Gary followed her to the small table near the wall with the careful gait of a man escorting his own pain to a seat.

He lowered himself into the chair slowly, testing angles like he was defusing a bomb with his jaw. Success. Nothing exploded. Yet.

“Better?” she asked.

“Immensely,” Gary said. “I’ve peaked.”

She smiled and sat opposite him, folding one leg under the other with casual ease. Up close, the contrast between them felt almost unfair. She was calm. Put together. Someone who owned at least one plant and kept it alive. Gary looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts and optimism.

“So,” she said, resting her elbows lightly on the table, “tell me how this started.”

“The tooth?” Gary asked.

“Yes. The tooth,” she said patiently. “Not your childhood.”

Gary sighed. “I ignored it.”

She nodded. “Of course you did.”

“For a while,” he added. “Then I panicked. Then I drank. Then I googled.”

She winced. “In that order?”

“Roughly.”

Gary felt the familiar throb build again, like the tooth was trying to reassert narrative control. He paused, breathing carefully.

She noticed immediately. “You’re clenching.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” she said. “Stop.”

He stopped. The pain eased a fraction. Witchcraft.

“You’re very good at this,” Gary said.

“At sitting in pubs?”

“At telling people what to do with their mouths.”

She laughed. “Occupational hazard.”

The moment stretched comfortably. Gary realised, with mild surprise, that he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t trying to impress. He was just… talking.

This was dangerous.

Keep the conversation going honestly → Page 32

Make a self-deprecating joke and derail momentum → Page 33