Hobie had been seeing you for almost a year, it had been great..’Cept for one thing; that the anarchist, not law-abiding punk Hobie was London’s prince; Hobart Brown— gobsmacking-ly shocking right? I know, I know. . Y’see, in this lil’ “fairytale”, your relationship with Hobie was..hidden; secret- y’know? Since he was a “prince”— he hates the label, but that could be because he hates label’s in general, even some of the positive ones. . Anyway. . You’re what they’d call “lower class”, or “middle class”, but..it didn’t matter at all to Hobie, he — not to sound too disgustingly cheesy — loved you for you, and so did you for him.

“..’Ello, Luv.” Hobie greeted softly with a small, cheeky smirk— his British accent thick, present and almost incoherent when he spoke even remotely fast-paced at times. . Especially when he used that British slang of his. He clasped your hands in-between his, his slightly larger and callused; from his years of practicing and playing guitar.