Page 136 of Worth the Risk

He’d met them, Warren’s entire family, at Christmas. Warren had driven him down to south London, nervous as hell, pretending it was no big deal when Jude could tell it was everything. Church on a Sunday morning, the whole Beckford clan packed into the pews. Parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces running riot. Warren had taken his hand, walked him straight up the front steps, and introduced him as his boyfriend.

Jude had braced for polite smiles and hesitation. But he hadn’t needed to. Warren’s mum had hauled him straight into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him, then fed him until he thought he might burst. His dad had just nodded, a quiet smile saying more than words ever could. His sisters had teased Warren mercilessly and made Jude laugh until his sides ached, while their husbands talked to him about schools and football and where to get the best jerk chicken this side of Brixton. And Jude had ensured he bought the right gifts for the little ones, earning him the best uncle points, despite Warren being the one who played the silly games with them.

It had been loud and messy and perfect.

On the drive back to Worthbridge, Warren hadn’t stopped smiling. Every so often, he’d reached across the gearstick to take Jude’s hand and kissed his knuckles, his grin soft and private in the winter light.

Now, under the wash of fireworks, Warren shook his head. “Thinking how I don’t ever want to leave here.” He glanced around at the harbour, the crowd, the family they’d built out of broken pieces, and his voice softened. “You know, in my head, this job was supposed to be temporary. Quick rotation. In, out.Get back to the Met. But then I met you. And Worthbridge stopped feeling like an assignment.”

Jude’s chest tightened. “And started feeling like what?”

“Something I’d fight to keep.”

The fireworks reached their crescendo. Gold and crimson raining down over the sea, the last of the year burning itself out in spectacular defiance. The crowd counted down together, voices rising with the wind.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight…

Warren turned to Jude, close enough that Jude could see the reflection of firelight in his eyes.

“Happy New Year, Mr Ellison,” he whispered as the final cheer split the night.

Jude smiled. “Happy New Year, Mr Beckford.”

Their kiss came with the first firework of midnight.

Around them, the Worthbridge crew whooped and clapped; Reece wolf-whistled; Trent raised his cup in mock salute; Nathan groaned something aboutbloody romantics, while Freddie laughed into his shoulder.

Jude broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Warren’s. “You realise this is it, right?”

“What?”

“Our happily ever after.”

Warren’s grin curved against his skin. “Worth the risk, then.”

“Every second.”

They turned back to the harbour where the sky was alive with light, the people they loved around them, and the sea whispering its steady rhythm below, and for the first time in years, Jude felt the quiet hum of safety under his skin. Of roots taking hold.

And as the final sparks faded to smoke, Warren laced their fingers tighter and Jude thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was how all stories should end.

Not with silence.

But with fireworks.

And home.