Page 6 of Escape

But then she sees me, and her face breaks into a grin, bright and familiar, like nothing’s wrong at all.

“There you are!” she says, walking toward me like she hasn’t just spent weeks halfway across the world dealing with God knows what. “What, no welcome banner? No brass band?”

I let out a shaky laugh, pulling her into a hug that’s probably a bit too tight. “Budget cuts,” I say into her hair.

She laughs, but it’s not the same. There’s a hollowness to it, a weight she’s not letting me see.

“You look like you’ve been living in this airport,” she says, pulling back and giving me a once-over. “Honestly, Owen, when was the last time you slept?”

“Don’t deflect,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who just got back from an actual landslide.”

Her smile falters, just for a second, before she waves me off. “It wasn’t that bad,” she says, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Mel—”

“I’m fine,” she cuts in, her voice light but firm. “Really.”

I don’t push; not here, not now. But as we walk toward the exit, her laughter ringing a little too loud and her steps just a little too quick, I make a quiet vow.

She can pretend all she wants, but I’m not letting this go. Not until she knows she doesn’t have to pretend with me. Not until she knows she doesn’t have to carry it all on her own.

The flat smells of thyme and garlic, the chicken casserole bubbling gently in the oven. I slide the dish out and place it on the counter, wiping my hands on a tea towel as I hear Mel’s footsteps padding across the floor.

She appears in the doorway, barefoot, her curls damp and frizzing at the edges. She’s wrapped in her usual oversizedhoodie, her joggers hanging loose, as comfortable and familiar as she’s ever looked.

“Smells decent,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smirk. “So, what are we having? Homemade or Tesco’s finest?”

“Homemade, thank you very much,” I reply, pulling out two plates and setting them down. “Hours of effort went into this masterpiece.”

“Masterpiece, huh?” She wanders into the kitchen, grabbing cutlery from the drawer. “What was it? Fifteen minutes and a recipe on TikTok?”

“Forty minutes, and I didn’t even look at my phone once,” I shoot back, my grin widening as she gives me an approving nod.

She pulls a seat out at the table as I serve the casserole, and for a while, the kitchen fills with the soft clatter of plates and some easy conversation. She takes her first bite and hums in approval, the sound small but enough to make my heart beat faster.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” she says, pointing her fork at me. “You’re not completely useless in the kitchen.”

“High praise,” I reply, pretending to tip an imaginary hat.

She laughs, and it’s almost enough to make me forget the tension that’s been lurking since I picked her up. Almost.

The banter flows as smoothly as ever—Owen-and-Mel things, the kind of conversations that dance between ridiculous and comforting. She teases me about my inability to keep plants alive, and I remind her that it was she who let my Philodendron die a tragic death when I went to Greece last year.

But as the plates empty and the conversation slows, the silence between us shifts. It’s heavier now, the kind that isn’t comfortable.

“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair and keeping my tone casual. “What really happened out there?”

Her fork pauses midair for a fraction of a second, but she recovers quickly, setting it down with a faint clink against the plate. “I told you already. There was a landslide, but everything’s fine,” she tries to cut of the conversation.

“Mel,” I say, leaning forward slightly, resting my arms on the table. “You pulled your security guy and the driver out of a wreck. The driver died. That’s not nothing.”

Her lips press into a thin line, the faintest flicker of something—irritation? pain?—crossing her face. “I know! Thanks for the recap,” she says, pushing her chair back. The scrape of wood against the floor makes me wince. “It was a tough day, but it’s over. I want to move on. Can we leave it?”

The words hang in the air like a wall between us. I watch as she stands, her shoulders stiff and her movements just a little too precise.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say quietly, my voice low enough to soften the edges of the statement.

Her back stiffens, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she picks up her plate, carries it to the sink, and places it down with a deliberateness that feels louder than any shout.

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