Things went back to normal.

Miraculously, two weeks passed without incident: breakfast was made, the chore wheel was spun, and Peppa Pig stories were read. She and Ben spoke only in short sentences. At night, Ben slept on the farthest side of the bed, teetering so close to the edge that it was almost offensive. He never brought up what had passed between them on Boxing Day, and so Louise didn't mention it either.

Louise was relieved, irritated, and then became irritated that she was irritated. Who cared if Ben didn't seem to think about their almost-kiss? Who gave a toss if he acted like he was completely unphased?

She didn't care.

Not at all.

Not even today, Louise thought, when she was so close to a full-scale meltdown that she could scream.

"Is she hungry?" Ben suggested.

He was sitting on a chair in grey trackies, barefoot, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. Moonlight cupped his face with white hands. Louise bounced Vienna on her hip. The toddler let out an ear-shattering shriek, and Louise winced.

"I offered her grapes," Louise said. "She spat them out."

Ben ran a hand through his hair. "What about a book?"

"I tried that, too."

"Should we try taking her for a drive?"

"I don't know." Louise's voice was short. "I'm not an expert."

Ben held up his hands. "I'm just trying to help."

Louise glanced at her phone: two o'clock. In six hours, she'd need to be up and on her way to work. What was it today? Thursday? She closed her eyes. That meant it was Tom and Richard's tenth wedding anniversary, and she'd need to drive out to Sussex tonight to oversee the catering and set-up, and...

Vienna let out a shriek.

"Wait." Ben got to his feet. "I have an idea."

"Langford!"

Louise watched — a swell of anxiety pushing at her chest — as Ben strode from the room. There was the rattle of pots and pans, and then the sound of the fridge door opening. Five minutes later, Ben returned with a bottle. A brown bottle.

"Try this," he said.

Louise rubbed her eyes. "What is that?"

"Chocolate milk."

Louise stared. "You hate giving the kids sugar."

"Do you want the bottle," Ben asked, "or not?"

He held it out to her, the veins in his arms flexing. Shadows pooled under his eyes. Louise took the bottle, offering it to Vienna. The toddler took a sip and then shook her head, kicking the feet of her pink frog pajamas.

"Yucky!" She spat the milk. "Yucky!"

Louise closed her eyes.

Vienna was wriggling, her hot little hand fisting in Louise's pajama top. Louise brushed a dark curl out of the toddler's face, frowning slightly. Hang on. Her hand lingered, brushing lightly over Vienna's clammy forehead. Was that normal?

"Langford." Her voice was tight. "Come here."

Ben crossed the room. Louise took his hand, placing it on Vienna's neck. The toddler relaxed, leaning into her uncle's cool hand, and Ben's forehead creased.

"I'm going to get the thermometer," Ben murmured.

He returned with a white stick. Vienna was limp as Ben prodded her with the thermometer, and then there it was: 40 degrees Celsius.

Louise's stomach dropped. "Shit."

Ben's mouth was a line. "Get Vee in the car. I'll wake up Hugh."

Louise grabbed her bag, hurrying out to the driveway. Vienna's head lolled against her shoulder; one tiny fist was pressed against the side of her neck, hot as a branding iron. She buckled Vienna into her car seat. This was the part, Louise knew, when she was supposed to coo nonsensical words. Reassure Vienna that everything would be okay.

But how?

Louise climbed into the passenger seat, her heart racing. Shit. She had no idea how to deal with this sort of situation. None. Could you give a toddler Paracetamol? Did a fever qualify as a medical emergency?

The car door opened.

Ben helped Hugh into the back, and then swung into the driver's seat. His face was tight. Something was vibrating, and it took Louise a moment to realize that it was her, that she was shaking in her seat. Ben reached over.

"It'll be okay," he murmured.

Louise looked down at their hands — intertwined on the console — and swallowed.

"Drive carefully," she said.

"She has an ear infection," the doctor said.

They were sitting in a small room with an examination table, a sink, and a green poster on the wall reminding patients to sing "Happy Birthday" while washing their hands. Ben was holding a cup of coffee, rubbing at his eyes. Hugh was dozing on his lap. Louise — who was clutching Vienna to her chest — felt the rubber band inside her relax.

"She's okay?" Louise asked.

The doctor smiled. "She's okay."

Hot tears pricked at her eyes. "Thank-you."

Louise knew it was ridiculous. The doctor had poked around in Vienna's ear using a fancy-looking tool, not performed a life-saving surgery. But the doctor nodded, as if she'd seen it all before.

The woman scribbled something on a clipboard. "Your daughter needs antibiotics. I'm going to write you a prescription; you'll need to keep an eye on it, but it should clear up in two or three days."

"Thank-you," Ben said.

The doctor stopped writing. Gestured between them with a pen.

"New parents?" she asked.

Ben and Louise exchanged a look. To her surprise, Ben smiled.

"Sort of," he said.

They listened with rapt attention as the doctor rattled off a series of instructions; Ben jotted notes down on his phone, while Louise rocked Vienna. Ben thanked the doctor again, and then they took the prescription, backtracking to the car.

Dark clouds wreathed the house, blocking out the stars. They parked in the driveway, and Louise could see her frozen breath crystallizing in the air. They trekked up the stairs, a giant, stumbling orchestra of stomps. Vienna had fallen asleep in her arms, her head lolling against her chest, and Hugh crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Louise tucked Vienna into bed. Kissed her hot forehead.

"Tea?" Ben asked.

Louise nodded. "Please."

They went back down to the kitchen. The whistle of the kettle cut through the silence, shrill as cold wind off the sea. Louise sat at the island, her head in her hands, as Ben put two peppermint tea bags in chipped mugs. The relief was draining away, hot bathwater vanishing down a plughole, replaced by a terrible, hollow sensation.

"Bentley?" Ben asked.

He was looking at her in concern. Something hot trickled down her face, and Louise wiped at her face. I'm okay, she tried to say, but the words caught in her throat. Ben set down the tea, crossing the room.

"Are you alright?" he murmured.

She shook her head. Ben's arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest. His black cotton hoodie was soft against her cheek, and he smelled of pine and night air: a uniquely Ben smell. His heart ticked steadily beneath her ear.

"Don't cry," Ben said. "She's going to be okay."

"I was so scared." The words came out muffled.

"Me, too."

Louise's breath came in shudders. "What if it's something worse next time? What if it's bronchitis, or a brain tumor, or— or bubonic plague—"

"Last time I checked," Ben said, "Vienna is a toddler, not a sixteenth-century peasant boy."

A strangled laugh escaped her. Her shoulders were still shaking, although whether from laughing or crying, she couldn't have said. Ben's hands rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades.

"I've got you, Bentley," he murmured. "You're okay."

Louise believed him; Ben was always there somehow, his arms stretched wide, waiting to catch her when she fell. She wiped at her face.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

"Don't apologize."

Louise drew back. Her face felt puffy from crying, her chest an empty canyon. Ben's eyes were slivers of jade in the dim light of the kitchen. His arms tightened around her, and the hollow sensation shifted again, becoming something else. Something hot and demanding.

She licked her lips. "Ben..."

His jaw hardened. "Don't look at me like that."

Louise rose, and Ben's eyes tracked the movement. His pupils were blown wide, the black swallowing up the green; their peppermint tea had finished steeping, but neither of them moved to get it.

"Bentley." His voice was a warning. "We made a pact."

She shifted closer. "It was a stupid pact."

"You're not thinking clearly."

"I've never been more certain," she said.

She raised a hand to his cheek. Ben half-closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. She could feel the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Louise..."

The word was a groan. She felt it shudder through her, a plucked violin string, and something cracked open inside of her.

"Just this once," she whispered. "Please."

Ben met her gaze. She could see the moment that he gave in, the snap of his self-control; his hands tightened on her waist.

"Oh, fuck it," he murmured.

And he kissed her.