Connor
I woke up to Edward's alarm at 5:30am and immediately threw a pillow at it.
He caught it. Of course he did. Reflexes of a professional athlete and the energy of someone who'd slept 9 hours.
"Up," he said, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in London. Hair wet, black CC tracksuit on, two coffees in hand. "We have a helicopter."
I groaned into the duvet. "We had a train."
"We had a train," Edward agreed. "I cancelled it. At 2am. I'm 27 and I don't do 2-hour train rides when I can do 50-minute helicopter rides."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm yours," he said, and handed me coffee. "Come on. York is waiting."
Two hours later we were lifting off from a private pad outside London. The city fell away under us — grey rooftops, the Thames like a dirty ribbon, all of it getting smaller until it was just noise in my ears.
Edward had my hand the whole time. He was pressed against the window, pointing. "That's where we had our first fight."
"That was an airport, Edward."
