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It had been on his mind for weeks, really. Longer, if he was honest. The bedsit had always been a holding pattern—somewhere to sleep, somewhere to wait. Thin walls, thin curtains, a single bar heater that smelt faintly of dust and damp resignation. Temporary. Everything about it was temporary.
Then someone had abandoned the Manchester Evening News on the canteen table, folded open at the property section, and Sam had found himself leafing through it while eating treacle tart, fork hovering as if the answer to his life might be wedged between a semi-detached in Stockport and a maisonette with “character features.”
And something had clicked.
So now he was sat in the smoky office, phone pressed to his ear, staring out at nothing in particular while one of the sons from Newman and Son talked at him in that cheerful, slightly patronising way estate agents perfected early.
“Would Saturday morning suit you, Mr Tyler?”
“Just a second—let me check,” Sam said automatically, pulling the receiver away and covering the mouthpiece with his hand.
“Annie!” he called, a little louder than necessary.
She was mid-page, perched at her desk, pencil tucked behind her ear. It took a moment for her to surface, eyes lifting slowly until they found him.
“Annie,” he repeated, urgency this time.
Her attention snapped fully into place, straight to him, and Sam felt that familiar, grounding pull in his chest. He couldn’t stop the smile that crept in at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you free Saturday morning?”
She blinked. “Yeah,” she said, puzzled. “Why?”
“Yeah, Saturday’d be great,” Sam said into the phone, back in the conversation now. “We’ll meet you there. Address? Hang on—” He rummaged through his desk, found a pen that worked on the third try. “Go ahead… right… yep, I know it. Ten o’clock. See you then.”
He replaced the receiver and looked up.
Annie was still watching him.
“Estate agents,” Sam said, nodding towards the phone.
Her brow furrowed slightly. Chris had turned in his chair too, openly nosy.
“I’ve got to get out of that bedsit,” Sam continued. “It’s…”
“Disgusting,” Annie supplied promptly, pulling a face.
“Well—yes,” he agreed, amused. “That. And also…” He trailed off, words suddenly inadequate. How did you explain wanting somewhere that didn’t feel like a pause button? Somewhere that didn’t echo?
“The bed’s too small,” Annie said lightly, eyes bright.
Sam laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Christ,” he muttered. Heat crept up his neck. “Yes. And the bed’s too small.”
Her eyes were dancing now. She liked that she’d caught him out.
“Nice one, Boss,” Chris chimed in, grinning before turning back to his paperwork.
Sam barely noticed. He and Annie were still holding each other’s gaze.
“I’d like your opinion,” Sam said quietly.
Her smile softened, became something warmer. Something steadier.
“Thanks for asking me,” she said.
“Always.”
And he meant it. When he glanced over a few minutes later—because he always did—she was back to her papers, a gentle smile still lingering, like she was carrying something with her.
He caught her later in the locker room, just as she was shutting her door. He checked the room out of habit—empty—then stepped in close, hands braced either side of her, metal cool beneath his palms.
She gasped softly. He hadn’t announced himself.
Sam leaned in, voice low, catching the warm, floral scent that was unmistakably Annie.
“So,” he murmured. “My bed’s too small, is it?”
She laughed, turning between his arms to face him. “It is,” she said, unapologetic.
Then she looked at him properly, and the humour shifted. His eyes had gone dark, intent, like he’d finally stopped holding something back.
Her breath hitched. He saw her lick her lips.
He kissed her before she could say anything.
They’d never done this at work—not really. Sam had drawn that line early, told himself it was about professionalism, about protecting her from the comments, the looks. Maybe it had been. Maybe it had also been fear. Because once he let himself cross certain lines, there was no pretending this was temporary.
But the thought of that bed—too small, shared, familiar—had been sitting under his skin all morning. And seeing her alone now, well. Resistance felt pointless.
When they finally broke apart, the silence was thick and humming.
Annie pressed her hand to his chest, creating a fraction of space. “And what do you always tell me about being professional at work?”
He shrugged. “I spent a long time trying to resist your charms. I’ve stopped bothering.”
She laughed, forehead resting against his. “You never looked like you were resisting.”
“I wasn’t snogging you against the lockers.”
“Did you want to?”
“Yes.”
She smiled at that. “So. Flat hunting?”
“House,” he corrected softly, surprising himself. He nodded, like saying it made it more real. “Small one. Not fancy.”
She nodded. “And closer to my place.”
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s a good thing,” she said quietly. “Somewhere you can call home.”
He looked at her. Really looked.
“I’ve had that for a while,” he said. “I’ve just decided to admit it.”
She slid her arms round him and he let himself stand there, solid, grounded, not waiting for anything to fall apart.
She pulled back and glanced at the clock.
“Come on. Before someone notices.”
She tugged him towards the door. He let go only long enough to hold it open for her, watching her walk back into the noise and smoke and mess of the station—his station.
Saturday morning came with weak winter sunshine and the smell of damp pavements. Manchester light — thin, but trying.
Sam stood on the pavement with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, collar turned up against the cold. He was early. Of course he was. He always was when something mattered.
The house was red brick, at the end of a short terrace, the kind of place that looked like it had been standing its ground for decades. A bay window at the front, net curtains inside — the sort Annie’s mum would approve of.
There was a little patch of garden too. Mostly concrete, but with the stubborn remains of something green clinging on by the gate.
Someone had once cared enough to plant it.
He hadn’t realised until now how much that mattered.
Annie came down the street a minute later, hair loose under her coat, cheeks pink from the cold. She spotted him and smiled — that easy, anchoring smile that always seemed to pull him back into himself.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning,” he replied, and it sounded steadier than he felt.
The estate agent — one of the Newman sons, Sam didn’t know which — turned up bang on ten, keys already in hand. The door stuck a little when he opened it.
Sam noticed.
He also noticed that he didn’t mind.
Inside, it smelled faintly of furniture polish and old radiators. The hallway was narrow but solid. No damp. No peeling paint. The carpet was a brownish-orange that could only belong to this decade, worn flat by years of feet going somewhere and coming back again.
He realised, with a jolt, that he was already imagining doing the same.
The front room caught the light. Not bright, exactly — but warm. Filtered through the bay window so it spread rather than glared. There was space for a sofa. A chair by the window. A telly in the corner if he wanted one.
Somewhere to sit that didn’t feel temporary.
Annie wandered slowly, hands clasped behind her back, taking it in.
“It’s got a nice feel,” she said eventually.
That did something to him. It always did when she said things like that — not dramatic, not forced. Just true.
The kitchen was bigger than his bedsit by a country mile. A proper table could fit in here. Two chairs. Maybe more — but he didn’t let himself go that far.
Not yet.
The idea hovered at the edge of his thoughts, like something half-seen.
Upstairs there were two bedrooms. One was small and boxy, probably meant for a kid once. The other was bigger, with a window that looked out over the back alley and the tops of neighbouring houses. Chimney pots.
Sky.
Sam stood in the doorway longer than necessary.
This room could hold more than a bed. That was what got him. Not the space itself — but the possibility of it.
Annie caught his eye, and for a second there was something unspoken between them. Not a plan. Not a promise. Just an understanding that this place could grow into something, if it was given time.
Back downstairs, the Newman son talked rent and references, but Sam had already made his decision. He knew it in his bones — the same way he knew when a suspect was lying, or when Annie had had a long day and needed tea more than words.
Outside again, the agent headed off, leaving them on the pavement.
“So?” Annie asked, hands tucked into her coat sleeves.
Sam looked back at the house. The brickwork. The stubborn little garden. The light behind the net curtains.
“It’s very seventies,” he said.
She smiled. “You are too.”
He snorted quietly at that, then nodded.
“Yeah. And I’ve stopped trying to fight it.”
He hesitated, then added, softer, “Feels like somewhere I could stay.”
Annie’s expression shifted — gentler now. Settling, the way she always did when he edged closer to something real.
“Well,” she said, “that sounds like progress.”
He glanced at her — really looked. She’d always been the thing that steadied him, the constant in a world that never quite fit. But this was different. This was him choosing something solid. Something that didn’t vanish when he woke up.
There was room here.
Not just for furniture — but for time.
For her. Later. Around the corner. If he squinted.
And for once, that felt like enough.