James Caldwell loved his balcony. Especially on Friday mornings, when the city below him was still grinding through the last working hours, and he—a free and successful banking manager—was already dreaming of the weekend. The air smelled of rain from the night before and the sweet scent of blooming hawthorns. James took a sip of his cooling coffee and glanced at the neatly stacked fishing gear in the corner. A brand-new rod, a shiny reel, a tackle box full of lures—his pride and joy.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Mum.
“Yeah, hi, Mum,” he answered, smiling.
“Jamie, are you stopping by today? I made your favourite—sausage rolls.”
“Course I am. Just for a bit, though. The lads and I are heading up to the cottage by the lake.”
“Fishing again?” Helen Caldwell’s voice held that familiar mix of warmth and gentle reproach. “Why don’t you bring a girl along for once? You’re thirty-two, love.”
“Mum, not this again. I’ve told you—it’ll happen when it happens. Alright, gotta go, see you soon.”
He hung up and sighed. This “fishing trip” was a sacred tradition with his mates. Paul’s cottage by the lake, barbecues, a pint at the local pub, and long talks by the fire. Paul and Greg, his best mates since uni, had long been settled—Paul with his little girl, Greg expecting his first. And every time, their “lads’ weekend” started the same way.
“So, last bachelor standing, ready to surrender?” Greg winked as they loaded bags into James’s Range Rover.
“Our lone wolf still fighting the shackles of matrimony,” Paul chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Scared off every eligible girl in London.”
James just smirked. He wasn’t fighting it. He was waiting.
“I’ll marry, lads, but only for real love,” he said seriously as they left the city behind. “The kind where you just *know*. Where you’re two halves of the same whole.”
“Bloody hell, mate, you’re a hopeless romantic,” Greg drawled from the back seat. “That doesn’t exist outside fairy tales. There’s no such thing as ‘the one.’”
“I think there is,” James said stubbornly, eyes on the road ahead.
***
At the cottage, after a few pints and the first round of burgers, the debate flared up again. A few local girls walking past their garden fence glanced their way, giggling.
“Let’s test your theory, eh?” Paul said slyly. “Game of chicken. First one to blink or look away from a pretty lass loses.”
“What’s the forfeit?” James took the bait.
“The loser,” Greg rubbed his hands, “drives to the motorway and proposes to the first woman he sees selling flowers. Right there on the spot.”
James was confident. But whether it was the beer or the sun, he lost. When a tall brunette passed by, catching his eye, he grinned—then looked away. His mates howled with laughter.
A bet was a bet. Half an hour later, they were cruising down the motorway. James’s heart pounded with a mix of shame and stupid adrenaline. A few miles from the village, they spotted a lone figure at a roadside stall—a small woman in a simple floral dress, a scarf tied low over her head, barely showing her face.
“Go on then, groom,” his friends nudged him.
James stepped out and approached. The woman looked up—terrified but clear blue eyes. He noticed her hands, scarred badly from burns. When he greeted her, she didn’t speak—just pulled out a notepad and wrote:
*”What do you want?”*
James faltered. His rehearsed joke vanished. She was so small, so silent. He felt like a right prat.
“Sorry for the stupid question,” he said softly. “I lost a bet. And now I… I have to propose to you.”
He expected anger, tears, scorn. But she just froze—then nodded. Slowly. James blinked. She wrote: *”I accept.”* Then handed him an address.
The next day, guilt-ridden, James went to the tiny terraced house on the edge of the village. An elderly woman—stern but sharp-eyed—sat knitting by the gate.
“You’re here for Lily?” she said bluntly.
“Yeah. I’m James.”
“I’m Margaret, her gran. What’s your game, son? She came home shaken yesterday.”
James sat, shame burning his ears. “I acted like an idiot. We made a bet—”
Margaret sighed. “City boys. Life’s a joke to you. Not to her. You saw her hands? From a fire. Lost her parents. I pulled her out. Face burned too… and her voice went. Shock. Hasn’t spoken since.”
Then Lily appeared, clutching that notepad.
James stood. “I came to apologise. And… if you haven’t changed your mind, I’ll do it. It’d be just on paper, of course. A quick marriage, then divorce. I’ll help you however I can.”
He didn’t even know why he was saying it. Something about her—her quiet strength, her fragility—got to him.
Lily scribbled, showed Margaret—who studied it, then said gruffly:
“Fine. But one rule, lad. Hurt her, and you’ll answer to me.”
***
The registry office was quick. Just them, his mates as witnesses, and Lily in a cream dress, face hidden under a veil. When they were pronounced husband and wife, James lifted the lace—kissed her softly. She trembled. And something in his chest *ached*.
No fancy reception—just a roast at Margaret’s. More warmth than any Mayfair restaurant.
That night, saying goodbye, Lily smiled at him—*with her eyes*. Blue and bright. James suddenly didn’t want to leave.
***
Back in his empty London flat, James couldn’t sleep. He paced, replaying it all—guilt, shame, an odd tenderness. Next morning, he went to his mum.
Helen listened, silent, then said:
“You made this mess. Now be a man. You gave her hope. You can’t leave her there. Go get your wife.”
***
He did. Margaret relented when she saw Lily’s face light up at the sight of him.
When they were alone, Lily did something unexpected—removed her scarf, unbuttoned her collar. Revealed the scars. Nervous.
James didn’t flinch. Just kissed her forehead, gently, above the worst scar. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Meeting his mum went better than he’d hoped. Helen hugged Lily like a daughter.
“We’ll fix this, love. Best doctors. You’ll speak again, you’ll see.”
Dinner that night—just the three of them. Watching Lily smile shyly at his mum, James realised: she finally felt part of a family. *His* family.
***
Months of treatment followed. Skin grafts, therapy. Her scars faded. But her voice stayed locked away—until one day, in labour with their son, she *screamed*.
“*Mum!*”
First words in years. Then, crying, she whispered:
“James… I love you.”
He wept in the hospital corridor.
***
A year later, their flat was full—baby Arthur asleep, Lily chatting nonstop in the kitchen, his mum fussing, Margaret knitting tiny booties.
James stepped onto the balcony where it all began. The city glittered below. Life was unpredictable. He’d found love where he least expected—on a motorway, in a stupid bet. In a silent, scarred girl.
Arms wrapped around him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Lily murmured.
He turned, kissed her. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
Her blue eyes shone. That storybook love he’d once talked about? It existed. You just had to *earn* it.
