Gary decided seriousness was overrated and humour was still his best defence.

“So,” he said, “on a scale from ‘fine’ to ‘call an ambulance’, where am I?”

She laughed despite herself. “Somewhere around ‘stop being an idiot’.”

“That tracks.”

Gary relaxed a little, encouraged by the laughter. He leaned forward, then immediately winced as a spike of pain tore through his jaw. He froze mid-movement, eyes squeezed shut.

She leaned in instantly. “Okay, no. That’s bad.”

“I’m fine,” Gary lied, blinking rapidly. “Just… expressive.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I do that.”

She folded her arms, dentist mode fully engaged now. “You need treatment.”

Gary nodded. “Eventually.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Soon.”

The word landed heavier than he expected.

The bubble burst slightly. The pub noise crept back in. Gary felt exposed, like he’d pushed the joke one step too far and reality had stepped in to correct him.

He forced a smile. “So. Fun pub, huh?”

She studied him for a moment, then softened again. “You don’t have to joke your way through everything.”

Gary shrugged carefully. “It’s a habit.”

She nodded. “I can tell.”

This could still recover. Or it could slide sideways into awkwardness.

Apologise and reset → Page 34

Double down and keep joking → Page 39