I glance back at the booth where a few of his teammates are still sat, mostly unnoticed. “I’m honestly amazed there are so many of you just… hanging out here.”

“It’s our local,” he says simply. “Unwritten rule not to hassle the players. Most people stick to it.”

“And when they don’t?”

He lifts one shoulder again. “They get bored when we’re not dramatic.”

I sip my pint, watching him over the rim. “You handled it well.”

His mouth twitches. “You expecting a headbutt?”

“No,” I say, grinning. “Well. Maybe from Lachie.”

That gets me a proper snort. It’s short-lived, but it’s real.

I told myself this move to Exeter was about work. About carving out a quieter, steadier kind of life. But the truth? I’ve been restless. Something in me has been waiting—for what, I’m not sure. Maybe for a reason to stay in this country beyond just liking the people, the pace, the grey skies that made ink colours pop. I miss my family, yeah. But I want to build something that’s mine. And maybe, finally, I’m closer than I thought. The mood settles again, if not a little quieter. I study him for a moment—his steady hands, his careful posture, the way he always seems like he’s bracing for something, even in stillness.

He’s used to being on. Always on display, always prepared. But now? Here? He’s just Camden.

And I like him.

Probably more than I should.