Chapter 1

The call came on a Thursday afternoon while I was elbow-deep in buttercream.

"He's back."

Two words. That was all Jade said, and somehow those two words were enough to make me stop what I was doing, set the spatula down on the stainless-steel counter, and stand very still in the middle of my own bakery like the floor had shifted slightly beneath my feet.

"Since when?" My voice came out steady. I was proud of that.

"Last night. His flight landed around midnight and Mom nearly broke down crying at the door, you know how she gets." Jade's voice was bright and rushing the way it always did when she was excited about something, words tumbling over each other, no space between them. "He looks good, Ava. Like, really good. London agreed with him or whatever, but he's home now and Dad already has him looking at the car that's been sitting in the garage since March —"

"Jade." I picked the spatula back up. Gave myself something to do with my hands. "How long is he staying?"

A pause. "He says permanently. The contract ended, he's done with London. He's home home." Another pause, this one softer. "Come to dinner on Saturday. Mom's already planning the whole thing. Please — I want everyone together."

Everyone. Meaning: her parents, herself, Marcus.

And me.

I looked across the bakery at Renee, who was watching me from behind the register with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, because Renee had known me for seven years and could apparently read my entire internal weather system from a distance of four metres.

"Saturday," I said into the phone. "What time?"

I told myself, on the drive over Saturday evening, that it would be fine.

It had been six years since Marcus Calloway left for London. Six years was a long time. People changed in six years — grew, shifted, became different versions of themselves. More importantly, feelings changed in six years. Dimmed. Settled into something manageable and quiet, the emotional equivalent of an old scar that had long since stopped being tender.

I had been twenty-three when I first understood, with the particular unwelcome clarity of something you can't un-know, that what I felt for my best friend's brother was not the mild, easily-catalogued fondness of family-adjacent affection. I had been standing in the Calloways' back garden at Jade's birthday party, fairy lights strung between the trees, and Marcus had been standing close enough that I could have counted his eyelashes, and he'd said something low and private that made me laugh, and I'd looked up and found him already looking at me, and the moment had stretched and changed and become something else entirely —

And then Jade had appeared, and the moment had closed, and I had spent the next six years being extremely sensible about the whole thing.

I was still being sensible. Perfectly sensible. This was just dinner.

I rang the doorbell and adjusted the wine bottle under my arm and reminded myself to breathe normally.

Patricia Calloway opened the door before I'd finished the thought, both arms already extended, pulling me into the kind of hug that smelled like rose water and roasting garlic and felt like being folded back into somewhere safe.

"Ava, sweetheart. Look at you." She held me at arm's length, beaming. "You get prettier every time I see you."

"And you get kinder every time I see you," I said, and she laughed and pulled me inside.

The house was warm and bright and smelled like a proper Sunday dinner extended into a Saturday, rosemary and something rich simmering at the back of the stove. Jade descended on me from the living room, stealing the wine, squeezing my hand. Gerald Calloway appeared from the hallway and shook my hand with both of his, asking about the bakery. It was familiar and easy, the comfortable choreography of a family that had long since decided to include me.

I let it settle around me. Let myself relax into it.

And then I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I didn't look up immediately. I gave myself three seconds — an old strategy, one I had developed specifically for situations involving Marcus Calloway — counted to three, composed my expression, and then turned.

He was standing at the bottom of the staircase.

Six years. I had prepared myself thoroughly. I had given myself the full sensible lecture about change and time and the unreliability of memory, about how anticipation almost always outran reality, about how the version of him I'd been carrying around in my head was almost certainly inflated, softened, made more significant by distance and longing and the tendency of the human mind to mythologise what it couldn't have.

My preparation was completely useless.

He was taller than I'd remembered, or maybe I'd just stopped accounting for the way he occupied space — that particular stillness of his, the quality of attention he brought to a room, like everything in it was worth noticing. He'd filled out through the shoulders. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there at twenty-eight. His dark hair was shorter. He was wearing a simple grey jumper and dark trousers and he looked, infuriatingly, like time had simply agreed with him.

His eyes found mine.

"Ava." Just my name. One word, unhurried, like he'd had it sitting somewhere convenient and had simply reached for it.

"Marcus." I was very proud of my voice. "Welcome home."

"Thanks for coming." He came down the last step and crossed the hallway, and we did the thing — the brief hug of two people who were technically family-adjacent, familiar enough for contact, careful enough to keep it short. His hand at my back lasted barely three seconds. It was nothing. It was completely insufficient.

"You look well," he said, stepping back.

"London agreed with you," I said.

"Parts of it." Something brief in his expression that I couldn't read. "It's good to be back."

Dinner was everything a Calloway family dinner always was — loud and warm and full, Patricia pressing seconds on everyone, Gerald telling the fishing story that everyone had heard minimum six times, Jade stealing bread rolls off other people's plates and denying it. Marcus sat across from me, which was either a coincidence or a design flaw in Patricia's seating arrangement, and ate and spoke and listened the way he always had, with that quality of full presence that I had once described to Renee — on a very honest evening, after two glasses of wine — as the thing about him I found most difficult to be near.

He asked about the bakery. He asked with the particular attention of someone who actually wanted to know the answer rather than someone filling conversational space, and I answered, and we talked, and it was easy in the way it had always been easy between us, which was precisely the problem with Marcus Calloway: he was not difficult to be near. He was too easy to be near. He made it simple in a way that made being sensible much harder than it had any right to be.

Twice across the table I looked up and found him already watching me. Both times he didn't look away immediately.

I told myself it meant nothing. He was re-orienting, re-mapping the people around him after six years. That was all.

After dessert, while Patricia was clearing plates and Jade and her father had drifted into a conversation about her new flat, there was a brief quiet. Marcus sat with his wine glass, unhurried, in no rush to fill the silence.

I watched his hands around the stem of the glass.

And then I noticed it.

It was a small thing. A glint, a catch of light, so subtle that I very nearly missed it. His right hand rested on the table and his left was wrapped around the glass, and on the fourth finger of his left hand there was a band — simple, gold, unmistakable.

Everything in me went very still.

He followed my gaze. Looked at his own hand for a moment, something passing across his face that I wasn't quick enough to name before it was gone.

Then he looked up at me, and his expression was quiet and direct and perfectly composed.

"I should mention," he said, his voice low enough that it stayed between us. "I'm engaged."

The candle between us didn't flicker. The table went on talking around us, warm and oblivious.

I held his gaze and said nothing for exactly two seconds.

Then I picked up my wine glass, smiled the way I had learned to smile when something cost me something, and said, "Congratulations, Marcus."

He watched me for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

"Thank you," he said.

I drank my wine. Across the table, Jade laughed at something her father said, and the warm noise of the family filled in the silence, and I sat with the knowledge settling into my bones like cold weather coming in.

He was home.

And he belonged to someone else.