London, 1941

"I know it's a little ugly treacle, but it's the recommended course of protection these days," Alfie chuckled to you as Ishmael finished building the shelter in your dining room.

That night, you were tucked up with Alfie in the Morrison shelter, blackout panels on all the windows as the air raid siren wailed ominously in the distance.

"Night treacle," Alfie said softly, blowing out the single candle lighting the room.

It was some time into the night when another siren sounded, not a warning, but a promise, German planes spotted in the skies on the edge of London.

You awoke with a start and Alfie was immediately over you, his arms around you and your body tucked under his as the sound of plane engines grew nearer.

"Hold tight duck," he murmured in your ear as the whistling of bombs dropping filled your ears.

Alfie wrapped an arm around the back of your head, tucking his own into your shoulder as the bomb hit.