Chapter 31: THEN - The Safe Room

Halfway through my third year at university, Peter Harlow was sentenced to eighteen months in prison for violating the restraining order I had against him. He didn’t just show up that night in York, but on campus too. I took a photo, then ran back into the student union and asked the lady on the front desk to get security. I called the police, too, and, luckily, he was still there when they showed up. I finally had evidence that Peter Harlow had broken the law.

It was the first win I’d had since he started stalking me. And for several months, I lived like a regular person. I did not peer over my shoulder. I relaxed in public spaces. I achieved a 2:1 degree in English Literature and things with Ed took off.

Ed Denton had just graduated from his law degree with a first and he was already training with a good law firm in York. He was the brother of Rachel’s ex-boyfriend, and we met on a night out at Silks nightclub a few months before the incident with Peter.

At that time, I wasn’t looking for a relationship at all. After everything that happened with Peter, I found it hard to consider any guy a potential romantic partner. Ed was attractive, pretty, almost, with deep blue eyes and hair that turned caramel in the sun. He was always smiling, and the night we met he was immediately attentive, asking me questions and buying me drinks.

I was nervous at first, paranoid he wanted to get me drunk. I watched my drinks like a hawk to make sure I wasn’t spiked. Rachel said he was a sweet-natured guy, but I found it hard to trust anyone then.

We were in a group on the dancefloor when he leaned over and said in my ear, “Could I take you on a date one day?”

I’d frozen for a moment, then replied, “No, I’m sorry.”

He’d simply shrugged, given me a high five to say, ‘no hard feelings’, and then carried on dancing.

Our paths crossed again on another night out the week after. He asked me a little bit more about my life. Where I’d grown up and gone to school. How many siblings I had. Every time I answered honestly, but with my guard up, scared to tell him about Peter. I hadn’t told many people at uni about Peter, only my housemates and only after the incident that put him in prison.

One afternoon, after bumping into each other outside a café in the city centre, I realised I was actually disappointed when the conversation ended.

“I was just picking up a tuna melt for lunch,” he admitted. “Sorry, I have to dash.”

He had warm eyes, like I thought Peter did, and it scared me a little that we’d bumped into each other. But I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t going to let Peter win. That I actually believed there were good men out there.

“Ed?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you… um…” I fiddled with my sleeve, suddenly bashful. “Do you still want my number? Like for texting?”

He laughed. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

That’d be nice.

I loved that. No hyperbole. No promises of special presents, just a normal, neutral reaction. So we exchanged numbers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wanted someone to like me, and I wanted to like him too.

The next evening, he texted.

Hey, didn’t want to leave things abruptly yesterday. We didn’t have much time to chat. You okay?

The first thing I noticed was how Ed wrote in complete sentences. It made me laugh. I’d thought Peter was so cool for using abbreviations.

Yeah, it would’ve been nice to chat for longer. I’m okay. Just wading through Dostoyevsky. This Russian Lit module is killing me. How’s the work placement?

We went back and forth like that for a couple of days before he asked me out. He told me about movies he’d watched, shows he wanted to watch, and all the books he felt like he should be reading but was too intimidated to start. Then he’d suggested we meet for a date, and that I should choose where to go.

This is weird, I’d written. But do you want to do book shopping?

He’d responded enthusiastically, YES!

Our first date was painfully normal. That was what shocked me. We walked around with pastries, dashed into shops during rain showers, and sat in coffee shops talking about our purchases. He listened to me and bought books based on my recommendations. When we crossed the road, he did that gentle palm-on-the-back thing, and for a horrible split-second my stomach clenched thinking he was steering me somewhere, controlling my direction. But as soon as the thought came, it passed. He let go immediately.

He walked me home and didn’t ask to come in. When we said our goodbyes, he just smiled and said he’d text me tomorrow. I watched him walk away, hands in pockets, not once turning to check if I was still watching him. He didn’t need validation. And that, somehow, validated me.

Our second and third dates were dinner at an Italian restaurant. He didn’t order for me, but he did give me some recommendations, like I had with the books. He knew about wine.

“I come from a family that knows a lot about wine,” he’d said. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”

I’d laughed. “I come from a family that knows nothing about wine, but everything about the cheapest cans of lager you can buy.”

When he laughed, I felt my entire body brighten, like someone had turned a light bulb on inside me.

We were from such different backgrounds, but that never seemed an issue. I told him about how I downloaded free eBooks of classic fiction for my degree and bought everything else second-hand.

“So that’s how you know all the best bookshops in the city,” he remarked.

“And the best charity shops.”

We clinked glasses.

My housemates were giddy the next morning when they noticed the glow on my face. Karolina said, “You like him. You actually like him,” like she was pointing out an eclipse.

It was like an eclipse. For two years at university, I had watched my friends flirt, and hook up and split up, and I’d had maybe three dates that had ended in disaster.

The one thing I couldn’t bring myself to tell them, was that I was still a virgin. No one I met on my course was a virgin, they all slipped in and out of relationships like they were new outfits.

And what would Ed think?

It happened on a quiet night in his flat, long after the novelty of us becoming a couple and long before anything dramatic had shifted the ground beneath us. We were lying on the sofa under a blanket, a half-watched documentary playing in the background, our legs tangled together in that instinctive, effortless way new couples adopt without thinking. I felt warm and safe and dangerously content. That was what frightened me.

Ed kissed the top of my shoulder, slow and absent-minded, the sort of kiss meant more as a punctuation mark than a request. I froze—not because I didn’t want him, but because I suddenly realised, I did. It hit me like a wave: if I kept going, if I let myself fall any further, there would be no wall left between me and him.

I liked my wall. That wall had been the thing that kept me alive when Peter was around.

“I need to tell you something,” I said, pulling back just enough for space.

He straightened, instantly alert. “Okay. What is it?”

I could feel my pulse thudding in my wrists. “I’ve never… I mean, I haven’t… I’m a virgin.”

I’d expected awkwardness, maybe surprise. Maybe a joke, or some clumsy reassurance. He lifted his hand and touched my cheek, resting his fingers there gently, grounding me.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he continued, voice low. “We don’t ever have to do anything you’re not ready for. And when… if… you want it, it doesn’t have to be perfect or romantic or cinematic. It just has to be because you want it. Nothing else.”

I felt a hot, ridiculous rush of tears behind my eyes. Embarrassing, but I couldn’t stop it. I nodded, staring hard at my hands so he wouldn’t see too much.

He didn’t pull me into a kiss. He didn’t rush. He simply stayed close, his knee touching mine, as though to say I’m here without forcing anything. And for the rest of that evening, he treated me exactly the same, without pressure or loaded glances. We simply enjoyed each other’s company.

When it did happen, weeks later, it was a rainy Saturday, the kind where the outside world felt far away and irrelevant. We’d spent the whole afternoon reading in bed, our feet brushing under the covers, and somewhere between laughter and silence, the moment changed. It felt like stepping into something rather than falling into it.

Ed was patient, checking in without making it feel clinical. Every movement was slow, every touch negotiable. I wasn’t swept away in a whirlwind of passion. If anything, I was hyper-aware. My body wasn’t used to feeling wanted without danger stitched into the edges. But the comfort came gradually, in pieces: the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breathing, the way he whispered “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

For the first time since everything that happened with Peter, I was in control.

Afterwards, we lay facing each other, our foreheads touching, the rain pattering against the window. A quiet, steady peace. That was Ed. I didn’t trust it, not yet, but I was within touching distance.

And in that moment, I remembered thinking—with a mix of hope and dread—that maybe this was the beginning of something good.

Maybe, finally, I was allowed something good.