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💕Madly Deeply Always releases Feb 14th 2026 on Valentine's Day
📁 Click here to Download the Cover to share on social media!

Perfect for readers who love:

• 🌊 Coastal romances
• ☕ Coffeehouse vibes
• 🎞️ The romantic melancholy of a BBC period drama
• 🌷 Austen vibes
• ⚡ Harry Potter nostalgia
• ✨Reserved, British love interest who loves patiently, even when it hurts
• 🏡 When she’s staying under his roof… and things get complicated
• 🎸 Bonding over music
• 🎭 Witty banter
• 💔 Emotional healing and quiet devotion
• ❤️‍🔥 Aching, slow-burn longing
• ✨ Emotional, heartfelt comfort reads
• 🌶️ Lyrical, emotionally focused spice (1x open-door scene – not explicit)

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🌹Sample Chapters:

Please note: These are from the third draft and still require professional editing and polishing.

🌸1: Ghosts of Silence

Lily-Anne

I stand frozen in the Sydney International Airport carpark, pulse spiking as I stare into the open boot of our old sedan. The black case stares back silently, clasps gleaming in the predawn light, the lid shut and sealed tight like a secret.

My guitar case.

It’s been a month since I opened it, and although this trip was my idea, I’ve put it off until now. A part of me still questions if I should take it.

Mum joins me by the boot, pulling my suitcase behind her. She follows my gaze and sighs. “It’s not a dead body, Lily.”

No. But it holds the ghost of one. I unlatch the hard case and carefully lift the lid, my stomach knotting at the sight of my pride and joy—a Cole Clark semi-acoustic made of Australian blackwood.

I haven’t touched it in months, though every part of me still aches to play.

Tears prick my eyes.

“You’ll see love,” Mum says gently. “This trip is just what you need. Sea breeze, new people… maybe even inspiration?”

She doesn’t say how much she hates flying. How much she’d rather I stayed. She’s trying to hold it together for me, and that makes her words mean more.

“Thanks, Mum,” I murmur as I reach down tentatively to brush the strings. They hum in response, a soft, aching sound that cuts deeper than it should. Beautiful, even now.

I shut the lid, my throat growing tight.

We both hope I’ll write music again, though I’d settle for simply being able to play a chord. Funny, how hauling my guitar across the globe might make that possible.

“Dad would be proud of you,” Mum says.

“Would he?” I’ve been playing since I was a kid—school bands, eisteddfods, busking with friends at Circular Quay, trying out songs I wrote in my bedroom Dad had encouraged me to perform. Back then, just knowing he believed in me was all the proof I needed that I could make music worth sharing. It all felt so certain back then.

After high school, I pursued my passion, graduating with a Bachelor of Music Studies at the Sydney Conservatorium at the end of last year. Then I spent the first half of this year performing in an ensemble—until I quit without warning.

And now?

Nothing. No gigs. No plans. No fire. Just this gnawing fear that I'm drifting further and further away from who I’m meant to be.

“Yes, he would.” She touches my shoulder, but it only makes the ache in my chest worse.

I turn into her, wrapping my arms around her middle like I used to when I was small. She’s soft and warm, the familiar scent of her rose moisturiser calming my racing heart.

As we pull apart, my hair snags on her silver hair clip.

“Ow! Sorry—” I let out a pained laugh as I untangle our blonde waves, mine a shade lighter than hers.

“Careful!” Mum cries as the clip falls. “That was—”

I catch it before it hits the ground.

“An anniversary gift from Dad,” I finish, handing it back to her. The last one he would ever give her. It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.

I watch as she twists her curls neatly and secures them with the clip.

“Right,” she says. “Shall we head inside?”

My guitar case bumps against my leg as we move through the crowd. No one gives it a second glance, but I feel like an imposter carrying it.

As we wait in the check-in line, a Fiji Airways poster draws my attention—a luxury resort framed by palms and hibiscus. It looks peaceful. Tranquil. The kind of place any Aussie in their right mind would be going to escape our June winter.

Lounging by the pool, soaking up sun and sipping cocktails like I haven’t a care in the world…

And then gunning it across the ocean on a jet ski loud enough to drown out the thoughts planted in my head by my ex-boyfriend.

“Wishing you were going somewhere warmer?” Mum asks, nodding at the poster.

I let out a breath. “Just a little. Did you see the forecast? It’s raining all week in Whitstable.”

“That’s the English summer for you,” she says lightly, squinting at her phone. “Let’s see… Oh, look! Next week’s supposed to have a top of eighteen degrees. Partly cloudy, with only a mild wind.”

“Yay?”

She’s trying her best to stay positive, but we both know I didn’t book this trip for sunshine.

I’m flying to England for a man I’ve never met—a man more than a decade older than me, whose face I’ve only seen in magazine photos online. But I’m not going for love. I’m going for music. For a chance to get my creative spark back.

With the right mentorship, maybe I will.

At the counter, I’m handed two boarding passes. The guitar stays with me; they’ll stash it in the cabin once I board. I couldn’t stand the thought of it getting thrown around like just another suitcase.

“At least you won’t be travelling alone,” Mum says brightly, smiling at my guitar fondly. “Come on. Once we’re through security, there should be plenty of time to get breakfast before you go.”

After immigration, we slide into the booth of a typical airport café, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and microwaved croissants.

By the time our pancakes arrive, Mum’s earlier optimism takes a nosedive. I think being this deep within the airport is bringing back memories of Dad.

She pushes strawberries around her plate distractedly as she asks, “Don’t you want to know a bit more about where you’ll be staying?”

I shrug, swirling maple syrup around my plate. “It’s a cottage by the sea. I’ve seen a couple of photos. I’m sure it will be lovely.”

“Or who you’ll be staying with?”

I pause, the edge in her voice catching me off guard. “I’m not staying with anyone. It’s a separate flat, upstairs. And you’ve already met Brandon.”

“Yes, but you haven’t. Aren’t you nervous?”

“Not really,” I lie.

What I don’t tell her is that I’m trying hard not to overthink this trip. The whole thing was a spontaneous decision, but now that it’s real with my boarding pass printed and bags checked, I’m not sure if I’m brave or naïve.

All I know is that he’s there.

Brandon Ward. The reclusive family friend and ex-music manager Dad had worked with at his record company. I’m the only one in our family who hasn’t met him—I was away at uni whenever he visited our house in Manly. And then he returned to England.

I’d heard he’d come back to Sydney for Dad’s funeral, but I don’t remember seeing him. I was too out of it to take much in.

He still sends us Christmas cards every year. It was one such card, found in the drawer of Dad’s old office one afternoon, that prompted me to look him up on Dad’s computer. Only to discover just how highly my dad spoke of Brandon, describing him to colleagues as the kind of manager who kept young artists grounded, out of trouble, and focused on their music.

With no one else to turn to, and my music slipping out of reach, I reached out.

I was amazed when he actually replied to my rambling, dog’s breakfast of an email, but it gave me hope.

“If anyone can help me reconnect with my music, it’s him,” I tell Mum.

She toys with a strawberry. “I know. But I’d feel more comfortable if Ellenor were going with you.”

Me too. My older sister considered it, but she’s too busy being a hotshot city lawyer to get away. She’s been burning the candle at both ends for nearly a decade, just like Dad used to.

Mum sighs, forlorn. “My baby girl. Going overseas all by herself… ”

“I’m twenty-one,” I interject, then soften. “But yes, I’m still your baby. Don’t forget though—I’ve been to Bali and Fiji before.”

“But never alone! Those were family trips for your father’s conferences.” She swallows. “I wish you’d at least let Brandon give you that virtual tour of the cottage.”

“What, and spoil the surprise?” I try for a carefree smile.

“What if the two of you don’t get along? He and Ellenor didn’t exactly hit it off when we had him over for dinner a few years ago.”

I snort softly. Ellenor is combative by nature. An acquired taste. But she supports my going—even if she found Brandon a bit dull when they’d met. Not that I found anything lacking in my limited conversations with him.

After my ex, I think some people talk a little too much. But Brandon didn’t. We’ve only exchanged a few low-key texts, but his replies made me smile in a way I hadn’t in months.

Like when he sent a photo of a half-renovated room coated in plaster dust, asking which colours I'd like the walls painted.

I’d jokingly suggested fire-engine red or neon green.

He’d replied promising to deliver an “exciting beige.” I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or just British enthusiasm, but he received a laughing emoji from me, anyway.

It felt strange to be bantering with someone again, like the humour had been bottled up inside me for years. Stranger still, to imagine some Englishman on the other side of the world working hard to get things ready for my stay. It makes me feel… welcome.

“I'll be fine,” I reassure Mum. “Brandon seems nice.”

She sets her fork down, eyes drifting down to her plate. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know it’s too late to be second-guessing. It’s just hard not to worry about you.”

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

She searches my face, then nods and tries for a cheerful smile, though she’s never been as good at faking it as Dad and Ellenor. Like me, she wears her heart on her sleeve.

I refocus on my pancakes. The truth is, I’m nervous too.

To meet Brandon.

To live in a strange house.

To find out if I still have something left to say through music, or if this whole trip is a waste of time and money.

The extra seats alone made the trip expensive. Mum had to pull nursing doubles at the hospital just to help me afford it. She knows how important the guitar is to me. Still, if Brandon hadn’t offered the cottage for free, I probably wouldn’t be going to England at all.

I smother my last pancake with maple syrup, hoping it will douse the nerves knotted in my stomach. It’s a different kind of tension from what my ex used to make me feel.

“Well, maybe this holiday will help you forget your ex,” Mum the Mind Reader says, topping up our orange juice.

My shoulders tense. While I’m grateful she doesn’t mention Toby by name, I’d rather she didn’t bring him up at all. “Please, can we just…not?”

“All right.” She nods, but I can tell she wants to talk about it.

I don't blame her. She lost me there for a while. Still worries I'll go back to him. I’d met him shortly after losing Dad, dated him throughout my three-year course, and followed him into the ensemble after graduation. By then, I barely knew how to be without him.

But it’s been nearly six weeks since I ended things. Six weeks since the tension I hadn’t even noticed coiling through my muscles eased. I’d been miserable for a long time, but it was the day he tried to convince me to sell my guitar that pushed me past my breaking point.

“You’ve been struggling with it for months,” he’d said in front of the entire ensemble.

I remember hugging my guitar closer, as if I could shield it from him. That guitar was my lifeline, a way to escape my grief and feel close to Dad. But as much as I hated to admit it, Toby was right. I was struggling.

But in that moment, I realised it was because of him. Because of how I shrunk in his presence.

Toby had mistaken my silence for surrender and tried to push me back towards a classical guitar instead. “Just think about it. We could trade this one in—clean slate. You need an instrument that supports you, not something you’re constantly conforming to.”

I couldn’t believe it.

He knew Dad bought me the Cole Clark for my birthday.

He knew what it meant to me.

And he still tried to take it away.

For the first time, the haze had lifted. I saw what he was doing for what it was: control, dressed up as advice. And I was livid, my hands shaking with white-hot fury, as I stared at the man I’d dated for nearly three years, but no longer recognised.

Somehow, I kept my voice level as I told him we were over. No tears or second chances. I just walked out of the Sydney Conservatorium’s concert hall, the rest of the ensemble gaping after me.

It was a quiet ending Toby never saw coming. For once, I didn’t let him twist the situation to his advantage.

I was relieved to be free of him. But the damage lingers, my music so tangled with pain that I can’t play at all. Something in me has gone silent.

So, Mum needn’t worry I’ll take him back. I’m desperate to move on. I just don’t know how.

And while I doubt waking up in another country will magically help me feel more like myself, I hope that with Brandon’s help, I’ll at least find my way back to music. Back to the part of me that felt alive.

A soft cough and the clatter of cutlery pulls me back to the café. I glance at Mum, who’s eyeing me. “You don’t have to do anything big straight away,” she murmurs. “Just eat. Sleep. Breathe in that salty sea air. That’s more than enough to start with.”

I nod. I don’t agree, but I nod.

While I’m not expecting a snap-your-fingers solution, I intend to work hard. As soon as Brandon can help me fix this part of me that’s broken, the sooner I can come back home and get on with life.

After breakfast, Mum hugs me tightly, then fusses—checking my backpack is zipped, reminding me where I put my phone charger, and making sure I still have my passport, along with a dozen other things.

As she chatters, my chest tightens. I picture her sitting alone in our weatherboard house near Manly Beach. How quiet it will be.

Dad’s gone, though his presence still lingers in the smell of his aftershave and the shelf he built for Mum’s recipe books.

Ellenor moved out years ago to be closer to her job in the city.

And now I’m leaving, too. Just for a few weeks, I tell myself. But the truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Brandon vaguely mentioned that he didn’t plan to rent out the flat this summer, and that I could stay as long as I liked.

In the meantime, Mum will be by herself, playing the radio to fill the empty house. She hates the silence, and I can’t help but feel like I’m letting her down.

The tears are back, threatening to fall. Her eyes glisten too, her smile wobbling.

“I hope this trip will be everything you hoped for,” she murmurs, smoothing my hair the way Dad used to. “You’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course. Every day.”

She snorts. “Not every day! I want you to make the most of your trip.”

“Every second day, then. And I’ll send photos to the group chat.”

It’ll be a nice change from Ellenor’s drama dumps about family law and courtroom battles. I don’t know how she does it—trying to fix other people’s lives. It’s the one thing she got from Mum.

Me? I think I inherited the fragile bits.

Mum does up a button on my cardigan. “Remember, your visa is for six months—but you can come home anytime, okay?” She pulls me in for one last hug. “And text me when you land.”

“I will.”

I wave as she heads towards the terminal exit. And then she’s gone.

I’m on my own.

But only until I reach England. Brandon will be there. Waiting.

🌸2: Up in the Air

Lily-Anne

Mum and I both hate goodbyes, and I breathe a little easier once she disappears into the crowd.

There’s still an hour to kill until my flight. Lifting the hard case, I drift through the terminal, dodging duty-free perfume counters and oversized plush koalas clutching chocolates, until a surf shop catches my eye.

Glossy banners of surfers carving through sunset waves draw me inside. The store smells like surfboard wax and neoprene—familiar and comforting, like the kind of place I used to frequent with my friends as a teenager.

Inside, a wall of colourful bikinis beckons me.

A memory brushes my senses: Toby wrinkling his nose as he drove us past the beach. “Bikinis are practically underwear. They leave very little to the imagination. I suppose some women enjoy being ogled, but it’s hardly classy, is it?”

I wanted to be classy. I met him at uni, where we studied classical music theory and technique. He was striking, with sleek hair, sharp spectacles, and an air of quiet authority that made you believe he always had the right view. So I worked to fit his image of us: serious musicians in black formalwear performing beneath the lights of grand concert halls.

After graduation, that dream became reality, but I never imagined it would feel so hollow. Or that he’d ruin the beach for me, too.

I hover in front of a chilli red bikini—strappy, high-cut, made to be noticed. My hand glides over the smooth material. I haven’t worn anything this revealing in years.

“Hot little number, isn’t it?” the shop assistant asks, flipping her bleached braids. “Want to try it on?”

“Oh, no—thanks, I’m just browsing,” I say quickly.

I turn away, heading for the exit—but the bikini is stamped red into my vision. Like another version of me, waiting.

I hesitate. I can feel Toby’s disapproval, as if he’s standing beside me, muttering barbs under his breath.

Then again, he’d take one look at what I’m wearing now—simple white top, loose acid-wash jeans with ripped knees, canvas sneakers—and silently storm out. Even my sage-green cardigan he would have hated, I think because I liked it so much.

Toby loathed jeans. He said people dressed better in the ‘olden days’, critiquing anyone who dressed modern—which was almost everyone, obviously.

He spent a lot of time being angry.

I should have pushed back sooner. I thought he was wise, that he knew something the rest of the world didn’t. In reality, he was just an asshole.

I pick at the frayed threads on my denim, eyeing the bikini longingly.

“Excuse me,” I croak, turning to the shop assistant and clearing my throat. “Can I try that on? And also, that—?” I point to the cute skater dress she’s holding.

It’s rose pink with short sleeves, a V-cut neckline, and a flowy skirt with a hem that won’t even brush my knees. Casual but pretty.

Toby would’ve hated it.

A few minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection in the change room mirror.

The bikini is fire. The pink dress is gentler. They’re both me.

I shift, skirt swaying as I catch a different angle. I’m the same as I’ve always been—average height, small frame, blonde waves—yet it feels like I’m looking at a version of myself I haven’t seen in a while.

It’s not just the clothes that are different.

I can make eye contact now. Brown eyes, like Mum’s. Blonde hair loose, wild the way it naturally falls, instead of clipped into the elaborate updos Toby liked.

My makeup’s softer—no more heavy lipstick, cake mascara, or thick powder, like women wore in the forties. Instead, just a touch of foundation, lip balm, and mascara. Natural. Even my pale, over-plucked brows are starting to grow back. Slowly.

My skin’s still sunkissed. Not even Toby’s attempts to keep me indoors could reverse my tan. Too many summers spent at the beach before him.

For three years, I’d tried to look polished and elegant for him. My wardrobe had morphed into vintage blouses, polka dot tea dresses, pinstripe slacks, and modest swimsuits. Getting dressed every day felt like I was preparing for a theatre performance.

But now, with a pink featherlight dress and flushed cheeks, I feel like me.

A few minutes later, I leave the shop with my guitar case swinging in one hand, my purchases tucked into my backpack, and a stupidly pleased smile on my lips.

I didn’t even realise how small I’d become, trying to fit his mould.

Good riddance.

I walk a little taller as I head towards the gate.

No one has boarded yet, so I duck into a nearby gift shop and make a beeline for the bookshelves. Floral Austens, Brontës in jewel tones… the usual suspects.

I thumb through the pages of a special edition copy of Sense and Sensibility, absorbing the familiar prose. I’m tempted to buy it…

But how many editions can one woman own? Mum, Ellenor, and I have five copies between us.

But none with gold-foiled wildflowers on the spine.

One of a kind. That makes this purchase a necessity.

I’m heading for the counter with a small stack of paperbacks when a familiar face makes me stop cold. She stares out from the cover of a glossy magazine with a deadpan expression, her dark bob framing a face lined with thick eyeliner.

The headline jumps out: Four Years Since Nova’s Death: Australia Still Mourns Its Most Haunting Indie Soul Star.

Nova. Her voice was everywhere back then. Smoky and unforgettable.

Dad’s record company had represented her. She’d made it big overseas, and he’d been proud. It was a win for Aussie artists.

I wish I’d met her. She was meant to fly back to Sydney from the US for a meeting that day, and Dad had promised to invite her to our house afterwards.

But she never even made it on the plane.

Nova died at twenty-nine from a drug overdose. The same age Ellenor is now. It’s strange to think about.

I’m about to put the magazine back when Toby’s voice whispers in my head, “Gossip is brain rot.”

The pages bend in my grip. Brain rot sounds pretty perfect right now.

Jaw tight, I march to the counter, where I pay for not only the novels, but the magazine as well.

I roll the magazine into my backpack’s side pocket and leave the shop, stepping back into the terminal’s fluorescent glow.

My phone buzzes.

Brandon: Hi Lily-Anne. Just wanted to wish you safe travels

I blink at the screen, my thumbs hovering. I could just reply with a thank you, but I think I can do better than that. The old Lily would have said something charming or witty.

So, I try.

Lily-Anne: Worried I’ll skip my flight, are you?

Brandon: Is that a possibility I should prepare for?

Lily-Anne: Not unless you’re planning to sksimp on the fantasy castle features I requested

The joke had started with Ellenor, who’d dared me to text Brandon a list of “essential fantasy castle features” to include in the flat’s renovations—from moving staircases to a Chamber of Secrets. After culling most of the movie references, I’d sent it to him in mock-seriousness.

Brandon: I recall chandeliers, a clawfoot tub, and something about a moat

Lily-Anne: You forgot the enchanted library with rolling ladders

Brandon: I think you overestimate the square footage of my humble cottage. But I’ll see what I can do

I smile, a flicker of warmth stirring as I reread the messages, wondering if he’s smiling too.

Or is he facepalming, regretting that he invited me to stay?

I close the chat, my smile fading.

He’s just being polite. I know that. He was my dad’s friend, someone he worked with. He probably sees me as someone he’s doing a favour for—an obligation he couldn’t quite say no to.

And I’m imposing on his hospitality. Ellenor said as much when I accepted his invite to visit him in Whitstable.

I think about messaging him again. Just to clarify: Are you sure this is okay?

But I already know how that would come across. Needy and insecure.

So I don’t.

I start moving towards the gate when my phone buzzes.

He’s messaged again.

Brandon: Let me know if you need anything when you land. Tea? Coffee?

I chew my lip, deliberating. I don’t want to inconvenience him more than I already am.

Lily-Anne: That’s okay, I’m all good

I take five steps, then stop in my tracks. Something about his offer softens the edge of my nerves.

Lily-Anne: Actually… coffee?

Brandon: Of course. How do you take it?

Lily-Anne: Milk and sugar please :)

I stare at the smiley face. Too much? Not enough?

I snort quietly. I’ve just turned coffee into an existential crisis.

Above me, a voice crackles over the PA system. “Final boarding call for Emirates flight EK415, codeshare Qantas flight QF8415, to Dubai. All remaining passengers should proceed to Gate 61 immediately—”

“Oh, shoot!”

I shove the phone in my pocket and bolt for the gate, guitar case swinging wildly from my hand. I’m further away than I realised.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I rush to the counter.

“Hi—sorry,” I puff, handing my passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant.

She smiles like she sees five of me a day. “Straight down the jet bridge.”

Dazed, I enter the narrow tunnel. Glass walls shimmer with morning light, my footsteps echoing around me as if I’m walking through a dream. A low thrill rises with every step, the rumble of the plane growing louder.

I snap a quick photo for our group chat with the caption, Boarding now! I can hear the engines! Then step onto the plane, grinning despite myself.

“Welcome aboard,” greets the flight attendant, and another hands my guitar off to be stored before gesturing me down the correct aisle.

“Thank you,” I gush. By the time I settle into my seat, I have two new messages.

Mum: Safe flight! Remember to stay hydrated, and stretch your legs to keep your circulation moving!

Ellenor: FYI, that was probably the APU you could hear, not the main engines. They don’t run during boarding

I tap a heart on Mum’s comment. Ellenor gets no such love from me. I send her an emoji rolling its eyes, then a message:

Lily-Anne: Been bingeing air crash investigation videos again?

Ellenor: No. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History

She’s such a Potterhead. But I know how to press her precious Slytherin buttons.

Lily-Anne: Spoken like a true Gryffindor

Ellenor: How dare you

A few seconds later, she sends a photo of her middle finger, emerald-green nail polish gleaming beneath what looks like the edge of a conference table.

Mum: Girls!

Lily-Anne: I see you’re stuck at work

Ellenor: Yeah… sorry I couldn’t get to the airport. Firm meetings suck balls

Mum: Please, be kind to each other

Mum: Ellenor! Watch your language! What would your boss say???!

We both love heart her message.

Ellenor: So… got a window seat?

Lily-Anne: Yup. And I’m thinking of poor you as I sip my preflight champagne

Ellenor: Liar. We both know you’re in economy

I chuckle.

Ellenor: You should have listened to me and taken a broomstick. Flown to London in style!

Lily-Anne: All the way to England? I’d bloody freeze!

Ellenor: Weak. You could have been great, you know

Lily-Anne: Not Slytherin… Not Slytherin…

Ellenor: Ha. Your loss. Anyway… fly safe, mudblood

Lily-Anne: Rude!

She sends me a kissy emoji, and I send back a heart.

I’m about to put my phone away when I realise Brandon’s responded to my coffee order. Just a simple ‘will do’ that doesn’t require a response.

But I’m still on a strange high after Ellenor’s ridiculous messages. And he may as well know what he’s in for.

Lily-Anne: Boarded. See you on the other side!

Then I send a gif of an over-the-top slow-motion pour of latte art using colourful food dye. A swirling rainbow masterpiece of deliciousness.

His response comes a minute later.

Brandon: Jesus. Is this what you’re expecting?

Lily-Anne: Not necessarily Jesus - any historical figure will do, religious or otherwise. Just make it pretty.

Brandon: Understood.

I set my phone to flight mode. At least he has a sense of humour. Maybe living in a stranger’s cottage won’t be quite as weird and lonely as it sounds.

I lean back in my seat, exhaling a long breath as we wait for take-off.

The roar of engines is unmistakable now.

We safety brief. We taxi. We soar.

Outside, clouds blur past, the plane climbing higher and higher. Tension drains from my shoulders, and for a moment, I’m giddy with weightlessness. I stare down at the shrinking city below, relief rushing through me. I’m leaving it all behind.

When the drink cart comes round, I order that glass of champagne.

Sipping, I consider the music options on my in-flight screen.

Classical…nope.

Jazz…nope.

Hard no to Frank Sinatra.

My teeth clench. I used to love this stuff, but now, I can’t listen to any of it without feeling caged.

Dean Martin’s That’s Amore was my favourite. Was it truly love when Toby serenaded me with it? I’d felt so special. So cared for.

My grip tightens on the glass stem.

I’d needed someone desperately. Dad had just died, and I was a mess, drifting from one class to another like a ghost. Toby had found me sitting in the dark lecture hall one day, long after the examiners had left, my face wet with tears. I’d been failing all my practicals, and I was on the verge of dropping out of my course.

He’d sat beside me and listened, nodding as I spoke through tears, telling him about Dad, the funeral, how I felt like my world was falling apart.

And then, after lending me his handkerchief, he’d begun to talk.

And I listened quietly. He was oddly charming in an unapologetic, serious way. He seemed to have all the answers, and could see my path forward more clearly than I could. All I had to do was follow his lead. Let him steer me in the right direction.

“This is what you have to do,” he began, and I hung onto every word.

With my family reeling after losing Dad, Toby’s certainty was magnetic.

I think it’s fair to say that the beginning of our relationship passed for a healthy one. A few months after we started dating, I stopped bursting into tears every time I thought of Dad. For a while, it even felt like I was healing.

Until the crying started again. But this time, it felt like my fault.

It had crept in so slowly. The control. The accusations. The muttered critiques and the twisting of words. Somehow, I always ended up confused and upset, this time over petty things. And Toby? He got to play the hero by consoling me. Every. Single. Day.

I felt a sense of relief each time he forgave me. I moved through it all half-asleep, caught in a nightmare that I still believed was a dream.

I wish I’d snapped out of it sooner.

My vision blurs. The champagne has lost its sparkle, the bubbles lodged somewhere in my throat.

I blink hard and rip open the plastic bag of complimentary headphones, cycling through the music menu with a quiet vengeance. I can listen to anything I want now.

Pop, RnB, rock, metal, rap…

Linkin Park’s Numb catches my eye. Ellenor and I used to sing this. Me in the backseat of her car, thinking she was the coolest person alive as she drove us to get milkshakes.

I hit play.

The song intro hits, haunting and familiar, and I close my eyes as the lyrics wash over me. It’s loud and raw, a little messy—exactly how I feel.

I lean back into the headrest and sink into the music, letting the nostalgia settle into my bones.

When it ends, I put on Do Me a Favour. Brooding and British, the breakup song echoes my exhaustion, its bitterness fitting over me like armour.

I’ve replayed the moment I walked away from Toby so many times in my mind, wishing I hadn’t been so polite when I ended things.

“You should have yelled at him,” Ellenor had bit out, and I think she was serious. “I would’ve torn him a new one.”

It’s taken me these past few weeks to see the full scale of it—how far his manipulation went.

And I’ve started to wonder if my older sister was right.

Maybe I should have screamed at him under the glare of the rehearsal lights, my pain echoing in the vaulted ceilings of the concert hall. I could have filled the space with every thought and feeling I’d kept bottled up—especially my anger at how he’d slowly erased me, piece by piece, until I didn’t recognise myself anymore.

“At the very least, you should have told him to fuck off,” Ellenor had added.

But no. She was wrong. The Arctic Monkeys are right: telling him to fuck off would have been too kind.

Instead, I’d walked away clean. I can’t regret that.

The only thing I want now is to forget him. And to recover what I’ve lost.

I switch over to girl-power anthems and spend the rest of the flight reading my books, watching movies, and staring out the window as clouds drift past.

When I check the on-screen map, the tiny plane icon is inching across the world, carrying me closer to something new.

To England.

To whatever version of myself might be waiting there.

🌸3: A Mistake

Lily-Anne

After one disorienting stopover in Dubai, followed by a second flight, we finally land at Heathrow Airport.

Made it, I message Mum and Ellenor, then pocket my phone, eager to get off the plane.

It’s raining outside the dark cabin window, because of course it is.

I hum Placebo’s English Summer Rain as I follow the shuffle of passengers into the terminal. My suitcase trundles behind me over smooth vinyl floors as I begin the long trek through customs. British accents rise and fall around me, crisp and varied.

As I near the arrivals hall, something slips free from the side pocket of my backpack and flops to the ground—the glossy magazine. I’d stuffed it back in hastily after customs. I cluck my tongue and scoop it up. For a moment, I consider tossing it into the nearest bin. It’s trashy, loud, and not the kind of thing I’d normally read.

But I hang onto it for now, even if it’s a bit awkward, clutching it in the same hand that’s gripping my suitcase handle. Like a petty badge of resistance to prove that Toby no longer gets to dictate what’s tasteful or worth my time.

I’ve brushed my teeth, tamed my hair, and layered my green cardigan over a fresh shirt—but now I’m starting to wonder if the ripped jeans are a little too ratty.

Then again, I’m a musician. A little scruffiness adds character.

And then I see him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-cut clothes that look expensive. Dark blazer over a dove-grey shirt, navy jeans, and brown oxfords—scuffed but polished. His hair is coffee brown, neatly cut and swept back in a slightly rumpled way, like he’d run a hand through it without thinking. His features are serious and composed: a high forehead, a straight, uncompromising nose, and dark brows that cut slightly downward. His eyes are darker still, watchful and hard to read. I feel the sudden urge to smooth my cardigan and fix my hair, but I resist.

Then I spot the cardboard sign in his hands: LILY-ANNE, handwritten in large, neat letters. It looks absurdly out of place against his polished, effortless style.

My nerves ease a little, and I break into a grin as I approach. “Brandon, hi!”

His head turns at the sound of his name. A sharp jolt flies through me as his gaze finds mine. Although I’ve seen photos of him, it's something else entirely to be standing before him, my pulse stuttering, my stupid smile frozen in place.

For a second, I see the beginnings of a smile, small and tentative. But it vanishes almost as soon as it appears, his gaze dipping, expression shuttering. No flicker of warmth, just stillness.

My heart sinks, my grin finally fading.

He’s staring at me, a frown forming as his gaze roves down… at my outfit? Is it the t-shirt? The jeans? I’d worn them partly as a quiet rebellion, but mostly because after my delayed flight and unexpectedly long stopover, I’d just wanted to be comfortable. But now, with Brandon standing there looking so put-together, scrutinising me, I suddenly feel underdressed. It was meant to be a professional visit, after all. Maybe I should’ve treated it that way.

Then I follow his gaze—and realise it’s not me he’s looking at. It’s the magazine clutched in my hand.

His brow lifts slightly, his gaze flicking back to mine. Still unreadable, but not unkind.

He blinks, seeming to come back to himself, and clears his throat. “Lily-Anne?”

His voice is low, careful, with a precise accent that might’ve moved me in any other context.

He lets the sign fall to his side and takes a small step forward. “Sorry, I just—” He shakes his head slightly, as if chasing off some thought. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, trying to sound unfazed, but something still feels… off. “Is there something wrong?”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking again to the magazine before meeting mine. “No. I just wasn’t expecting the tabloid.”

Heat flares in my cheeks as I mutter, “It was just something to flick through on the plane.”

“Of course. My apologies, I shouldn't have…”

He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t need to. I’ve been here before, in a way. With Toby’s quiet judgements. I pick at my frayed jeans. So much for first impressions.

Regret pulls at me, trying to draw me backwards, as if I could board the same plane and race back home.

But I can’t run away every time I encounter a problem. Even if this was a mistake, I think I need to see it through. Or at least give it a chance. Besides, where else am I to go?

He clears his throat. “How was your flight? Or flights?”

The question is simple, but that smooth British lilt unsettles me, slipping under my skin and coaxing goosebumps into existence.

I wet my lips and push my hands into the pockets of my cardigan. “A little tiring. Especially with the stopover in Dubai.” Then, in an attempt to be civil, I offer, “You were right, though—the Zen Garden is beautiful.”

I’d texted him when I learnt my second flight was delayed by almost ten hours. It was just a quick update to let him know I’d be arriving on Sunday morning, London time. To my surprise, he’d replied with a photo of palm fronds lit by morning light, a narrow glimpse of the terminal visible beyond them.

“I used to travel a great deal for work, so I discovered the quiet corners over time,” he says. “That garden’s a good place for reading.”

“It is! I spent a few hours reading. Books,” I clarify, wincing at how defensive I sound.

He tilts his head, gaze calm and steady. “Good books, I hope?”

Yes, good books, I want to affirm. Austen—Classic English Literature. But I settle for just a nod. He’s trying to be nice, and I should do the same. Forget his earlier comments. Like water off a duck’s back, Mum would say.

There’s a pause. I glance at the sign in his hands, and he follows my gaze.

“Your mother insisted,” he explains dryly, tucking it under his arm.

“I see.” A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth before I can stop it—nervous and uninvited.

He offers a faint one in return.

The crowd swells around us, but I’m grateful he’s not rushing, like he knows I need a moment to ease into this. To get to know him before being whisked away to some far corner of the country.

He gestures to the hard case by my side. “Is that the Cole Clark?”

I freeze. “How did you know?”

“Your father mentioned it. Quite a few years ago now. Said you’d chosen it yourself. He seemed… proud.”

Something catches in my throat. That word, proud, burns in my chest. I look down at the case, suddenly unable to meet Brandon’s eyes.

For a moment, I’d forgotten why I’d come.

Why I’d reached out to Brandon in the first place. It was his connection to music, but also, to Dad.

“Right.” My voice is thick with emotion. “Yes, I’ve…had it since I was sixteen.”

“A faithful companion.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. The ache in my chest swells, sore and grateful all at once. Like Brandon’s just handed me a memory of Dad. Something small, but precious. Something I didn’t know I needed.

Even if nothing else comes of this trip, I think it was worth coming for this moment. For the first time since stepping off the plane, I don’t feel entirely alone.

Brandon glances at the case again, then at me. “Have you been able to play it? Since you wrote your email?”

I shake my head. It stings to realise I’ve made no progress since I first reached out to him a couple of weeks ago.

And though his voice is quiet, not pushy, the question knocks something loose in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I start talking.

“I haven’t even tried. I mean, I have—but every time I think about taking out my guitar, I just…”

“Feel nauseous?” Brandon offers.

“Yes. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? I graduated with a Bachelor of Music Studies, after all—back in November. Then I was a junior performer in a local ensemble, but…not anymore, obviously.” I sigh. “I just feel a bit stuck. Creatively.”

I don’t know where this mad rush of words came from, but it feels good to say them out loud. I shrug helplessly. “I want to write music, the way I used to. But now I can’t even play. And I thought bringing my guitar along might help, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

Brandon studies me intently. “I think you’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”

I huff a laugh. “Pressure? It’s been six weeks since Toby. I’ve had plenty of time to get my act together.”

He lifts a brow. “Toby?”

“Oh. He’s my ex,” I say quickly, cursing my lack of filter. “We broke up recently—but it doesn’t matter.”

He nods, the silence stretching between us until I can’t stand it.

“I’m sure I can get over this creative block with your help,” I say breathlessly. “And I know what you’re probably thinking, but it’s not a confidence thing. It’s more of a…”

Oh god. It’s definitely a confidence thing.

I scramble to pivot. “The thing is, I used to be obsessed with music. Still am, really. Slept with my guitar beside me like it was a teddy bear. Had teddy bears too, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

I draw a quick breath. The amused way he drawled it, ob-viously, like it’s two separate words, sends an unsettling shiver through me.

Oof. Did I seriously just tell a grown man—a stranger, basically—about my teddy bears?

He leans a fraction closer, and the crowd behind us blurs. A faint whiff of cologne reaches me, something deep and masculine, throwing my thoughts slightly off balance.

“So, what is it?” he prompts.

I pull myself together. “What’s what?”

“You said it’s not a confidence thing. What kind of thing is it?”

“It’s…complicated.” I shrug. “I’ve lost the drive lately. I honestly don’t even know if I want to play. I just…want to want it again. If that makes sense.”

He nods slowly, eyes steady on mine.

Which only makes me more aware of every stupid word that’s tumbled from my mouth. I feel like a flustered schoolgirl, spilling my anxieties—not a woman with a degree and a suitcase full of adult decisions.

I clear my throat. “Do you play?”

His lips curl. A flash of teeth, a hint of smile lines. “Sort of.” He gestures towards the exit. “Shall we get going?”

I nod, but something twists in my chest. He didn’t really answer my question.

He reaches for my guitar. “Here—allow me.”

Panic spikes through me and I shrink back, jerking the hard case out of reach.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s just…it’s what I have left of my dad.”

A shadow flickers across his face. Like sympathy, but deeper—a quiet recognition that lingers in his eyes. Then he cocks his head at my suitcase, and I hand it to him with a mumbled ‘thanks’.

“Of course. The car is this way. Shall we?”

“Yes. Please.” I could really, really use some air.

As we walk, I open my mouth to ask what he meant by sort of playing music.

“Don’t get carried away,” Toby whispers, cool and smug. “Do you really think he’ll be able to fix you, when I couldn’t manage it in three years? But go ahead. Follow him, just as you followed me. See where it gets you.”

His chilled words pierce my mind like icicles.

I clamp my mouth shut, the question snuffed out along with the flickering hope behind it.

There’s no fixing this. I’m adrift, floating further away from the music that had once been a part of me. Maybe I’ve come all this way just to admit that.

Whatever this is with Brandon, it’s not meant to feel good. It’s just another fairy tale I conjured up, daring myself to trust someone with the mess I’ve become.

He’s not Toby. I know that. It feels different—but that only makes it harder, because I can’t tell if that means it’s safer, or if I’ll be hurt just as badly.

But just like back then, when I allowed Toby to lead me out of that dark lecture hall…

I clutch my guitar like a life raft, praying I’m not making another mistake.

And as Brandon leads the way, I follow.

🎹4: Eyes Wide Open

Brandon

When I drove to the airport this morning, I was alone.

Now, there are two women in the car.

Lily-Anne, all flushed cheeks and nervous smiles as she recounts her trip from the front passenger seat. She’s easy to listen to, her voice light and melodic. I appreciate that she’s gracious enough to overlook my misstep with the magazine. I hadn’t meant to react so coldly.

I just hadn’t expected to see her on the cover.

Nova.

Her memory curls through the backseat like cigarette smoke. I haven’t felt her presence in months—nor seen her this vividly. I’d finally stopped thinking of her every day, and the bruised ache in my chest had mercifully subsided. But now she’s back, her image lingering in the rearview mirror like a phantom, silent yet unmistakable. She wears her leather jacket, arms and legs crossed like she’s angry at the world, and her sharp glimmering eyes peer at me through sheets of black hair. She nods in Lily-Anne’s direction, voice husky as she croons, “She blushes so prettily, doesn’t she?”

I tense and glance at Lily-Anne, who's frowning at her phone.

I clear my throat. “Everything alright?”

She nods. “Yes, but my phone’s nearly dead. I forgot to charge it on the plane.”

“There’s a USB port here. Is the charger in your bag?”

“Oh, yes, it’s in my backpack…” She twists in her seat, but her bag is out of reach, the suitcase blocking it.

I curse silently, wishing I’d at least put the suitcase in the boot. Back at the airport carpark, I'd been pleased as punch when all her luggage fit neatly across the back seat. A small victory.

The Audi is not the luxury ride it once was, but rather a relic from my former life, back when transporting clients in style still mattered to me. These days, the boot smells faintly of salt and oyster baskets, and I wasn't quite ready to explain that to Lily-Anne.

In my emails, I told her I’d stepped away from the music industry, but I didn’t say how far. Nor did I admit I'd lost the stomach for it.

Lily-Anne sighs defeatedly and faces the front. “It’s fine. I’ll get it when we arrive.”

I should let it go. But my hands are already shifting on the wheel.

“I don’t mind stopping. It’ll only take a second.”

She hesitates, offering me a small smile. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble? Thank you.”

Once I’ve pulled over, I’m out of the car before she can unbuckle. “Allow me,” I insist.

I could justify it logically—that the backpack is on my side, closer to the road. That I’ll feel more comfortable if she’s not endangering herself near traffic.

But mostly, I just need a minute.

The chilled air rushes over my skin as I wait for cars to pass, their lights muted in the early morning fog. I draw a long breath, trying to clear the ghost of cigarette smoke from my lungs.

Then I reach for the back door.

The backpack is wedged between the seats, impossible to remove without lifting out the suitcase.

“Just the charger is fine,” Lily chimes, glancing anxiously over my shoulder for cars. “In the top pocket. The zip with the kangaroo keychain.”

My lip quirks at that.

“Very touristy,” I note, then wince as Nova’s ghost cackles, long silky hair slithering over Lily-Anne's suitcase as she leans close.

Lily-Anne gives an embarrassed laugh. “Ellenor thought it’d be funny. She said nothing screams ‘I’m not from here’ like a novelty kangaroo.”

“Indeed,” I say distractedly, hesitating before sliding the zip open. It feels intimate to be going through her things. Too intimate. Especially with memories of Nova hovering.

But there’s no graceful way to back out.

A passing car honks, sloshing a sheet of water against my trousers. I don’t flinch. Water doesn’t bother me. It’s just like being at work, only with assholes.

“Should just be on top?” Lily-Anne asks, voice rising anxiously as more cars roar past.

It’s not. My fingers brush smooth fabric.

I pull it free, then freeze. It’s a bikini bottom, tags still attached, bright red even in the grey light as it dangles from my fingertips.

I stare at it a heartbeat too long. Not because it’s revealing, though it is, but because it’s unexpected and private. My body reacts before my thoughts can catch up. Something flares, deep and low — heat I shouldn’t feel, but do.

“Oh, my.” Nova’s voice drips with amusement. “How risqué. This is the most action you’ve seen in years, Brandon!” She laughs before descending into a coughing fit, thumping the backseat.

“Got it?” Lily-Anne asks, unaware of what I’ve accidentally uncovered.

I spot the charger. “Yes,” I croak, seizing the cable and tucking the bikini back inside. Sour smoke clogs my nostrils as I rezip the bag, heat still prickling my skin.

Slamming the door, I press my back to the Audi as a string of cars pass, my chest painfully tight.

It’s just a swimsuit. Just fabric.

Once, red meant attraction. Heat and roses and one glass too many of Claret. Until it came to mark something else—a memory I won’t let myself revisit.

Not now. Not here

I draw a long breath, pushing off the car as I rein myself in. By the time I open the door and climb back behind the wheel, I’ve smoothed the edges of my voice.

“Here you go.”

“Champion! Thank you.” Lily-Anne shoots me a grateful smile as she plugs her phone in.

Once I’m back on the road, I remember the thermos.

“What’s this?” she asks as I hand it to her.

“Coffee, as promised—sans latte art. I didn't trust the foam to survive the trip. It should still be hot, though.”

“Mmm, this is delicious," she murmurs, eyes drifting shut as her head tilts up. “Were you a barista in your former life or something?”

I almost smile. “More or less. Back in university, I worked mornings at a cafe.”

Her eyes light up. “Lucky me—living with a barista.”

That one tugs a smile to my lips. As if the simplest detail of my life pleases her the most.

“And then you became a music manager?” she asks, watching me curiously between sips.

I nod. It’s a period of my life I rarely speak about—the glamorous, chaotic career of my twenties, tangled up in the tragedy that ended it.

I expect her to ask about it, but instead, she asks, “And what do you do now?”

I knew this question was coming. Even so, I’m not quite sure how to answer. If she’s expecting a recording studio, a wall of gold records, or brunch with a washed-up rockstar or two—I’ll be sad to dash her hopes.

I shift in my seat. “I work the coast.”

“Like a pirate?”

She’s teasing me, and I relax slightly.

“Yes. I mean, no—I work on an oyster farm.”

A beat passes, then she lets out a half-laugh. “An oyster farm?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Wow. That sounds really interesting.”

I glance at her. “Does it?”

“Yes! Except…I’m guessing it doesn’t involve pirate ships?”

“Usually not.”

A slow smile forms on her face. “How disappointing.”

Her reaction surprises me, mostly because she doesn’t seem bothered by my occupation at all. Most of my friends were disappointed when they learnt this about me—that my reason for turning my back on the music industry was so mundane.

But Lily-Anne seems genuinely fascinated, humming thoughtfully as she says, “I bet it’s nicer working outdoors than a stuffy office.”

“I think so.”

“Although, I have no idea what an oyster farm even looks like.”

“Well…" I sit a little straighter, staring carefully ahead. “if you close your eyes and imagine rolling hills, grassy paddocks, wooden fences, cows…”

Her brow creases. “Yes?”

“It looks nothing like that.”

She gapes at me, a smile teasing her mouth. “That’s very unhelpful, you know that?”

A chuckle escapes me. For a moment, I’m back in Sydney at the end of a long week, leaning against the railing of a noisy rooftop bar. Her father, Jeremy, is beside me, both of us still half in work mode with our sleeves rolled up, drinking rum and coke as the harbour breeze rolls in.

“You’ve got to slow down at work, mate,” he’d said, clinking his glass against mine. “Music’s meant to be a passion. You’re letting the job eat you alive.”

I didn’t listen then, even though I trusted Jeremy like the older brother I never had.

But I’m listening now.

And as his daughter gazes out the window, nursing the thermos in her hands, I wonder—if Jeremy were here now, would he give her the same advice?

Should I?

Lily-Anne is humming quietly to herself, a pleasant tune that makes Nova’s ghost fade slightly. Jeremy used to hum, even at board meetings. The curve of her shoulders and her willowy frame are so unmistakably his. But the rest, including her brown eyes, round face, and the wild sweep of blonde hair, is all her mother.

The man who mentored me, befriended me—and in many ways, saved me—is gone. And now she’s here, sitting beside me as I drive her toward the quiet coastal town I grew up in.

Not mine to look after, exactly, but close enough that I feel the weight of it.

“May I ask…” I begin, pulling onto the motorway. “What are you hoping to get out of your time here? Besides rediscovering your passion for music.”

“Besides music? I’m not sure. That’s really the reason I came.” She twists the thermos in her hands. “I was hoping that being around someone who’s been in the industry might help me find my passion for music again.” She gives a soft snort. “I know it doesn’t work like this, but I was sort of hoping you could Mr Miyagi my creative block away. You know, wax on, wax off type stuff.”

“Ah, but you already know how to play guitar,” I say wryly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know karate.”

She grins at that, and something warm stirs in my chest. It doesn’t quite placate my concerns, however. Lily Anne’s not here for the sea air. She came because she’s hoping I can guide her. As someone who’s lived and breathed the music world, perhaps I can.

But what she’s asking for won’t be easy, not if she’s chasing it too hard.

Ironically, if she were simply here to rest, she might have half a chance. But fixating on the things we’ve lost rarely helps.

“To be serious, though,” she adds, gaze flicking to the window, “I’m willing to try anything. Without music, I don’t know how to be.”

“One step at a time,” I say gently. “You’ll get there.”

She nods, thoughtful. “Like you said in your email, I suppose a change in scene will be good for me. And I’m looking forward to seeing Whitstable.”

“It might surprise you.”

“True. Worst case scenario, I can always learn karate.”

I cough out an incredulous laugh, entirely uninvited.

Our gazes meet, and for the briefest second, a glimmer of recognition sparks, like a distant memory of joy.

I’m the first to look away, and we fall into silence.

As if conjured by the quiet, Nova leans close, her voice a silken whisper in my ear. “Careful, Mister Sexy Mentor. She’s looking at you like you hung the stars.”

Not true. Not possible.

“Isn’t it?” Nova lounges back in the rearview mirror, arms draped across the backseat. “I really hope you won’t let her down.”

I shoot her a slow, disapproving glare. Her voice was always sharpest when she wanted to dig under my skin.

“Everything alright?” Lily-Anne asks.

“Yes, I—”

I’m saved from answering when her phone buzzes.

“It’s Mum asking me about my flight. Do you mind if I call her?”

“Not at all.”

She lifts the phone to her ear, and after a few rings, Catherine’s voice carries faintly in the car.

They speak briefly, Lily-Anne assuring her she’s fine, that her luggage arrived, and yes, ‘we’re already on the road’.

I keep my eyes ahead, letting their conversation wash past like the rain on the windscreen.

When I overhear Catherine ask for our ETA to Whitstable, I speak up. “A little over two hours to go.”

Lily-Anne relays the information, then lets out a quiet exhale as another stream of questions comes through. “I’ll text you when I arrive, Mum,” she says firmly, glancing my way.

“Of course, darling. I’ll let you go. Drive safe!” [italics for phone calls - for those on the other line?]

After a long volley of drawn-out goodbyes that would satisfy any Brit, the call ends. Lily-Anne slumps back in her seat with a sigh. “Thanks for that. And sorry. Mum worries a lot more these days. Ever since the crash…” Her voice cracks, and when she finally regains her smile, it’s too quick, too bright. A mask, I realise. “She never travels anymore, not even locally.”

“Neither do I,” I murmur, my voice lowering. “I used to live out of a suitcase. Now I barely leave Kent.”

“Do you miss it? Traveling?”

“No,” I say immediately. “Whitstable suits me.” I hope you like it there too, I nearly add, but stop myself in time.

Nova’s ghost gives a long, pointed yawn before finally fading. I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest easing. I hate how much lighter I feel.

We lapse into silence again, but it’s softer, and I leave Lily-Anne to her thoughts. She seems more tired now, her thermos resting untouched in her lap as she watches the motorway signs blur past, her eyes unfocused.

“There’s a service station up ahead if you’d like breakfast,” I offer.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine for now.”

“Of course.” I glance over when she stifles a yawn. “It’s a long drive—why don’t you try and sleep?”

“That’s okay. I thought I’d be jet-lagged, but it turns out I’m wide awake.” Her tone brightens. “Besides, I don’t want to miss anything.”

I don’t reply. Just offer that small, useless smile I seem to give when I’ve run out of words.

She cracks the window and breathes in. I do the same, the cool air clearing my head.

Eventually, the city falls away behind us, the fog thinning to reveal hedgerows and gently rolling hills.

“These seat warmers are so toasty,” Lily-Anne sighs contentedly, sinking deeper into her seat.

“Don’t fall asleep,” I tease. “You might miss something.”

A soft laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

But her eyes drift shut, and a minute later, her head tips onto her shoulder, her breath slowing in sleep.

I reach over and carefully return the thermos to its cupholder. Blonde waves spill over her shoulder, falling across her eyes. I resist the urge to smooth them away.

Instead, I steal another glance at her. Then another.

And then I keep my eyes wide open and fixed on the road.

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📚 Book Metadata for Madly, Deeply, Always

• Title: Madly, Deeply, Always

• Author: Jules Starbrook

• Genre: Contemporary Romance

• Subgenre Tags: Slow burn romance, grief and healing, music-themed romance, Jane Austen-inspired, emotionally rich fiction, coastal romance

• Tropes: Grumpy/sunshine, found family, wounded MMC, emotionally closed-off heroine, quiet pining, close proximity, creative healing, forbidden feelings

• Tone: Tender, introspective, atmospheric, quietly hopeful

• Setting: English seaside village; shared cottage; Willoughby’s Café

• Inspiration: Sense and Sensibility, BBC period dramas, coffeehouse aesthetic, Harry Potter nostalgia

• Main Themes: Grief, healing, starting over, emotional intimacy, rediscovering passion through music

• Point of View: Dual POV (female and male lead)

• Age Rating: Adult (soft-spoken but mature themes)

• Length: ~95,000 words

• Publishing Status: Currently querying agents - Indie publication under consideration

• Comparative Titles: Beach Read by Emily Henry, Evvie Drake Starts Over by Linda Holmes, The Flatshare by Beth O’Leary, Sense and Sensibility (modern retelling tone)