I don't even remember how we got to the crowded pub. One moment I was talking to Anzette on the phone, arranging for her to stay over at my mum's, and the next I was stepping out of the cab, my brain having shut down completely somewhere along the way. My mind had been consumed with a single thought: she's going to be there. And not just she, but he too. The combination had reduced me to a bundle of nerves disguised as a functioning adult.

Elizabeth, who must have sensed my spiral, looped her arm through mine as we reached the weather-worn wooden entrance. She turned to me with that wide, carefree grin of hers—the kind that always managed to pull me back from the edge.

"Let's go celebrate beating Peter's ass. AGAIN!" she announced, practically bouncing on her heels. "You deserve this. Stop overthinking."

Easier said than done.

She pushed the door open, and we were instantly swallowed by the clash of electric guitar riffs from a modest DJ booth tucked in the corner. The pulsing beat reverberated through my chest like a second heartbeat.

"Just be you and you'll be fine!" she shouted over the music, her voice clear even as her words were nearly drowned by the bass. Her hand stayed firm on my back as she guided me through the bustling crowd.

For a moment, all I could feel was gratitude. Gratitude for her loyalty, for never giving up on me, even when I'd managed to do that to myself more times than I could count. Friends like her were once-in-a-lifetime finds. My anchor and my occasional shove in the right direction.

We made our way deeper into the packed space, the smell of spilled beer, warm bodies, and sticky wood floors invading my senses. I spotted a few familiar faces from campus milling about, but then—

"Mrs. Cameron, YOU ROCK!" a voice rang out above the music.

"Mrs. Cameron, over here! I saved you a spot!" another yelled.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded. A sea of bright-eyed students swarmed around me, their cheers and pats on the back nearly making me forget my nerves. Nearly.

I couldn't stop smiling. Their excitement was infectious. I shook hands, exchanged hugs, high-fived and congratulated them once again, all while the DJ mixed some indie rock track that blurred with the sound of my own voice. Despite the chaos, it felt like I belonged here. That meant more than they could possibly know.

Someone shoved a cold beer into my hand—Smith or Jones, maybe both—and I took a sip gratefully as I made my escape toward the bar. Liz was already perched next to Niall, who looked up at me with a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Welcome to the jungle," he said, raising his drink in my direction.

"Oh God, it's chaos in here," I exhaled. "Is it always this crowded?"

"It's Friday, Ashley," Liz said, laughing like it was obvious. "Of course it is."

I was nodding when it happened—the flicker of recognition. My eyes caught him across the pub, just a few tables away. Harry. He was sitting back in his chair, casual in a dark button-down, a glass of something amber resting lazily in his hand. Probably whiskey. His gaze was already on me. Had it been the entire time?

He didn't look away.

He brought the glass to his lips, his stare still locked with mine. And suddenly, the entire room fell away—noise, lights, people—gone. Just him. And me. And all the history pulsing silently between us.

"Go say hi," Niall nudged me with his elbow.

"I... Is—" My voice faltered, catching on the edge of the question I didn't want to finish.

"His mum's here," Niall said casually, like it wasn't earth-shattering news. "She's been dying to meet you."

My breath caught.

"There she is," he added, pointing toward a woman walking across the floor back toward Harry's table. Tall. Elegant. Long black hair. She had the same features, the same poise. The resemblance was unmistakable.

"Looks like she just popped off to the loo," he added, far too amused by my expression.

"Go. Go!" Niall encouraged again.

"Yeah, sure," I muttered before chugging half the beer in one go. Liquid courage. Why not?

I handed the bottle off to Liz, who offered no resistance, just a raised eyebrow and a small, knowing smirk.

With trembling fingers, I adjusted my scarf, gave my hair a little tousle, and exhaled as if preparing for battle. I could do this. Just a quick hello. Two minutes, tops. Shake hands. Smile. Run.

I took a step toward their table. Then another. Each one felt heavier than the last, like I was walking through water.

He saw me coming. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes lit up—familiar, warm, and dangerously unreadable. He leaned in and murmured something to his mother, who turned to look at me with a kind smile.

Here we go.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it echoed through the entire pub. I gave them my best composed-professor smile, though I suspected it looked more like deer in headlights meets awkward auntie.

"Hi... I hope I'm not interrupting," I said, voice steady but quieter than I'd like.

Harry just smiled.

Showtime.

Turning to his mother, who is now giving me a thorough once-over—the kind of look only a mother can give, not rude, just... assessing—Harry says calmly, "Mum, this is Ashley. My good friend. And my professor."

His choice of words—friend—is both comforting and cruel. I offer my hand anyway, determined to keep it together.

"Ashley, this is my mum, Anne. Anne Twist."

"Oh! Mrs. Cameron, right?" she says brightly, grasping my hand with surprising warmth. "For a moment I thought you were one of the fans coming for an autograph, but then I recognised you from the debate." She laughs lightly.

I feel my cheeks flush instantly. The idea that I could be mistaken for a fan standing at his table, in this context, is almost unbearable.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Twist," I say, voice steady, hand poised in a firm shake. I'm channeling the version of myself who has it all together. She's not here tonight, but I'm doing a great impersonation.

"Oh, love, call me Anne. You're the only one here who's even remotely my age—let's skip the formalities, shall we?" she says, reaching for her glass of wine with an easy grin.

The words hit me square in the chest, a soft punch wrapped in silk. I see Harry glance sharply at her, clearly uncomfortable, but she's already moved on, blissfully unaware of the minor emotional apocalypse she's just triggered.

"Anne it is," I say with a smile that feels a little too tight at the corners.

"Come, join us. What are you drinking? Harry'll get it, won't you darling?" Her smile is radiant, her dimples mirroring her son's, and I want so badly to believe this could just be a normal evening.

"I'll have what you're having," I reply, hoping it's strong enough to take the edge off the awkwardness boiling inside me.

A couple of minutes later, Harry hands me a glass of wine. I take a sip, then a gulp. My throat is parched from anxiety more than thirst. I force myself to focus on the rest of the pub—students dancing, laughing, celebrating. The kind of joyful chaos I used to envy before I had the chance to teach them, before I started caring deeply for each and every one of them.

And then I spot her. Rebecca.

She comes bouncing toward us with a kind of effortless beauty I've always admired in other women. Her long blonde hair bounces with each step, and she's got that glow—the one that comes from youth, from possibility, from never having buried a spouse or raised a child alone.

"Mrs. Cameron, we were awesome today, weren't we?" she beams, her excitement infectious despite the tight knot forming in my stomach.

"Yes, you were, sweetie," I tell her, managing to sound like the supportive professor I used to be, before feelings muddled the picture.

She leans in to hug me, then turns to Harry and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Harry, for all your help. All those nights practising, the notes, the advice—you're incredible."

I watch him hug her back without hesitation, and suddenly the room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in. The air thickens. I feel something tighten inside my chest.

It's innocent. Lovely, even. I would think so under any other circumstances. But not here. Not now.

Something clenches in my gut—envy, regret, longing, guilt—all dressed up in a neat cocktail called Get Over It, Ashley.

I am petty. And jealous. And petty. And so jealous.

"Harry needs someone like Rebecca," Anne chimes in, as if she's been reading the bullet points of my spiraling thoughts. "Someone grounded. Not starstruck. Someone who understands the madness of his life. Don't you think, Ashley?"

Harry immediately turns to her. "Mum—"

"Oh, hush," she waves him off like he's six. "Ashley knows I'm right. She's a psychologist. She gets it. All those models and actresses running after you—they're not good for you, Harry."

I nearly choke on my wine. This woman is unknowingly eviscerating me.

"And what about you, Ashley?" she goes on cheerfully. "Are you married?"

I take a breath. "I used to be, yeah." I glance down at my glass, willing it to swallow me whole.

"Oh? Divorced then? Do you have children?" she presses on, completely unaware that she's walked into minefield territory.

Harry shoots her a warning look. "Mum, seriously—"

But I stop him with a hand on his arm, gentle but firm. "It's okay," I say softly.

"My husband passed away five years ago. And yes, I have a daughter. A teenager."

Anne's face softens immediately. "Oh, love, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," I nod, keeping my voice even, even as my grip on the wine glass tightens.

"You'll understand then," she says, trying to pivot. "What it's like to live with raging teens." She laughs, oblivious.

"Mum, enough. I'm not a kid," Harry says through gritted teeth. His eyes are sharp now, his jaw set. She's hit a nerve—not just his, but mine too. She doesn't know, can't know, how every innocent comment is hitting just the wrong chord.

"I'm sorry," Anne says, blinking. "Was I—was I too forward?"

"No, not at all," I lie, pulling on a smile like it's a coat that no longer fits.

But before I can speak again, a familiar voice cuts through the hum of music and laughter.

"There you are!"

I turn—and for once in my life, I'm genuinely happy to see Simon Peters standing there, holding two beers like he's walked into the wrong episode of This Is Your Emotional Breakdown.

"Hello, everyone," Simon says, his gaze doing a quick sweep—Harry, Anne—and finally landing on me, his eyes lingering longer than they should.

"Simon, you made it!" I say with a strained smile. The presence of Anne Twist makes it harder to tell whether I'm pretending... or genuinely relieved.

"I wouldn't miss this, Ashley," he replies, a little too warmly, and I feel my stomach clench.

He glances around the pub before adding with a chuckle, "I spotted some of your students—and mine—at the back. Most of them are already drunk."

"A couple of them hugged me, one was crying, and another called me an asshole."

"Oh my God!" Anne exclaims, a hand flying to cover her mouth, clearly amused.

I seize the moment. "Simon, this is Anne Twist—Harry's mom." The introduction is effortless, automatic. But I welcome the distraction more than she probably realizes.

"Lovely to meet you," he says, reaching for her hand with that polished charm he reserves for women he'd like to impress. "Simon Peters. Sociology."

"Nice to meet you too," Anne smiles, her tone light. "Did someone really call you that?"

Simon grins. "Yep. Right after trying to dance with me. I'm still not sure if it was a compliment or a critique."

"Aren't they worried about grades?" she teases, eyes sparkling.

"Oh, I probably deserved it," Simon says with an easy shrug, then turns to me, his full attention narrowing in again. He steps slightly closer, his posture subtly invasive. I stiffen.

"What are you drinking, Professor?" Harry cuts in smoothly, the words polite but edged in steel. He doesn't even look at Simon.

"It's fine, Harry. I'll get it," Simon answers before I can speak. "Anyone else?"

We all shake our heads and murmur our no-thank-yous, but there's an underlying tension now. I suddenly feel like I'm standing in a boxing ring where no one's wearing gloves—and I'm the prize. I need to escape. Fast.

I scan the bar, hoping to catch sight of Liz and Niall. Allies. Sanity.

But before I can plot my exit, Anne turns to me.

"Is he your boyfriend?" she asks, sweetly oblivious, taking another sip of her wine.

"Mom, seriously?" Harry cuts in, his glare sharp enough to slice through the air. "Can you not interrogate people like that?"

"I just thought—" she trails off, startled by his tone.

"It's okay," I assure her gently. "No, Anne. He's not my boyfriend. Simon's a colleague. A friend."

Harry runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. "You can't just go asking people personal questions like we're in a bingo hall or back at the church bake sale."

"Harry, it's fine," I interject, reaching out to place my hand over Anne's. "I know she didn't mean anything by it."

Anne looks visibly relieved, and I feel a pang of sympathy. She's just trying. And I'm standing here like a bundle of nerves dressed in a scarf and good intentions.

"Actually," I say, straightening, "let's get this out of the way."

Both Anne and Harry blink, confused.

"I'm thirty-nine. I'm 1.72 metres tall. I weigh 58 kilos. I make a good salary, live with my daughter, and drive a BMW X1." I take a sip of wine for dramatic effect. "So if there's anything else you'd like to know, Anne, now's the time."

For a beat, she stares at me. Then she bursts out laughing, deep and genuine.

"Oh, God bless you, girl," she laughs, wiping under her eyes. "I like you."

I laugh, too. The air finally feels lighter. The tension that's been sitting in my chest releases, if only slightly.

Right on cue, Simon returns with a glass of wine, handing it to me like we're in some kind of Jane Austen adaptation.

"Here you go, Ash," he says softly, a little possessively, like he's laying claim to something.

Anne raises her brow, then looks at me with a sly wink. "Friends, huh?"

I take the glass with a nod and a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Harry's jaw is tight. His hands are stuffed in his pockets now, and he's staring a hole into the floor.

"I should go find Liz," I say, pivoting. "It was lovely meeting you, Anne. Truly. You raised a good one."

I lean in and hug her. It's warm and sincere. I want her to feel that.

She hugs me back and whispers, "I hope we meet again. You're sweet."

I pull away with a smile. I'm not sure I'll ever hear those words again if she learns the truth, but for now, they feel good. For now, they mean something.

I catch Harry's eyes just before I go. There's something unreadable in them—frustration, maybe. Longing. A question that won't be asked.

But I offer him a quiet smile and walk away.

"Simon," I say over my shoulder, "Want to join me at Liz's table?"

He nods, and we move away from Harry, Anne, and Rebecca—who's just reappeared with Sam, sliding comfortably into the seat beside Harry like she belongs there.

Maybe she does.

And maybe things are exactly how they're supposed to be.