She's always been a sucker for fairy lights. The way they can make everything, even an old rooftop in a shabby part of town, look magical.

She can see him from the street, see the slump of his shoulders and feels a bite of guilt when she realises he thinks she's chosen Tom. He thinks he's poured his heart out to her under the covers, and she's still chosen a man who's totally wrong for her, a man who simply can't get over his ex-wife.

What was she thinking? She'd take a shabby old balcony with fairy lights and scotch eggs over a yurt any day.

She wants sausage rolls and lilting words and hysterical laughs and messy and scruffy and mind numbing kisses and totally imperfectly perfect love.

She doesn't want biodegradable rented accommodation and sterile gloves.

Screw the disapproval, the scandalised looks, the whispers in the playground. The girls love him, and Alfie, well he's his best mate.

Anyway, she needs someone who looks good in a suit for the wedding.

And but God, would Billy look good in a suit.

She risks another glance up; he's bent double now, wine glass drained empty, head on the table.

She kind of misses the curls. Maybe she can persuade him to grow them out again?

He tilts his head to the sky, perhaps asking for one more chance. His eyes connect with hers as he lowers his head again, he holds her gaze for a second before leaping up and sprinting off the balcony.

He's at the front door in seconds, quicker than she thought possible, hauling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair.

Instinctively, her arms go around his neck, and she rests her face on his shoulder, breathing in his smell.

"I love you," he whispers into her hair, and she tightens her arms around his neck and drops little kisses all over his collar bone.

Because, she kinda loves him too.