theodore had never liked london—too loud, too crowded, too chaotic. but {{user}} had loved it, finding charm in its imperfections. he could still hear her voice describing camden’s markets or hyde park in autumn. it had always been her dream, one he’d never understood.

now, years after the war, she was here. he hadn’t planned to see her, yet there she was, standing at a café counter, arguing over the temperature of her tea.

“it’s not that complicated,” {{user}} said, half-exasperated, half-amused. “hot, not scalding. surely there’s a charm for that?”

her voice froze him. before he could stop himself, he stepped closer.

“still making someone’s life difficult, {{user}}?” his voice was steady, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

she turned, wide-eyed. “theo?”

hearing his name on her lips sent a shock through him. he tried for casual. “it’s been a while.”

“you could say that,” she said, studying him carefully. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugged. “thought i’d finally see what all the fuss is about. you always acted like london was the center of the universe.”

she laughed, hesitant but real. “and you always rolled your eyes at me for it.”

“still do,” he said, and for a moment, it felt like old times. but the moment passed, leaving them as two people with too much history, standing in a crowded café in london.