The first morning Aki woke up as a temporary Londoner, the city greeted her with rain — again.

  She sat at Evan’s small kitchen table, sipping lukewarm tea and watching the drizzle streak down the window. It was only her third day as an official “not-tourist,” but already, the magic of the city felt different. Not faded — just… quieter. Realer.

  Evan rushed past her, shirt half-buttoned, tie clutched between his teeth as he tried to pour coffee and check the time simultaneously.

  “Don’t forget, I’ve got that shoot this morning near King’s Cross,” he mumbled around the tie.

  Aki nodded, watching him with mild amusement. “You always like this in the morning?”

  He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Charming and chaotic? Yes.”

  She grinned. “Definitely more chaotic than charming right now.”

  He leaned down to kiss her forehead, then grabbed his camera bag and keys. “Text me if you go out, okay? There’s a bakery on the corner you’d love.”

  Aki nodded again, and just like that, he was gone — swallowed up by the city and its rhythm.

  The apartment felt too quiet without him.

  Later that day, Aki ventured out with her sketchbook tucked under her arm and the bakery directions saved on her phone.

  The rain had softened into a gentle mist by the time she reached the tiny shop, tucked between a florist and a bookstore. The glass was fogged, and the smell of fresh bread pulled her in like a magnet.

  She sat by the window, nursing a warm cinnamon bun and watching people pass — all of them layered in coats and scarves, umbrellas tucked under arms, hurrying somewhere she didn’t need to be.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  She opened her sketchbook and began to draw — not something planned, just whatever came.

  It was Evan’s flat, she realized halfway through. The messy bookshelf. The scarf she’d brought from Tokyo draped over the chair. A pair of mugs on the window ledge.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it looked like home.

  The following days fell into a rhythm.

  Evan would rush out for shoots or meetings, leaving her with kisses and bad coffee. Aki would wander to the park or the museum or get gloriously lost in side streets. In the evenings, they’d meet back in their tiny kitchen like magnets finding each other again.

  Sometimes they cooked together, burning things and laughing.

  Sometimes they curled up with takeout and British reality TV.

  Sometimes they said nothing at all — just letting the quiet stretch, full of comfort.

  They didn’t need to fill every moment.

  Because now, they had many.

  But it wasn’t all easy.

  On her fifth day, Aki found herself standing in a grocery store, overwhelmed by labels she couldn’t read and brands she didn’t recognize.

  She wanted miso paste. Simple.

  But nothing looked familiar, and every bottle seemed to mock her.

  She left empty-handed, throat tight.

  That night, Evan came home to find her sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through her sketchbook with a frown.

  He crouched beside her. “Hey. You okay?”

  She hesitated. Then: “I couldn’t even buy miso. It sounds stupid, but… I just felt so lost.”

  Evan didn’t laugh or brush it off.

  He sat beside her, pulling her into a hug.

  “It’s not stupid,” he said. “Being in someone else’s world takes courage.”

  Aki rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I want to belong here,” she whispered.

  He kissed her hair. “You already do. But let’s find you a Japanese grocery store tomorrow anyway.”

  She smiled, the knot in her chest loosening.

  That weekend, they took a train to Richmond Park. The grass was wild and sprawling, and deer wandered through the trees like something out of a fairytale.

  Evan brought his camera, but barely used it.

  Instead, they lay on a picnic blanket, heads tilted toward the sky, hands intertwined.

  “This is nice,” Aki murmured.

  Evan turned to her. “Being here with you… it feels less like I’m living between two places. More like I’m building one.”

  She looked at him, surprised.

  “You mean that?”

  “I do,” he said. “I’ve never wanted roots. But maybe I just didn’t know where to plant them.”

  Aki reached into her bag and pulled out her sketchbook, flipping to a half-finished drawing.

  It was them — on this blanket, beneath these trees.

  She pressed her finger to the page, pointing to the space between their bodies.

  “That’s where,” she said. “Right there. Between us.”

  That night, as they washed dishes and danced barefoot on the kitchen tiles to the crackling sound of a jazz record, Aki realized something.

  London still felt unfamiliar.

  The tea was too strong. The weather couldn’t make up its mind. She missed her grandmother’s miso soup and the soft silence of Tokyo evenings.

  But Evan made space for her here.

  Not just in his flat, or his routines — but in his life.

  And maybe that was the most important kind of belonging.

  Not feeling like you had to fit in.

  But knowing someone wanted you to stay.