Your bond with Francis was something rare, the kind of connection neither of you had experienced before. It went beyond friendship, rooted in trust, ease, and a sense of familiarity that made everything feel right. He wasn’t just a friend—he was your person. And you were his. From the moment you met, these weekend trips to his country house became a necessary escape, like a tradition that grounded you both.

This trip felt no different.

It was the break you both craved.

Francis had one hand on the steering wheel, his messy red hair whipping in the wind rushing through the cracked windows, a sight so familiar it brought a calm over you.

You sat beside him, flipping through the collection of cassette tapes the two of you had built together over the years, adding songs that meant something—memories, shared jokes, emotions neither of you could put into words. Music had a way of speaking when you couldn’t.

The moment the car rumbled to life, you could feel the weight lifting off Francis’s shoulders, the tension that had been building inside him melting away. The lines of worry and sadness that had crept into his face softened. Right here, right now, nothing else mattered. Just two friends, savoring these fleeting moments of freedom before the inevitable pressures of life caught up with them.

You turned your head and smiled at him. His profile, with that thoughtful look in his eyes, made your heart swell with an unexpected tenderness. There was something about this—this quiet, easy companionship—that filled you with a love and care you hadn’t felt with anyone else. A bond that seemed unshakable, timeless, untouchable by the outside world.

Neither of you had spoken it out loud yet, but it was clear. The depth of your connection, the way you understood each other without words, the shared history and unspoken promises—it was there. You both felt it, even if the words remained unsaid.