Emma
The morning at the bakery passed slowly, each loaf I lifted from the oven marked by the steady tick of the clock. But again, my heart wasn't in it. It was out there, somewhere on the street, listening for footsteps I hoped would pause outside the glass door.
By the time the shop bell jingled mid-morning, my pulse was already quickening. I knew it was him before I even turned — something in the air shifted when Tommy was near me.
He leaned against the counter, his smile soft, a little sheepish. "Morning, Emma."
The simple sound of my name on his lips felt like sunlight after rain. "Morning," I replied, trying not to beam too widely.
When my shift ended shortly after, I slipped off my apron and followed him into the street. The sky was heavy, clouds rolling in from the docks, but Tommy didn't seem bothered. He carried a canvas bag slung over one arm, and the sight made me laugh in surprise.
"You didn't," I said, nudging his arm lightly.
"I did," he grinned, eyes glinting. "Picnic for two. I thought we'd steal a corner of the park again, just like old times."
Warmth bloomed in my chest, I would never tire of picnics with Tommy. But as we turned the corner, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.
"Uh oh," I muttered, glancing upward. The clouds broke with almost deliberate timing, rain pattering onto the pavement, quickening until it was more than just a sprinkle. People darted into shopfronts, clutching hats and bags, and the air filled with the smell of wet stone.
Tommy looked at me, then at the bag he was carrying, then back again, and that boyish grin tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Well. We could get soaked and eat soggy sandwiches…"
"Or?" I asked, raising a brow, already laughing.
"Or—" he leaned closer, lowering his voice as if it were a secret, "we could take our picnic inside. I've got a perfectly good room at the B&B. Not as romantic as the park, maybe, but at least it's dry."
I hesitated for only half a heartbeat before nodding.
"Dry sounds good."
He grabbed my hand, and together we dashed through the rain, laughing as the water splattered our hair and ran down our sleeves. By the time we made it to the old building that was the town's only B&B, we were damp and breathless, but giddy with the absurdity of it all.
Tommy pushed open the door to his room and ushered me inside. The room was simple but warm with wooden furniture, a quilted bedspread, and lace curtains hanging at the window. He set the bag on the desk and glanced at me with a half-smile that made my heart flip.
"Indoor picnic it is," he said.
He spread the blanket across the floor, right in front of the small window where the rain blurred the street beyond. I sat with him cross-legged, watching as he unpacked sandwiches wrapped in paper, slices of fruit, a bar of chocolate, and even a thermos that steamed gently when he unscrewed the lid.
"You thought of everything," I whispered, touched by the care, the planning, the way he had imagined this whole afternoon just to make it ours.
"Only the best for you," he said simply, handing me a sandwich before settling down opposite me.
The rain tapped steadily against the glass, but inside it was quiet, the kind of quiet that belonged only to us. We ate slowly, talking in murmurs, laughing when a crumb clung to my lip and he brushed it away, his finger lingering longer than necessary. At one point, he shifted closer, until our knees touched and stayed pressed together, a small anchor in the middle of the storm.
I leaned back against the bedframe, watching him as he unwrapped the chocolate.
"You really do spoil me," I said softly.
He looked up, eyes steady, voice low.
"Not spoil. Just… want to show you what you mean to me."
Something inside me tightened and softened all at once. The rain could have lasted all day, all week, and I wouldn't have cared.
The world outside blurred into grey, but here, with him beside me, everything was warm and full and bright.
Tommy
The rain hissed against the window in a steady, insistent drum. Inside, the room smelled faintly of jam and warm bread and the faint musk of wet clothes. I pushed the picnic blanket into the corner and gathered the paper and napkins into the canvas bag, my fingers lingering on the edge of her hand when she reached to help. She sat on the side of the bed.
I sat down next to her and placed my hand around her waist. I watched the way the lamplight made the hair at her temple shine. There was something ridiculous and perfect about the way the storm outside made this stolen room feel private and sacred.
I lay back onto the bed and pulled her down with me. She shuffled slightly, hugging me around my torso, and I felt her warmth immediately. I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, and she rested her head against my chest. The steady thump of my heart under her ear made my chest ache in a new, familiar way.
"This is my favourite place to be, lying this close to you," she whispered.
"Me too," I murmured, my voice low and tender. "I've missed this — just holding you, being near you, without anything else in the world pulling us apart."
We stayed like that for a long moment, letting the quiet fill the room, the sound of our breaths and heartbeats mingling. Her hand drifted to my arm, brushing it softly, tracing the line of my shoulder, and I tightened my hold ever so slightly as if to make the feeling more real.
"I could stay like this forever," she said, a small shiver running through her that I felt against my ribs. It was equal parts warmth and the hollow that came from knowing our hours were borrowed.
"Then stay," I replied softly, the whole day had wrapped around us like a blanket.
She took a deep breath, her small hands fidgeted on my chest. Rain smeared the world beyond the window into a wash of grey; the B&B's lace curtains creating a veil between us and the rest of the world.
"How long are you staying?" she asked, and the question landed like a stone.
My throat tightened. I hated to say it
"Tomorrow afternoon," I said. The words felt too small. "I have to get back in the afternoon. Father is expecting me by then."
Her face didn't change, but there was a slow, quiet gathering of something — disappointment, calculation, the way someone prepares their heart for a small loss. She let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it were any other day.
"Tomorrow?" she repeated aloud, as if testing it.
"Yeah." I tried for lightness, for the habit of our corny jokes.
"Good thing trains run on tracks, because if they ran on how much I miss you, they'd never stop."
I tilted my head, watching her. "But I'll come again. I'll make sure it's soon, and —"
I swallowed. The rest of it — the promise that I'd find a way to bend my life, so it could be more than stolen afternoons — stayed lodged in my chest.
She looked at me then, those eyes that always saw the unfinished parts of me and made me want to finish them.
"Promise me you'll come back," she said simply.
"I promise," I said. "I'll come back as soon as I can and I'll… I'll keep writing."
She exhaled, relief and hurt braided together.
"That will have to be enough," she said, and there was the tiniest smile in the corner of her mouth.
I wanted to argue; to tell her that 'enough' was too small a word, but then she slipped her hand into the hollow of my palm and leaned her head back against my shoulder. I pressed my lips to her hair, breathed in the scent of rain and sun and the faint sweetness from the chocolate we'd shared, and let the quiet swallow the rest for a little while.