If Only (GxG)

Chapter 32 Mum

A/N
🎶Babylon by David Grey🎶

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

Blake sat at the kitchen counter, her elbow resting lightly on the smooth surface, a glass of red wine in hand. Her gaze lingered on me as I moved around the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, focused on the simmering pot on the stove.

The flat was unusually quiet. With my flatmates out for the evening, there was no background chaos—no Ron theatrically narrating a film, no Ivy humming as she knitted, no George rummaging through the fridge for pickles. Just the soft hum of the radio, the occasional sizzle of food cooking, and the gentle rhythm of our breathing filling the space.

It was rare we got time like this in my flat. Just us. No eyes watching. No clocks ticking down.

Just peace.

And yet, that same quiet hummed with something else too—something settled. Steady. Like the soft exhale after a long-held breath. Ever since we'd returned from the Cotswolds, something between us had shifted. Deepened. There was a quiet confidence in the way Blake touched me now, the way I leaned into her without thinking. A silent understanding that whatever this was between us, it wasn't fleeting. It was solid. Tangible. Ours.

And that made me happy in a way that scared me a little. The kind of happy that made you ache, just in case it disappeared.

Blake sighed, tilting her head slightly as she watched me chop vegetables with quiet interest.

"You're adorable when you're serious," she murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.

I glanced over my shoulder, arching a brow. "Serious?"

She smirked, setting her glass down. "Completely. Your little forehead crease is very endearing."

I huffed, rolling my eyes as I returned my attention to the pan. "Well, if I poison you, it'll be because you distracted me."

Blake chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "Darling, if this is how I go, I'll die happy."

I tried not to smile, but it tugged at the corners of my mouth anyway.

The kitchen smelled incredible—the rich aroma of garlic, rosemary, and a hint of lemon in the sauce filling the warm air. The steam curled upward from the pot, fogging the window above the sink. The kind of domestic, slow evening I used to imagine when I thought about what being safe might feel like.

I liked cooking. Not just for myself, but for the people I loved. I always had.

Blake watched me for another moment, then spoke—quieter this time. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

I shrugged, glancing at her. "I like taking care of you."

Blake was still for a long beat. Then, gently: "I've noticed."

Something in her voice made me pause. That quiet reverence again. That note in her tone I'd first heard over Christmas—when she'd looked at me like she was seeing something she hadn't dared to hope for. Not fully.

The Cotswolds had done something to us. Or maybe revealed something that had always been there. Those quiet mornings, the snow-dusted hills, the way she had kissed me like she had all the time in the world. The way I'd memorised her laugh under wool blankets and candlelight. The way she'd reached for my hand, always.