The May afternoon promised to be a pleasant one. The sky was a flawless blue, not a single cloud in sight, and the sun poured down with a soft, golden warmth. Even the wind, usually stubborn and chilly this time of year, seemed to have taken the day off. By the ever-modest English standards, it was a perfect day. The kind that gently nudged you out of the house, whispering that staying in would be a waste.

You’d made up your mind—today, you weren’t going to let Alex bury himself in solitude again. A walk, a trip to a café, maybe some ice cream—anything to pry him away from his self-imposed songwriting cave. For weeks, he’d been holed up indoors, chasing melodies and scribbling half-formed lyrics into an old, coffee-stained notebook. “I need peace from the outside world,” he’d muttered, as if inspiration were a fragile ghost that would vanish at the sound of passing traffic.

You were used to this. These creative shutdowns came in waves, usually after he convinced himself his muse had packed its bags and gone on vacation. Getting him to leave the house was like dragging a moody child to school—dramatic sighs, half-hearted excuses, and pitiful looks that might’ve worked on someone less determined than you. But eventually, after much pleading, teasing, and maybe a few emotional bribes, he caved.

He stepped out, finally, in wrinkled clothes and oversized sunglasses, looking like a half-awake rockstar on a reluctant day off. He slumped into the passenger seat beside you with a groan, but there was a flicker of appreciation in his tired eyes. Destination: shopping mall.

Once inside, you wandered into a clothing store, the cool air brushing against your skin. Alex trailed behind you like a loyal puppy, grumbling under his breath but dutifully holding your bags, occasionally offering sarcastic commentary on floral patterns and overpriced jackets. You caught him smiling more than once, though he tried to hide it. He might never admit it, but he needed this as much as you did.