**Unflappable**
After the divorce and the division of assets, Katherine found herself moving to the outskirts of the city. The two-bedroom flat she ended up with hadn’t seen a drop of paint in years—at least, that was her first impression. But Katherine wasn’t the type to be easily rattled. Years with a domineering husband had hardened her.
She’d searched high and low before settling on this place. Most were far beyond her means. This one, though—this one she could manage.
*”My grandmother lived here,”* the cheerful young estate agent explained. *”My parents moved her in with them—she’s quite ill now. They’re selling it. Too far out for me, personally. Besides, Dad promised to chip in so I could get somewhere closer to them.”*
Katherine eyed the girl, who shrugged.
*”I know it needs work, but take it or leave it. The price is negotiable.”*
And so, Katherine bought it—partly because it was all she could afford, partly because her office was only three tram stops away. A forty-minute commute was nothing compared to the peace she craved.
Christopher, her ex-husband, had been a tyrant. It had taken her five years—and a child—to realise it. The breaking point had come after yet another drunken rage. Katherine was a homemaker by nature; their house had always been spotless, warm. But when Christopher stumbled in, shouting, everything went flying—plates, vases, clothes.
*”Don’t just sit there—clean this up!”* he’d bellow, watching with satisfaction as she scrambled to restore order.
At some point, he’d bought the flat next door, merging the two into one spacious home. She had made it beautiful, kept it immaculate, cooked with love. But his temper had grown worse over time, his outbursts more frequent. When their son left for university in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. The process had been brutal, but now she was free.
She’d made sure Christopher never found out where she moved. The sale left just enough for renovations, and she took two weeks off work to tackle them herself.
*”I can handle the painting,”* she muttered, inspecting the peeling ceiling. *”The plumbing’s fine—looks recent. Maybe I’ll get a handyman for the tricky bits. Definitely need a false ceiling first.”*
She found a contractor quickly, and within days, the ceiling was done. She bought paint, brushes, and dove into the work with stubborn determination. Her friend Emily helped with the wallpaper.
*”Katherine, it’s gorgeous!”* Emily grinned as they stepped back. *”Bright, fresh—just needs new flooring. Light laminate would look perfect. Oliver can do it—he laid ours last summer. Much cheaper than hiring someone.”*
*”Brilliant,”* Katherine agreed. *”But first, I’m painting those hideous radiators to match the walls.”*
Later that evening, exhausted but satisfied, she collapsed onto the fold-out bed in her makeshift kitchen. The window was wide open; the quiet was a far cry from the city’s bustle.
*”This isn’t so bad,”* she mused before drifting off. *”Tomorrow, I’ll finish painting.”*
Morning brought a hiccup—her brush had dried out overnight.
*”Back to the shop, then,”* she sighed, oddly pleased at the thought of seeing the salesman again.
He was there, same as before—tall, sandy-haired, with startlingly blue eyes, like something out of a film. The shop’s dim lighting didn’t soften his sharp features.
*”Need something?”* His voice was even, detached.
*”Paintbrush,”* she managed, then blurted, *”Why is it so dark in here?”*
He didn’t smile. *”Ask whatever you like. I’ll answer.”*
She fumbled. *”My brush dried out.”*
*”Buy linseed oil,”* he said flatly.
She paid and fled, cursing her own shyness. *”Why can’t I just talk to him?”*
For three days, she concocted excuses to return—lightbulbs, a putty knife—each visit met with the same polite indifference.
*”Does he not remember me?”* she fumed after the third try. *”I rehearsed what to say, and he just—stood there!”*
On the fourth visit, she marched in and grinned. *”Hello again! Recognise me?”* Without waiting, she charged ahead, *”I’ll be in and out—doing up the flat. No help, just me. What’s your name? I’m Katherine.”*
*”Stephen.”* His tone didn’t waver. *”What do you need?”*
*A spanner,* she thought bitterly as she left. *Or a heart that isn’t made of stone.*
Pride stung, she resolved never to return.
A week later, her flat nearly finished, she met Emily for coffee.
*”So?”* Emily prodded. *”Blue-eyed salesman?”*
Katherine sighed. *”Nothing. I gave up.”*
*”You’re mad! Men like that don’t fall into your lap. You have to chip away at them.”*
*”He’s probably married,”* Katherine muttered.
That evening, lugging groceries home, she heard her name.
She turned. Stephen stood there—his usual composure fraying at the edges.
*”Katherine,”* he said, shifting awkwardly. *”You—you stopped coming. I’ve walked past here a few times, hoping…”* His voice trembled. *”Why didn’t you drop by?”*
Her pulse leapt. *”I finished the renovations. Back to work Monday.”*
*”Oh.”* He swallowed. *”Can I—can I see it?”*
She almost laughed. *”Actually, I could use a hand with something…”*
He stiffened. *”So you just needed help?”*
*”No,”* she said softly. *”I needed you.”*
His laughter, warm and sudden, lit up his face. *”I was terrified you were married. Then I remembered—you said no one was helping you.”* He stepped closer. *”I’m glad I ran into you. Thought I’d lost my chance.”*
Her heart hammered. This quiet, steady man—unshakable, kind—was exactly what she’d been searching for.
