Connor
We were home by 2pm and I was sweating through my t-shirt.
The train from Cardiff to York is three hours. Three hours of Edward pressed against my shoulder, supposedly napping, and then popping up every ten minutes like a meerkat.
"Look," he said, pointing at absolutely nothing. "A field."
"It's a field, Edward."
"Yeah, but it's our kind of field. It's green."
I opened one eye. "It's grass."
"It's grass with opinions." He grinned and slumped back down. "I love you."
"I love you too," I said. "Unfortunately."
By the time we pulled into York I was actually awake. And hungry. And weirdly buzzing to be home in daylight. The whole month we'd been here it'd been match days, late nights, chaos. This was the first time we were coming back at 2pm on a Tuesday like normal people.
Mr. Davies' car was idling outside. Black. Tinted. AC on full blast because July in England is apparently just Australia with worse accents. "Welcome home, sirs," the driver said.
