As we reached the park, the tranquillity of nature embraced us, providing a soothing contrast to the loud chatter of the village. The pond glistened under the gentle sunlight, its calm waters mirroring the vivid blue of the sky. I inhaled the crisp, earthy scent of the surroundings, feeling the tension of the past moments slowly ebb away.

Blake's mood had shifted; we had hardly spoken during the car ride to the park. I had asked a few questions, and while he answered, it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

We wandered along the winding path that circled the pond, our footsteps creating a comforting rhythm on the paved walkway. The ducks glided effortlessly over the water, their serene movements adding to the calm of the setting. I glanced at Blake, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his posture slightly hunched as though weighed down by invisible burdens.

"Are you alright?" I asked cautiously, my voice breaking the silence.

Blake let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "Lydia," he muttered, as though her name alone explained everything.

"She seems... intense," I offered, my words tentative.

"Intense," he repeated with a bitter edge to his tone. "That's one way to put it."

I waited, sensing he wasn't done. Finally, he stopped walking and turned to face me, his grey-blue eyes shadowed with frustration.

"She's Charlotte's aunt—one of them—and she has a talent for stirring up trouble wherever she goes," he explained, his voice low. "Lydia is the kind of person who thrives on control and appearances. She doesn't need to lie outright; she just twists the truth enough to cause damage."

I frowned, thinking back to Lydia's sharp gaze and calculating smile. "So... what happens now?"

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "She'll waste no time running to Charlotte, and to my grandmother. She'll tell them about us sitting together, sharing fish and chips, and by the time she's done, it'll sound like I've been parading around the village with another woman on my arm."

I stopped walking, blinking up at him in disbelief. "That's ridiculous! There's nothing scandalous about eating lunch."

Blake gave me a tired smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "It's not about the truth, Felicity. It's about appearances. That's all anybody cares about."

I didn't know what to say, so I kept quiet.

We walked in silence for a few moments, the peaceful surroundings at odds with the tension radiating from Blake. "That sounds exhausting," I said softly, finally breaking the quiet.

He let out a dry laugh. "It is. And Lydia knows it. That's why seeing her today—seeing her notice you—set me on edge."

"I'm sorry," I said instinctively, though I wasn't entirely sure what I was apologising for.

Blake stopped again and turned to face me, his expression softening. "You've nothing to apologise for," he said firmly. "You've done nothing wrong. It's my world that's the problem, not you. The rules, the expectations, the endless judgement—it's suffocating."

I nodded, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket. The peaceful park around us blurred as I focused on him, on the quiet pain etched into his features. For the first time, I truly understood the immense pressure he was under, and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest.

My being here was making what he already felt even worse.

"So, it's kind of my fault," I laughed awkwardly.

Blake gave a faint smile, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Not your fault. Lydia is just a meddling... witch," he finally said, his voice dropping into a growl. "She's always so concerned with everyone else's business, and she knows exactly how to stir the pot."

We resumed walking, the gravel crunching softly beneath our feet. The sunlight filtering through the trees painted dappled patterns on the path ahead, and for a while, we let the peacefulness of the park fill the spaces between us.

"I used to come here when I was a child," he confessed as we strolled along the water's edge. "My father would bring me to feed the ducks, and we'd sit here for hours, just... talking."

I listened with genuine interest, eager to know more about the man who had written the journal entries.

"What was he like?" I enquired, though I already had a sense of his character from his words.

Blake hesitated, his gaze fixed on the rippling water. "He was... complicated," he began. "A good man, but he was bound by the same expectations that tie me down. Sometimes I think he wanted more from life but didn't know how to break free from the path set for him."

There was a heaviness in his words that tugged at my heart. I wanted to reach out, to say something comforting, but the moment felt fragile, and I didn't want to disturb it. Instead, I stayed quiet, letting Blake share as much or as little as he needed.

We continued our walk, the weight of everything gradually dissipating. The quacking of ducks, the whispering leaves, and the gentle lapping of water against the pond's edge formed a symphony that soothed our spirits.

Farther along the path, we found a secluded spot beneath a willow tree, away from the main thoroughfare but close enough to still people-watch. Blake removed his jacket and spread it on the grass for me to sit on. The warmth of the sun and the calming surroundings tempted me to lean back, eventually resting my head against Blake's leg allowing my eyes to close against the suns warmth.

After a few moments I opened my eyes to find Blake sitting with his legs outstretched, ankles crossed, lost in theact of playing with a strand of my hair. He deftly wound it around his finger, letting it unwind again with a tenderness that made my heart flutter.

He must have felt me looking at him because he dropped the strand of hair his eyes softened "sorry" he muttered a faint smile tugging at his lips.
I smiled in return. "I don't mind. In fact, I quite like my hair being played with."

With that, I adjusted my position, the back of my head leaning more comfortably against his leg, slightly in his lap a quiet invitation for him to continue. Blake hesitated briefly before resuming his delicate exploration of my hair, his fingers moving gently through the strands as he stared out at the water.

"I hated him, you know," Blake said after a long pause. His voice was soft, almost lost beneath the rustling leaves. "When I read that first letter after he died, it felt like my entire life had been a lie."

My father, the man I idolised, turned out to be someone I barely knew."

I tilted my head slightly, urging him to continue. He was still gazing at the pond, his fingers absently twining with my hair.

"I thought he'd been unfaithful to my mother, that he'd betrayed her. And then to find out she wasn't even my mother..." His voice faltered, and he drew in a sharp breath. "Gwen and I were so young when she died. I mourned her, grieved for her, and then I read those words, and it felt like I'd been mourning a stranger."

I stayed quiet, letting his words settle. The depth of his pain was palpable, and I didn't want to interrupt.

"The journals... I avoided them for so long," Blake admitted, his voice thick with regret. "I thought they'd just be the ramblings of a man who'd gone mad. But reading them now, with fresh eyes, I understand him in ways I couldn't before. He wasn't perfect, but he was trying to navigate a world full of impossible expectations, just like I am."

He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "Not sure if you've noticed, but Charlotte and I aren't exactly a love match."

The air grew heavier with his admission, and I was afraid to speak, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"My grandmother decided two years ago that I would marry Charlotte," Blake continued, his voice quiet but steady. "Her family's been friends with ours for generations, but they've fallen on hard times. Her father he gambled away most of their fortune. My role in this, apparently, is to save their reputation and ensure their standing remains intact."

His eyes met mine briefly, then flicked away, as though he were ashamed. "It's not what I want. It never has been. But in my family, duty comes before everything else."

I shifted slightly, turning to look up at him more directly as his gaze dropped back to the pond. His fingers, still entwined in my hair, sent a shiver of warmth through me.

"I shouldn't even be telling you this," he said, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "But I suppose I needed to say it out loud, even if just once."

"You don't have to apologise for how you feel," I said softly. "It sounds... exhausting."

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers brushing gently through my hair, spreading it across his lap.
"It is," he admitted. "But that's the way it's always been. Family expectations. Appearances. Reputation. They're the currency of our world, and I'm just another pawn in the game."

I studied his face, the tension etched into his features, the lines of fatigue around his eyes. My heart ached for him, for the weight he carried. I wanted to tell him he deserved more—that he deserved to be happy—but the words caught in my throat.

"Charlotte's father and my father grew up together," Blake continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "And now, because of his mistakes, I'm expected to fix everything."

Blake fell silent again, his hand moving to gently stroke my temple before sliding back into my hair, fanning it out across his lap again and then combing it gently through his fingers. I watched him for a moment longer, his face bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. His features, so often guarded, were now unmasked, raw and vulnerable.

The soothing rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of the sun began to lull me into a peaceful haze. The sounds of the park—the rustling leaves, the soft quacking of ducks, the distant hum of conversation—faded into the background. Slowly, the weariness of the day caught up with me, and I surrendered to sleep, my head resting in Blake's lap whilst his fingers moved through my hair.