The heat is unbearable. Not just the one outside, the one that hits your skin like a sharp blow and makes you sweat in seconds, but also the one you see on Noel’s face, red as if he had spent hours under a spotlight. He’s sitting in the shade, a half-finished beer in hand, eyes half-closed, clearly questioning every decision that led him here.

—This is madness. he mutters, running a hand over his face. How the hell do you survive this?

You laugh because you know him too well. You’ve already seen him struggle with the sun, with the language, and with the fact that no one in your family has a sense of privacy. Your aunts bombard him with questions in Spanish he barely understands, your cousins drag him to try food that already made him sweat once, and your mother, with her relentless love, keeps piling food on his plate as if he were a growing child.

—You wanted to come. you remind him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before taking a seat next to him.

—I thought it would be... I don’t know, easier.

Donovan and Anaïs run around with your nieces and nephews, laughing and shouting, mixing English and Spanish into a language of their own that none of the adults fully understand. They’re happy. That’s the whole point of this.

Noel leans in toward you, his voice barely a tired murmur:

—I admit, it’s beautiful... but bloody hell, love, if I don’t get used to this heat, you’re gonna have to send me back to Manchester in a box.