Jasper woke to the smell of rain on concrete — the kind that clings to everything, even inside. He rolled over, sheets damp from sweat, heart still thudding from the dream. Sarah's blood on his hands. The kick. The silence after.
He sat up. Checked the time: 8:47 a.m. The house was quiet — too quiet — but Lydia's message from last night sat on his phone like a promise: "Tomorrow. Same place. Wear something nice."
He stared at it. Smiled.
He showered again — longer this time, water hot enough to scald. Steam curled around him like smoke from a fire he'd started. He shaved slowly, nicked his chin, watched the blood bead and drip into the sink. Wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Dressed: dark jeans, black shirt, no tie. No medals. No army. Just him.
He walked to Brick Lane. Rain had stopped, but the air was thick, grey. The cafe was busier — tourists, locals, steam from espresso machines. He took the same corner table. Ordered black coffee. Waited.
She arrived at 11:05.
Lydia.
Today she wore a red jumper — not bright, just enough to catch the light. Jeans. Boots. Hair tied back, but a strand loose over her eye. She slid in opposite him, smiled — not big, not fake. Just... real.
"You're early again."
"Always."
She laughed — low, real. "I like that. Means you care."
He felt it in his chest. Cared. He hadn't cared about anything since... well.
They ordered. Latte for her. Toast for both — burnt, like she'd said.
She talked first. About London. About how she hated the Tube but loved the way it smelled — metal and sweat and possibility. Then she paused. Looked at him. "You don't talk much."
"I don't have much to say."
"You do. You just don't trust me yet."
He looked down. "Maybe."
She reached across. Touched his hand — fingers cool, steady. "That's okay. I'll wait."
They ate. Silence wasn't awkward. It was... comfortable. Like she'd already filled the gaps he left.
Then she said: "My ex. The one I mentioned. He wasn't just abusive. He was clever about it."
Jasper looked up.
"He'd say things — 'You're overreacting.' 'You're crazy.' 'No one's going to believe you.' I stayed two years. Thought I could fix him. Thought if I was quiet enough, he'd stop."
She rolled up her sleeve. A faint scar — thin line on her forearm, pale pink, like someone had drawn it with a razor. "This? He said I fell. I didn't."
Jasper stared. The mark was old, but the skin around it looked raw, like she'd scratched it open again. He wanted to touch it. Didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be. I left. Took my daughter. Started over."
Daughter.
"How old?"
"Twelve. Isla. Sweet kid. Calls me 'Mum' like it's a joke."
He smiled. "Sounds like my mum."
She laughed. "Yours still around?"
"Yeah. Maggie. Dad's Tom. They live out in Croydon. Think I'm still eighteen."
She tilted her head. "They worry?"
"Every day."
She nodded. "Good. Means they love you."
She sipped her latte. Then: "Isla... she's quiet. Doesn't talk much. But she's smart. Reads books bigger than her head. Last week she asked me why I cry at night. I told her it was the rain. She didn't believe me."
Jasper felt something twist. "She sees everything."
"Yeah. Too much."
She looked at the scar again. "She was five when he left. Saw the bruises. Asked if Daddy was angry. I said no. Said it was an accident. She believed me then. Now... I think she knows."
She pulled the sleeve down. "I don't want her to grow up scared. Like I did."
He nodded. "She won't."
She smiled — small, sad. "You sound sure."
"I am."
They finished toast. She paid again. He let her — felt bad, but she insisted. "Next time's yours."
Outside, sun broke through. She linked her arm through his — casual, like they'd done it a hundred times. "Walk?"
They walked. Past curry shops, graffiti walls, people shouting in Bengali. Her hip bumped his. He didn't move away.
Then she said: "I like you, Jasper."
He stopped. Looked at her. "Why?"
"Because you're honest. Because you don't pretend."
He swallowed. "I pretend all the time."
She stepped closer. "Not with me."
Her breath was warm on his face. He felt the pull — the same one from yesterday. But stronger.
She kissed him.
Not soft. Not tentative. Full. Lips on his, hand on his neck, fingers in his hair. He tasted coffee. Tasted her.
He kissed back.
Hands on her waist. Pulled her in. Felt her body against his — soft, warm, alive. Her jumper bunched under his palms. She pressed closer, thigh between his legs, breath hot on his mouth.
She broke first. Breathless. "Not here."
He nodded. "Not here."
They walked to the Tube. She kissed him again — quick, on the platform. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
She left.
He stood there. Lips tingling. Heart racing.
Back home, he opened the photo on the dresser. Sarah.
He touched her face. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
But he didn't feel guilty.
He felt... alive.
That night, he didn't dream of blood.
He dreamed of Lydia.
And when he woke, he was smiling.