The next morning, Aki woke to the smell of cinnamon.

  She padded into the kitchen and found Evan at the stove, still in his pajama pants, flipping something in a pan that looked… questionably edible.

  “Are you cooking or creating abstract art?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

  He grinned over his shoulder. “Both. It’s French toast. Sort of.”

  Aki leaned her cheek against his back. “Smells like ambition.”

  They ate together on the balcony, feet tucked under a shared blanket, the London sky a patchwork of grey and pale gold.

  For a while, they didn’t talk about anything big. Just soft, silly things — what color they’d paint the kitchen if they ever had a house, whether ghosts exist, why British TV had so many shows about baking.

  But eventually, the quiet between them shifted.

  And Aki said, “We should start talking about the real stuff. Don’t you think?”

  Evan nodded slowly, setting down his mug.

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

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  That afternoon, they sat side by side at the tiny dining table, a notebook open between them.

  Aki drew a small heart in the corner of the page. Evan added an uneven house next to it.

  They titled the page in bold letters:

  WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

  And under it, they listed three columns:

  1. Aki stays longer

  2. Evan moves to Tokyo

  3. We find a third place

  Each idea had its own orbit. Its own pull.

  “I could try for a working holiday visa,” Aki said, chewing her pen cap. “Maybe even freelance in design or illustration. It’s not forever, but it buys us time.”

  Evan nodded. “You could. Or I could start pitching to editors in Tokyo. If I found enough work, I could move for a year.”

  They both paused, the weight of it settling in the space between possibilities.

  “What about the third place?” Aki asked. “Somewhere neither of us is from?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Lisbon? Melbourne? Vancouver?” She smiled, wistful. “Somewhere we both get to feel a little lost — together.”

  Evan laughed. “You just want another excuse to get lost and draw strangers in cafés.”

  She bumped his knee with hers. “Maybe.”

  They stared at the list, then at each other.

  “It’s scary,” Aki said quietly. “Choosing. Not knowing how it’ll work out.”

  Evan reached for her hand, lacing their fingers.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s also the first time I’ve ever wanted to choose with someone. I don’t care where we live, Aki. Tokyo. London. The moon. As long as we wake up and say, ‘Okay, it’s us again. Let’s try.’”

  She blinked hard, her heart stammering in her chest.

  “Even if it’s messy?”

  “Especially if it’s messy.”

  That night, they made a second list.

  Not of locations or timelines — but of things they wanted in their life together.

  Mornings with tea and bad French toast.

  Books scattered across the couch.

  A dog. Or a cat. Or both.

  Annual ramen trips to Tokyo.

  A studio with a skylight for Aki.

  A bookshelf Evan builds himself (even if it’s crooked).

  Photos of every place they ever call home.

  It wasn’t a perfect plan.

  It didn’t solve everything.

  But it was theirs.

  Drawn in ink, sealed with kisses, tucked beside a messy stack of breakfast plates and dreams.

  Later, as they lay in bed, Aki rested her head on Evan’s chest.

  “I’m glad we talked,” she whispered. “Even if nothing’s decided yet.”

  He kissed the top of her head.

  “Something’s decided,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You and me.”

  She smiled, sleep pulling at the edges of her thoughts.

  And somewhere between one breath and the next, she murmured:

  “I think we’re building something real.”

  Evan didn’t answer with words.

  He just held her closer — like he never planned to let go.