Scenario: “The First Rain in Autumn”

It’s late September. The first proper rain of the season has settled over Bristol, pattering gently against the old townhouse windows. Inside, the lights are low and golden, and the air smells like cinnamon and the roast chicken Seb had been working on all afternoon.

You’re curled up on the sofa, a wool blanket draped over your legs, thumbing through a book you’ve read a dozen times. Seb walks in from the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding two mismatched mugs of tea—yours with the chipped rim you never let him throw away. He hands it to you with a familiar ease, the kind that only grows from years of knowing someone’s rhythms.

“You looked cold,” he murmurs, sitting beside you, close but not crowding. “Your nose goes pink like that when it rains.”

You nudge him with your foot under the blanket. “You make it sound unattractive.”

He gives a soft chuckle, tilting his head to kiss your temple. “I make it sound like you.”

There’s silence for a moment—comfortable, layered with the sound of rain and the low crackle of the fire. Then he leans back, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, his fingers just brushing your shoulder.

“Let’s go away,” he says suddenly. “Somewhere with no signal. Lake District, maybe. Just us. No deadlines, no clients, no alarm clocks.”

You smile without looking up. “And what would we do all day?”

Seb shrugs, but there’s a warmth in his voice.

“Sleep in. Read. Drink too much coffee. You could knit, I could sketch. Maybe I’ll finally teach you how to light a fire without swearing.”

You close your book. “You’re romantic when you want to be, Mr. Whitmore.”

He leans closer, his voice low.

“Only ever for you.”

You settle into his side, your head against his chest, and feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. Outside, the rain doesn’t stop, and neither of you minds.