The next morning, Aki woke to the soft patter of rain against the window and the faint smell of coffee.

  For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was.

  The bed felt unfamiliar, the air cooler than Tokyo’s humid mornings.

  And then she heard Evan humming off-key from the tiny kitchenette.

  A slow smile spread across her face.

  London.

  Evan.

  She stretched, feeling the satisfying ache of jet lag mixed with happiness, then padded over to where he was struggling with a very British-looking breakfast — eggs, toast, and something that vaguely resembled sausage.

  “Is that supposed to be edible?” she teased, leaning against the counter.

  Evan turned, mock-offended. “Excuse me, this is a cultural experience.”

  She laughed, stealing a piece of toast from his plate.

  “I’ll stick to tea, thanks.”

  They ate together by the window, watching the rain blur the brick buildings outside.

  It was simple, quiet — but to Aki, it felt like magic.

  Being here, in his world, sharing the little things.

  It wasn’t about tourist spots or grand gestures.

  It was this — mornings where they didn’t have to say goodbye after a phone call.

  After breakfast, Evan insisted on showing her “the real London.”

  Not the glossy postcard version — but the hidden corners, the ones guidebooks ignored.

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  They skipped the crowded landmarks and instead wandered through narrow alleyways lined with secondhand bookstores and tiny cafés tucked beneath railway arches.

  At Leadenhall Market, Aki marveled at the glass ceiling and colorful storefronts, her fingers trailing along old stone walls.

  “You know,” she said, glancing at Evan, “this almost feels like Diagon Alley.”

  Evan grinned. “That’s because it is one of the filming locations.”

  Her eyes lit up with childlike wonder. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Stick with me, and I’ll show you all the secret magic spots.”

  They spent hours getting lost — on purpose.

  Evan took her to his favorite hidden garden near Covent Garden, where ivy crept up ancient church walls and roses bloomed despite the drizzle.

  They shared a scone at a tiny bakery where the owner greeted Evan by name.

  They ducked into a record store just before another downpour, where Aki found a vinyl of a Japanese jazz artist her father used to play on Sunday mornings.

  As she held it up, Evan snapped a candid photo — her smile soft, the record cradled like a piece of home.

  “You’re collecting memories,” Aki teased when she noticed.

  “Every single one,” Evan replied, not even pretending otherwise.

  By late afternoon, the rain had cleared, and the city glowed under a shy sun.

  They stood on Waterloo Bridge, the Thames glittering beneath them, the skyline stretching out in both directions.

  Aki leaned against the railing, taking it all in — the boats drifting lazily downriver, the distant chime of Big Ben, the bustle of life moving around them.

  “It’s strange,” she murmured. “I always thought London would feel…foreign. But with you, it feels familiar. Like I’ve been here before in a dream.”

  Evan stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

  “Maybe some places aren’t about geography,” he said quietly. “Maybe they’re just where your heart feels at home.”

  Aki closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of him, the weight of those words.

  For the first time since they began their long-distance journey, she wasn’t thinking about time limits or plane tickets.

  She was just here.

  With him.

  And that was enough.

  As evening fell, they found themselves in a cozy pub tucked away from the tourist paths.

  Wooden beams, the scent of old ale, and a fireplace crackling in the corner.

  They sat in a booth, sharing a plate of fish and chips far too big for two people, laughing over Evan’s terrible attempt at a British accent impression of her.

  “You do realize you are half British, right?” Aki teased, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Yeah, but I got all the charm and none of the accent,” he shot back with a grin.

  When the laughter faded into a comfortable silence, Aki reached across the table, her fingers finding his.

  Her expression turned serious, but there was a softness in her gaze.

  “I like your London,” she said. “Not because of the city. But because it’s yours.”

  Evan squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

  “And I love seeing it with you,” he said, his voice low. “Everything’s better when you’re here.”

  Aki felt her cheeks flush, but she didn’t look away.

  This wasn’t the rush of fireworks or the thrill of stolen kisses in Tokyo.

  This was deeper.

  The quiet kind of love — steady, growing in the spaces between conversations and shared meals, in the way they fit into each other’s worlds like they were always meant to.

  That night, back at Evan’s flat, they curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over them as they watched the city lights flicker through the window.

  Aki rested her head on Evan’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

  “I wish I could stay longer,” she whispered, the first hint of reality creeping back in.

  Evan kissed the top of her head, holding her tighter.

  “Me too,” he said. “But let’s not think about that yet.”

  Aki nodded, closing her eyes.

  Because for now, they had this —

  A city that wasn’t hers, but felt like home because he was in it.

  And tomorrow was another day to fill with memories they’d carry long after flights and time zones tried to pull them apart again.