She crossed the path towards him, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots, a cool breeze brushing her hair. Robert sat alone at one of the small metal tables outside the café, a coffee cup in one hand.
It was strange seeing him there; without the crisp shirt and measured detachment of the office. He wore a dark jumper and jeans beneath his coat, he looked casual, his watch was glinting faintly in the weak sunlight.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, half amused, half suspicious.
He looked up, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I fancied a walk. Thought I'd take advantage of a Sunday without rain."
She glanced at the sky — pale grey, heavy, the kind of London day that looked like it might drizzle at any moment. "It is rare, a day without rain."
"It's all relative," he said, eyes glinting briefly. "In Manchester, this would count as a heatwave."
That startled a laugh out of her; quick and genuine. He couldn't remember a time she'd laughed at something he'd said.
Becca came running up, clutching a leaf she'd decided was 'special'.
"Mummy, look! It's shaped like a heart!"
Isabelle crouched, smiling. "So it is. Well spotted, darling."
When she stood again, Robert was watching them; not in that stiff, polite way people without children often did, but with a sort of quiet attentiveness.
"This must be Becca," he said. "And the whirlwind near the climbing frame — Luke, right?"
Isabelle blinked, startled. "You remembered their names?"
"I try not to forget the important things," he said, and then seemed faintly surprised he'd said it aloud.
Becca stared up at him solemnly. "Are you Mummy's boss?"
Robert's mouth quirked. "No. I just work with her."
"Oh. You look like a boss."
He inclined his head gravely. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Becca nodded as though this settled the matter and ran off again.
Isabelle shook her head, trying not to smile. "She doesn't hold back."
"Neither should most adults," he said quietly.
For a few minutes, they just stood there watching the children laughing in the distance, a dog barking, the faint clang of the roundabout spinning. The air smelled of leaves and roasted coffee.
"How are you holding up?" he asked at last.
"Fine," she lied automatically. Then, softer, "Tired. I'm… trying to keep everything steady. For them."
He nodded, his gaze following Luke's small figure darting between swings. "They seem happy. You're doing something right."
She smiled faintly. "Some days I believe that. Other days I'm not sure. I'm lucky my mum helps me so much with them."
"Belief is overrated," he said. "You're showing up. That's what matters."
The words caught her off guard; so simple, so unpolished, that they slipped past her usual defences. For the first time since all this had started, she didn't feel like she was being assessed.
He hadn't meant to text her.
It had been a passing thought; a whim, really. When he'd seen her across the park, her hair pulled back, coat open, laughing with her children, the world seemed to pause. His breath caught and he felt a warmth spread inside his chest.
He'd expected her to ignore the message, or at least keep her distance. But she hadn't. And now here she was, standing in front of him, sunlight soft on her face, a little unsure, a little curious.
He realised, watching her, that this was the first time he'd seen her truly at ease. No tight lips, no file in hand, no shadow of the office walls around her.
Just Isabelle.
And the oddest thing was he liked it. He didn't want the day to end. He wanted to keep looking at her; keep talking to her; maybe hear her laugh again.
They talked for half an hour, maybe longer. About small things; the absurdity of London rent prices, school applications, how she sometimes bribed her kids with marshmallows to get through the supermarket in one piece.
He found himself listening, really listening, in a way he hadn't done in years.
She was clever, yes; sharper than most people he had worked with, but also funny, unexpectedly wry. There was a self-awareness to her that made the world around her seem less grim, less grey.
When the children grew restless, she glanced at her watch. "We should head back — Sunday dinner with Mum. She'll start ringing if I'm late."
He nodded. "You've got a good mother."
Her eyes softened. "I do."
He stood as she gathered the children, Becca waving a sticky hand goodbye.
"Bye, Mr Boss!"
He crouched slightly, smiling. "Goodbye, Miss Becca. Look after your mum."
She giggled, running off ahead.
Isabelle lingered a moment longer. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For… not making it awkward."
"I'm capable of civility outside office hours," he said dryly.
She arched an eyebrow. "Barely."
He almost laughed. Almost.
"Drive safe," he said.
"I don't drive," she replied. "Trains, buses, legs — that's my transport empire."
He gave a small nod. "Then keep an umbrella handy. It'll rain before you get home."
"Always does," she said, smiling faintly. Then she turned, calling after her children, and was gone.
He stayed at the park long after they'd left.
The playground emptied slowly, the sound of children replaced by the low murmur of conversation and the hiss of coffee machines shutting down.
He should have left too — gone home, opened his laptop, gone back to the endless analysis of logs and footage. But instead, he sat there, hands wrapped around his cooling cup, thinking about the way Isabelle had laughed, the lightness in her voice when she'd spoken about her kids.
He realised, with a faint sense of surprise, that he'd enjoyed that afternoon more than he'd enjoyed most in a very long time.
No pretense, no negotiation, no motive.
Just… her.
He frowned at the thought, as though catching himself in a moment of weakness.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to like her. Not her warmth, not her honesty, not the way she looked at him like she hadn't already decided what kind of man he was.
He stood, threw away the coffee cup and turned to walk home.
By the time he reached the park gates, the sky had begun to spit rain.
He smiled — just a little — and didn't open his umbrella.