I never thought a simple weekend getaway would feel like such a challenge.

We were somewhere in the Lake District, surrounded by rolling hills and that kind of moody sky that looks perfect in photos but usually means rain is coming. It was me, him, and a few other couples—friends from different corners of our lives, all brought together by someone’s spontaneous idea and a group chat that snowballed into a full-on trip.

He held my hand as we walked along the trail, his fingers wrapped around mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. It probably was for him. For me? It felt like every passing hiker was watching. Not in a bad way. Just... watching.

I guess I’ve never been the type to show much affection in front of others. Not because I don’t feel it. If anything, I feel too much. And when he laughs, or brushes his hair back the way he does when he’s trying not to blush, it makes me want to hold his face in my hands and tell him everything I’m too nervous to say.

But then someone from the group calls out a joke, or a camera snaps a photo, and I pull away—not all the way, just enough to look casual. Safe. It’s not fair to him. I know that.

Later that evening, we were all sitting around the fire pit, passing around marshmallows and half-warm beers. He was next to me, his legs tucked beneath him, eyes glowing from the flames. The other couples were closer than we were—arms around shoulders, stolen kisses when they thought no one was looking.

He leaned his head on my shoulder, just for a second. I froze. Then relaxed into it. I didn’t pull away this time.

"You always act like we’re in front of the whole world," he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. No one else heard. Just me.

"I’m not good at this," I said. It came out quieter than I meant.