I follow him without protest to the car, where he retrieves my infamous pink trolley case from the boot and wheels it with ease toward the front door.
Halfway there, he pauses and starts rummaging through the umbrella stand by the entrance.
“Found it!” he announces triumphantly, holding up the spare key his mum had left for him, a grin spreading across his face.
The inside of the cottage is warm and filled with light, with that unmistakablelived-infeel that makes a place instantly welcoming.
The open-plan space is anchored by a large honey-toned wooden kitchen, flowing seamlessly into a long matching table,and beyond that, a cozy L-shaped brown sofa, scattered with cushions in various earth tones.
In the center of the room lies a thick Indian rug in deep reds and ochres, grounding everything with its richness. An old TV rests atop a low, carved wooden cabinet, something that looks like it was picked up at a market stall in Camden Town.
Clay pots brimming with leafy green plants are dotted around the space, and stacks of books sit in corners and on window sills, creating a kind of curated chaos that feels effortlessly right.
I turn slowly, letting it all sink in: the comfort, the charm, the quiet.
Remi watches me from the doorway, looking just a little self-conscious.
“What do you think? Do you like it? Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, Maude’s never been much for tidying, and Mum does her best with everything else going on…”
“I love it,” I interrupt, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s got such a warm, peaceful vibe. It’s just that it’s so… so…”
“So what?” he asks, tilting his head, genuinely curious.
“Well, it’s just… really different from your flat in London. Not that I don’t like that too, but here…” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Here, it feels more… personal.”
He seems to understand instantly. His expression softens, and he nods.
“In Shaftesbury Avenue, Maddie picked out pretty much everything, the furniture, the finishings… At the time, I didn’t think it mattered. And to be fair, shedoeshave great taste. But you’re right, this place feels more likemethan that flat ever did.”
He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Not that I’ll have it much longer. I can’t afford it on my own, and honestly, I think I need a fresh start. Once we’re back in London, I’ll start looking for something new.”
I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his.
“Let’s not talk about the heavy stuff just yet, okay? I know we’ll have to face it eventually, but… just for a few hours, I want to enjoy this place with you. Let’s pretend it’s our first date, and I want it to be perfect.”
The words catch in my throat, and a flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. But before I can panic or take it back, Remi cups the back of my neck with gentle confidence and leans in, brushing his lips softly against mine.
The kiss is tender and unhurried, and it says more than either of us could manage with words.
When we finally pull apart, we linger for a moment, foreheads touching, eyes closed, our breath falling into the same quiet rhythm.
Then Remi gives my hand a playful tug.
“Come on upstairs. My room’s in the attic. Let’s drop off your stuff and get started on dinner, yeah?”
I nod without hesitation. I don’t ask where the guest room is. We both know I’m not sleeping anywhere but in his bed tonight.
We pause on the first floor, and Remi gestures toward two doors, explaining that his mum’s and Maude’s rooms are there, along with a bathroom “strictly for the girls,” as he says with a fond, amused smile.
When we finally reach his room, I’m struck by how effortlessly he moves beneath the sloping ceiling, despite his height. It’s obvious he’s spent years perfecting the art of not bumping his head.
The attic is spacious and airy, furnished with simple pinewood pieces that suit the room’s quiet charm. Light floods in through two large skylights, one on each side of the roof, filling the space with a soft, natural glow.
A queen-sized bed rests at the center of a plush grey rug, looking warm and inviting. On one side of the room, there’s atidy desk and a sleek wardrobe; on the other, a closed door I assume leads to his private bathroom.
The shelves above the desk are filled with books, while the ones above the bed are lined with family photos. I find myself drawn to them, unable to resist.
Most are of Remi at different ages, chubby-cheeked as a baby, awkward as a tween, brooding but beautiful as a teen. Every version of him is equally endearing. A few show the whole family together, back when Atticus was still around.
