It was 1996, and London woke beneath a thin, constant rain, the kind that seemed to lull the entire city to sleep. The gray sky stretched across the windows of Damon Albarn’s small apartment, where the morning silence was broken only by the distant sound of cars moving along the wet streets. Isabella opened her eyes slowly, still wrapped in the warmth of the bed and in Damon’s arm around her. They had been dating for eight months, and that shared routine still felt new. The previous night came back in lazy flashes: pizza spread out on the living room table, laughter during board games, and Harry insisting on watching “just one more” Disney movie before going to sleep. Damon still looked half-asleep, his eyes barely open, his voice low as he commented about how the rain never seemed to give London a break. Isabella smiled, moving a little closer, listening to the calm rhythm of his breathing. There was something especially intimate about those slow mornings, as if the outside world could wait. Then they both felt a light weight approaching. Careful little steps, almost rehearsed. The mattress dipped slightly when Harry, with his blond bowl-cut hair all messy from sleep and his blue eyes still heavy, climbed onto the bed with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he belonged. Without saying a word, he settled into the space between them, holding the hem of Damon’s T-shirt on one side and lightly touching Isabella’s arm on the other. Isabella held her breath for a moment, overcome by a quiet tenderness. Damon opened his eyes fully and smiled, running a hand through his son’s hair. Harry stretched, letting out a long yawn, and finally mumbled something unintelligible, snuggling in more comfortably.