Edmund Stark didn’t believe in quiet mornings. Not really.

Not after everything he’d lived through. Not after Parker. Not after all those sleepless nights in a Michigan house that still smelled like grief and wet gunmetal.

But here — in England, wrapped in fog and stone and narrow roads that made him feel like a visitor in his own skin — he’d found something that almost passed for peace.

The flat above the bakery smelled faintly of flour and espresso, and Stanley — Winter’s grumpy tuxedo cat — was curled up on his chest like he’d declared Edmund his new throne. Outside, the London drizzle softened the morning light into something almost holy.

Edmund exhaled, raking one pink-dyed hand through his already-mussed hair, careful not to wake the cat.

Winter moved in the kitchen like a ghost in scrubs, her earbuds in, mouthing surgical terms and Latin root words like they were prayers. She didn’t need to work — her family’s money was the kind that bought gallery wings and political silence — but she did anyway, driving herself harder than anyone he’d ever met. She made ambition look romantic.

“Stanley’s in love with you, you know,” she called over her shoulder, eyes never leaving her notes. “I’m irresistible to emotionally unavailable men,” he deadpanned.

There was a knock at the door.

Thomas.

Of course. The pickpocket-turned-supposedly-reformed barista had a smirk that made Edmund’s stomach do things it shouldn’t. The guy flirted like it was a bloodsport. And lately, it was getting harder to tell if he was joking.

“Morning, Ed,” Thomas grinned, balancing a cup of chai on one hand and a bouquet of corner-store wildflowers on the other. “For your uterus. Or whatever.”

Winter laughed without looking up.

Edmund rolled his eyes but took the flowers. “You know I work in pediatrics, not OB-GYN, right?”

Thomas leaned against the doorframe. “So you keep reminding me. Thought you’d want a pretty distraction before you leave for Scotland.”

Scotland.

Paisley.

The thought of her — chubby cheeks, curls like whipped cream, and that laugh that made his chest ache — hit him like a summer storm.

He’d been careful. Legal. Signed every dotted line at the IVF clinic with clear eyes and trembling hands. Two of his biological kids were ghosts to him now, names never to be known. But Paisley wasn’t a ghost. She was a miracle in rainboots, and her mom — a redhead with arms strong from carrying more than just a child — had let him in.

Not as a father, maybe. But as Edmund. And that meant more.

He was seeing them tomorrow. He could already hear Paisley’s laugh in the back of his mind.

Thomas tilted his head. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Edmund blinked. “Just… thinking.”

Winter glanced over her shoulder now, frowning softly. She’d heard that tone before — in the quiet hours when Edmund talked about Michigan. About Parker. About how he’d fallen in love with the girl who used to wear his brother’s jacket, and how guilt had laced itself into his ribs ever since.

About the rebound who turned out to be sixteen. About how trying to break it off had nearly broken him.

“You don’t have to go back there,” Winter said gently. “You’re not that guy anymore.”

He gave a quiet smile. “I know. But I’m still him. Somewhere in there.”

Stanley stretched and let out a displeased noise. Edmund scratched behind his ears. “Besides, Paisley’s in Scotland. And this… this life is what I want.”

Thomas gave him a look that said “You sure?” without needing to say a word.

“I’m sure,” Edmund said aloud, this time for himself.

He took the chai. Took the flowers.

And for the first time that week, he didn’t look back.