“And you,” he says, voice dropping to that dark register that always gets me, “are the only thing that makes the underworld bearable.”
The airport feels like another universe, sterile light, the chaotic bustle of arrivals, the aroma of jet fuel mixed with coffee. I’m running on no sleep and too much adrenaline. My heart’s somewhere in my throat as I clear customs, drag my bag through the sliding doors, and scan the crowd. Then I see him.
He’s impossible to miss, even dressed down. Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver glinting at his wrists and throat. His hair’s half-tied, a few dark strands falling loose around his face. There’s a new tattoo peeking from his forearm—the one he’d sent me a photo of but in person it’s richer, deeper, alive under his skin. He looks like every dream I’ve had since the night he left.
For a second, we just stare. The noise, the crowd, everything else blurs and then I’m moving. I don’t even notice that I’m running until I see him running too. Any second not touching feels wasted. When we collide, it’s breathless. His hands find my hips, pulling me in like he can’t quite believe I’m solid. I press my palms to his forearms, feel the flex beneath my fingers, the warmth of him, real andright here.
“Hi,” I manage, though it comes out somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
He looks at me like I’m a hallucination, like I might vanish if he blinks. His thumb traces along my jaw. “You’re real,” he whispers. “Youactuallycame.”
I nod, unable to stop smiling. “You booked the flight, Ashton.”
He laughs, low, shaky, relief spilling out of him. “I had to make sure the universe couldn’t say no.”
I reach up, touch the silver chain at his throat, let my thumb brush the pulse there. “Looks like it didn’t.”
He leans in, forehead to mine, and exhales like it’s the first time he’s done that in weeks. The terminal moves around us, unimportant, the rest of the world too far away to matter.
“Twenty-four hours,” he murmurs, voice rough against my ear.
“Twenty-four hours,” I echo.
And in that moment, it feels like forever.
London feels like it’s waking up after the rain. The streets shine, the air carries the scent of roasted nuts and exhaust on the breeze, and everything feels in sync with that busy city rhythm. Rafe keeps his hand in mine, thumb tracing along my skin like he’s reminding himself I’m still here.
We start in Covent Garden, wandering past street performers and flower stalls. He stops at a small chippy tucked between a bookstore and a souvenir shop. “This place,” he says, pointing with that half-smile that always gives him away. “Been coming here since the first tour. Best chips in London, no contest.”
I watch him order, easy, familiar, an accent beginning to lilt here somehow. “Don’t people notice you?” I ask as we lean against the brick wall, sharing a paper cone of chips too hot to touch.
“Not much,” he says, mouth full. “England’s never been that taken by the band. We can walk around here, like Berlin. But—”he pauses, glancing down the street, “I’ve been clocking a few more looks this trip. Must be the momentum. The curse of virality.”
I smirk. “The price of being internationally worshiped.”
He snorts. “You weren’t the one they edited into a thousand slow-motion clips caught in a kiss or a punch.”
I elbow him. “Some of those are pretty impressive.”
He grins, reaching for another chip. “I guess creativity comes in all forms.”
From there we wander toward Chinatown, passing under red lanterns and the sweet smell of sesame buns. The glow of neon paints his jawline, catches the silver chain at his throat. He tells me about the venues they’ve played, the cities that blurred by. Every story is threaded with humor, with the kind of life he only ever has on tour. I listen, greedy for all of it. Later, he steers us toward Camden.
“The World’s End” he says, opening the door for me. “You’re in for a treat. It’s grimy and perfect.” The scent of beer, wood smoke, and nostalgia fills the air. He orders a pint and scans the specials board, then with absolute conviction exclaims, “Ah! Brilliant, they doToad in the Hole. You've got to try it.”
I raise a brow. “That can’tpossibly bewhat it sounds like.”
Once we're seated, his arm lazily draped over me, tucked into a cozy leather-padded booth, he continues between sips. “It's sausages baked into Yorkshire pudding. Childhood comfort, my Dad used to make it when he was homesick. The name’s just England being odd, as usual.”
“Well,” I say, eyeing the menu. “You can have your baked sausage-bread thing. I’m gettingsteak and ale pie. That at leastsoundslike food.”
“Tsk,” he teases, “you're not eventryingto blend in. You could at leastattemptto try what us locals eat.”
“Us locals? You’re only half Britandyou've never lived here,” I shoot back. He laughs, leaning in, mock-serious.
“Which means I'mstillthe authority over you,” he says, smirking. “International heritage, relatable appeal and all that, it carries weight.”
“This isn't some PR campaign, it'sdinner.”
