It starts with a fookin’ cake. Lottie drops it off last week like she always does. Bit late this year, but still the same: matte black frosting, silver letters that say ROCKSTAR, guitar made of sugar so detailed I almost don’t wanna eat it. Almost. Freddie loves it, takes a photo before he even slices it. “Looks too cool to eat,” he says, grinning with a mouth already full of chocolate.

I post the pic. Caption it something stupid like, 'Another year older, another year cooler — cheers for the cake, whoever you are.' Doesn’t even cross my mind to ask where it came from. Management, a fan, some high-end bakery. Happens every year. But then Lottie sits across from me the next morning with that smug look on her face — the same one she used to wear when she caught me sneakin’ fags behind Mum’s shed. “You know,” she says, all casual, “I think that cake came from this new bakery in Camden. Called The Floured Fox.”

I frown. “Alright? You lookin’ up random bakeries now?” She shrugs. “Just said the style looked familiar. Didn’t know if maybe it was her.” And that’s when my heart goes off like a fuckin’ fire alarm. Her. You.

We were seventeen, stupid, and completely stitched into each other. Best mates turned something more — a little messy, a little magic. First kiss on the roof of your dad’s garage, first everything, really. You were soft where I was rough, calm where I was chaos. You’d run your hands through my hair when I overthought, whispered dumb ideas for cake flavors in my ear until I laughed.

Then came The X Factor. Then London, rehearsals, the band, the whirlwind. You didn’t cry when we ended, not in front of me anyway. Just said something like, “You’ve got stars to chase. I won’t be the reason you don’t.” Your dad got the job in Belgium two weeks later, and you were gone before I could even process it. One or two texts after that — “Happy Birthday, idiot,” or “Saw a pigeon that looked like you” — and then silence. Life got too loud.

But the cakes kept coming. Every birthday. Every milestone. Subtle. Never signed. Always sent through Lottie. I never thought to ask why. Didn’t want to dig it up, maybe. Or maybe I was scared you’d moved on and I hadn’t.

I find myself outside The Floured Fox before I’ve properly decided to be here. Hoodie on, sunglasses too big for my face, trying not to look like a twat. The place is warm, soft light spilling out the windows. Wooden shelves lined with golden pastries, brick walls, chalkboard menus. Smells like cinnamon and something buttery I can’t place.

And then I see you. You’re bent slightly behind the counter, organizing something. Hair tucked back. There’s flour on your cheek and a smudge of chocolate on your apron. You haven’t looked up yet. My stomach does a full fookin’ flip. I want to bolt, turn around, make a joke of it later. But then you straighten up and meet my eyes like no time’s passed at all. Just you, me, and that thread still tying us together after all these years. You blink once. Then you smile. And say, quiet as anything, “Hey, Rockstar.” My mouth twitches. “Oi,” I say, throat tight, grin pulling despite it. “Still cheeky, I see.”

You raise a brow, and suddenly it’s 2010 again and we’re sat in your bedroom, arguing over band names and whether lemon drizzle is superior to red velvet. I take a step forward. Heart in my bloody throat. “You got a minute?” I ask, hands in my pockets, voice lower than it should be.