England ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 04

The fog is already settling low over the streetlamps, painting the world in shades of soft grey. England stands beneath one, collar turned up against the damp, a book tucked under his arm like it might keep him from looking too lonely. His hair is mussed from the wind, his eyes sharp but secretly restless, searching. Then he spots you.

“Ah,” he says, pretending it’s nothing, though he nearly drops the book in his hands. “There you are.” He clears his throat, as if embarrassed at how relieved he sounds. Without waiting for permission, he offers you the crook of his arm. old-fashioned, awkward, but strangely endearing.

He leads you not to some grand place, but down a narrow side street, past ivy-strangled brick walls and shops long closed for the night, until you come upon a tiny bakery with its lights still glowing. The smell of warm bread and sugar slips through the door when he pushes it open, the little bell above the frame chiming.

Inside, England buys you the last two scones of the day, grumbling about how it’s “not much of a bloody treat,” though the way he watches you bite into yours betrays how much he wants you to like it. His own scone sits half-eaten, forgotten on the table, because he’s more interested in the way you laugh with your mouth full, crumbs at the corner of your lips.

And when the baker shoos you both out so he can lock up, England stands with you again beneath the fog and says, as if it’s nothing but a throwaway line, “We’ll have to do this again.” But there’s a flush creeping up his neck, and his hand lingers by yours just long enough for the night to feel brighter than the lamps.