Her alarm hadn't even gone off yet when her phone vibrated softly beside her pillow.
Morning beautiful, read the message. Are you awake yet? Or should I wait until after breakfast to start missing you?
She smiled into the half-darkness, her heart already beating faster.
You're impossible, she typed back. And it's too early to be this charming.
A moment later: I'll take that as a yes, you're awake. How did you sleep?
Barely at all. I was too busy replaying last night.
There was a pause. Then: Good. Because so was I.
She laughed quietly, pressing her phone against her chest. It felt surreal — after months of restraint, of pretending, of convincing herself it could never happen — here they were, sending each other messages that made her cheeks warm and her stomach flutter.
She rose, made her coffee, and the phone buzzed again as she stood by the window, watching the first light catch on the rooftops.
What are your plans today?
Work, school run, the usual chaos. You?
Meetings, endless calls. I'll text you when I can.
You'd better, she wrote, smiling. Otherwise I'll assume you've forgotten me already.
Never. Not even for a minute.
Her coffee went cold while she reread the messages, her heart completely gone.
He'd never been this useless in a morning meeting.
His client was talking about a project in Berlin, he was nodding at all the right moments, but none of it was landing. His phone, face down beside his notes, felt like it was glowing.
When the meeting finally ended, he glanced at the screen.
A new message.
Hope your meeting went well. If not, I'll make you tea later.
He grinned, catching himself. "I'm being pathetic," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. But the grin didn't fade.
He typed: You offering to make me tea is dangerously domestic, you know that?
Her reply came instantly: Don't read too much into it, Mr Blake. It's just tea.
Right. Just tea.
But he could picture her saying it, that faint blush, the spark in her eyes — and suddenly the day didn't feel quite so heavy.
Their messages became a rhythm of their own. Morning check-ins. Lunchtime jokes. Late-night thoughts sent in sleepy bursts before one of them drifted off.
Sometimes they met for coffee. Sometimes for dinner, somewhere quiet where no one from work would see them. Once, he came by her flat with takeaway after the children had gone to bed, and they ate on the sofa watching an old film.
He fit into her world so easily it scared her.
One afternoon, as she was leaving work, she saw him waiting just outside the doors with two takeaway cups. "I've missed you," he said simply.
It became their quiet ritual — a small, unspoken thread winding through the city. He would meet her after work and drive her home through the rain-softened streets, the glow of headlights flickering across their faces. The world outside moved in hurried fragments; umbrellas, buses, blurred figures behind misted glass, but inside the car there was only the warmth of their laughter, the easy rhythm of two people who had found something rare. For a little while, London belonged only to them.
June had arrived quietly, all blue evenings and light that lingered.
He hadn't meant to fall for her like this; not so fast, not so completely, but somewhere between her laughter and her fierce independence, he'd lost control of it.
She'd changed the shape of his days.
He found himself thinking of her during meetings, smiling at messages that would have made no sense to anyone else. When she was near, he caught himself wanting to touch her; a hand at her back, a brush of her fingers, nothing reckless, just connection.
But more than that, he wanted time with her.
Time away from the city, from schedules, from everything that kept them contained.
So one evening, after dinner at a small Italian place in Soho, he said quietly, "I want to take you somewhere."
She looked up from her glass of wine. "Where?"
"Paris."
Her laugh was soft, incredulous. "You're serious?"
He nodded. "Just for a weekend. No phones, no emails, no clients. Just us."
Her smile faltered a little. "I can't just disappear to Paris, Robert."
"Yes, you can," he said gently. "Your mum can have the children for two nights. You've earned a break."
She hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "You make it sound so simple."
"It could be," he said, and for the first time in years, she believed it.
She thought about Paris for days.
She imagined the Seine at night, the glow of cafés, the quiet between them when the world fell away. But then she thought of the children, of logistics, of what people might say.
And yet, the idea wouldn't leave her.
One evening she mentioned it to her mother while clearing the dinner plates. Her mother gave her a knowing smile. "You should go. The children will be fine with me."
"But Mum —"
"You deserve something for yourself, Isabelle," her mother interrupted gently. "You've built your whole life around everyone else. It's time you had something that's just yours."
Later, after the children were asleep, she texted him.
I've been thinking about Paris.
And?
Maybe you're right. I could use a little break.
He replied almost immediately.
Then it's settled. Next weekend. I'll handle everything.
She smiled, her heart skipping like it hadn't in years.
That night he couldn't sleep.
He lay awake playing every detail about her — her laugh, her hesitant smile, the way she'd look at him over dinner.
He'd spent so long convincing himself he was incapable of this, but now everything felt startlingly possible.
He wanted to show her something beautiful. To remind her that the world wasn't all offices and deadlines and exhaustion.
And maybe, selfishly, he wanted to remind himself too.
He sent her one last message before turning out the light.
Goodnight, Isabelle. I can't wait to lose myself with you.
Her reply came a minute later.
Goodnight, Robert. I only want to be found by you.
The next morning, the city felt different. Brighter somehow. The air soft, the pavements warm under her shoes.
Even work couldn't dim her mood. She found herself smiling at small things — the smell of coffee, the sound of early summer rain outside the window.
Robert met her after work to drive her home. They chatted easily about their day. He dropped her off promising to call her later that night. This had become their daily routine.
Later, as she hung up her coat at home, she found a small envelope tucked into her handbag. Inside was a train ticket to Paris.
And a note, in his handwriting: Ready to remember what happiness feels like?
She pressed the note to her chest, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet joy of it wash through her.
By the end of the week, everything was arranged — tickets, hotel, dinner reservations. He hadn't felt this kind of anticipation in years.
But more than the trip itself, it was what it meant.
It meant she'd chosen him. Despite everything — the messy start and stop, the age gap, the ghosts of what had hurt them both — she'd chosen to take this step with him.
When he saw her that Friday evening, walking out of her office building with her roll along suitcase, the light catching in her hair, he thought she'd never looked more beautiful.
And as they boarded the train, her hand slipping naturally into his, he felt something inside him finally exhale — a quiet, certain sense that maybe, after everything, he was allowed this.
He was allowed her.
Allowed peace.
Allowed happiness.