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Ever thoughtful. I nod at the shelf by the door. There’s a stack of towels there.

She fetches one and comes back. I watch her sort me out, gentle and unhurried. She wipes her own hand last, then folds the towel and sets it on the floor. She climbs up to sit beside me on the bench, then leans to press a kiss to my cheek.

I let her do it, but I don’t do anything back. No arm around her. No hand in her hair. I just sit there, her shoulder warm against mine.

A minute passes. Maybe two.

“I know you said one time only,” she says, breaking the silence. “But…would you ever consider more?”

I don’t answer.

“I don’t just mean this.” She’s looking at her hands. “I’d like to get to know you a little better, Ryan.”

Fuck.

My chest tightens. I told her. Before we started, I told her it’d be one time only, and she said she was okay with that. And now⁠—

I’m up off the bench before I’m even aware I’ve decided to move. I grab my boxers and shorts and drag them on.

“Fuck’s sake. We had an agreement, Briony.”

Her face falls. I look away.

She doesn’t argue. Says nothing. Just gathers her clothes and pulls them on. Knickers. Leggings. Bra. The baggy T-shirt goes on inside out. She doesn’t notice.

I feel like an arsehole, but I don’t see why I should. I didn’t do anything wrong. She’s the one trying to go back on something we agreed not half an hour ago.

She pulls on her socks and trainers then opens the gym door. She pauses, and for a second I think she’s going to say something.

But she just goes.

I hear her footsteps in the hall, then the flat’s front door opening and clicking shut.

Go after her, a voice in my head says. I tell it to fuck off.

She doesn’t have any right to be pissed off at me. And I’ve no reason to feel guilty.

I. Didn’t. Do. Anything. Wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BRIONY

I’m four steps from my front door when Mrs Dunlop comes out of hers with a bag of recycling.

“Briony! Lovely to see you.”

Duckety duck duck, and shiitake mushrooms for good measure.

I love Mrs Dunlop—she’s sweet and kind and the perfect neighbour—but right now I want nothing more than to get into my flat, slam the door behind me, and hide from the world.

But I can’t be short with Mrs Dunlop. I just can’t. Which is why I say, “Hi, Mrs Dunlop.”

She peers at my chin, then my cheek. “Oh my goodness. What happened to you?”

So I spend the next few minutes telling her about the mugging. I try to make it as short as possible—I just want to go—but for everything I say, she has a follow-up question.

“Those wee thugs on their scooters,” she says, shaking her head, after I explain the police aren’t confident they’ll be able to catch him. “My Archie would’ve gone after him with a golf club.”