It was getting dark by the time they emerged from the restaurant. The manager had kept them supplied with the huge mugs of tea, “On the house, love, you both look like you’ve been through the wars. Drink up now.” And they were full of a really, really nice posh pizza and a sticky dessert thing that had felt like he was taking the piss out of Darren paying for everything.
All the time, Darren’s warm leg had pressed against Gwyn’s under the table and it was grounding and comforting and, above all, safe— in a way he hadn’t really felt since the night of The Incident.
“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on, then?” Darren had asked, once they’d put their food order in and were nose-down in the tea again. “Or is it private?”
Gwyn thought about it. Some of it was private, yeah. But...
