Emma
My shift at the bakery began before the town had properly woken, the streets still dim and hushed, a fine mist clinging to the cobbles. Inside, the ovens glowed, chasing away the chill with their steady heat. Louise was already there, as she always was, her hands moving confidently as she shaped the pies that would be gone by lunchtime.
Usually, we worked in easy silence — the rhythm of kneading and folding a language all its own. But this morning, my rhythm faltered. My hands remembered what to do, but my mind… my mind was far away. It lingered where the trees whispered and the lake caught the light, where yesterday had given me back the boy I thought I'd only see again in dreams.
Louise noticed. She always did. "Who was that boy yesterday?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp. "I've not seen him around before. Is he a friend from school?"
My cheeks burned. I kept my gaze pinned to the oven timer, pretending the steady tick of it required all my focus. "No. He doesn't live around here," I said quietly.
Louise didn't push, but she smiled — a little sly, a little knowing — as though I'd already told her more than I meant to. She slid a tray into the oven, then glanced at me again, her voice dropping to something almost gentle.
"Well, just be careful," she said. "People notice things in a town like this. New faces. Quiet girls who suddenly can't stop smiling."
Her words lingered long after, clinging like the smell of warm bread in my hair.
Just after ten o'clock, I looked up and there he was, framed in the doorway leaning back on the doorframe as if the whole day had been waiting for him to step into it. He'd changed. Not only was he broader, stronger somehow, but there was a stillness to him now, a calm certainty that made him seem older, steadier. He smiled, that small, shy smile that had always undone me, and for a second the flour-dusted counters and the row of pastries blurred to nothing.
"Morning, Emma." His voice threaded through the bakery and gathered me.
I smiled in spite of myself, breathless. "Morning."
He sidled close until the warmth of him was part of my morning. Up close, I could see the sun had kissed the line of his jaw; his hands — hands I already missed the touch of — rested on the counter like they had a right to be there. He looked like he fit into the world now, but the place he fit most into was the deepest pocket of my heart.
When my shift ended an hour later, he took my hand, and we walked out into a day that felt like it had been saved just for us.
We passed the market stalls, the butcher with his cheeky nod, the greengrocer tipping his hat. People smiled as we went by, but the only person I saw was him.
We ate lunch at a small café tucked away from the main street, the sort of place you could easily miss unless you were looking for it. We sat at the corner table by the window. The linen napkins had an old-fashioned softness; the plates came with the sort of care I'd only imagined before. He ordered for both of us — the kind of food my mother never made because we never had money for small luxuries —fresh bread, a salad tossed with herbs that smelled like summer itself, a warm tart that steamed and perfumed the air. He watched me as I ate, as if the way I filled my mouth with a bite mattered to him. He laughed when I declared the tart "ridiculous" in the best possible way and wiped a smear of jam from my chin with a practised, gentle hand.
He spoiled me — no little sandwiches and apples today — but his spoiling was patient and sweet, threaded with small attentions: pulling my chair out, refilling my glass of water before I asked, the way he cut my food just because. There was no showiness in it, only the deliberate care of someone who wanted to give me his attention.
After lunch we wandered without a plan, drifting through the town as if discovering it for the first time. Tommy found pockets of quiet: a tiny bookshop with the bell that chimed as the door opened, a lane of old elm trees where the light dappled the pavement. We talked about small things — books we loved, songs and films we enjoyed — then bigger things that had previously lurked at the edges: his list of terrible jokes, my worry about the future, the scattered, careful plans we both tried not to call hopes.
When the sun started to lean west, he took my hand and led me toward the park again. We sat on a bench with our legs brushing, and it felt just as intimate as the woods were — public, but private in the way our hands folded together made everything else fade away. He draped his jacket over my shoulders when the wind came and smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world to make me warm.
"I don't want the day to end," I said at one point, more to the sky than to him, the words small and brittle with the knowledge that his visit was borrowed time.
"Then let's keep a little of it," he replied, and there was a softness in his voice that made my throat catch. "Walk you home? Stay until the light leaves?"
"Yes," I breathed. "Please."
We walked the long way, fingers laced and slow. He pointed out things he'd noticed in the town: a flower seller who's flowers made the market smell fresh, the paintwork on a grocer's sign that needed a refresh.
When we reached my house, the street glowed in the late afternoon light; the windows caught the sun and turned it golden. Standing on the path, I felt the small, fierce ache of not wanting him to go. He stood with both hands holding mine, looking impossibly young and impossibly like someone who would keep every promise he made.
"Will you come inside?" I asked, foolish with hope.
"Of course," he said.
He came inside with me and sat down to chat with my family. While we sat and laughed at the twins' remarks, he did the small things he'd always done — the gentle, unshowy gestures that made me feel like I mattered: he tucked a stray curl behind my ear, placed his arm around my shoulders.
"This is nice," he whispered into my ear. His voice filled me with warmth. I looked at him and blushed.
Jessica and Jemima were watching every move with dreamy eyes.
After supper, he helped Mum with the cleaning up. I watched him interact with my family with ease. It made my heart dance. Teddy caught my eye and smiled and winked at me. I took that as his approval of Tommy.
We walked outside and stood under the moonlight for a beat, before he put his arms around me and kissed me. The kiss was long and deep, I didn't want it to end. When we finally pulled back he kept his arms around me and kissed my forehead.
"I'll see you again tomorrow," he whispered, "goodnight Emma."
I kissed his lips one more time and murmured "Goodnight."
He watched me go back inside and close the door before walking away. The memory of the day wrapped around me like a warmth I could keep with me.
The day had been a promise, a small bright truth: sometimes love is a walk that takes the long way home, the habit of holding a partner's hand until the sun drops out of the sky. And for now, all of it was ours.