Chapter 10: First Bite
The space between the door and his table felt like a physical medium, thicker than air. Each of Roz’s clicks on the tile floor echoed in her own ears. She was aware of every stray glance from other patrons, the weight of the dress on her shoulders, the exact temperature of her blush. But his gaze was a fixed point, a lighthouse in the sensory storm. He didn’t look around the room. He just watched her approach, his expression unreadable from a distance but intensely focused.
When she finally reached the table, the words she’d practiced evaporated. “Hi,” was all she managed, the sound barely a whisper.
“Hi,” Ally said, and the half-smile fully formed. It wasn’t the dazzling, camera-ready grin she’d seen in press photos. This was smaller, warmer, with a hint of relief in it. He pulled out her chair. “You look… incredible.”
“Thank you.” She sat, the simple action requiring immense concentration. She placed her bag carefully on the floor, buying time. “You… too. I mean, not incredible. You look nice.” She closed her eyes for a second. “That was a sentence.”
He laughed, a low, easy sound that seemed to loosen something in the atmosphere. “It was a fine sentence. ‘Nice’ is good. I’ll take it.” He settled back into his own chair, his frame making the bistro seat seem doll-sized. “This place is a bit of a squeeze. Hope that’s okay.”
It was more than okay. The close quarters meant the noisy room receded. Their table was an island. A waiter appeared instantly, depositing two menus and a bowl of glossy green olives.
“Can I get you a drink to start?” the waiter asked, his eyes flicking to Ally with a glimmer of recognition.
Roz’s mind blanked. All knowledge of beverages left her. “I’ll have a…” Her eyes scanned the menu frantically, landing on the first thing she saw. “A gin and tonic?”
Ally’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Do you like gin?”
“I have no idea,” she confessed, the honesty tumbling out.
He smiled again. “We’ll find out.” He turned to the waiter. “We’ll have a bottle of the Albariño, please. The Paco & Lola. And some water.” The Spanish name rolled off his tongue with a casual, authentic fluency that stole her breath anew.
The waiter nodded and vanished. Roz stared at him. “You speak Spanish?”
“A bit. I played a season in San Sebastián after uni. Picked some up. Mostly swear words and how to order food, which is basically all you need.”
The wine arrived with startling speed. Ally went through the tasting ritual with an unselfconscious ease, nodding his approval. The waiter poured. Ally waited until he’d left before lifting his glass. “To… new things. And finding out if you like gin.”
She clinked her glass against his, the crystal ping a tiny, significant sound. The wine was cold and sharp, with a mineral edge that cut through her nervousness. It was delicious.
“So, not a gin drinker,” he stated, watching her face.
“Apparently not. This is better.”
“Good.” He pushed the bowl of olives toward her. “Eat one of these. They’re salty. Grounds you.”
She obeyed. The burst of brine and herbal oil was shockingly vivid. It did ground her. She took another sip of wine, feeling her shoulders drop an inch. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“At… all of this. The ordering. The knowing what to do.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the small table. The move brought him closer. She could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the darker flecks in his blue eyes. “I’m making it up as I go along, Roz. I’ve been thinking about this since Tuesday. Planning it. Rehearsing it. I probably know this menu backwards.”
The admission was a gift. It leveled the field. “Really?”
“Really. I was more nervous walking in here tonight than I was before my first cap for Scotland.”
“Why?”
He didn’t look away. “Because that’s just a game. This matters.”
The noise of the bar, the clatter of pans from the open kitchen, the laughter from a large party near the window—it all melted into a distant hum. There was only the table, the wine, the intensity of his attention. She held it, not looking down.
“Tell me about your painting,” he said. “The one with the red line.”
Her heart skipped. He remembered. He’d not only listened, he’d filed it away. “It’s… it’s a courtyard in the rain. From my window. It was all atmosphere, but no anchor. The line is… I don’t know what it is yet. A mistake, maybe. Or a decision.”
“It’s a door,” he said simply.
She blinked. “What?”
“You said it needed an anchor. A reason for the eye to settle. That’s what a door is, in a wall. An invitation. A question. Your red line is a door in the rain.”
A shiver, electric and profound, traveled down her spine. He had translated her instinct into his own language, and in doing so, made it make more sense to her than her own explanation. She felt seen, in a way that had nothing to do with her dress or her face. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s exactly it.”
The food began to arrive—small, beautiful plates that appeared in a steady, un-rushed stream. Crispy patatas bravas with smoky, garlicky aioli. Plump grilled prawns, heads on, glistening with oil and chili. Slivers of jamón ibérico, deep red and marbled with fat. Charred padrón peppers sprinkled with coarse salt.
Ally ordered for them both, explaining each dish with a casual authority that was devoid of pretension. “You have to eat the whole pepper. It’s a game. Most are mild and sweet… but one in ten is a fiery bastard. Russian roulette, but with vegetables.”
She tried one. It was grassy and sweet. “Safe.”
“Try this.” He speared a prawn, deftly twisting off the head and peeling the shell in one fluid motion. He placed the naked, curled flesh on her plate. “Just like that. No fuss.”
She ate it. It was perfect. The simplicity of the gesture, the care of it, unstitched another seam of her anxiety. They ate, and they talked. He asked about her degree show, his questions specific and intelligent. She asked about his season in Spain, and he told stories of sun-baked pitches and chaotic meals that stretched past midnight, his descriptions painting vivid pictures of a life so different from her own.
“And the door science?” she asked, mopping up aioli with a piece of bread. “How does a season in San Sebastián fit with that?”
He refilled her glass. “It doesn’t, really. But it taught me that a door isn’t just a hinged slab. It’s a threshold. A transition point. In Spain, the threshold between the street and the home, the public and the private… it’s different. More fluid. It changed how I think about the function of it.”
“You love it,” she observed, hearing the passion in his voice.
“I do. It’s quiet. Precise. It makes sense in a way people often don’t.” He looked at her. “Like your paintings make sense to you.”
The meal unfolded this way, a gentle volley of revelations. She made him laugh with a story about Denny’s pre-date military briefing. He made her gasp with a description of the precise, calculated violence of a rugby scrum. “It’s a door too,” he said. “A collision point. Where momentum shifts.”
They were sharing a slice of dense, orange-scented almond cake when the atmosphere shifted subtly. The crowd had thinned. The waitstaff began clearing surrounding tables with a louder clatter. The intimate bubble was being encroached by the reality of closing time.
Ally paid the bill, refusing her offer to split it with a firm shake of his head. “My invite, my rules.”
Outside, the night had turned cold and clear, the sky a velvety black pricked with stars. The sudden quiet after the bar’s din was ringing. They stood on the pavement, a foot of cool night air between them.
“That was the best meal I’ve ever had,” Roz said, and meant it entirely.
“Good.” He had his hands in the pockets of his coat. “What now? I could walk you home.”
It was the obvious, gentlemanly next step. But the thought of her tiny, cluttered flat, of the evening ending on her doorstep, felt suddenly wrong. It was too small a container for what she was feeling.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” she said, surprising herself.
He looked at her, his face in shadow, lit from behind by the bar’s neon sign. “What do you want?”
She looked up the steep curve of the street, toward the dark mass of the castle silhouetted against the city glow. “Can we just walk?”
His answer was another of those small, perfect smiles. “Yeah. We can walk.”
They fell into step, heading away from the busy streets, climbing toward the older, quieter closes. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, a fleeting contact that sent a current through her whole arm. They didn’t speak for a while, comfortable in the shared silence, the only sounds their footsteps and the distant sigh of the city.
He stopped at a vantage point, a wide curve of stone overlooking the sprawl of Edinburgh, the Firth of Forth a dark ribbon in the distance. She leaned against the cold parapet, and he stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For tonight. For… knowing what to order. For the door in the rain.”
He turned to face her. The city light was soft on his features. “Thank you for saying yes.”
He didn’t move to kiss her. He just looked at her, as if memorizing the moment. The anticipation was a living thing, stretched taut and sweet between them. It was better than any kiss could have been right then.
“Your show is in three weeks,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“I have an away game in Cardiff that weekend. But I’ll be back on the Sunday. The last day.”
Her heart, so full, sank a little. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” The statement was absolute. “I’ll be there. Mud, sweat, jetlag and all.” He paused. “And after that… my schedule gets mad. We’re into the thick of it. Travel. Training camps. I won’t… I might not be able to do this properly for a while.” He gestured between them, to the space humming with potential.
The reality of his life, the machine he was part of, descended. The blueprint he was trying to draw seemed to tremble against a coming wind.
Roz understood. This wasn’t a rejection; it was a warning. A setting of expectations. She nodded, looking out at the city. “Brick by brick, right?”
He let out a soft, astonished laugh. “Ham.”
“He seems to have a phrase for things.”
“He does.” Ally was silent for a long moment. “It won’t be easy. For either of us.”
She turned her head to look at him. The shyness was gone, burned away by wine and conversation and the quiet confidence of being truly understood. What remained was a clear, calm certainty. “I don’t need easy,” she said. “I just need real.”
In the dim light, she saw his throat move as he swallowed. He brought a hand up, slowly, and brushed a strand of wind-blown hair from her cheek, his fingertips grazing her skin. The touch was a question.
Her answer was to lean into it, just slightly.
“Right then,” he whispered, his voice rough at the edges. “Real it is.”
He didn’t kiss her. Not then. He simply let his hand fall, took hers, and laced his fingers through hers. His hand was enormous, warm, and calloused. Hers disappeared inside it. It felt less like being held, and more like being anchored.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home now.”
Hand in hand, they left the view and descended back into the labyrinth of the city, the complicated, wonderful shape of the future settling around them, one solid, real brick at a time.
The walk back to her flat was a study in comfortable silence, punctuated only by the scuff of their shoes on cobblestones and the distant, rhythmic sigh of traffic. His thumb moved absently, a slow sweep across her knuckles. The cold night air sharpened the scent of his cologne, something clean and woody, cut through with the lingering warmth of wine. She memorized the feeling of her small hand lost in his, the rough texture of his skin a tangible map of his other life.
“Ham’s going to give me relentless grief tomorrow,” Ally said, his voice a quiet rumble in the dark.
“Why?”
“For not kissing you goodnight at your door. It’s in his playbook. Chapter one, probably.”
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the stone close they were passing through. “Is there a chapter on overthinking it?”
“That’s the entire second volume.” He squeezed her hand. “He means well. He just wants… clarity. A definitive result.”
“And you don’t?”
He stopped, turning her gently to face him under a dim, yellowing streetlamp. “I want the right result. There’s a difference.”
Her breath caught. His eyes were shadows, but his focus was a physical pressure. The moment stretched, taut and sweet, filled with the unasked question hanging between them. Then he smiled, a quick flash of white. “Also, I’m terrified of getting the timing wrong and head-butting you. Professional hazard.”
The tension shattered into light, easy laughter. They walked on.
Her building appeared too soon, a grim Victorian facade with a buzzing entry light. They stopped at the bottom of the steps, the warmth of their joined hands now the only defense against the chill. The reality of the threshold, his own professional obsession, was suddenly immense and literal.
“This is my stop,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I know.” He didn’t let go. He was looking at her mouth, then her eyes, then back again. The playful banter had evaporated, leaving something raw and potent in its place. The city noises faded. The buzzing light was a persistent insect.
He lifted his other hand, cupping her jaw. His palm was shockingly warm. He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping second she thought he would bridge the gap. But he stopped, his forehead resting gently against hers. She could feel the rapid pulse in his temple, or maybe it was her own. His breath was warm on her lips.
“I had a perfect speech planned,” he murmured, his voice gravelly. “About doors and thresholds and not rushing the architecture.”
“And?”
“I forgot it.” He pulled back just enough to see her whole face. The streetlamp caught the fierce blue of his irises, the faint tremor in his jaw. All his easy composure was gone, stripped away. What remained was stark, wanting, and beautifully unsure.
“Come back to mine,” he whispered.
The words hung in the cold air, simple and immense. It wasn’t a line. It was a request, layered with all the vulnerability he’d shown her over olives and wine. It carried the admission of his rehearsals, the warning of his chaotic schedule, the promise of the red line being a door.
She looked at him, at the boyish hope warring with the man’s intensity in his eyes. She thought of her quiet, waiting flat, of the painting in the corner, of the safety of ending the night here. Then she thought of the alternative—more time, a different threshold, the unknown shape of a room that contained him.
“Okay.”
The word dissolved into the night air between them, changing everything. Ally’s eyes widened a fraction, as if he’d braced for a different answer. He didn’t smile, not exactly. He just exhaled, a soft cloud of relief in the cold, and his thumb stroked her cheekbone once more. “Right.”
He kept hold of her hand, his grip firm and sure, and turned them away from her door. They walked, not back toward the main roads, but up a narrower, steeper close she didn’t recognize. The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick with a new, shared purpose, their footsteps syncing on the cobbles.
“It’s not far,” he said, his voice lower than before. “Just off the Royal Mile. The top floor of a former bakery.”
“A bakery,” she repeated, the ordinary word anchoring her.
“Yeah. I like the history. And the smell of old yeast never really left, so it always smells like someone’s about to bring you bread.” He glanced down at her. “That’s either charming or weird. I’ve never had to decide.”
“It’s charming,” she said, and meant it. The idea of him in a flat that smelled of bread was profoundly settling.
The climb was steep, and her breath grew short. He adjusted his pace for her without comment. They emerged onto the famous street, now deserted and littered with the ghost-traces of the day’s tourists, then ducked immediately into another shadowy close. A heavy, weathered door stood ajar at the end.
“Here,” he said.
They stopped in the dim entranceway. He finally let go of her hand to dig keys from his pocket. The metal jangled, a sharp sound in the quiet. She watched his profile, the concentrated frown as he found the right key, the way his shoulders filled the space. This was it. The threshold.
He pushed the door open and reached inside, flicking a switch. A warm, amber light spilled out, illuminating a stone staircase that spiraled upward into darkness. “Five flights,” he said, a note of apology in his voice. “The stairs are original. They’re a death trap.”
“I’ll risk it.”
He went first, his body a shield between her and the steep drop. The stairwell was cool and smelled, indeed, of stone, damp wool, and a faint, ghostly sweetness. Their footsteps echoed. With each turn, the city sounds fell away, replaced by the sound of their breathing. She focused on the back of his coat, the shifting muscles beneath.
On the final landing, a single, solid door waited, painted a deep slate blue. He unlocked it, pushed it open, and stood back to let her enter first. “Welcome to the bakery.”
Roz stepped past him, over the actual threshold. The space was not what she’d imagined for a rugby star. It was one large, open room with a vaulted ceiling where ancient wooden beams were exposed. The walls were white, and were not adorned with framed jerseys or trophies, but with architectural prints and a large, detailed map of Edinburgh. One entire wall was books. A sleek, modern kitchen lined another. It was orderly, intelligent, and quiet.
“Ally, this is…” She turned, words failing.
“A bit serious?” He closed the door, the click final. He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on a single hook. “It’s just me. I like things that make sense.”
“It’s perfect.”
He stood by the door, suddenly still, as if unsure of the protocol now that she was inside his territory. The confident man from the bar was gone again, replaced by the one who’d admitted to rehearsing. The distance across the wide-plank floor seemed vast.
“Can I take your coat?” he asked.
She nodded, slipping it off. He crossed the room, took it, and his fingers brushed her shoulder. A simple static shock jumped between them. They both flinched, then laughed, the tension snapping.
“See? Death trap stairs, electrically charged doorways. It’s a liability.”
“I feel warned.” She hugged her arms, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of being alone with him here. Her eyes landed on a drafting table by the window, covered in schematics. “Is that your door science?”
He followed her gaze. “A current project. Reinventing a fire door for a library to make it less… institutional. It’s not going well.”
She walked toward it, drawn by the precision of his lines, the careful notes in the margins. It was a window into his mind—methodical, creative, striving for better function. She felt him come up behind her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel his warmth.
“Roz.” Her name was just a breath.
She turned. He was right there. The playful hesitation from the street was gone, burned away by the quiet privacy of this room. His gaze was utterly direct, tracing her features as if committing them to memory. He raised a hand, slowly, and tucked the same strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering on her jawline.
All the careful conversations, the shared wine, the metaphorical doors, condensed into this single point of contact. Months of waiting, of brief, tentative kisses and stolen hand-holding, seemed to dissolve into the air between them. The blueprint was gone. There was only the reality of his calloused thumb on her skin, the question in his eyes, and the answer thrumming in her veins.
He leaned in, and this time, he didn’t stop.