Peter Dunham was supposed to be dead.

That’s what half of Millwall believed, anyway. What actually happened was worse — months in hospital, scars that pulled when it rained, and a long, quiet recovery that forced him to sit still for the first time in his life. Nearly killed him in a different way.

A year later, London moved on.

Pete did too — just slower.

He was back teaching now. History in the mornings, P.E. in the afternoons. Same kids, same routines, same voice barking order across a school field like it wasn’t the same voice that once led men into fights that ended with blood on concrete. The firm was quieter. Smaller. Trust tighter. Bovver kept his distance — smart move.

Steve was alive, healing, but gone. Boston. Wife and kid safe an ocean away. Pete didn’t blame him. He understood settling down now. Finally.

Life had settled into something almost peaceful.

Almost.

That was when the house across the street sold.

Pete didn’t clock it straight away. He knew everyone on the road — every dog, every car, every face. Then suddenly there was someone who didn’t belong to the pattern. Dressed all in dark colours — not sloppy, not costume, just… deliberate. Victorian lines, long skirts or coats, lace sometimes. The lightest thing she wore was deep red or forest green.

Goth, if you had to label it.

She stood out. Not loud — just unmistakably new.

He started seeing her everywhere. At the corner shop. The café. She never stared at him the way strangers usually did. Never flinched. Never whispered.

That alone made him curious.

The first time he spoke to her wasn’t planned. He’d just pulled up outside his place, engine ticking, when he saw her halfway down the pavement, struggling with bags. Pete rolled the window down without thinking.

“Y’alright?” he called. “Want a lift?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged and got in.

They talked. About nothing, then something. She was surprised he taught history — properly surprised — and actually listened when he talked about it. He found himself laughing more than he meant to. When she got out of the car, she thanked him like she meant it.

After that, it became a habit.

Rides. Walks home. Little acts of help disguised as coincidence. Pete didn’t push. Didn’t rush. He was older now. Smarter about things that mattered. And when he finally asked her out — properly, no jokes — she said no.

Said she was messed up. Avoidant. Not easy to love.

Pete didn’t argue. Didn’t sweet-talk. Just looked at her and said, quiet and honest, “We can try, yeah? If that’s the only problem.”