Somewhere amidst the blissful blur of half-formed thoughts, Joanne’s brain properly registered that she had woken up. Her alarm had not gone off yet nor a wet tongue slobber over her face, so she contentedly rolled over to her other side. This action, unluckily, meant that she was directly in the path of the sunlight clipping in through the windows. It pierced her eyelids, and she flinched, squeezing them tighter.

After a brief pause, the abnormality of the situation dawned on her. If it was not time to wake up, why was the sun out and about? She frowned and threw her hands away from her person, deft fingers questing around for her phone. Finding it, she brought it up, shielding her face from the bright glare while checking the time.

And for a moment, she reckoned her heart had stopped. Then, not one second later, she was hurtling out of her bed with frantic haste. An apt term, she supposed, as she had drastically misjudged the trajectory of her entire lower half. Which was, annoyingly enough, still wrapped up in her blanket.

She would have to worry about her bruised hip later, she decided, huffing a sign and scrambling to her feet after freeing herself.

She had forgotten to set her morning alarm and, judging from the fact Wolffe had slept through all that, he was still knackered — he did stay up later than usual to wait for her — so she was left nearly an hour late to start her morning routine. Short of skipping her jog, shower, and breakfast, she was unavoidably arriving at Costa late.

Pulling her outfit on and rushing out of her apartment, a juice box in hand and three slices of bread held between her teeth, she felt like she was living the opening to a teen rom-com. Her long, black hair, which she had not been able to find the time to tie into the usual twist-back high ponytail, was hastily shoved underneath a backpack containing her laptop and purse.

Managing her routine jog with her trip to meet her friend was a good compromise. Time was beyond the point that she would label it of the essence.

Stopping for traffic flow a few blocks away from her apartment complex, she slumped against a bus stop, panting slightly with a hand pressed on her side. She should not have been eating as she was running because, as expected, she was suffering. She thought she knew better.

Gritting her teeth, she ignored the concerned looks from the passers-by and continued on her way. Her friend was taking time out of his busy schedule to meet with her. He would understand if she was late — he knew she was a right mess most days — but it would be a disservice to the history they shared if she did not try her hardest to be on time.

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Just shy of a minute before the agreed time, she stopped at Costa’s front door and straightened up to the best of her ability, settling a hand to her chest to calm her pounding heart. No doubt, she had pushed herself harder in the past, yet, for some reason, this time felt more taxing. Maybe it was the emotional weight the run carried or something equally cliche?

As she made her way past the covered patio, with tables a respectful distance apart, she shook her head to get rid of the assumption and worked off the adrenaline in her veins. Through the transparent glass door, a blanket of warm air enveloped her, swirling with the rich promise of aromatic dreams.

She inhaled deeply, the cafe tables in their deep brown and the ambiance of friendly chatter coaxing an inner smile that warmed from within. It was a little wonder her friend had chosen the place as their meetup spot: it was a refuge, a slice of heaven, a place she could shed her worries and enjoy her contemplations at leisure.

Said friend was always early, so It was not hard to find him as he was sitting at their usual table in the corner, which should, in all seriousness, be permanently reserved for them. Clad in a t-shirt that strained against his lean chest and shoulders, dark dreadlocks, and a five o’clock shadow, he cut an impressive figure despite his casual wear — and despite it being years already, she still felt a pang in her heart.

He pushed his glasses up her nose and seemed to check his phone briefly before looking around, dropping both elbows on the table, and within seconds, his gaze landed on hers. He smiled and waved to call her.

She nodded with a similar smile and, instead of walking to him immediately, moved to the counter. Tea came first. Behind her, she could almost feel the sarky roll of his eyes. Though all in good fun, she knew.

Feeling the warm cup in her hand and almost tasting the alluring scent of her English breakfast tea, she finally walked to the table. Placing the brew down opposite his as he stood, she pulled him into an embrace he reciprocated immediately and tightly.

“Nathan,” she breathed.

Her friend rested his chin on her, a familiar position. “Did you miss me this much?”

Releasing her grip from him and pushing away, she smacked a fist against his chest. “Of course I did, stupid. It's been long.”

He laughed as he caught her hand on the second attempt. “I guess it has,” he said, sinking into his chair, and she followed suit, settling her backpack on her lap. “How have you been?”

“You know… the usual.”

“The usual?” He arched an eyebrow at her, repeating her words in a deep, firm voice. It was the kind that made people swoon, and if things had been different, she would have. Now, it only made the pang more noticeable.

“Yeah, the usual.” It was not as if she was being secretive on purpose. She wanted to talk about her problems, but that could come later. His took precedence at the moment, and she said as such.

“What do you mean, Ann?” He asked, and rather than reply with an answer, she reached across the table to touch his hands and posed her question:

“How have things been?”