**Unshaken**
After the divorce and splitting the flat, Emily had to move to the outskirts of London. She ended up with a two-bedroom flat that hadn’t seen so much as a lick of paint in years—or at least, that was her first impression. But she wasn’t the sort to be easily rattled. Years with a controlling husband had toughened her up.
Before settling on this place, she’d sifted through dozens of flats, all far too pricey. This one, though, suited her budget.
“Gran used to live here,” the cheerful young estate agent told her. “Mum and Dad moved her in with them—she’s poorly now—so they’re selling. Bit out of the way for me, honestly. Besides, Dad’s promised to chip in so I can get a place closer to them.”
Emily studied the girl, who carried on:
“I know it needs work, but take it or leave it—price is negotiable.”
And so, Emily bought the flat, desperate for a fresh start. One perk: her office was only three tram stops away, cutting her commute to forty minutes.
James, her ex, had been a tyrant. She’d realised it too late—five years into the marriage, after their son was born. The thought of leaving had come after yet another row. Emily was a homemaker at heart: cosy, orderly. But when James came home drunk, plates flew, vases shattered, clothes were strewn everywhere.
“What are you sitting around for? Clean this up!” he’d roar when his tantrums ended.
He loved watching her scurry about, tidying up—and the flat wasn’t small. He’d bought the neighbouring unit years ago, knocking through to make it a decent size. Emily had made it warm, kept it spotless, cooked with love. But his rages became unbearable. At least he’d never hit her—yet.
At first, they were rare. Then, as years passed, they worsened. When their son left for university in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. It was messy, but now she was free—and determined James wouldn’t find her new place. The payout covered the flat and left just enough for renovations. She booked two weeks off work to get it done.
“I’ll manage most of it myself. Plumbing’s decent—looks like it was redone recently. Wallpaper, a bit of paint, I can handle. Might hire a handyman for the rest. Definitely need a false ceiling first,” she muttered, eyeing the peeling plaster above.
She found a ceiling specialist quickly, and within days it was done. She bought wallpaper, paste, and got to work—after all, it was for her. Her mate Sarah helped with the papering. When they finished, both beamed.
“Bloody hell, Em, it’s lovely now! So bright and tidy. Just the floors left—get some light laminate down. I’ll ask my Dave, he’s handy with that. Did ours himself, saved a fortune.”
“Oh, brilliant! But first, I’ve got to paint the radiators. They’re an eyesore—I’ll match them to the walls.”
“Right, I’m off. We’ll celebrate properly once it’s all done!” Sarah laughed.
A small hardware shop stood nearby, though Emily hadn’t bothered before. But paint was paint—no need to trek to a big store. Inside, the lighting was dim.
“Cheaping out on bulbs,” she thought.
Behind the counter, a man bent over a tin, stirring methodically.
“Hello,” Emily said. He looked up.
Her breath caught. Fair hair, blue eyes—handsome, like some actor. Even in the bad light, she saw him clearly. And suddenly, her earlier thought—*What could this neighbourhood possibly offer me?*—felt laughable.
“Hello,” he replied. “Need something?”
“Paint—something ivory?”
“What kind? Enamel, oil-based…”
“Oh, I’m not sure.”
He guided her to the shelves, pointing out tins. “This one’s for wood, that’s best for pipes…”
“I need to do radiators,” Emily said.
He handed her a tin. She paid and bolted. Climbing the stairs, she scolded herself—*Why didn’t I talk to him properly? God, I always freeze up.*
She daydreamed about asking him to help with the radiators, but brushed it off. Instead, she threw herself into painting, finishing by evening.
On the kitchen fold-out bed (her makeshift digs during renovations), she left the window wide open. “It’s nice out here at night—quiet, not like central,” she mused, drifting off. “Just the kitchen left tomorrow.”
Come morning, she grabbed her brush—only to find it rock-hard. She’d left it out, forgotten.
“Back to the shop, then,” she sighed, secretly pleased.
He was there.
“How can I help?” Polite, detached.
*He doesn’t remember me.* Suddenly, she blurted, “Why’s it so dark in here? Hard to see anything.”
“Just ask. I’ll explain whatever you need,” he said evenly.
“My brush dried out.”
“Get some linseed oil.” Same flat tone.
She paid and left, deflated.
*He’s polite, but icy. Doesn’t matter—he’ll warm up. I’ll be back.* She refused to entertain the thought he might be married. He *felt* single—early forties, like her.
Day three, she marched in grinning.
“Hello again! Practically a regular now,” she joked.
“How can I help?”
“Two hundred-watt bulbs,” she said. His flat response deflated her. She paid and left.
*What is wrong with him? I rehearsed that!*
Day four, she bounced in.
“Hi! Remember me?” Not letting him answer, she rushed, “I’ll be in and out—doing up my place solo. Fancy introducing yourself? I’m Emily.”
“Daniel,” he said calmly. “What do you need?”
“A putty knife.”
He showed her options, explained each patiently. She paid and left, wounded.
*Maybe I’m not his type.* (Though she knew she was pretty, capable—great cook, even had a first-class degree.) *But Daniel… he feels right.*
Next day, she tried again.
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Hello.”
“A paint roller, please.” She paid and fled.
*Sod him. I’m done.*
Her fortnight ended. The flat shone. She and Sarah arranged to meet at a café to celebrate.
“Let’s just go out—Dave wants to come too, since he did your floors,” Sarah said. “Anyway, how’s the blue-eyed shop bloke?”
“Nothing. Haven’t been in a week.”
“Give up too easy! Slow and steady, Em. He’s a man, not a brick wall.”
“Yeah, well, he’s probably married. Men like that don’t stay single.”
Saturday evening, trudging back from Tesco, she heard—
“Emily.”
She turned. Daniel stood there, awkward.
“You… you haven’t been in. I’ve walked past a few times, hoping…” His voice shook. “Why’d you stop coming?”
She brightened. “Hi! Finished the renovations. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh. I thought… Could I see it?” He scuffed his shoe. “Unless you just wanted help…”
She laughed. “Not just help. *You.*”
His eyes lit up. He laughed too, warmth flooding his gaze. Her pulse skipped.
“Christ, I was scared to ask—thought you might be married. Then I remembered you saying no one could help with the flat…” He rubbed his neck. “Glad I caught you. Was afraid I’d never see you again.”
Her heart raced. She wanted him—steady, gentle, *solid*—beside her. Always.
**Lesson learnt:** Sometimes the quiet ones are worth the wait.
