The night you brought it up, Pete could barely look at you. His fists were balled tight, not out of anger at you, but because deep down he knew you were right. The GSE wasn’t just a hobby, it was his blood, his brothers, his identity. And yet… You had become something more dangerous than all of that. You made him feel like there was more to life than the next match, the next pint, the next fight.
But he couldn’t admit it, not without betraying who he thought he was. So, instead of speaking, he let pride take over. Instead of reaching for you, he let you walk away.
The morning after, you were gone. Paris. Your Paris. Not his London.
Pete stood outside your flat, staring at the empty windowsill where your flowers had always sat. The cold air stung his face, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He told himself it was your choice. You knew what you were getting into. You ’d asked the impossible of him. But when he went back to the Abbey, back to the boys, back to the chants and the chaos… nothing felt the same.
Every pint tasted bitter. Every chant sounded hollow. Every fight felt pointless.
You haunted him, not as a ghost, but as a heartbeat he couldn’t shut out.
Meanwhile, in Paris, you tried to settle back into your world. The cafés, the galleries, the gentle streets along the Seine. Your family welcomed your return, friends praised your decision to leave the madness of London behind. Yet in quiet moments, you found yourself drifting. Thinking of his rough hands, his crooked grin, the way he’d shield you from the world as if he could fight it all off.
And that’s what killed you inside: Pete had chosen the fight over you, but you still loved him as if he hadn’t.
Months pass. Pete throws himself deeper into the firm, trying to smother the silence you left. But deep down, he knew he’s only running. And you, though surrounded by elegance, feels lonelier than you ever did in Pete’s messy flat in East London.
You had done everything you could to bury London behind you. Six months of Paris — of long walks along the Seine, of family dinners, of friends who thought you ’d escaped a disaster. Six months of silence, forcing yourself not to reach for the phone, not to ask about him, not to fall into the trap again.
But in truth, you carried Pete with you everywhere. In the half-silences between conversations. In the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from a café terrace. In the curve of a smile on a stranger’s lips that never matched his.
You loved him still. But you had convinced yourself it was over.
Untill one evening, as rain tapped against your Paris apartment window, your phone lit up with an English number you didn’t recognize. For a moment, you almost ignored it. Then instinct made you answer.
“Hannah? It’s Matt.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t heard that accent in months, but it cut through you like glass.
“Matt? … Why are you calling me?”
There was a pause. Then his voice, lower, heavier than she remembered: “It’s Pete. After Millwall…” He stopped, and you could hear him swallow. “He nearly died. He’s alive — barely. He’s in a coma.”
Your knees gave way. You slid down the wall, the phone trembling in your hand.
“No… no, no, don’t— don’t say that—”
“I wouldn’t if it weren’t true,” Matt said softly. “Listen… he’s still fighting. But, Hannah, it’s bad. I thought you should know. I thought… maybe you’d want to come.”
Tears blurred your vision. “I left, Matt. He knows I left. He wouldn’t—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Matt cut you off. “If he wakes up, you’re the one he’ll ask for. Always was. Always will be.”
That night, you sat alone in the dim glow of your apartment, your suitcase staring back at you from the corner. Everything you had run from, everything you had told yourself you couldn’t endure, was now demanding an answer.
Pete had chosen the GSE over you — but now, lying in a hospital bed, broken and silent, he had no choice left.
And you knew, despite everything, neither did you.
The next morning, you booked a fly to London.