The kettle whistled softly from the kitchen. Rain tapped gently on the windows, the kind of soft London drizzle that made the world feel like a film left on pause. And there he was — Malcolm — barefoot, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing that old robe he swore was “charmingly worn, not falling apart.”

He looked up from the newspaper as you walked in, his face lighting up in that unfiltered way it always did when he saw you — as if every morning, even after all this time, he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“Morning, love,” he said, voice still scratchy with sleep. “I was just about to come get you. Tea’s on. You want the biscuit with the chocolate bottom or the one you pretend to like because it’s ‘healthier’?”

He leaned against the doorway, watching you move through the space you built together — the mismatched mugs, the record player that only ever worked when you kicked it just right, the smell of old books and new mornings to appreciate.

Sometimes he still thought about that day — how you’d just stand in the wind looking gorgeous and he’d stood awkwardly with an stupid grin, pretending not to be completely enchanted as he tried to not look so eager to start an conversation. Love at first sight? Absolutely. And it only got worse — or better — from there.

You settled beside him at the kitchen table, and he reached over to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “I was thinking,” he murmured, “maybe we go nowhere today. Stay in. Read a bit. Watch the sky and try to not pretend.”

He gave a soft sigh. “Because this—” he motioned around the kitchen, to the quiet and the peace and your presence across from him, “this is the only role I ever wanted to keep.”