Page 94 of October
"A god, yes," Thomas nodded solemnly, "but withterriblearmor design."
Jimmy groaned into a pillow, muttering something about"I can't believe this man raised me,"while Thomas just grinned at me, completely pleased with himself.
The movie ended, the last notes of the soundtrack trailing off into the quiet room. Jimmy stretched, half-yawned, then mumbled a quick"Night, Mum. Night, Dad,"before disappearing upstairs, leaving the living room hushed and a little golden in the lamplight. Thomas sat beside me on the couch, his shoulder warm against mine, the empty popcorn bowl between us. He looked down at his hands for a moment before speaking, his voice low, almost shy.
"Do you remember," he began, "the first time we ever watched a movie together? We must've been, what, fifteen?"
I smiled, the memory already blooming in my chest.
"You were so excited," he continued, chuckling softly. "You kept talking through half of it, pointing out lines, guessing what would happen next... God, I barely saw the movie at all. I just kept thinking how close your shoulder was. How wonderful you smelled and how my heart was beating so stupidly fast I was sure you'd hear it."
He hesitated, then met my eyes, his gaze open and raw in that way it only ever was with me.
"I was terrified, you know," he admitted. "Terrified you'd look over and see how badly I already liked you."
My breath caught, and warmth rose up my neck so quickly it almost stung. For a second, I couldn't speak—then the words slipped out, soft and certain, barely louder than a breath:
«?Je t'aimais déjà à ce moment-là...?»
Thomas froze, eyes widening just slightly, the words sinking in.
"What did you say?," he whispered, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard me right.
"I already loved you then," I repeated, voice shaking a little. His mouth curved into a smile that was almost heartbreakingly tender, eyes shining, laughter and wonder caught in the same breath.
Then he kissed me. Slow at first, uncertain, reverent, as though he was asking permission even now. His lips were warm and familiar, yet the gentleness made it feel almost new: like rediscovering each other in a language we thought we'd forgotten. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing a tear away before it could fall, and I leaned into him, heart pounding so loudly I wondered if he could feel it too.
Outside, the night stayed quiet, just the hush of leaves shifting beyond the window, the soft hum of distant traffic, but in that small circle of lamplight, it felt like the world had folded itself around us.
Chapter Thirty-One: Blocking Ghosts
It had been weeks. Weeks of cautious texts in the morning, late-night calls when the house was quiet, and small, clumsy kindnesses that felt bigger than they looked. He still wasn't back home, not yet, but the sharpness between us had softened into something almost gentle. We were learning, painfully and patiently, how to speak again without raising old ghosts.
Some nights, when the kids were asleep, we'd meet halfway in conversation: stories about work, about Jimmy's latest drawing obsession, about Alice's new friends, about Lola's growing collection of teeth. We weren't pretending nothing had happened but we weren't drowning in it either and in that space, something hesitant but real had started to grow.
Then one Friday, we decided, almost shyly, to have lunch together. Not at home, not in a restaurant thick with weekend noise, but near his office: a small place with scratched wooden tables and the smell of grilled bread and fresh herbs. The kind of place you could sit in the corner and pretend, just for an hour, that you weren't trying to stitch something broken back together.
He'd chosen the table carefully —far from the door, near the window. When I arrived, he stood as though it was automatic, and for a breath, I remembered being a teen, walking toward him in a borrowed dress and seeing that same look in his eyes.
The lunch itself was quiet, but in the best way. We talked about everything and nothing. His eyes warmed when I told him about a small batch of perfume oils I'd finally blended right, a softness in his face that made me feel seen, truly seen, even across the small table.
"I'm telling you," I said, half-laughing, "I think this might be the first time I didn't nearly burn the entire house down making a perfume."
Thomas grinned. "That only happened once."
"It happened twice," I corrected.
He raised an eyebrow. "Technicalities."
I gave him a playful glare. "And whose fault was it the second time?"
"I maintain it was the dog's fault," he shot back, completely deadpan.
"We don't evenhavea dog, Thomas."
He paused, then shrugged, still trying to look serious. "Then it was probably Jimmy. He looks guilty."
I couldn't help but laugh, shaking my head. "You're hopeless."
