughing too loudly, answering too formally. Then she let her guard down. He became part of her routine, a warm extra shift, not exhausting but comforting like a blanket on a cold night.
The flat got cleaner, she started having breakfast again. Even the older lady upstairs once said, Emma, you look fresher, with a smile that wasnt poisonous.
One evening, as Emma was about to head home, he waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos and a contented grin.
Ive stolen you, for good, he said.
Im tired, she replied.
Even more so, he added.
He led her to his car a subtle citrus and cinnamon scent filled the interior.
Where are we going? she asked.
Do you like stars? he said.
Where?
Just a clear night sky, no streetlights, no city smog.
They drove about forty minutes out of town. The road was black as ink, headlights carving the darkness. A old fire tower stood in a field. He was the first to climb, then helped her up.
At the top it was chilly and quiet. Above their heads stretched the Milky Way, a few planes, slowmoving clouds.
He poured tea from the thermos, no sugar just how she liked it.
Im not a romantic, he said, but I figured you spend so much time with pain and screams you need to breathe sometimes.
Emma was silent, feeling a strange sensation, like a crack in a bone finally knitting itself back together, painful but right.
What if Im scared? she asked unexpectedly.
I am too, he answered simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time without doubt thought, Maybe its not all for nothing.
A month later, he wasnt taking her to fancy restaurants or giving rings. He just showed up on weekends, drove her to the market, waited after her shift, helped carry feed. Once he even stayed at the clinic doorway while she assisted in surgery, then later asked, If you werent a vet, what would you want to be? and listened, as if her answer mattered.
Emma still lived in that tiny room, handwashing her clothes, waking at 6:40. Yet now there was his sweater on her hook, his key on the shared rack, his coffee on the stove the one shed never bought before. And a new habit: turning at every hallway creak hoping hed appear.
When the clinics heating failed one day, Emma was already used to being cold, but James arrived early during lunch with a compact heater.
Dont want you catching a cold, he said, placing it by the wall.
Im not fragile, she replied, turning it on anyway.
He lingered by the door, seemed not wanting to leave.
Listen, he said suddenly, being near you feels oddly calm, almost too calm. Weird?
Nothing weird, she shrugged. Thats just me.
He smiled, stepped closer, and gave a gentle hug the kind you give someone you trust completely. She didnt pull away; she leaned in, resting her head against his chest. In that moment she realised he was the person she could truly rely on, like a dog that lies beside you not because its trained but because it feels safe.
From then on he lingered longer, sometimes sleeping over, sometimes brewing coffee at dawn while Emma yawned over her cup, grumbling about being late. She tried to keep her distance, but it melted away hed become part of her life, quietly, from the inside.
One night he said, Youre the only person I trust, and she knew exactly what he meant.
He left, and she watched his car disappear down the drive, its indicator flicking into nothing. It wasnt joy that washed over her, but a prickly anxiety as if shed been singled out and left alone.
The next day a text popped up: Friday, my mums dinner. Id like you to come. No pretence, just to meet. After a pause she typed back, Okay.
She put on a simple grey dress shed kept from a training course, touched up her mascara, gathered her hair. Her assistant brought over a delicate necklace.
Put it on, itll add a touch of class, she said, laughing lightly.
The house belonged to a sleek glass-andstone mansion. A Swissstyle gate opened, and Jamess sleek black car was already parked. He met her at the door, a light hug that felt oddly ordinary, almost nervous. He took her hand and led her inside.
Lavender scented the air, a sharp perfume hinted at something exotic. Abstract paintings adorned the walls, slim pendant lights hung like needles, the floor shone like a mirror. Mrs. Clarke appeared tall, poised in a dark navy dress, smile that never reached her eyes.
Good evening, Emma, she said. James has spoken of you. Please, come in.
Emma shook her hand, Thanks for having me.
The dinner was modest three courses, five place settings, one waiter. Emma felt like a piece of furniture in a museum, beautiful but out of place. James tried to chat about films, holidays, the husky, but Mrs. Clarke steered the conversation toward art, galleries, the new Eleanor collection you havent met her, shes my partners daughter, has excellent taste.
Emma nodded, smiled, tried to be polite, but inside she felt like a temporary guest, a footnote between larger events.
When Mrs. Clarke stood and casually remarked, James can be impulsive. This will pass, Emma looked her straight in the eyes.
Im not a passing thing, Emma replied. Im real. Believe what you will.
Mrs. Clarke raised an eyebrow, Well see.
After dinner James drove her home. The silence in the car was thick, almost suffocating. At the doorstep he took her hand.
Sorry, he said.
For what?
For everything its more about them than about you.
Emma simply said, Im about me. Dont worry.
He kissed her forehead, gently, like a farewell.
Back in her flat, she took off the necklace and placed it on the table, realizing that the mansion wasnt her home.
A few weeks later James started showing up later at night, citing work, projects, something broke in the system. He never fully left, but he hesitated, as if at a crossroads.
She tried not to think about it. If you love, youll get through anything. She wasnt perfect, the galleries werent perfect either.
Then, one Friday, he arrived with a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, a silver box. He was in his coat, hair a little messy, eyes bright.
I love you, he said, dropping to one knee. Forget everyone. I want you to be my wife.
Emma laughed through tears, then pulled him close and asked, Are you sure?
Everything about you says yes, he replied.
They decided on a simple ceremony no gaudy frills, just a loft, live music, a snack table. Emma borrowed a dress from a colleague plain, lacebodiced, a bit loose at the waist, as if it were yours. She didnt invite many friends, only her aunt Gail, who replied, Emma, my blood pressures spiking, cant make it. Not my thing.
On wedding morning she woke at five, ironed the dress, did a quick makeup in the tiny bathroom, drank coffee watching the grey sky. Her heart hammered, not from joy but from that nervous prejump feeling.
When she arrived at the venue, the door opened to a scene straight out of a film: white ribbons, live band, mimosa bouquets. Photographers clicked, waiters poured champagne. An arch of flowers stood at the far end, and James stood beneath it in a crisp suit, smiling.
Emma walked up, throat tight.
He looked at her
Then he walked not toward her, but past her, toward a woman just entering with a dashing man in a designer suit. She was tall, immaculate, in a champagnecoloured gown.
Eleanor, James said, youre my bride. My love.
Emma stood under the arch, the dress feeling absurd, shoulders turning to ice.
He turned back, feigning confusion. Wrong hall, Im sorry, he chuckled, and applause erupted.
Someone shouted, Bravo!
Emma didnt move, just watched. James embraced Eleanor, kissed her cheek, the guests filmed everything.
It was a performance, and she was an accidental extra.
She turned, her dress snagged the threshold, heels clacked wildly on the staircase. A guard shouted something she didnt catch, the chaos swallowed her.
She bolted out, shoes slipping, dress flapping. The street greeted her with a drizzly spring gloom, wet asphalt glistening. A woman in heels huffed, teenagers loitered under a canopy, no one turned.
She kept walking, past crossings, alleys, shop windows, people staring curiously a bride with smeared mascara and a dishevelled veil.
At a business centre a guard gestured, Sorry, you cant be here, move on. She obeyed, barefoot now, shoes abandoned near a flowerbed, her old life trailing behind.
She sat at a bus stop, cars whizzing by, life moving. A sleek black SUV pulled up, the door cracked, a voice asked, Excuse me youre Emma, right?
She looked up. An older man, maybe sixty, neatly dressed, a worried look. He seemed familiar but she couldnt place him.
I dont remember you, she whispered.
He stepped out, lowered his voice, Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I had a heart attack. Everyone rushed past, but you stopped, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand.
A flash of cold, snow, sirens. Shed been late for a bus that day, but had saved him.
It was you he said.
Yes, he nodded. Ive been looking for you. Wanted to thank you. You walked away, and now I see you.
He glanced at her soaked dress, her wet face, the grief she tried to hide.
Come with me, he offered gently. Please.
She got in without asking why she had nowhere else to go.
Inside the car smelled of leather and fresh mint. He introduced himself as George. He didnt pry, just handed her a warm blanket and turned on the heater.
After a while he said, I live just outside town. My son needs someone not a nurse, not a carer, just someone who wont run away. Someone who isnt scared.
He paused, looked into the rearview mirror. I dont know whats happened to you, I wont ask. But if you want, we can go there, rest, and you decide later.
Emma looked out at the streetlights reflecting in puddles. Somewhere a loft party was celebrating a love that wasnt hers.
Alright, she said. Ill go.
The house was modest brick, no pomp, the scent of fresh bread, a quiet calm.
George handed her his late wifes shirt, she changed in the bathroom, looked in the mirror eyes still hers, alive.
In the kitchen a tray of tea waited. He poured two cups, started talking about his son, Vadim, thirtysomething, whod had a crash six months ago, lost a leg, became quiet, shunned carers. Why you? he asked. Because you helped me when it mattered. You chose to do the right thing, not the easy thing.
They went upstairs, knocked on a door.
Vadim? May I? George called.
No answer. He opened the door to a bright room, a window overlooking the garden. Vadim sat in a chair, pale, hands resting on armrests, crutches by the side.
This is Emma, George said. Shell be staying with us. Maybe she can be useful.
I dont need anyone, Vadim snarled. Especially not useful.
Emma sat opposite him on the windowsill.
Hello, she said.
He stared, then barked, Youre odd.
Im not a carer, she replied. Im Emma. I wont play the nice girl.
He smirked, Lets see, Emma. Well see who wins.
The first night she barely slept, thoughts buzzing like flies. Vadims anger was raw, but he still felt something.
Morning came, kitchen quiet. George left a note, Make yourself at home. He hears you, even if he doesnt speak. Emma made porridge, brewed coffee, and heard a thud aThe thud turned out to be Vadims crutch hitting the floor as he finally rose, smiling shyly at Emma, and for the first time in months she felt genuine hope.
