The Inkwell

You met Arthur outside a café in Soho, the air thick with drizzle, the sky a dull grey. It wasn’t a romcom cliché, no crashing into each other on the Tube or spilling coffee on his shirt, but it was realistic and gentle. You were both waiting outside a café in Soho, him for a friend who was running late, and you because the place was too crowded, and your anxiety wouldn’t let you squeeze past the tables inside.

You noticed him because he was cute in an unassuming way, tall but slightly slouched, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the height. His hoodie was a little too big, the sleeves bunched around his wrists, and his jeans were well-worn, the kind that looked soft from years of use. Every few seconds, he’d glance around, then back at his phone, thumb swiping absently. He was a stranger, but there was something about the way he chewed the inside of his cheek and the way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he thought no one was looking that made you want to keep watching.

He looked up and caught you staring. You opened your mouth to apologise, but he beat you to it.

“Is it usually that busy?” he asked, voice soft but with a twinge of nervous humour.

You blinked, then shrugged. “No idea. I wanted to try something new and chose this at random.” A beat “I’m starting to regret my choice now though.” 

He huffed a small laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Same. I, uh. I’m meant to be meeting my mate, but he’s late. Which is very on brand for him, to be fair.”

That should’ve been it. A short conversation that should lead nowhere, just a quick chat to pass the time. But for some reason, you stayed and kept the conversation going. Arthur was quiet at first, in that cautious way some people are around strangers. Polite. Guarded. He glanced down a lot when he spoke, eyes flickering wildly like he was deciding if what he wants to talk about should come out. But something about the way he looked at you between words, half curious, half unsure, made you want to stay a little longer.

Eventually, his friend texted to cancel. He stared at the screen for a moment, then shrugged, trying to act casual. “Guess I’m free now.”

The café had finally cleared out enough to see empty tables. “Want to just grab one together?” you asked.

He looked up, surprised, then ducked his head with a quiet laugh, his cheeks slightly pink. “Yeah, alright. But only if you promise not to judge me for how much sugar I put in my coffee.”

“Deal,” you said, “and don't judge me for pretending to understand the wine lists.”

“Shit, we might have to renegotiate.” He held the door open for you, sleeve slipping over his knuckles again, and you caught the faint scent of his detergent, something clean and subtly sweet, like cotton dried in sunlight.

The café cleared out enough for the both of you to snag a small table near the window. The barista called out for the next customer just as you reached the counter. Arthur nudged you forward with an elbow. “You first. I need time to mentally prepare for your judgement.”

You rolled your eyes but ordered a pistachio latte and a carrot cake you didn't really need but suddenly wanted. When it was his turn, Arthur leaned in and ordered, “Large vanilla latte and a slice of banana bread, please.” Paid, then he grabbed three sugar packets from the counter, and after a guilty glance your way, snatched a fourth.

“Four sugars?” You raised an eyebrow as you moved down the line.

Arthur's ears turned pink as he tapped his phone against the payment reader. “What can I say? I've got a sweet tooth.” The machine beeped, and he quickly shoved it back in his pocket, nearly dropping it.

You carried your tray to the window table, carefully balancing the pistachio latte and oversized slice of carrot cake, Arthur following close behind with his own order. After sitting down, you watched as Arthur dumped all four sugars into his cup, stirred violently, then took a sip with the relieved sigh, “Told you,” he said, grinning.

“Better?” you asked.

He licked a stray drop from his lip. “Perfect.” 

You stirred your own drink, watching the steam curl. “So your friend bailed. What were you two supposed to be doing?”

Arthur's fingers drummed against his mug as he considered his words. “We keep saying we should try new things, you know? But then we always end up at the same pub watching the same football matches.” He took a sip, leaving a faint foam moustache he quickly licked away. “Gets a bit stale after a few years.”

Something about that struck a chord. “I get that,” you said. “I just moved here, actually. Still figuring things out.”

His eyes lit up. “Where from?”

You told him, and he leaned in, suddenly more animated. “That’s sick. London’s massive! London's got everything, you just have to know where to—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Sorry. You don't need a tour guide.”

“I might,” you admitted. “And I was thinking of checking out the history museum next week. Never been.”

Arthur’s face went through several emotions quickly, a flicker of surprise, then something almost guilty. “That's. I go there all the time.” He rubbed at a coffee ring on the table. “Probably too much, honestly. My mates take the piss about it.” He chewed his lip, then met your eyes. “You, uh. You want company? If you don’t mind someone who yaps about the things on display.” 

Before you could answer, he barreled on, words tumbling out, “Or we could do anything else, really. There's this great market near Brick Lane, or the Sky Garden if you want views, or—” He cut himself off, cheeks flushing. “Sorry. Got carried away.”

“Arthur.” You waited until he looked up. “I'd love the museum tour. And the market. And whatever else you want to show me.” You tapped your fork against your plate. “Just promise you won't rush me past the exhibit plaques. I read every word.”

Arthur grinned back. “Deal.”

His grin widened just as his phone buzzed. Without glancing at it, he flipped it face-down, nudging it aside like an afterthought. The conversation barely paused for breath after that, Arthur's earlier reserve melting away as he talked with his hands, nearly knocking over the salt shaker twice.

That’s how it started.

You swapped numbers outside the café. The texts came fast after that, random thoughts, stupid observations. Like when he sent you a blurry photo of a pigeon hunched over a stolen croissant with the text, ‘this bastard has better posture than me. send help.’ You snorted loud enough that the woman next to you on the Tube gave you a look.

The first actual date was at the museum you’d both agreed on it on the first day you met. There was finally a time when both your schedules aligned, and he was fifteen minutes early and already sitting outside, nervously tapping his foot. He stood up too fast when he saw you. Tried to hug you and shake your hand at the same time. It was awkward. Adorably awkward.

You thought maybe he wouldn’t talk much. But once he relaxed, he couldn’t stop. He spoke with his hands. He interrupted himself with tangents. He got excited about random things like a chess set in the museum shop or a well known misinterpreted fact on a random topic. You loved it. You loved him, or the version of him that came out when he finally felt safe.

It took a few more dates before either of you admitted it wasn’t casual anymore. You could tell by the way you were both already planning what the both of you could do next before the current date was over.

You found out he made videos for a living. Not just silly ones, though those existed, but thoughtful ones, and sometimes chaotic ones, always made with care. He made people laugh. He made you laugh. Visiting new places, hanging out with his friends. You never felt like he was showing off. You felt like he was showing you something real.

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t planned. He was walking you home, shoulders brushing, laughing about something stupid. He stopped suddenly under a flickering streetlamp, turned to you, and before you could process it, his mouth was on yours. It was warm, slightly hesitant, and over as soon as it started.

He pulled back just an inch, his breath shaky. “Sorry—” he whispered. His dark brown eyes looked uncertain and vulnerable, they flicked between yours and the space just beyond your shoulder, not quite able to stay still. His brows were drawn together, faint lines forming between them, and his gaze held a raw honesty, like he was bracing for rejection but couldn’t help hoping you’d understand. “I just really wanted to.”

The surprise melted into a slow, warm unfurling in your chest. His lips had been soft, a little chapped from the cold, and faintly sweet, like the vanilla latte he’d had earlier, maybe, or just him. You didn’t move away. Do it again, you almost said, but instead, you smiled. “Don’t be sorry.”

His breath hitched as he hesitated, eyes searching yours in the dim glow of the streetlight. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in again, stopping just short, giving you space to pull away. His question was silent but clear in the way his gaze flickered to your lips and back up. You didn’t make him wait. A small nod, barely more than a tilt of your chin, and his mouth met yours again, just the soft press of lips. His hand settled carefully against your jaw, fingers trembling slightly against your skin.

Then you sighed into him, and everything shifted. The kiss deepened, unhurried but insistent, his bottom lip catching between yours. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, and you could feel the quiet noise he made in the back of his throat. The cold air, the distant hum of traffic, the flickering light above, none of it mattered. There was just the warmth of his mouth moving with yours, the faint taste of coffee still lingering, the way his fingers curled tighter into your coat when you tugged him closer, and the frantic thud of your own pulse.

Things moved slowly. But not because either of you were unsure. It was careful, and sweet, and intentional. He held your hand like it was something precious. He called you just to ask how your day was. He made you playlists with embarrassing titles. You found you could tell him things without dressing them up first. You liked that he didn’t always know what to say, but he always wanted to listen.

He started sleeping over. Making you tea in the mornings, one sugar, a little too much milk. You learnt how he hummed when he was thinking. How he hated certain foods. How he always smelt like clean laundry and the occasional hint of you from cuddling or sleeping over.

You didn’t fall all at once. It was slower. A steady drop into something that caught you softly.

Eventually Arthur’s small, perpetually cluttered flat became yours. Your books were piled onto the shelf next to him, and mismatched mugs crowded the draining board. His camera gear lived semi-permanently on the coffee table, often nudged aside for your late-night study sessions. The air hummed with the quiet energy of two lives weaving together, the whir of his laptop became white noise to your essay writing, and the scent of his vanilla latte mingled with your peppermint tea.

The seven-year gap felt like a distant rumour in those days, dissolved in the comfortable chaos of shared existence. He’d sprawl on the sofa, proofreading your latest essay with surprising insight. He once paused, eyes bright, and said, "This metaphor about the crumbling facade? Bloody brilliant, love." You’d perch on the armrest beside him, offering edits on his latest video with the same casual intimacy. 

Arguments were small, domestic things. There were the thermostat wars—he ran perpetually cold and wrapped himself in hoodies even in summer, while you seemed to radiate heat. Then came the eternal debate over the correct way to load the dishwasher, his method somehow both baffling and inefficient. And always, there was the quiet fight for the last Jaffa Cake, usually resolved with a shared, sticky bite.

His friends, a warm, slightly chaotic bunch mostly around his age, welcomed you readily. There was good-natured ribbing, of course. "Robbing the cradle, are we?" Chris would grin, elbowing him during pub nights. Arthur would roll his eyes dramatically, a faint blush creeping up his neck, but his hand would find yours under the table, fingers lacing tightly, a silent reassurance amidst the laughter. "Ignore him, he peaked at sixteen," Arthur would murmur, squeezing your hand. It was teasing, but it underlined the difference. They were talking about stocks while you were navigating the start of your life. Yet, curled beside him, listening to their banter, the gap felt like a harmless background hum, easily tuned out.

The change came quietly, on an unremarkable Tuesday. Rain lashed against the windowpanes of the flat. You were clearing the fridge, tossing out dubious leftovers, when you saw him. He was standing perfectly still, staring at the small, crisp acceptance letter pinned prominently to the fridge door, your offer for a master’s program at the University of Edinburgh. His back was to you, shoulders slightly tense. His thumb traced the embossed university crest, then the edges of the paper, over and over.

You stopped moving, the discarded yoghurt pot forgotten in your hand.

"Arthur?"

He jumped slightly, turning. His smile was quick, too quick, not quite reaching his eyes, which held a complex swirl of pride and something else, a raw, vulnerable apprehension. "Hey. Just admiring the officialness of it." His voice was thick, rougher than usual. He cleared his throat. "Edinburgh. That's, that's massive. Really massive. Proud of you. So bloody proud." He stepped closer, his gaze flicking back to the letter. "Even if it’s," He trailed off, swallowing hard. "far. Really far."

He looked suddenly older than his 28 years, the usual playful light dimmed by the grey London rain and the spectre of separation. You were 21, at the start of an exciting, demanding future, the world beyond London stretching out vast and unknown. He was 28, roots expanding in the city's rhythm, his channel finally gaining serious traction. The comfortable hum of the age gap suddenly felt like a chasm about to open.

You crossed the small space, without a word, you reached up, cupping his face. His stubble was rough under your palm. His dark eyes, wide and uncertain, searched yours. You saw the fear there. Fear of being left behind, fear of the distance, fear of losing this, the easy intimacy you'd built. You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the faint, worried line etched between his brows.

"I'll be a train ride away, Arthur," you whispered, your voice surprisingly steady, belying the sudden ache in your own chest. "Four hours. We'll make it work." You infused the words with a conviction you desperately needed to feel yourself.

He let out a shaky breath, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against him. He buried his face in your hair, his hold almost bruising. "Four hours," he repeated, his voice muffled. "Right." He didn't sound convinced. Neither were you, not really. But you clung to each other in the rain-streaked gloom of the tiny kitchen, the acceptance letter on the fridge a silent, monumental presence.

Moving day arrived in a blur of cardboard boxes, roll after roll of packing tape, and a low-level hum of anxiety. Arthur morphed into a surprisingly efficient, slightly manic organiser. He folded your sweaters and jumpers with a precision you never knew he possessed, tucking lavender sachets between them. His quiet intensity was both touching and heartbreaking.

As you taped shut the last box labelled ‘Books (Important!)’,you found him sitting on the edge of your shared bed, holding a small, worn notebook. It was the playlist journal he kept, with silly titles and meticulous song lists for every mood. He was carefully tearing out a page. He looked up as you entered, a hesitant smile touching his lips.

"Made you something," he said, his voice rough. He held out the folded page. Scrawled across the top in his familiar, slightly messy handwriting was the title "Don’t forget me (seriously) & other reminders."

You took it, unfolding it. It wasn't just a playlist. Beneath the song titles (a mix of comforting indie, upbeat anthems, and a few embarrassingly soppy ones you loved) were little notes:

Track 3: For when the Scottish rain feels endless. Remember, my umbrella's in your bag's side pocket

Track 7: When you ace that first presentation. Dance like no one's watching (because they probably aren't)

Track 10: For the nights it feels too quiet. Put it on loud. I'll be humming along

Track 16: For the really hard nights

P.S. Seriously. Buy more socks. Edinburgh is cold. And eat something green occasionally. Love, A

Tears pricked your eyes. "Arthur."

"Shut up," he mumbled, standing abruptly, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Just some reminders. Now, where's the tape for this box?"

The Uber arrived too soon. Boxes filled the boot and half the back seat. The drizzle from your first meeting had returned, a fittingly grey London send-off. You stood on the pavement, the final goodbyes choked and inadequate. He pulled you into one last, crushing hug, his face buried in your neck. You could feel the tremor running through him, the desperate press of his fingers against your back.

He smelt like home.

"Call me when you get there," he whispered, his voice thick. "Text me when you're on the train. Let me know the flat's not a dungeon. Send pictures of anything. Everything."

"I will," you promised, your voice cracking. "Every step. I love you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but fiercely tender. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn't felt fall. "I love you more. Go be brilliant. Just come back."

Then he kissed you. Not the quick, desperate press of lips you expected, but something slow and deep, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth. His hands slid into your hair, holding you there, his breath shaky against your cheek. You could taste the coffee he’d had that morning, the faint sweetness of toothpaste, and the salt of tears—his or yours, you weren’t sure. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against yours with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

You clutched at the front of his hoodie, fingers twisting into the fabric, pulling him closer. He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat and kissed you harder, his nose bumping against yours, his stubble rough against your skin. The drizzle clung to your faces, cold where his fingers weren’t touching, but you barely noticed.

When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. His eyelashes were wet—from the rain, maybe, or something else. He swallowed hard, his grip on you tightening for a second before he forced himself to let go.

Then, without another word, he helped you into the car, his hand lingering on the door handle like he might change his mind and pull you back out. But he didn’t. He just shut the door gently, stepped back, and watched as the car pulled away.

The driver pulled away. You twisted in your seat, pressing your hand against the cold glass. Arthur stood on the wet pavement, hands shoved deep into the pockets of those same worn jeans. The drizzle plastered strands of his dark hair to his forehead. He watched the car go, shoulders slumped, looking achingly young in his vulnerability, yet impossibly old in the weight of the moment. He lifted one hand in a small, hesitant wave, a solitary figure shrinking rapidly in the rainy rearview mirror, swallowed by the grey of London.

The four-hour train journey between London and Edinburgh became something the both of you were used to. Text messages replaced shared sunrises inside the flat, and video calls stood in for evenings curled on the worn sofa. The physical absence was a constant, low ache, a space where Arthur’s warmth, his scent, and the comforting weight of his arm around you, should have been.

Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Just woke up

Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Your pillow smells like your shampoo…

Arthur (3:47 a.m.): Miss your snoring

You (8:15 a.m.): I do NOT snore. Also, 3 a.m.? Go to sleep, old man. Are you editing again?

Arthur (8:15 a.m.): *Old man?! 

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): I’ll have you know I went to the gym today and sustained no injuries

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): And yes, editing. Wanted to have the video ready ASAP

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Also… 

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Maybe miss you more than the sleep…

You (8:17 a.m.): Miss you more. Go to bed, idiot 🧡

Arthur (8:18 a.m.): Only if you promise not to drown in projects today. Love you ❤️

You (8:19 a.m.): Love you too ❤️❤️❤️

The rhythm was familiar, comforting in its own way, but it couldn't replicate the ease of presence. The age gap, once a background hum in the shared flat, began to resonate with sharper, more discordant notes.

His career was hitting its stride. Videos gained traction, collaborations with bigger names materialised, and deadlines carried real fweight. His texts sometimes buzzed with frantic energy: "Just landed a meeting with someone big! Nervous as hell." or "Editing marathon. Might actually turn into a vampire. Send coffee thoughts." His successes thrilled you, but they also felt like planets orbiting a different sun.

Your world, meanwhile, was a pressure cooker of academia. Deadlines loomed like thunderclouds, critiques from professors felt personal, and the sheer volume of reading was relentless. You were navigating the turbulent waters of postgraduate life, learning to pay bills meticulously, budget for groceries, and exist independently in a city that still sometimes felt overwhelming. 

One particularly brutal week where a presentation went spectacularly wrong. Technical glitches, a stammering delivery, a professor's cutting remark. You left the lecture hall, tears of frustration and humiliation hot on your cheeks. Huddled on a cold bench in a secluded corner of the university gardens, you called him. 

It was mid-afternoon. He was likely filming or in a meeting.

He answered on the second ring. "Hey, love! Everything o—" He heard the ragged intake of breath, the suppressed sob. His voice instantly softened, shedding the earlier lightness. "Hey. Hey, what's wrong? Talk to me."

That was all it took. 

Words tumbled out in a messy, tangled rush. Half-formed thoughts, sharp-edged frustrations, and the kind of rambling sorrow that had no neat narrative. 

You spoke of the presentation that had fallen flat and the way your professor’s polite nod felt like a slap. You spoke of the hours spent poring over readings that never seemed to stick, of dragging yourself through rainy streets, past cheerful strangers who all looked like they belonged here in a way you never quite did. You spoke of the ache in your bones, the hunger you’d ignored for too long, and the dinner left untouched in the fridge. And then there was the bench.

That stupid, freezing bench outside the library where you'd sat for too long, just to be alone in your misery, blinking hard against the tears because crying in public still felt like failure. That moment tipped you over. 

You didn't want solutions, not really. You just wanted to be heard, to be held.

Arthur didn’t. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t tell you to breathe or calm down or look on the bright side. He just listened.

There was a deep, attentive silence on his end. Every few seconds, his soft thinking-hum came through the speaker, a low, soothing sound, like a lullaby murmured just under his breath. You could almost feel it vibrating through the phone, grounding you.

You imagined him in his flat, pacing slowly, or maybe sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his head bowed like he always did when he was truly focused. You could picture the furrow in his brow, the way he’d close his eyes sometimes when he listened closely, as if his whole body were tuned to your voice.

Only when your sobs had quieted into hiccuping breaths did he speak.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with tenderness, “you’re not failing. I promise you, you’re not.”

Your lip trembled again at that, not because it was reassurance, but because it felt like truth. 

“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “I feel like I’m running just to stay in place.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I hate that I’m not there with you. I really wish I was with you. I'd steal you away right now. Find the biggest, greasiest pizza in Edinburgh and eat it under a duvet fort."

“I miss you,” you breathed, the ache behind your ribs tightening.

His exhale was soft, almost lost in the connection. “I miss you more than I know how to say.”

There was another long pause, but it didn’t feel empty.

“I’ll stay on the line as long as you need,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to say anything else. Just breathe with me.”

So you did. You closed your eyes, the phone a warm weight against your ear. You focused on the sound of his breath, a slow inhale, a steady exhale. You matched yours to it. In. The cool air filling your lungs. Out. The shaky release. In the faint static hum of the line. Out. The lingering dampness on your cheeks.

Minutes passed. Just breathing. The frantic pounding of your heart began to ease, replaced by the simple rhythm shared across the distance. Your shoulders, knotted tight with stress, loosened fractionally. The knot in your chest didn’t vanish, but it softened, edged back by the quiet, persistent sound of him being there.

“Thank you for this.” You say, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He replies and makes kissing noises. “I’ll be waiting for our next call.”

Three days later, a parcel arrived. Inside, nestled in protective packaging, were expensive noise-cancelling headphones. Taped to them was a note in his messy scrawl: "For focus. Block out the world (especially noisy flatmates)." Beneath them, almost hidden, was a ridiculously soft, green plush dinosaur. Another note: "For hugs. The headphones aren't cuddly. His name is Sir Rockinsford, or Rocky. He's a good listener. Love you. A." You clutched Rocky to your chest, the scent of new fabric mingling with the ghost of Arthur's laundry detergent, and cried again, this time with a heart full of aching gratitude.

The weekends Arthur managed to escape to Edinburgh were lifelines, snatched fragments of their old life. He’d arrive at Waverley Station looking rumpled and slightly wild-eyed after the journey, a large backpack slung over one shoulder, invariably bearing a slightly squashed loaf of sourdough from his favourite London bakery. He always insisted he’d slept fine on the train, despite the dark smudges under his eyes that told a different story.

Your tiny student flat felt impossibly full with him in it. He’d immediately take over the microscopic kitchen, making tea while you tried to focus on reading at the rickety table. His presence was a warm, distracting comfort. He’d hum absentmindedly, the same tuneless hum from the phone call, as he moved about, inevitably knocking an elbow against a cupboard door or stubbing his toe on the bedframe. "Cramped but cosy," he'd declare cheerfully, handing you a steaming mug.

One drizzly Saturday, you dragged him to Edinburgh Castle. As you walked through the ancient stone gatehouse, Arthur’s earlier reserve melted away. The museum nerd you’d first met re-emerged, his eyes lighting up as he pointed out architectural details.

"See that?" he whispered, gesturing to a narrow slit in the thick wall. Tourists jostled past, oblivious. "Everyone calls it an arrow slit, right? Actually, a common misconception. It's primarily for crossbows in this period. The angle and the width." He launched into a detailed explanation, his hands sketching shapes in the damp air, his voice dropping into the enthusiastic, slightly faster cadence he used when talking about things he loved.

You watched him, a fond smile spreading across your face. He caught himself mid-sentence, noticing your expression. He ducked his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Sorry."

You bumped your shoulder against his arm. "Don't stop," you said softly. "I love it. And don't worry," you added, a playful glint in your eye as you nodded towards a nearby information plaque, "I'm still reading every word."

His grin was instantaneous, relieved, and bright. "Good. Wouldn't want you missing these amazing crossbow facts."

Winter in Edinburgh was a beast. The days shrank, swallowed by darkness that arrived mid-afternoon, and the wind sliced through coats like they were paper. The cheerful resilience you’d both mustered during autumn visits faded under the weight of grey skies and the relentless, grinding pressure of your workload. While Arthur’s channel thrived, it brought its own intense demands. Your own deadlines piled into an overwhelming mountain of research papers and presentations.

April arrived, bringing daffodils to Edinburgh's parks and Arthur's 29th birthday. You’d planned a weekend visit to London, a small celebration. Maybe baking his favourite cake, a quiet dinner, or just being together. But an important exam was scheduled for the Monday morning immediately after the weekend, an exam you were perilously underprepared for, thanks to a nasty flu that had wiped you out the entire week prior. 

Calling him, your voice still thick with congestion and scratchy with regret, was awful.

"Arthur. I don't think I can make it down this weekend," you rasped, the words scraping your throat. "This exam, it's massive, and I lost so much time being ill. I'm so, so sorry. Happy Birthday." The words felt like ash in your mouth. Pathetic.

A beat of silence stretched on the line, long enough for your heart to plummet. You could vividly picture the careful blankness settling over his face, the way his hand would automatically rub the back of his neck. "Oh," he finally said, his voice unnervingly neutral, devoid of its usual warmth. "Right. The exam. Yeah, no, of course. That. That makes sense. Gotta prioritise." Another pause, heavy with unsaid disappointment. "Don't worry about it, love. Really. We'll celebrate properly next time. Bigger cake." His attempt at lightness fell utterly flat. You heard the disappointment, carefully banked but unmistakable, beneath the forced cheer.

“I’m really sorry Arthur, I promise I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

A few months later, with summer approaching, came your graduation ceremony. After an absolutely brutal year, everything had finally fallen into place. Your family was travelling up, but Arthur was the one you desperately wanted to see you walk across that stage in the ridiculous cap and gown. You’d sent him pictures of the outfit, excited to see him on the day. 

A week before the ceremony, everything fell apart for him. His external hard drive—where he’d kept almost all the raw footage for the new series—suddenly stopped working. No warning, just gone. He tried everything he could think of, but nothing was bringing it back. The files weren’t lost forever, but getting them back would take time. Way too much time. He called you late that night. His voice was flat and strained, full of panic and frustration. He sounded like he hadn’t slept, like he’d been holding it together all day and couldn’t anymore.

The disappointment hit like a punch to the ribs. You stood frozen in your tiny room, phone pressed too tight to your ear, the hired graduation gown hanging on the back of the door, its sleeves limp as if sighing at you. The gulf between your worlds, his in London, yours here, his career emergencies, and your academic milestones felt suddenly vast and icy.

Typical, you thought, jaw clenching. Of course work comes first.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice clipped. The words came out sharper than you meant, all your frustration leaking through. You didn’t have the energy to soften it. “We’re adults. Work comes first. I get it.” That word, adults, hung heavy between you. It wasn’t just about this moment. It was about his birthday last month, when exams kept you from London. It was about the way he’d swallowed his own disappointment then, just like you were swallowing yours now.

His breath hitched on the line. “Don’t say it like that,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Please. I want to be there. This just—”

And then you realised.

This was his work. Not some corporate obligation, but his. The videos, the channel, the thing he’d built from scratch, the thing that paid his rent and funded those stupidly expensive headphones he’d sent you when you were drowning. The thing that mattered enough for him to sound this wrecked over missing your graduation.

Your anger flickered, then dimmed.

“I know,” you said, quieter now. You pressed your forehead against the cold windowpane, staring out at the rain as it came down steadily. “I,” you let out a long breath, heavy with disappointment. “I get it. Really. Go fix your disaster. I’ll save you a glass.”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, disbelieving huff. “You’re angry,” he said, like he was realising it mid-sentence.

“Yeah, well.” You swallowed hard. “So were you on your birthday. But we’re adults, right?”

Another pause. You could almost hear him thinking. When he spoke again, his tone had changed. “Right,” he said. “And we can make it up to each other. With cake. And maybe terrible wine.”

Your mouth twitched. You didn’t want to smile, but you did anyway.

“Deal,” you said. “Now go. I’ll text you the livestream link.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. Really.”

“I know.”

You ended the call and let the phone fall into your lap. You sat there for a while, still annoyed, still tired, still wishing things were different. But it didn’t hurt quite as much anymore. You stood up, wiped your face, and got ready for bed.

The key turned with a final, echoing click. You stood in the doorway of the tiny student flat, now stripped bare. Sunlight streamed through the empty window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air where your desk used to be. The only sound was the faint Edinburgh wind whistling past the building. It felt hollow, resonant with the echoes of late-night study sessions, frantic calls to Arthur, and the triumphant relief of finishing your dissertation. Rocky, the green dinosaur tucked securely under your arm, was the only remnant of your life here besides the suitcase at your feet. You’d sent the boxes of your things a day ago, it’s scheduled to get to his flat a few hours after you get there.

You took a deep breath. You'd fought hard here, learnt fiercely, and loved achingly from afar. You pulled out your phone and snapped a picture of the empty room and attached it to a text.

You (8:15 a.m.):  [Image: Empty Edinburgh flat]

You (8:15 a.m.):  Ready to be back home, returning the keys soon. See you in a few hours.

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): [Image: A slightly blurry selfie of him grinning, holding up a mug]

Arthur (8:16 a.m.): Counting. Will have tea when you’re back! Safe travels ❤️

You smiled, the familiar warmth of his presence bleeding through the pixels. Shouldering your bag, you gave the empty space one last glance and closed the door behind you.

The familiar rumble and screech of the train pulling into the station sent a jolt through you. This time, the grey London light filtering through the high glass roof didn’t feel oppressive; it felt like a familiar embrace. You hauled your suitcase down the aisle, heart hammering against your ribs in a rhythm that was equal parts nerves and pure, unadulterated anticipation.

You scanned the bustling platform, the sea of faces blurring. And then you saw him.

Arthur wasn't leaning against a pillar or checking his phone. He was moving, weaving through the crowd with that familiar, slightly slouched urgency, his head swivelling, eyes scanning frantically. He looked taller somehow, or maybe it was just the way he held himself, searching for you. He was wearing a dark green hoodie you hadn't seen before and those same soft, worn jeans. His hair was a bit messy, like he’d run a hand through it repeatedly.

His gaze locked onto you. His whole face transformed. The searching intensity vanished, replaced by the grin you were familiar with—wide, relieved, crinkling the corners of his eyes, lighting up his features in a way that made your breath catch. It was the grin from the museum, the one from under the streetlamp, amplified by months of longing. He didn't hesitate. He covered the last few yards quickly, his long legs eating up the distance.

He reached you, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tightly against the soft cotton of his hoodie, lifting you slightly off your feet in a hug that was fierce, wordless, and spoke volumes of every lonely night, every missed call, and every ache of separation. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelt like home.

"Missed you," he murmured, his voice thick and muffled against your hair. His arms tightened almost imperceptibly. "So bloody much."

"Missed you more," you whispered back, your voice catching. You clung to him, the platform noise fading to a distant hum.

He held you there for a long moment, suspended, his face buried in your hair. Then, you felt the soft, warm press of his lips against the crown of your head, a firm, lingering kiss that was a silent promise, an anchor in the whirlwind of arrival. It was tender and possessive all at once, breathing you in.

Only then did he finally set you down gently, his hands sliding from your back to cup your face. His dark brown eyes scanned yours, taking you in, the familiar warmth mixed with a profound relief. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple where his lips had just been. "Alright?" he asked softly, the question encompassing everything. The move, the degree, the journey, the sheer weight of being back.

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, but smiling so widely your cheeks ached. "Alright."

He grinned again, a little shakily this time, then bent and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. He slung his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you snugly against his side. The solid warmth of him, the familiar press, was an anchor. "Right then," he said, his voice regaining its usual soft cadence, laced with a happiness that resonated deep in his chest. "Let's get you home."

The Uber ride was a blur of tangled fingers resting on your knee, quiet murmurs about the traffic, and Arthur pointing out a new mural near the old flat. "Chris showed me. It's a bit weird, honestly, but colourful." The familiar streets felt different seen through the lens of permanence.

He fumbled slightly with the keys at the door of his flat, his usual slight awkwardness amplified by the suitcase and his eagerness. He pushed the door open and stood back, watching your face intently, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

You stepped inside.

It wasn't pristine. A camera lens cap lay forgotten on the coffee table. A half-drunk mug of tea sat beside his laptop. But it was different. Noticeably so. Space had been consciously made. Your bookshelf wasn't just there, it had been expanded, a new matching unit added beside the original, and your books integrated with his, no longer just piled on top. The draining board wasn't overflowing, space had been cleared, and your favourite oversized mug sat prominently on the mug tree, clean and waiting. A small, dedicated corner by the window now held a neat stack of your binders and notebooks, a proper study nook, replacing the precarious pile on the floor.

You walked further in, your fingers trailing over the spines of your books on the new shelf. You saw your old, fuzzy blanket draped over the arm of the sofa.

"Tried," Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks faintly pink. He hovered near the doorway, suitcase forgotten. "To make it properly ours again. Knew your stuff would need places. Hope it's okay?" He gestured vaguely at the study corner and the bookshelf. "Didn't want you feeling like you were just slotting back into my mess."

You turned to him, emotion swelling in your chest. You appreciated the effort, the visible proof he'd been thinking about your return, about making space for you not just physically, but in the life of the flat. You crossed the few steps back to where he stood, still hovering by the doorway, watching you with that tentative hope in his eyes.

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. His stubble was rough under your palms, familiar. His breath caught as you leaned in. When your lips met his, it wasn't like the first desperate kisses under the streetlamp or the quick pecks during rushed video calls. This was slow and deliberate. His mouth was warm and slightly chapped, and he sighed into the kiss like he'd been holding his breath for months.

One of his hands came up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers pressing gently over yours. The other settled at your waist, pulling you closer until your chests touched. You could feel his heartbeat through his hoodie, steady and strong.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes stayed closed for a second longer before opening. They were darker than usual, full of something quiet and awed. He didn't smile, just looked at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles where he still held your hand against his face.

"Welcome home," he murmured, so softly you almost didn't hear it. Then he kissed you again, shorter this time, but no less certain. When he spoke next, his voice was rough. "Meant to say that properly when you walked in. Got a bit distracted."

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat. "It's perfect," you whispered against his lips. "Thank you."

The first few days were a delicate dance of re-establishing rhythms. Arthur had a looming deadline for a video collaboration while you were deep in the trenches of job applications, tailoring CVs and drafting cover letters for positions in London.

One afternoon, you had a video interview scheduled. You’d set up in the study corner, notes arranged, and you were dressed presentably. Just as you were about to hit 'join', the unmistakable sound of Arthur’s enthusiastic voice narrating drifted loudly from your shared room.

You froze. Pre-interview nerves tangled with a spark of frustration. You took a deep breath and walked to Arthur’s room, his door was ajar. Inside, he stood bathed in the glow of his monitor, pacing the limited floor space between his desk and bed. His recording headphones dangled around his neck like a high-tech scarf as he gestured wildly at the timeline on his screen, completely absorbed in his narration.

"Arthur?" you asked.

He spun around, startled. "Yeah? Sorry, love, just this bit—"

"I have my interview starting right now," you said, pointing to your corner. "I really need it quiet for the next hour."

His eyes widened in instant understanding and apology. "Shit! Sorry! Right. Right." He immediately grabbed the expensive noise-cancelling headphones you'd given him for his last birthday and shoved them onto his head, giving you a thumbs-up and a contrite, muffled "Best of luck! You’ll crush it!" before turning back to his screen. 

Later, as you finished a successful interview, buzzing with relief, you emerged to find him still deeply focused. You started preparing a simple dinner. He finally surfaced, blinking, stretching the kinks out of his neck. "How'd it go?" he asked, coming into the kitchen, automatically reaching for the kettle to make you tea.

"Really well, I think!" you replied, stirring the pasta.

"Brilliant!" He grinned, then glanced at the simmering pot. "Listen, this video, it's fighting me. Mind if I grab another hour? Can dinner be late? I promise I'll make it up to you with washing-up duty."

You looked at him, the focused intensity still lingering in his eyes, the slight weariness, and the earnest request. You remembered the dead hard drive, the cancelled graduation, and the swallowed disappointment. You understood the pressure. "Go," you said, smiling. "Sort it out. We'll have late pasta."

He leaned over and kissed your temple. "You're a star." He grabbed a banana and headed back, pulling the headphones on again. 

Two hours later, after the pasta had been eaten with Arthur making good on his washing-up promise while you dried, you found yourselves on the sofa in that perfect post-dinner haze. The rain pattered softly against the windows as Arthur stretched out along the length of it, pulling you back against his chest with a contented sigh. His arms wrapped around you, warm and solid, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

"Finally got that video sorted," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. His fingers traced idle patterns on your forearm. "It should be out early tomorrow.”

You hummed in response, relaxing into his embrace. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back was more comforting than any blanket. His hoodie was soft against your cheek, still carrying that faint vanilla-and-laundry scent that was so distinctly him.

"Good," you said, interlacing your fingers with his. "Worth the wait for dinner then."

He huffed a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating against you. "You're too nice to me." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Thanks for being patient."

You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Always."

Arthur tightened his arms around you in response, nuzzling against your hair. The laptop whirred quietly on the coffee table where he'd left it, the video finally rendered and sent off. Outside, London hummed its nighttime song of distant traffic and rain-slick streets. But here, in the warm cocoon of the sofa, with Arthur's steady breathing and the weight of his arms around you, everything felt perfect.

Something should’ve tipped you off when Will asked if you were free the weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix.

He was casual about it, tossing the question into the middle of a late-night phone call while you were both half-asleep. “Just thinking”, he mumbled, voice low and warm through the speaker, “might be nice for you to come out with us. Got a place sorted and everything.”

You didn’t ask who “us” was.

You just said yes. 

Because it was Will, because he sounded soft and hopeful, because you missed him. You’d been together for a while now, long enough that comfort came easily. Long enough that the spaces between conversations were as warm as the ones filled with laughter.

But it sounded like a getaway, something special. Maybe even a little romantic. Just the two of you.

So you said yes, no hesitation.

What you hadn’t realised—until arriving in Nice, winding along the coast in a sunlit car, and stepping into a sprawling villa—was that this wasn’t just a trip for the two of you.

It was an easy drive, pretty straightforwardwith minimal traffic, but as you neared the villa, the first clues started to surface. Loud laughter drifted through the open windows of a neighbouring property, a cluster of scooters parked haphazardly near a driveway, and the faint smell of sunscreen mixed with cigarette smoke lingered in the warm afternoon air. 

The villa itself was gorgeous—big open windows, tall ceilings, a shimmering pool that reflected the sky like a mirror, and, damn, the view. It overlooked so much green that it felt like the whole hillside was wrapped in nature’s embrace, a lush contrast to the pastel city below.

Before you’d even stepped through the door, the distant thump of bass from a playlist you didn’t recognise pulsed through the walls. Familiar voices carried over the breeze. The faint clink of glassware hinted at alcohol possibly already cracked open, and somewhere, someone was chanting.

This wasn’t just a weekend away.

It was a boys’ trip.

And you were walking right into the middle of it.

Josh is the first one you see, grinning from ear to ear, arms outstretched like he hasn’t seen you in years. “Oi oi!” he shouts, pulling you into a hug that smells vaguely of sunscreen and just Josh. “You’re actually here,” he says, stepping back to give you a once-over. “Took you long enough.”

You laugh. “Well, I wanted to make a grand entrance.”

Arthur’s right behind him, already barefoot, camera in hand and most likely vlogging and in swim trunks. “You’re here. Thank god. I was starting to lose brain cells listening to these two.” He gave you a look like you were the only other reasonable human in the building. Arthur was practically family and had been for a long time. Not by blood, but by bond.

And then there’s Alfie—leaning against the doorframe, glued to his phone with that classic too-cool-to-care expression plastered on his face. He barely looked up at first, scrolling absently like he hadn’t noticed anything around him.

But then he caught sight of you.

His whole face lit up, the shift so immediate it was almost comical. “Yo!” he said, suddenly all energy, like he’d been hoping you’d show and didn’t want to look too eager about it. He tucked his phone into his pocket and straightened up, beaming in a way that made it impossible not to smile back.

You’d only met him recently, but something about him struck a chord. You’d taken him under your wing without even thinking about it, and in return, he looked up to you with that familiar younger-sibling energy. The buff gym guy exterior, all sarcastic charm and young Brit bravado, seemed to melt around you every time.

Then Will walked in, his hair a little messy from the wind, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and that relaxed smile on his face that you knew so well. He came straight over, wrapping his arms around you with the kind of ease that came from time and comfort. He pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, familiar—and let his chin rest lightly against your head.

“I see you found the chaos,” he said quietly, his voice low near your ear. He gave you another quick kiss on the temple, then nodded toward the hall. “Come on, let’s find what room they left for us.”

He grabbed both your bags without hesitation and headed deeper into the villa. You followed behind, the distant buzz of laughter from the living room echoing through the marble hallways.

Will found your shared room tucked off a quieter hallway and dropped your luggage by the wardrobe. The bedroom was bright, sun filtering through gauzy curtains. He put down the suitcase and crouched by it, pulling out a fresh white linen shirt and tossing it onto the bed, chatting casually about dinner plans and who had dibs on the good rooms.

You sat on the edge, fingers fidgeting against your thighs, the noise from the others still bleeding faintly through the walls.

“Can we talk for a sec?” You asked, your voice hesitant.

Will looked up immediately, a crease forming between his brows. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t realise this was a lads’ trip.”

He blinked. “It’s not.”

You gave a small, unsure shrug. “It kind of feels like it.”

Will shifted, his full attention on you now.

“Josh, Arthur, Alfie. I love them, I do.” You continued, struggling to keep your voice steady. “It’s the whole boys-on-tour thing. And I’m the only one here that’s not one of the boys. Sabina didn’t come, right?”

Will shook his head slowly. “No, she couldn’t get the time off.”

“Right.” You nodded, lips pressed together. “So it’s just me. I feel like the plus one who wasn’t supposed to come. Like I’m intruding on something I wasn’t really invited to. I just, I don’t want to be that person. If it’s weird for the others, I can find a hostel or something nearby. Seriously—”

Will reached out, his hand wrapping gently around your arm, thumb brushing softly over your wrist.

“Babe”, he said firmly, “stop.”

Before he could say more, the door creaked open without a knock, and Josh leaned in, brows raised. “Did I just hear you say you’d stay at a hostel?” You froze. Josh looked offended, like you’d confessed to eating plain pasta and calling it gourmet. “Are you stupid?” he added, voice rising with mock outrage. You opened your mouth to explain, to walk it back, but he was already stepping into the room like it was his. “You’re not going anywhere,” he declared. “You think we’d let you leave? Nah. You’re part of this.”

Arthur appeared behind him, half a banana in his hand, looking vaguely alarmed. “Wait, what’s going on? Who’s leaving?”

“They’re not”, Josh shot back, “because that would be ridiculous.”

Arthur turned to you, eyes narrowing. “You're not serious, right? You think we don’t want you here?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice light. “I just didn’t know if I was overstepping. I mean, it’s all of you, and then me.”

Arthur looked genuinely confused. “You’re basically family. Why would this be weird?”

Alfie’s voice piped up from the hall, he’d clearly been listening in. “Oi, if anyone’s out of place, it’s me. You’ve all known each other for ages. But no one’s booting me to a hostel.” He appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, but his expression was soft, almost puppyish. “You’re literally the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like an outsider. And you genuinely care for us. If you go, who the hell’s going to make sure I remember to wear sunscreen?”

You blinked, touched despite yourself. “Alfie.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Nah, you’re stuck with us. I’ve already bonded.”

Josh threw an arm around your shoulders like he was crowning you king of the trip. “There’s no ‘Will plus one’ here. You’re one of the gang. End of.”

Arthur nodded. “Exactly. You balance out the madness.”

“Also”, Josh added with a dramatic flick of his wrist, “the villa’s paid for. So it’d be financially irresponsible to leave.”

Will sat beside you, his hand still resting on your arm, his voice quieter than the others but just as firm. “I invited you because I wanted you here. Not as an afterthought. Not as an add-on. With me. With us.”

You looked around at the chaos of the doorway, three different personalities, all grinning, all clearly on your side, and felt the knot in your chest start to loosen.

“Alright”, you said, trying not to smile. “I’ll stay.”

Alfie whooped. Josh clapped you on the back like you’d just signed a lifetime contract. Arthur tossed the rest of his banana in the bin and walked off muttering, “Finally, some sense.”

Will leaned in, pressing a quiet kiss to your cheek. “Told you”, he whispered, “you belong here.”

The villa quieted down eventually, the energy mellowing into that pre-evening buzz as everyone drifted off to get changed. You lingered a moment in the bedroom after they cleared out, taking a breath now that the noise had settled. The rock in your chest had finally, properly eased. It felt good—safe—to be here.

Will was in the ensuite, shirtless and humming under his breath as he wrestled with his hair in the mirror.

God, he looked good.

The morning light spilling through the open windows caught the line of his shoulders, highlighting the subtle flex of his back and arms as he moved. His hair was still messy from the ride, and there was a light sheen on his skin from the coastal heat—but somehow, that just made him look even more unfairly attractive. Comfortable. Effortless.

You bit the inside of your cheek, letting your eyes linger a little longer than necessary.

“You’re staring,” Will said without turning around, smug and knowing.

“Can’t help it,” you replied, tossing your tote onto the chair. “You’re just standing there being all sun-kissed and shirtless.”

He chuckled, finally glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re allowed to look. You’re dating me, remember?”

“Still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” you said as you unzipped your bag.

Will crossed the room and leaned down, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to your lips. “Well,” he said as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, “get used to it.”

While he disappeared back into the ensuite to freshen up, you started getting dressed. The sun was already burning high—definitely a linen day. You pulled on your royal blue short-sleeve button-up and the white wide-leg linen trousers you’d packed specifically for warmer weather. The fabric was light, breezy, and perfect for the heat. Your blue Puma Speedcats were a bold but clean finishing touch.

You grabbed your matching Prada sunglasses—because, of course, you and Will had to match—and tossed them on before slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. Inside it was the last touch before you slung your tote over your shoulder.

Water bottle? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Tissues, portable charger, lip balm, aloe vera after sun—your little survival kit for a full day in the sun was stacked and ready. No one was passing out or burning under your watch.

Will reappeared just as you clipped your sunglasses to your collar. His matching pair of black Prada shades was already perched perfectly on his head. He paused in the doorway, eyes scanning over you with a lazy, appreciative smile. “Alright”, he said, “you trying to outdress Monaco?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “Just trying to blend in.”

“Blend in?” Will pushed off the doorframe and sauntered closer, his eyes still fixed on you. “You’re going to start riots looking like that. Trying to outshine the superyachts and me, all before lunch?” He stopped inches away, his fingers reaching out to lightly trace the line of your collar, sending a shiver down your spine despite the heat. “Monaco doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, tapping the exposed skin just above the deep V of his unbuttoned shirt. Your fingertip brushed warm skin. “Like you’re not planning to turn heads yourself, Lover Boy. Saw you preening in the mirror.”

He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pulling you gently against him. His free hand settled on your waist, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive curve just above your hipbone, sending sparks dancing across your skin even through the linen. “Only preening because I knew I had the best-looking accessory waiting for me.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing your temple. “Seriously though”, he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble, “you look absolutely stunning. Perfection.”

You grinned up at him, squeezing his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But let’s be honest,” you added, giving him a deliberate once-over that mirrored his earlier appraisal, lingering on the defined lines of his shoulders and chest, “we both clean up pretty damn well. Monaco’s not ready for this double act.”

Will chuckled, a warm, rich sound, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Double act? Darling, together we’re the main event. “Now come on,” he tugged you towards the door, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “let’s go ruin my reputation by being disgustingly well-dressed and attached at the hip.”

“Lead the way, Lover Boy.”

Downstairs, the lads were already gathered near the front entrance. Josh was in the middle of a dramatic retelling of a TikTok he saw the other day, gesturing wildly with a half-empty bottle of orange Lucozade. Arthur sat on the steps nodding along, completely enrapt, while Alfie was fiddling with his camera, pausing only to give you a little thumbs-up when he saw your outfit.

Josh blinked at you, visibly processing, before saying, “Wait, you and Will have matching sunnies?”

“That’s adorable! You’re both saps.” Arthur added, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Everyone ready then?”

The taxi pulled up not long after, tyres crunching against the gravel drive. Will slid into the backseat first, tugging you in beside him, while the others piled in with varying levels of coordination.

As the car began its descent from the hillside, the view of Monaco opened up ahead—rooftops shining in the sun, narrow streets winding down toward the harbour, and the distant gleam of the grandstands already buzzing with life. The city pulsed with heat and speed, the hum of engines already echoing in the distance like a heartbeat.

Alfie leaned forward from the third row of the van, vlogging camera in hand. “Right, what’re the odds Josh spills a drink on himself before we even make it to the paddock?”

“Oi”, Josh said indignantly. “I’m classy.”

The taxi ride into Monaco was something else entirely.

You’d barely crossed the border before the streets transformed. The buildings got glossier, the people looked richer, and the number of absurdly expensive cars skyrocketed. Lamborghinis purred at stoplights, Ferraris glinted beneath palm trees, and the occasional Rolls-Royce sat casually in front of a bakery like it was no big deal.

“Wait”, Your nose nearly touched the window glass. “Is that a Bugatti? Just parked outside a café like it's some Honda Civic?”

Will glanced over, grinning. “Welcome to Monaco.”

You kept staring as the Bugatti's owner emerged holding espresso cups, casually tossing his keys to a valet. “Do traffic laws even exist here? Or do police just wave when they see a car worth more than their salary?”

Josh twisted around from the front seat.  “Mate, if your car costs more than the building next to it, you can do what you want.”

Arthur pointed out the window. “Wait till we get to the harbour. That's where the real money parks.”

The cab wound through the narrow, glitzy streets toward the harbour, where the water shimmered like a movie set and yachts gleamed in every direction. The taxi finally pulled up near the accreditation tent, and the group spilled out into the sunshine. Will led the way toward a cluster of security and event staff beside a sleek white booth.

“Name?” the woman asked, tapping on a tablet.

"Lenney", Will said. The woman nodded, retrieving a stack of laminated passes from a drawer. One by one, she handed out passes on thick lanyards. The lettering was sharp and official.

VIP – YACHT NELA

“A yacht?” You turned the pass over in your hands.

Will adjusted his sunglasses. “Josh knows someone who knows someone. Better than fighting crowds on land.”

The group lingered near the marina entrance, their VIP passes dangling, as they waited in the morning sun. The wooden boards creaked underfoot with each small shift of weight, salt air mixing with the faint diesel smell from Idle tender boats.

Will glanced at his watch, then toward the marina promenade. “They're cutting it close,” he remarked, adjusting his sunglasses.

Josh leaned against a mooring post. “Relax, mate. It's not like the yacht's going to sail without us.”

As if summoned, three figures came rushing down the dock. Becky led the charge in a blue and white ensemble, her lanyard swinging wildly as she waved. Gabs trailed behind, still adjusting the strap of her bag while applying lip balm with her free hand. A third friend—someone you didn't recognise—brought up the rear, struggling to keep up in wedge sandals.

“Don't even start,” Becky commented as she reached the group, pressing a hand to her side. “The driver took some back route, and we had to sprint from the drop-off point.”

Gabs finally snapped her lip balm shut. “Also, security took forever verifying our passes. They made us unpack half our bags.”

The unfamiliar girl waved and said, “Yeah, sorry about the wait.”

Will shook his head, but his lips quirked in amusement. “Right, now that everyone's finally here.” He gestured toward the waiting tender boat, where a crew member stood ready to assist.

A deckhand in a navy polo helped them board one by one, steadying arms offered as each person stepped onto the unstable inflatable platform. The moment the last foot cleared the dock, the engine coughed to life, the sudden diesel smell mixing with salt air.

As the tender pulled away, the harbour unfolded around them—not so much a marina as a floating neighbourhood of obscenely large yachts. They passed stern after stern, each painted name more grandiose than the last, Endeavour in bold serif, Valkyrie in sleek chrome, and something called Phoenix Rising in what could most likely be actual gold leaf.

“Fucking hell,” Becky muttered, gripping the safety rope as they hit a small wake. “These aren't boats. They're small countries.”

The driver pointed ahead, where a particularly massive white yacht sat anchored. “There's your ride,” he said over the engine noise.

You all turned to look—and damn.

The yacht was enormous. Gleaming white, sleek and modern, with curved balconies and multiple decks that looked like they belonged in a luxury travel brochure. The name Nela was painted in sharp lettering across the stern.

“Bloody hell,” Arthur breathed, gripping the tender's railing as he stared upward. “Chip, mate, what exactly does your connection do?”

Josh grinned like he’d been waiting for someone to say it. “I know, right? It’s unreal.”

Alfie was already filming, his camera panning across the yacht's sweeping lines. “I feel like an imposter stepping on this boat.”

“Alright,” Arthur muttered under his breath as the tender slowed to a glide, “Monaco’s taking the piss.”

One by one, the crew helped them board. Josh was eager to get off first, Alfie carefully cradling his camera gear, Arthur looking around in wonder, and Will shaking hands with the first officer like he did this every weekend.

Becky came next, accepting the crew member's outstretched hand with practised ease. “Thank you,” she said with a polite smile as she stepped onto the teak deck. She paused to adjust her sunglasses before adding, “I was beginning to think we'd be circling the harbour all day.”

Gab followed in her form-fitting grey bodycon dress, clutching her phone. “Remind me why we didn't take the helicopter?” She joked, pausing to adjust the strap of her wedges on the swim platform.

The third member of their group nearly dropped her phone while transferring from the bobbing tender. “Note to self”, she muttered, “wear different shoes next time.”

You went last, accepting the crew member's offered hand as you stepped onto the teak platform, its wooden slats perfectly smooth underfoot.

From the waterline, the yacht already looked massive, but standing on it made the scale feel almost surreal. Three full decks stretched upward, white railings gleaming, with staff already lined up to help with bags and offer refreshments. But your attention was immediately drawn to the view—up just one level, past a small spiral stair on the stern.

Will followed your gaze, his fingers naturally intertwining with yours as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I hope you'll love this as much as I do.”

He led the way up the stairs, and the second you reached the rear deck above, the full view opened up. The circuit. Right there. Maybe a hundred metres from the back of the yacht, if that. The track curved along the waterfront, the narrow city street transformed into racing tarmac bordered by fencing and temporary grandstands. You could see a portion of the curve that funnelled past the marina, the road baking in the midday heat, and even from here you could hear the occasional growl of an engine winding up somewhere in the distance.

Will's fingers tensed around yours as he leaned slightly forward against the railing. You could feel the subtle vibration in his grip, the way his pulse jumped under your thumb where it rested against his wrist. His attention locked onto the distant track layout, eyes tracking the familiar curves of the circuit as it wound between Monaco's buildings. “This is.” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We can actually see the track from here.” His voice had that particular pitch you recognised from when he got properly excited about something—slightly higher, words coming faster.

You watched his profile instead of the view—the way his eyebrows lifted slightly, how his lips parted unconsciously as he took in the panorama. When you bumped your shoulder against his, he blinked like someone waking up.

“Adorable”, you said, squeezing his hand. “I didn't know you could get this worked up over pavement.”

He finally tore his gaze away from the circuit layout to look at you, his expression caught between embarrassment and exhilaration. “I'm completely normal about this,” he said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. One hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. “It's just,” He stopped and then tried again. “It's Monaco. The actual Grand Prix. And we're,” He gestured vaguely at the yacht, the harbour, and the whole ridiculous situation. “Here.”

The way he said it. That single word, loaded with years of watching races on TV, of following driver stats, of dreaming about seeing it live, made you understand this wasn't just another trip. This was someone's childhood fantasy playing out in real time, and you got to witness it.

The others trailed behind you in loose conversation, but the noise faded at the edges. It felt like the moment narrowed down to just the two of you and the shimmer of the track in the sun.

Will glanced at his watch, then up at the empty stretch of asphalt just beyond the railing. “Quali starts soon,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. His smile tugged wider. “This is going to be mental.”

He looked excited—really excited in that unfiltered, boyish way you didn’t always get to see from him. You’d seen him passionate before, but this was different. It made your chest tighten, just a little.

You leaned into him, nudging his hip with yours. “So what's the plan if your favourite driver bins it on the first lap?”

Will's response came rapid-fire, as if he'd rehearsed this scenario in his head countless times: “First, I'll refuse to believe it happened. Then I'll yell at the TV. After that, I'll blame the pit wall for their terrible strategy call.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And finally, Ocon.”

You stared at him. “Even if Ocon's not even in the race?”

“Especially if he’s not involved.” Will confirmed, nodding seriously. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were laughing at an inside joke.

You laughed, “That makes no sense.” And he grinned, pleased with himself. But then your eyes drifted lower, toward the water just beyond the yacht’s stern.

As you turned back toward the water, movement caught your eye. Beyond the yacht's polished stern rail, a familiar black tender boat bobbed in the harbour swell. Two figures sat side by side on the centre bench, one scanning the surrounding yachts with precision, the other holding a camera while laughing at something. Even at this distance, their postures were unmistakable.

You leaned forward, squinting against the glare. “Wait. Is that,” you point down to the boat, “is that Batch and George?”

Josh, who’d just reappeared with a fresh drink in one hand and a half-eaten peach in the other, perked up. “Where?”

You pointed toward the boat again. “There. That one. The black one just past the red buoy.”

Josh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before cupping it around his eyes. After a beat, he suddenly straightened. "Oh shit, that is Batch!" Without hesitation, he lurched toward the railing. "BATCH!”

The moment Josh confirmed their identities, the entire group erupted in unison. A chaotic chorus of shouts and whistles burst from the railing as everyone jostled for position, Will's deep bellow mixing with Josh's raspy yell, Alfie's sharp whistle piercing through Becky's Welsh accent while Arthur's dry tone cut underneath. Their combined voices carried across the harbour, loud enough that several nearby yacht crews turned to look.

"BATCH! GEORGE!!"

The overlapping shouts created a wall of sound that finally made the two figures below snap their heads up in perfect synchronisation. From below, Batch turned sharply at the sound of his name, one hand coming up to block the sun as he squinted toward your voices. A beat passed before recognition dawned his free hand shot up in an enthusiastic wave, nearly losing his balance as the tender rocked beneath him.

George twisted around on the bench, camera dangling forgotten from his wrist. His face split into that familiar, lopsided grin as he spotted the group crowded along the railing. He raised both arms dramatically, waving them back and forth like he was flagging down a rescue plane.

They both yelled out an enthusiastic “HELLO”.

“Unreal”, you muttered, still smiling.

The first few laps passed in a blur, just flashes of colour and engine growls echoing off the harbour walls. From the stern deck, the cars appeared and vanished in seconds, so Will, after a while, turned to you with a look of reluctant practicality.

“I need a better view of the times,” he said, already heading toward the salon.

The yacht's lounge offered a welcome escape from the sun. The large-screen TVs mounted along the starboard wall already showed different camera angles from the F1 feed, but as you and Will stepped through the sliding doors, it became clear the prime viewing spots were taken. Arthur was perched on the arm of a couch, Alfie had claimed the spot next to him, and Josh leaned back against the counter, nursing something fizzy and gold. He was pretending to listen to a guy you don’t recognise's animated commentary about tyre strategies.

Will grabbed a drink off the marble counter, some kind of citrus spritz that one of the staff had just set down. Then the both of you drifted toward the edge of the room, standing just behind one of the white leather sofas, close enough to see the TV screens clearly. 

Will took another sip of his drink and didn’t even blink as one of the cars tore past outside, just visible through the massive windows behind the TV. You could still hear the engines screaming down the street a hundred metres away, but now Will’s eyes were glued to the leaderboard on screen.

His voice was low. “Alright. Here we go.”

You glanced sideways at him. He was standing straight but not still, rocking faintly on the balls of his feet, one hand loose by his side, the other clutching his glass like it grounded him. His expression was intense but boyish. You’d seen him excited before, but this wasn’t just hype. It was something deeper.

The screen flashed with sector times, and one by one, names shuffled up and down.

The engine sounds from the track still rumbled faintly through the back, but most people inside weren’t paying much attention. Someone was loudly telling a story about someone getting kicked off the boat for being too drunk. Near the bar, a man and two women were arguing about whether it was tacky to wear heels on a yacht.

But Will, he was locked in.

Q1 ticked down, and his eyes never left the screen. He stood with his arms crossed tight across his chest, bouncing slightly on his heels like the energy had to go somewhere. His jaw tensed every time someone missed an apex or ran wide. He stared with furrowed brows and muttered things under his breath.

You passed him some water, which he accepted without looking away. “Cheers,” he said absently, then muttered, “Jesus, that overtake was awful.”

Bella, along with other people in a small group, stood by with a similar intensity, all quiet focus and narrowed eyes. You caught one of them mutter, “My money’s on Verstappen,” to another, who nodded solemnly. 

Will didn’t say much through Q1 or Q2, just the occasional quiet curse or sharp inhale. His glass kept draining without him noticing, so you took it once or twice to swap it for fresh ones. He drank automatically. You could feel him slowly winding tighter.

By Q3, the room shifted slightly. A few more people were tuning in now, curiosity piqued by the rising volume of the commentary. There were some proper reactions when drivers put in good laps, claps, whistles, groans, but plenty of background chatter still buzzed, completely unrelated to what was happening on track.

Then Lando went out again.

Will leaned forward just a bit, fingers curled around the drink in his hand. His shoulders had tensed up, and his gaze locked in like he could will the McLaren forward with sheer intensity.

“Come on,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Let’s go. One clean lap. Hold that. Hold it.”

Then, from the TV, “Lando Norris goes P1!” The commentators’ voices jumped in pitch, and so did the noise in the room. Will grabbed your shoulders and shook you with a laugh, like he physically couldn’t hold the excitement in.

“HE DID IT,” he half-yelled, half-laughed. “OH MY GOD, HE DID IT!” He turned to you, that grin still locked in place like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “He actually did it! That’s. That's unreal.”

You reached over and gave Will’s hand a squeeze. “You proud of your boy?”

“I’m so proud of my boy,” he said sincerely, still staring at the screen. “He’s definitely getting a Rodd’s feature. Either named after him or a flavour that he likes.”

You snorted, folding your arms as Will leaned a hand on the bar behind him, still facing the screen. The room hadn’t quite settled, everyone was buzzing, but Will looked like he could float. A mix of disbelief and joy lit up every feature of his face.

You stepped a little closer and bumped his hip with yours. “You alright?”

He finally looked at you properly. “I am now.”

And for a second, it wasn’t about the race or the cars or the screens—it was just him, grinning like a kid, and you, standing beside him, the only place you wanted to be.

The sun was starting its slow dip behind the hills, casting golden light over the Monaco coastline. The boat had docked, and while the boys, Becky and (other girl name) were deep in a discussion of some sort, you slipped away, drawn by something shinier.

Literally.

The street was lined with an obscene number of exotic cars. Ferraris. Bugattis. Even an old Aston Martin, just casually parallel parked like it didn’t cost more than a house. But it was the silver glint down the side alley that stopped you in your tracks.

A Mercedes-AMG One.

You took a breath like you’d just walked into a gallery and spotted a lost da Vinci.

You whispered under your breath, “No. Way.”

It looked like it had been sculpted from a different century—sleek and futuristic, the kind of thing you'd expect Batman to own if the film was sponsored by Mercedes. The bodywork caught the light in a way that made you gape in awe. You drifted closer, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes roving over every aggressive line and vent like you were studying it for a final exam.

You were so mesmerised that you didn’t even notice someone approach until a voice broke through the air, warm and amused.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

You turned your head to see a blonde woman in a linen jumpsuit and mirrored sunglasses smiling at you.

You nodded, beaming at her, then like a magnet, your gaze was drawn back to the car. “It’s art. The engineering, the balance. It’s elegant. Whoever owns this has great taste.”

A deep chuckle sounded behind you.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You turned to find a tall brunette man in a perfectly crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, standing just behind her. Both of them looked like they’d walked straight out of a Forbes feature about power couples.

Your eyes lit up as you practically bounced toward the machine, fingers twitching with barely contained excitement. “Oh, tell me she drives as insane as she looks,” you said, voice low with awe. “When you hit the throttle”, you mimed slamming your foot down, “does it feel like your soul is trying to exit through your teeth? Or is she too pretty to really let loose on the streets?”

You grinned, half-manic with admiration, shifting on the balls of your feet like you could barely contain the thrill of just standing near it. “Because this thing looks like it could outrun a bad decision and still make it to brunch on time. Please tell me you actually let her breathe every now and then.”

The woman laughed, clearly amused. “Oh, she drives.”

The man tilted his head, studying you with a faint smile. “Are you into cars?”

You turned to him, eyes wide with sincerity. “God, yeah. Like—really into them. I’m not a professional or anything, but it’s been a long-time hobby. I work on vintage supercars whenever I can get my hands on them. Nothing too flashy. Mostly restoration, with bits of tuning work. I’ve rebuilt a '73 Dino, an old Countach, and even an F40 once. I still have grease under my nails half the time.” You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I don’t get near anything this new, though. Machines like this?” You nodded toward the AMG One, reverent. “They’re on a whole different plane. The closest I get is watching people open them up on YouTube.”

The man exchanged a glance with the woman, clearly entertained. “You are very passionate,” she said with a grin.

You let out a laugh, a little breathless. “It’s obsession, really. But like, the good kind. Cars like this they’re moving art. You don’t just drive them, you feel them. Every sound, every vibration, it’s all telling you a story if you’re paying attention.”

The man smiled, clearly impressed. “You speak like someone who belongs behind the wheel.”

You blinked. “I mean, if you’re offering—”

The woman raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful. He might take you up on that.”

You laughed, but the way she said it made you pause, like maybe this wasn't a normal couple admiring a car on the street. Still, you brushed it off, too giddy about the machine to overthink it.

You fished your phone out of your bag. “Would it be okay if I took a photo? I mean, now that I’ve met the owner, it feels less weird.” you asked, looking between them. 

The man chuckled and gestured toward the car. “Be my guest.” Then he added, “Actually,” he reached into his trouser pocket, “want to hear her purr?”

You froze. “Are you serious?”

He tossed you the keys.

“Go on. Give her a little rev.”

The metal was warm against your palm, the Mercedes emblem pressing into your skin as you clenched your fist too tight. Your inner child screamed. You squeaked something like a thank you and practically ran to the driver's side, then caught yourself at the last second—don't scuff the paint, don't scuff the paint—before grabbing the door handle with reverent care. The door opened with a perfect thunk, heavier than any car door you'd ever touched.

The second you slid into the seat, you burst into uncontrollable giggles. “Holy shit. Holy SHIT.” The racing buckets hugged your hips like a glove, the steering wheel thick and purposeful under your death grip. Your knees bumped the trim, but you didn't care—you were in it.

You whipped your head toward the couple, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “This is the best day of my life,” you announced, voice cracking.

The man leaned down with a big smile, bracing one hand on the roof. “Rev when ready.”

You took a shaky breath, planted your foot firmly on the brake, and pressed the ignition. The dash lit up like a fighter jet's cockpit—a dozen screens flashing to life. Then you touched the accelerator.

The engine exploded to life with a vicious snarl, the entire car trembling beneath you. You yelped, then immediately laughed, giddy. “YES!” The sound wasn't just loud, it punched through your chest, rattling your ribs. You gave it another stab, and the revs shot up with zero delay—an instantaneous, ear-splitting scream that echoed off the buildings.

You were cackling now, the smile on your face would surely crack your face in half. “THIS IS INSANE! The throttle response is—” Another jab at the pedal. The engine roared again. “IT'S LIKE A SWITCH! NO LAG! JUST—BRAAAAAP!” Your mind couldn’t form coherent sentences any more, your excitement fully taking over.

The woman was full-on laughing at you now. “Someone's enjoying themselves.”, She held up her phone, and you could only assume that she was taking a video of you. You remind yourself to ask her to send it to you after this.

“I REALLY AM! THANK YOU!” You did one last rev, holding it just long enough to hear the exhaust crackle on the overrun. Then, with enormous reluctance, you killed the ignition. The sudden silence felt wrong.

You practically fell out of the car in your haste to thank them, bouncing on your toes. “That was—that was—” Words failed. You settled for miming an explosion next to your head, complete with sound effects. “Mind blown! Gone!”

The man took his keys back, clearly amused. “Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?!” You were still vibrating with excitement, pointing wildly at the AMG One. “That's not a car, that's a spaceship! The way it instantly ” you snapped your fingers, “! And the sound! And the—the—” You made a series of gestures at the car. “Everything! Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

You backed away to let the lovely couple step into their car. “I'm going to remember this forever! Best strangers ever!”

The couple exchanged an amused glance at your star-struck reaction. The man moved first, circling to the passenger side to open the door for the woman with quiet courtesy before returning to the driver's side. You caught her giving him a small, private smile as she settled into her seat, clearly accustomed to this routine.

You were still buzzing with adrenaline when Will's voice cut through your daze. “Love? There you a— OH MY GOD.” He skidded to a stop beside you, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he gaped at the Mercedes. His head whipped toward you, then back to the car, then to the driver's side window just as it began rolling down.

The man gave a polite nod. “Enjoy the race weekend.”

Will's mouth fell open. “Toto! Susie! I—we're—huge fans of everything you've done with—” His voice cracked slightly as the woman waved from the passenger seat.

But you were still stuck three minutes in the past. “Will”, you interrupted, grabbing his arm, “I can’t believe he let me rev his car! That beauty.”

Will gaped at you. “Do you realise who that was?”

You blinked. “The nice people with the beautiful car?” 

“Toto and Susie Wolff!” Will shook your shoulders gently. “Mercedes F1!”

You paused, processing this for exactly two seconds before: “Okay, but DID YOU HEAR THE CRACKLES?” 

Will facepalmed as you kept babbling, “And the brake pedal had zero squish!” You finally registered Will's expression and shrugged. “What? They were cool, but that car. ” You turned to stare down the street where it had disappeared, sighing dreamily.

It wasn't until hours later, in bed, back at the villa, that you suddenly sat bolt upright. “The video!” you groaned, smacking your forehead. “She had her phone out the whole time! I was right there, and I completely forgot to ask!” Will just shook his head, chuckling as you lamented your lost footage.

Will turned his head on the pillow, the moonlight catching his amused smirk. “You were a bit distracted,” he teased, his voice slightly slurring due to the drinks. His fingers brushed your arm as you flopped back dramatically onto the mattress.

You stared at the ceiling, replaying the moment in agonising detail. “She definitely got that perfect shot when I first revved it.” You lifted your arm to cover your face. “Now it's lost, forever.” You state dramatically.

Will's quiet laughter rumbled through the mattress as you rolled onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow. “I had one job,” you mumbled, voice muffled. “One job! Be cool around a hypercar, get the video evidence, and don't embarrass myself in front of—” You lifted your head and asked teasingly. “Wait, who were they again?”

The pillow hit you square in the face with perfect aim. Before you could retaliate, Will's arms hooked around your waist, and in one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, his full weight settling comfortably atop you like a human weighted blanket.

“Uff—okay, point taken,” you wheezed dramatically, wriggling halfheartedly beneath him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His laughter vibrated against your collarbone.

Will shifted just enough to press a sleepy kiss to your jaw. “You're ridiculous,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “And we're sleeping now.” His arms tightened possessively, pinning you in place as he nuzzled into the pillows.

You smiled into the dark, giving up all pretences of escape as Will's breathing gradually deepened against you. The day’s events play back in your memory, but here, warm and anchored beneath the comfortable weight of your favourite person, you finally let it lull you to sleep, video evidence be damned.

The villa sat in that peaceful mid-morning lull where even the air seemed to move slower. You'd been up since eight, relishing the quiet as you arranged breakfast on the outdoor table. Scrambled eggs still steaming in their dishes, a basket of crusty baguettes, bowls of ripe strawberries and sliced melon, and a pot of coffee so strong the scent alone could wake the dead.

Josh emerged first, shuffling across the terrace tiles in socked feet. His zipped hoodie hung off one shoulder, revealing a wrinkled t-shirt beneath, and his usual carefully styled hair stuck up in three different directions. He squinted against the sunlight like it had personally offended him.

“You” he pointed an accusing finger at you, voice gravelly, “are disturbingly alert for this hour.” He collapsed into the chair across from you with enough force to make the silverware rattle.

You pushed a full coffee cup toward him. “I went to bed at a reasonable time and drank water like a responsible adult.”

Josh took a tentative sip, winced, then drank deeper. “That's disgusting behaviour,” he muttered into his cup. “We're in Monaco. You're supposed to be hungover or rich. Preferably both.”

“Disappointing you is my greatest joy.” You nudged the fruit bowl closer just as Alfie appeared, muttering something under his breath about the time, and slumped across the table with a quiet groan. Then, Arthur appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses so dark they looked opaque. He moved with the careful precision of someone trying not to spill their own brain.

“Tell me there's bacon,” he said by way of greeting.

“On the sideboard,” you answered. “And aspirin in the kitchen.”

Arthur made a noise that might have been gratitude before disappearing inside again. You took a satisfied bite of your croissant, watching as Josh slowly came back to life sip by sip. The breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden below, mixing with the rich aroma of coffee. Somewhere down the hillside, an engine whined to life out on the roads. Arthur came back out a minute later, sunglasses on, holding a glass of water in one hand and a banana in the other like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Josh finally set down his empty cup with a decisive clink. “Okay. Maybe being boring has its perks.” He reached for the eggs with renewed purpose just as Alfie stumbled out, looking like he'd slept in his clothes and possibly someone else's.

You smiled, pouring another coffee. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Will was last to arrive, looking rumpled but human. He'd clearly showered, his damp hair curled at the nape of his neck, and he carried the sharp citrus scent of shampoo. He drained half a water bottle in one go before dropping a kiss on your temple. “You're a saint for this,” he murmured, reaching past you to pile eggs onto a plate.

Josh pointed a buttery knife at Will. “How are you vertical? You drank more than any of us.”

Will smirked, cracking pepper over his eggs. “Because I've got someone who actually cares about me.” He nudged your foot under the table. “This one kept shoving water at me all night. 'Drink this, take these electrolytes, swallow these hangover pills before bed.'” Will pitched his voice to match yours, mimicking some of the things you’d told him the day before. “Annoying as hell at the time, but.” He raised his coffee cup in your direction with a grateful nod.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. “Someone had to play babysitter. I wasn't about to spend today listening to all of you moan like wounded animals.”

Josh groaned and let his forehead thunk against the table. “I need to get myself one of those…What are they called again?”

“Responsible adults?” you suggested, lobbing a grape that bounced off his temple.

From his face down position on the table, Alfie managed a muffled protest: “If you could not talk so loud, that'd be great.”

You reached over to ruffle Alfie's disastrous hair, earning him a pained whimper. “Drink your water, kid. We've got the actual race in three hours.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your legs out under the table as the early sun warmed your skin. The rest of the table were in varying stages of recovery—groggy, silent, and deeply focused on the act of consuming calories.

No one was talking. Just the sound of forks on plates and the occasional shuffling of feet.

Arthur sat slumped over his coffee like it owed him something, his shoulders hunched defensively against the morning sunlight. The others weren't faring much better - Josh was methodically dissecting a croissant crumb by crumb, while Alfie had his forehead pressed against the cool marble tabletop.

Will, mercifully unaffected by last night's excesses, leaned back in his chair with his second espresso, watching his suffering friends with amused detachment. He caught your eye and raised his cup in a silent salute, the corner of his mouth twitching as Arthur groaned something unintelligible into his coffee mug.

“Someone's chipper this morning,” you murmured, nudging Will's foot under the table. The morning sun caught the laugh lines around his eyes as he turned toward you, his espresso forgotten.

Will stretched his arms behind his head, the movement making his t-shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at his waist. “Woke up next to you in Nice,” he said, like that explained everything. He plucked a plump strawberry from the fruit bowl and popped it in his mouth, grinning as he chewed. “Then I come outside to find my disaster friends looking like extras from The Walking Dead, while you’re out here being all,” He gestured at you with the strawberry stem, “not to mention the rest of the day. Best morning ever.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You're ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously happy,” Will corrected, drinking from his coffee. Across the table, Alfie groaned something unintelligible into his eggs, making Will's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

It had been at least fifteen minutes of this slow-motion breakfast before anything broke the lull.

Josh, who’d been mostly scrolling on his phone and chewing dry toast, suddenly made a sharp sound—half gasp, half laugh. He sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Mate. No. No way. You’re going to lose your mind.”

You looked up. “What’s happened?”

He turned his phone around and held it out toward you. “Mercedes just posted this.”

It was a video. Of you. Sitting in the AMG One. Grinning. Laughing. Overexcited as you revved the engine with giddy disbelief.

You blinked.

Josh gave you his phone, and you read the caption: “One lucky fan got to experience what happens when the AMG One takes a breath. Can someone help us find this mystery enthusiast? We’d love to get in touch. 🎥: Susie Wolff”

The comments were a chaotic mix of F1 fans, car nerds, and curious strangers:

@petrolhead69: whoever this is, give them a hot lap at Silverstone @carwidow: imagine being this about a car i love them @ mercedesamgf1 (✔️): seriously, anyone know who this is? slide into our DMs pls 🙏 @theburntchip(✔️): I know who it is…👀@yourUserName

Your fingers froze mid-scroll. “No way.”

Josh nodded. “Way. Mercedes' actual social team just asked about you. That's their verified account.”

Will read the phone over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. “Christ. The official page?”

“Yep,” Josh popped the 'p', grinning like he'd orchestrated the whole thing.

Arthur leaned in too, chewing slowly. “You're in their feed, mate. That’s serious.”

The video played on loop. Your unrestrained reaction when the AMG One's engine first roared to life, your hands flying to cover your mouth, and the way you'd whipped around to stare at Susie and Toto with wide-eyed disbelief. The camera had caught every frame of your genuine, unfiltered excitement.

“She actually posted it,” you murmured, tracing the edge of your phone case.

Josh tapped the most damning comment. “And now one of the biggest teams in F1 is actively trying to track you down. Literally.”

You kept looking at it and then finally just said, “That’s insane.”

Will leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Kind of makes last night feel like a setup.”

You looked at him. “You’re not weirded out?”

“Nah,” he said. “You earned it. You lit up like a kid in a candy store. They probably loved that.”

Across the table, Alfie didn't look up from his camera. “If they offer you paddock passes, I’m your mandatory plus one. Professional videographer and all that.”

Will's fork clinked against his plate. “Not happening.”

You sat back, the reality settling in. “So I just wait for Mercedes to send me a message?”

Josh grinned. “Pretty much.”

Will nudged your foot under the table. “Try not to let it inflate your ego too much.”

The kitchen hummed with a frantic, pre-dawn energy that felt at odds with the deep indigo pressing against the windows. 4:00 AM. Outside, the world was still asleep. Inside, the chaos of the preparation to leave for the airport was in full swing.

Worktops were buried under an avalanche of last-minute necessities. Lotion bottles, plasters, scrunchies, bibs, spare nappies, barf bags, and the ominous sprawl of multiple, heavily annotated packing lists. Will stood amidst it, cross-referencing them, a pen clenched between his teeth, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. The soft thump-thump-thump of the suitcase scale punctuated the quiet. He’d weighed them before bed. He’d weighed them after packing the toiletries. He was weighing them again.

"Did we pack the kids' Calpol?" His voice was tight, the question snapping out without him looking up from the digital display. "The tablets? Not the liquid. It would be easier, but we–"

He kept talking—half to you, half to himself—but your attention drifted. Noah had appeared silently at your side, his little body pressing into your leg like a barnacle. His wide eyes blinked up at you, lip wobbling, pyjamas rumpled from sleep. Pre-travel nerves had him wrapped tight. "I don’t want to fly, Mummy."

You sank to your knees and gathered him in, your arms forming a warm cocoon. His fingers clutched at your hoodie as you rocked gently, cheek resting against his soft, sleep-warmed hair. You whispered whatever came to mind, "I thought you were excited to go on a holiday? Think of it as just a big adventure, sweetheart," you murmured. "Like pirates in the sky. Maybe with snacks. Maybe a movie."

Behind you, Lily came clattering into the kitchen, already dressed and determined. At five, she’d made it her life’s work to imitate her father, and this morning was no different. "Mummy!" she declared urgently. "Trix needs his travel scarf! The silky blue one! He gets plane ears otherwise!" Trix, her well-loved rabbit, dangled from her grip by one ear, the poor thing already showing signs of long service.

You smoothed a hand down Noah’s back and looked over your shoulder at her. "It’s on your dresser, love. Remember? Daddy made sure it was ready for you last night."

She gasped as if remembering a crucial mission and took off again, little socked feet thudding down the hall.

Your eyes flicked to Will. Deep lines of concentration marked his face. His jaw was tight. He stared intensely at the suitcase. He was a portrait of quiet tension, the kind only you knew how to read. 

Still rocking Noah, you stretched one arm across the cluttered kitchen counter, fingers finding the familiar shape of Will’s travel vest. The many-pocketed monstrosity had started as a joke when Lily was born, jokingly saying he is officially an Airport Dad. You hadn’t expected him to actually wear it. But he had. Every trip since. And every time, you smiled.

You’d packed it the night before in a rare moment of quiet, a wordless offering. Cereal bars sorted by type in zip-locks, a travel pack of wipes in the side, and most importantly, everyone’s passports tucked safe inside the inner pocket. You knew he’d check for them compulsively, every time his hand wasn’t busy with something else.

You slid the vest across the counter toward him.  "Vests ready," you said simply. "Calpol’s in the side pocket. Blue box. EU-approved. I double-checked."

That cut through. Will looked up at last, eyes leaving the suitcase. He glanced at the vest, then at you. And in that small shift, the tight line of his shoulders eased just enough to breathe again. He picked it up and shrugged it on without a word, the weight of responsibility pressing back into his chest in a way that seemed to settle him.

He crossed the kitchen with purpose, still clinging to every step, but something in his face had shifted, the tightness around his eyes eased, and the weight of the morning was just a touch lighter. He leaned in close, and for a moment, everything else fell away. His hand found the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he kissed you, not rushed or distracted, but slow, warm, and grateful. A small pause in the chaos. His forehead lingered against yours for half a breath before he pulled back, brushing a kiss over your temple for good measure.

"Thank you, love," he murmured, voice low with something heavier than routine. 

Then he turned to Noah, crouching so they were face-to-face. He gently ruffled the boy’s soft hair, fingers lingering just long enough to reassure. "Alright, little man," he said, quieter now, "will you let Mummy get you dressed? Maybe some toast too, if you’re up for it. Bit of jam?"

Noah gave a small, sleepy nod, voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, Daddy. That sounds good."

You scooped Noah into your arms, his small hands knotting in the fabric of your jumper as he rested his cheek against your shoulder. His skin was warm and soft with sleep, breath slow and even now that his world felt steadier. Will opened the hallway door for you, brushing his hand lightly against the curve of your back as you passed, and you carried your son upstairs, whispering quiet encouragements as you went.

It didn’t take long. 

Noah was pliant in your hands, docile as you guided his limbs through the soft cotton of his travel clothes. He grumbled only once when you tugged a sock too snug, but let it go the moment you kissed his temple. You smoothed his hair back, pressed one last gentle kiss to his crown, and took his hand as you returned to the kitchen.

The scent of toasting bread and freshly brewed tea already filled the kitchen, a comforting, familiar embrace. Will was at the counter, a quiet hum on his lips as he expertly stacked slices of golden-brown bread into the toaster, each one popping up with satisfying precision. The kettle rumbled softly behind him, a gentle prelude to the day. A pair of brightly coloured plates, adorned with cartoon characters, was already waiting on the small, round table, a pat of butter softening patiently in its dish beside them. He looked up, a faint smile playing on his lips, as you stepped into the room, Noah nestled comfortably on your hip.

"The little man all set for the day?" Will asked, his eyes immediately dropping to Noah, a fond warmth in his gaze as he reached for a knife to spread the butter.

"Top to toe," you replied with a laugh, carefully settling Noah into his booster seat at the table. "He’s even got matching socks. The apocalypse must be close."

Will snorted quietly, a low, amused sound that vibrated through the cosy kitchen. "That’s definitely your doing, not mine." He winked, then gestured to the toaster. "Toast’s almost ready. Just in time."

Just then, THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD, the thunder of a pair of little feet hit the stairs.

The silence was obliterated by the sudden, unmistakable thunder of small feet hitting the wooden stairs at a gallop. "Mummyyy!" Lily’s voice, impossibly bright and chipper for the pre-dawn greyness clinging to the windows, echoed down the hall, cutting through the kettle's rumble. A heartbeat later, she exploded into the kitchen doorway.

She was dressed. Her favourite purple leggings firmly in place, topped by the slightly too-big rainbow shirt she adored. The clothes were on and on correctly, you’re taking that win. But the state of her hair told another story. Her riot of brunette waves exploded around her face like a dandelion caught in a gale, each strand stubbornly resisting the half-hearted swipes she’d attempted with her brush. Tucked securely under her arm, gripped with the fierce devotion only a child can muster, was Trix, who wore their own miniature blue scarf knotted under its chin.

"I’m hungry," she declared, bee-lining for the table, scrambled onto her bright green booster seat with practised ease, and immediately began swinging her legs with rhythmic, purposeful thumps against the chair legs.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter, arms folded. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."

"Morning!" she beamed back, utterly unbothered. Her bright blue eyes zeroed in on the activity at the toaster. "Is that toast?" The question was thick with hopeful anticipation.

"Fresh from the toaster," Will confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching as he deftly caught the popping slices. He slid one onto the plate waiting beside Noah. The second slice landed on a clean plate, which Will placed with a soft clink in front of Lily. "Jam or no jam?"

You pushed off the counter, the brief moment of leaning over. Noah was already eyeing his untouched slice, tiny fingers flexing with anticipation. "Let's make that manageable for you, little man," you murmured, picking up the knife Will had used earlier. With quick, practiced motions, you cut the warm toast into small, bite-sized squares. Small enough for pudgy fingers to grasp safely. The buttery, toasted scent bloomed stronger as you worked. You nudged the plate closer to Noah’s highchair tray. "There you go, sweet pea. Careful, it’s warm."

Noah's eyes lit up. A chubby fist closed around a toast square, sending a few others tumbling. He brought it to his mouth with a determined, "Mmm!" Crumbs immediately dusted his chin as he gummed it enthusiastically, his little legs kicking beneath the highchair tray in a rhythm of pure contentment.

Lily leaned forward, practically vibrating with the importance of the decision. "Jam," she announced decisively. "Lots. The red one. Please." She tacked the politeness on like an afterthought, remembering just in time.

Will nodded with exaggerated solemnity, as if receiving vital instructions. He unscrewed the jar of vibrant strawberry jam, its sweet, fruity scent briefly overpowering the toast. He then spread a generous, glistening layer across the warm bread, ensuring it reached every corner. He then set the plate in front of her. "Red jam. Applied liberally. As commanded."

Lily snatched the plate, her face alight with triumph. "Fank you, Daddy!" she mumbled, already taking a huge, jam-smeared bite. The quiet kitchen was now officially a hive of activity. The rhythmic crunch of toast, Noah’s happy "Mmm!"s punctuated by the soft thud of dropped squares hitting his tray, the sticky sounds of Lily’s chewing, and the persistent thump-thump-thump of her swinging legs against the chair.

"Right," Will said, blowing out a breath that was half amusement, half fatigue. He deftly slid two more slices into the toaster and cranked the dial. "Our turn." He reached for the coffee pot and poured steaming amber liquid into two waiting mugs. 

"Perfect, thank you," you said, already reaching for the butter dish and the knife.

Will placed your mug beside you on the counter just as the toaster ejected the next batch with a decisive clack. You grabbed the hot slices. First, you focused on Will's a quick, smooth layer of butter melting instantly into golden pools across the warm surface. You slid the buttered slice onto his plate and nudged it towards him. Then, you turned to your own toast. Butter first, melting just as eagerly, was followed by a modest swirl of the vibrant strawberry jam from the open jar.

Will picked up his plate, leaning back against the counter beside you. But instead of taking a bite, he simply held it, his gaze resting on you expectantly, a faint, patient smile touching his lips. Steam curled from his coffee mug as he took a slow sip, waiting.

Understanding the unspoken ritual, you picked up your jam-topped toast. The warmth seeped into your fingers. You took the first bite of sweet jam, rich butter, and the satisfying crunch filling your senses. A soft hum escaped you.

Only then, seeing you begin to eat, did Will raise his plain toast to his mouth. He took a large, appreciative bite, the simple crunch echoing yours. He gave a small, contented nod, his eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of his mug.

The last crumbs vanished, and the kitchen snapped into action. You stacked sticky plates under the warm stream of the tap, the scent of soap and toast-moistened porcelain rising as you scrubbed. Across the room, Will scooped Noah from his high chair, settling the baby against his shoulder with a practised heft.

“Teeth”, you called over the rush of water, nodding towards the hallway.

Will’s grin flashed, quick and bright. “Teeth”, he confirmed, already moving with Noah bouncing gently on his hip. “Operation Minty Fresh, recruit!” he declared to your drowsy boy.

After washing the dishes, you walked to the bathroom. Lily sat balanced on the edge of the counter, holding her small pink toothbrush tightly in her fist. She hummed a continuous, off-key sound while swinging her legs back and forth. Her bare heels bumped against the cupboard door below the sink with each swing. The tap dripped steadily behind her, each drop hitting the basin with a distinct sound that repeated at regular intervals.

“My turn, Mummy!” she announced, thrusting the brush towards you. You squeezed a tiny blue star of paste onto the bristles. Next to you, Will braced Noah against his chest, one large hand cradling the baby’s chin, the other wielding Noah’s tiny silicone brush with surprising delicacy. He worked in slow, patient circles over Noah’s few pearly teeth, murmuring low encouragement against the soft down of his hair. “Open wide, good lad. This will be quick.”

The air filled with the clean, sharp tang of mint, the clatter of running water as Lily enthusiastically rinsed, and the constant stream of her observations. “Noah’s paste is blue like Trixie’s scarf! Did you see the bird? My tooth is wiggly!”

Finally, damp faces glistened, more or less toothpaste-free. Will lowered Noah’s toothbrush. “All yours,” he said, his voice warm with the quiet satisfaction of a task completed. He shifted Noah’s weight, turning the baby towards you. You reached out, your hands meeting under Noah’s arms as Will smoothly transferred him from his chest to yours. Noah settled against you with a soft, doughy sigh, immediately tucking his face into the curve of your neck.

Now free, Will set Noah’s little toothbrush down on the edge of the sink with a decisive clink. You caught Lily’s chin with your free hand, the other securely around Noah, gently wiping a stubborn blue smudge from her cheek with a towel. “Smile,” you asked. She beamed at you and then hopped down. “Sparkling.”

Noah, now that he was settled against you, sighed contentedly again, his warm breath puffing against your skin. Will took a breath, shoulders squaring. The momentary calm of the minty bathroom evaporated, replaced by the focused energy of departure.

You moved first, shifting Noah’s warm, dozing weight against your shoulder. “Alright, Captain,” you said to Lily, nudging her gently towards the hallway. “Shoes on. Quick march!”

Lily scampered ahead, her humming dissolving into a focused scuffle with her tiny trainers near the doormat. “I can do the sparkly ones myself!”

Will moved instantly. He disappeared into the bedrooms and came back into the hallway seconds later, carrying multiple bags. The bulky diaper bag hung from one shoulder. He gripped Lily's small wheeled suitcase tightly. The large shared suitcase packed for you, him, and Noah dominated his effort. He gripped its handle with his other hand, tilting it back onto its wheels as he manoeuvred it through the doorway. His keys jingled in his pocket as he hurried past you towards the front door, his breathing already quick and shallow from the effort. "Car’s open!" he called out, the words sounding rushed and slightly breathless.

You followed, guiding Lily ("Heel down, sweetpea") while balancing Noah against your hip. Feeling the cool draught from the front door already, you knew shoes couldn't wait. "Shoe stop, little man," you murmured, lowering Noah carefully onto the hallway floorboards near the pile of tiny sneakers.

Noah swayed slightly on his feet, blinking sleepily. Instinctively, his chubby hands came up, gripping your shoulders for balance as you knelt before him. His weight settled trustingly into your hands. You quickly snagged his little blue sneakers. He didn't fuss, didn't squirm – just leaned into you, his eyelids heavy, his breathing soft and even as he watched your movements with drowsy curiosity. His socked foot was warm and pliant in your hand. You guided one foot, then the other, into the soft shoes, securing the Velcro straps snugly across the top with efficient rrrippp sounds.

"Good lad," you whispered, giving his knee a gentle pat. He offered a sigh, more puff than protest, as you scooped him back up, settling him securely on your hip once more. The cool morning air hit your faces as Will yanked the front door wide. Outside, the car waited, trunk lid gaping open.

Will efficiently began the Tetris game of luggage. Thump. Clunk. Slide. You heard the satisfying click of the suitcase handle retracting. Your focus was the back seat. You popped the rear door open.

“In you hop, Lily-bear,” you instructed, helping her clamber over the sill into her booster seat. Tiny fingers fumbled with the buckle’s clasp. “Mummy can help.” you murmured, leaning in, one hand still braced against Noah’s back. The familiar click-snick of the five-point harness securing her was a small victory.

Noah was next. You lifted his sleeping body. Getting him settled into the rear-facing car seat required careful steering in the confined space. You bent down, lowering him slowly into the padded seat, making sure his head didn't touch the frame. His eyes opened slightly, looking around with a dazed expression in the car's dim interior light. “Shhh, nearly there, little man.” you said quietly. You quickly pulled the harness straps over his shoulders, fastened the buckle across his waist, and pressed down firmly until the central buckle clicked loudly, matching the sound from Lily’s seat. You tightened the straps just enough, checking the fit with two fingers pressed flat against his collarbone. Pacifier? You found it and tucked it securely beside him.

Closing the rear door, you turned just as Will shut the trunk with a solid, final thump. He wiped his hands down his jeans, a quick and efficient gesture. His eyes scanned the car. He saw Lily swinging her legs, already chattering to Noah. He saw Noah, his pacifier bobbing slightly, his eyes drifting shut again. And he saw you, leaning against the side of the car, catching your breath.

He met your gaze across the roof of the car. A silent nod passed between you. All clear. All loaded. The calm before the actual journey began.

“Right,” Will said, the single word carrying the weight of miles to come. He yanked open the driver’s door. “Everyone buckled? Lily? Noah?”

“YES, DADDY!” Lily chirped.

Noah offered a sleepy sigh around his pacifier.

Will slid into the driver’s seat. You circled the car, the familiar scent of upholstery and stale crisps greeting you as you opened the passenger door. As you buckled your own seatbelt, the engine rumbled to life. Will adjusted the mirror, his gaze catching yours briefly in the reflection.

"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, taking charge of the next phase. "Next stop, check-in." He pulled out of the garage, leaving the silent, dark house behind.

The roads were nearly empty, just the occasional set of headlights passing in the opposite direction. Streetlights blurred by in measured intervals. Will kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The radio was tuned to a random news channel, low enough not to disturb, soft background noise for the drive. Nobody spoke much. Lily eventually dozed off, her head tipped sideways. Noah stayed awake but quiet, watching the lights flick past with that glassy-eyed focus of a child still shaking off sleep.

By 5:14 AM, they reached the long-stay car park. Will took the familiar turns without needing to think—right past the terminal, second exit off the roundabout, then into the multi-level structure. 

The machine spat out the ticket, which he grabbed without pausing, slipping it into the dash tray. “Blue level, Section D,” he muttered, squinting at the signage overhead. He slowed down, eyes flicking between painted arrows and numbered rows.

He pulled into a bay, straightened the car with a single neat adjustment, and turned off the ignition. The engine stilled. The quiet that followed was dense—not peaceful exactly, but purposeful. Outside, you could hear the distant echo of trolleys rolling and the thump of other boots on concrete.

Will rubbed a hand down his face, then turned to you.

“Okay”, he said. “Let’s get them out. We’re right on time.”

Will was out of the driver’s seat before the handbrake had even finished clicking. “Right. Operation Unload,” he said, already circling to the boot. The car beeped as he unlocked it, the sound sharp in the cold concrete stillness. The overhead lights buzzed quietly, casting everything in a pale, industrial glow.

He moved quickly, hauling out the largest suitcase first and setting it down with care. Then Lily’s smaller one, then the bulky, overpacked diaper bag. Everything went into a neat row at his feet like pieces on a game board. His hand went instinctively to his chest, tapping the front of his travel vest—checking, as always, that the passports were still tucked safe in the inside pocket. They were. 

You heard Noah start to fuss before you even opened your door.

Inside the car, he’d squirmed out of his blanket again, eyes heavy but still resisting. His head tipped sideways against the seatbelt strap, mouth pouty and determined. You knew that look well, not quite awake, not ready to sleep, and entirely overwhelmed.

“Mummy,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes furiously. “I don’t want to walk.”

“I know, sweetheart,” you said gently, unbuckling yourself. “We’re almost there. Just let me get you out.”

You stepped into the cold air, breath clouding faintly in front of you. On the other side of the car, Lily had already started to stir, half-asleep and clutching Trix to her chest.

“Are we getting on the plane now?” She asked through a yawn, her hair sticking out in every direction.

“Not yet, love. Just bags for now,” you said, opening her door. She reached for you automatically, and you helped her down, steadying her as she landed.

“Hold on to Trix,” you reminded her.

You rounded the car to Noah’s side. He didn’t resist when you unbuckled him, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion. “Mummy,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m tired.”

“I know, baby.” You lifted him gently, and he immediately curled into your chest, small arms clinging tightly. “You can stay with me for now.”

Behind you, Will returned with a trolley, one wheel already squeaking in protest. He pulled it up beside the car, crouched briefly to adjust the strap, and began loading the luggage, big suitcase first, then Lily’s, then the diaper bag stacked on top. He clipped the itinerary card to the handle like it was a boarding pass itself.

“Trolley’s sorted,” he called softly. “How’s Noah?”

“Awake”, you said with a sigh. “But not really.”

“Right, we can get a move on then,” he said, checking the time on his watch. “Lift’s this way. Should give us twenty-three minutes to get to check-in before the queues get thick. We’re doing well.”

You adjusted Noah against your hip, his little body warm and slack with exhaustion. Will looked over and caught sight of you juggling both children and their accessories. His mouth quirked into the smallest smile, tight but warm.

“Alright”, he said, nodding once, “Everyone with me.”

The four of you made your way across the car park, the sound of the trolley’s rattling wheels echoing against the concrete. Lily walked close beside you, holding Trix in one hand. Will led the way, checking the signage above for directions to the terminal entrance.

A short covered walkway connected the parking structure to the main building. As you approached the sliding glass doors, the early morning cold gave way to warm, recycled air and soft overhead music. The lift to Departures was just ahead. Will pressed the button, then checked his watch. Still on schedule.

When the doors opened with a mechanical shudder, Will pushed the trolley in first, checking the weight as the wheels bumped over the threshold. You followed close behind with Lily at your side and Noah still resting against your shoulder, his grip around your neck now slack but steady.

Inside, the lift was filled with the soft sounds of Lily humming to herself and the quiet creak of the trolley wheels as Will adjusted his stance. He pressed the button for departures and checked his watch again. A low beep marked the floor change, and when the doors opened, the terminal loomed bright and buzzing beyond the glass.

It was just after 5:20 AM. The check-in queues were beginning to build, mostly other families and a few lone travellers clutching coffees and boarding passes.

“Let’s stick close,” Will said, already scanning the signage above. “Zone C, right-hand side.” His voice had that clipped edge it always got in airports—efficient, alert, already two steps ahead. 

This was his version of care. 

He led the way with the trolley, weaving around slower groups, occasionally glancing back to make sure you were behind him. Lily clutched your hand, skipping every few steps despite her sleepy eyes. Noah had grown heavier on your hip, but you kept moving.

At check-in, Will had the documents out before the desk agent could even ask. He handed over passports, booking references, and a plastic wallet containing printouts of every relevant confirmation.

“All checked in online, but we’ve got hold luggage,” he said, voice polite but efficient.

The woman behind the desk smiled, clearly familiar with this type of traveller. She processed the bags and handed back the passports in a neat stack.

“You’re all set. Boarding gate will be announced at 6:15.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” Will slipped the documents back into his vest pocket, then turned to you and the kids. “Security next. Is everyone still holding together?”

You nodded. Noah hadn’t stirred much. Lily gave a soft “Mmhm”, still gripping Trix.

Will steered them toward security with purpose, slowing only once to guide Lily ahead of a meandering group of students.

“Shoes off, liquids out, tech in the trays,” Will murmured, scanning the area ahead. His eyes moved between lanes, looking for the one with the least traffic. “Far left looks quiet. Let’s take that one.”

You followed him to the end of the checkpoint, Lily close behind, holding Trix by the arm. Will reached into his travel vest, pulled out the boarding passes, and handed them over to the staff member with a quick nod. After a brief check, the scanner cleared all four of you.

He turned to Lily and crouched down.

“Alright, remember what we do here? Shoes and jacket in the tray, and Trix goes through the machine. She’ll be right there waiting for you.” Lily nodded seriously. She kissed Trix on the head, then carefully placed her in the tray, followed by her shoes and jacket.

You crouched slightly to speak to Noah, who was clinging to your neck. “Sweetheart, we’re nearly done. Just a quick step through, and then we can rest.”

Will moved beside you and set down the changing bag. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the laptop, and placed it in a separate tray. Then came the liquids pouch, followed by his phone, keys, and wallet. He took off his belt and vest, folded them neatly, and added them to the tray. He made sure everything was visible and correctly spaced, then pushed the trays forward along the rollers.

“Alright,” he said, straightening up. “Give him to me.” You shifted Noah into his arms. He adjusted his hold automatically, settling the boy on his hip. Noah tucked his face into Will’s shoulder, silent but awake. “You go through first,” Will said, nodding to the scanner. “I’ll follow with him once you’re clear.”

You stepped through without issue. On the other side, you waited while Lily came through next. She walked slowly, sock-footed and careful, eyes fixed on the tray holding her toy. Once through, you helped her get her shoes back on and slipped her arms into her jacket. Trix reappeared on the conveyor, and Lily collected her immediately, checking she was still warm and intact.

You looked up as Will walked forward, still holding Noah. The security officer gave him a brief look and gestured for him to proceed. He stepped through the scanner without pause, one hand steady under Noah’s legs.

On the other side, he set Noah gently on the bench and turned back to retrieve the trays. He moved quickly, placing each item back where it belonged. He passed you the changing bag and double-checked that nothing had been left behind. Then he looked at you, eyes alert but calm.

“Everything’s here. We’re good.”

Lily held tight to your hand, Trix tucked securely under her arm. Noah leaned into Will’s leg, eyes fluttering. You adjusted the strap on your bag.

He shifted Noah higher on his hip, the little boy's head resting heavily against his shoulder. Passing you the changing bag, his free hand double-checking the area with a quick sweep. Then he looked at you, eyes alert but calm over Noah's sleepy head.

“Good job, team,” he said, glancing back at you. “You handled security like pros. Now we just need to find a bench,” Will said.

You nodded, and the four of you walked away from the checkpoint, the sound of rolling trolleys and security announcements rising behind you.

The seating area beyond security was quieter than expected, with pockets of travellers scattered across benches and near charging stations. A few early shops had opened their shutters, their displays flickering to life in the artificial morning.

Will spotted a quieter corner by the far windows, half-shielded by a structural column. “There,” he said, steering toward it without needing to discuss. You followed, grateful for the pause.

He set the changing bag down at the foot of the bench and eased Noah onto the seat beside him, propping him up gently. The boy blinked slowly, thumb finding its way to his mouth as he slumped sideways against Will’s arm.

You helped Lily wriggle out of her jacket. She settled next to you, swinging her legs while holding Trix tight. Her shoes were still slightly crooked, but you let it be.

Will glanced at the nearby screens. “Gate info in twenty. We’ve got time to regroup.”

You nodded, already pulling out a small packet of wipes to clean Lily’s hands. She held them out obediently, fingers splayed.

“Do we get snacks now?” she asked, eyes drifting toward a nearby vending machine glowing faintly in the early light. Her voice was soft but hopeful, the way it always was when she suspected the answer might not go her way.

“We had breakfast,” Will said gently, but not unkindly. “We’ll get something on the plane if we need it. This is just a rest stop.”

Lily’s shoulders dipped just slightly. “Okay,” she sighed, hugging Trix tight into her chest. The toy’s soft ears stuck out awkwardly under her chin. She didn’t argue, just leaned her head against your arm with the quiet resignation of a child trying to be good.

You smoothed a hand down her hair. “You did great at security, by the way. Trix didn’t even mind the tray, did she?”

“She was brave,” Lily said, perking up a little. “She said the machine tickled.”

Will smiled faintly at that. He was kneeling in front of the bench, re-fastening Noah’s little shoes, the velcro barely holding with how limp the boy had gone again. “I’m sure it did,” he said, glancing up at Lily. “Tell her thanks for getting through so quickly. She helped keep us ahead of schedule.”

Lily gave a serious nod. “She likes being helpful.”

You reached for your water bottle and offered it to Noah. He took a small sip without lifting his head and then handed it back wordlessly. You capped it and returned it to the side pocket of the bag.

For a few minutes, none of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just quiet, a collective exhale after the early push.

Will leaned back slightly, scanning the space. “Once we’ve got the gate, we’ll head straight there. No detours.”

You nodded. “Do you want me to take Lily and stretch legs?”

He considered, then shook his head. “Let’s just stay here. Everyone’s calmer when we move together.”

You looked at him then—his posture alert but not tense, his hand resting absently on Noah’s back. His vest was zipped again, documents back in order, watch synced with the flight time. Always watching the clock, always running the plan.

“Thanks for getting us through,” you said softly.

Will glanced over, the corners of his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. “You’re the one juggling our children, a bear, and me,” he said. “I just followed procedure.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Still.”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you for a moment longer, the kind of look that wasn’t loud or dramatic but landed anyway—grateful, worn in, knowing.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice low. “But if this goes sideways at the gate, I’m cashing in that compliment.”

“Deal.”

He sat back a little, adjusting Noah’s weight as the boy stirred and shifted against his chest. One hand came up to shield Noah’s head from the bright overhead lights, a small, unconscious gesture. The rest of the terminal buzzed with quiet motion—early travellers rustling bags, distant announcements barely audible—but for a moment, it felt like just the four of you.

You let yourself lean back against the bench, hand resting on Lily’s knee, and let the terminal buzz move around you. For now, you were still.