The aisle bewilders with elbows and apologies; Adele’s legs ache as they pass Peterborough. She masks a wince with a sunny nod to a child offering a candy. (Kindness first. Always.) Rowan watches, amused. “You’re good at this.” She shrugs. “Pretending I’m fine?” He laughs, then looks suddenly shy. “I have a spare charger. Your phone looks… desperate.” Her battery screams red. “You’re a lifesaver,” she breathes, fingers brushing his as he hands over the cable. Static nips the air. Silence settles, punctuated by the rhythm of wheels and murmurs of strangers. She reads notes, lips moving without sound, brows knitting. He sneaks glances—then stops, as if catching himself in a mirror he didn’t expect. “What’s your presentation?” he asks. “Design pitch,” she says, voice bright, then dimmer. “If I nail it… new direction. If I don’t…” She trails off. He tilts his head. “Then you’ll try again.” She laughs, a fragile ribbon. “You don’t know me.” He looks at the window. “I don’t have to know. I can hear it in your voice.” The carriage lights flicker, and Adele’s eyes shimmer with reflections. (Why does this feel like I’ve been waiting at this platform for years?) “Why are you going?” she asks at last. Rowan’s jaw tenses. “Family. And work. Both are… complicated.” He swallows. “…I’m not great at staying.” A pause. She wants to ask what that means—but the tannoy announces a delay north of York, and a collective groan rolls through the aisle. Her phone buzzes: client rescheduled to the afternoon. Relief floods in as frustration wavers. “Fate being… merciful?” she murmurs. Rowan smiles, looking at her as if he’s afraid to blink. “Maybe just… on time.”

Somewhere past York, the heating fails a notch and breath fogs faintly. Adele rubs her hands, trying to hide the shake. Rowan notices, shrugs off his scarf, and drapes it around her shoulders before she can protest. “You’ll get cold,” she murmurs, cheeks flushing. “I run warm,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets the phrasing. She giggles, then bites her lip. (Stop being obvious, Adele… you’re standing on a train, not in a dream.) She loses her footing when the train swerves; Rowan’s arm wraps around her waist for a heartbeat—solid, careful. “Sorry!” She places a palm against his chest to steady herself, feeling the slight thrum of his breath. The moment stretches, the air pricked with awareness. He lets go first, eyes darting away. “I’m not… usually this helpful,” he mutters. “I’m not usually this clumsy,” she replies. Their smiles meet in the middle. A conductor squeezes past, warning of extended delays near Berwick. The carriage groans. Adele’s eyes dim, melancholy casting a delicate veil over her brightness. “I wanted to arrive before midnight,” she says softly. Rowan studies her, then nods toward the window. “Look.” The darkness parts; a pale ribbon of moonlit fields glide by, frost-brittle and silver. She breathes out. “It’s beautiful…” Her voice drops. “November makes everything feel like it’s about to change.” Rowan answers after a beat. “…Maybe that’s the point.” The train brakes with a long sigh, and the lights flicker to black, then amber. In the hush, their hands find the same pole—fingers brush—neither pulls away.

At a service halt near the border, they spill briefly onto the platform to stretch. Night air bites; Adele’s breath blooms white. She laughs, rubbing her hands together, then pauses as Rowan lights the platform with his phone, the glow gilding his profile. “Do you ever feel like the world slows down just for you?” she asks, surprising herself. He considers. “…Sometimes. Usually when I’m about to make a mistake.” She tilts her head. “And is this—” “—A mistake?” he finishes. They look at the thin line of frost on the platform. “No,” she says, softly fierce. “Just a moment.” They walk the length of the carriage, shoulders nearly touching, not quite. Adele tells him about her design ethos—kindness in lines, warmth in negative space—her eyes bright, then clouded. “But sometimes I feel like I’m only sunshine on the surface.” Rowan’s gaze lingers, earnest. “Sunshine still reaches through windows.” His words land too close to her heart. She laughs, embarrassed, eyes shining. He fidgets with his sleeve. “…I leave when things get too real,” he admits, a rough truth. “I don’t mean to. I just—go.” The whistle blows; they’re shepherded back on board. Adele pauses at the door. “Then maybe don’t, this time.” His breath hitches. “…I’ll try.” Back inside, the carriage shudders to life. The conductor announces arrival after midnight. Adele leans back against the wall, heartbeat a soft drum. (Don’t expect anything. Just let the train carry you.) Yet when Rowan looks at her like she’s a window the sun is aching to find, hope flickers. The train lunges forward—and with it, something else.

Edinburgh at last: a spill of late-night neon and mist curling like breath around Waverley’s arches. They exit with the exhausted triumphant crowd. Adele should say goodbye here—new city, new posture—but Rowan matches her pace, uncertain yet unwilling to let the thread snap. “Hotel?” he asks. “The Haymarket,” she replies. “You?” He glances away. “With my brother. We… don’t talk much.” His smile is thin. She touches his sleeve—just her fingertips. “Good luck.” He nods. “You too.” They reach the taxi rank. The November air carries the scent of wet stone and distant sea. Adele imagines stepping into a warm lobby alone, rewrapping her melancholy like a coat. Rowan shifts, breath fogging. “There’s a café still open on Cockburn Street,” he says abruptly. “If you… can’t sleep.” He winces, as if he’s said too much. She bites her lip. “Work early.” A beat. “But maybe… a tea.” He smiles, sudden and relieved, and it’s like a streetlamp flickering to life after a long dark. (Don’t make this bigger than it is…) The taxi’s headlights wash them in white, the moment suspended between doors opening and choices made. They ride in silence, sharing the back seat. Streetlights slide over their faces like turning pages. Rowan looks at the window, reflection doubled. “I don’t deserve a second chance,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Adele hears, and her answer is softness. “None of us do. We get them anyway.” The cab makes a left; the driver coughs. Rowan’s hand rests on the seat between them—close enough that if she moved a fingertip, they’d touch. She doesn’t. Not yet.

Cockburn Street glows like a secret. The café is nearly empty—chalkboard menu smudged, fairy lights strung like constellations. They take a corner table by a rain-speckled window. Steam curls from Adele’s chamomile; Rowan rotates his untouched black coffee. “You avoided saying what your work is,” she notes. He smiles, sheepish. “I restore old buildings. Sometimes I fix them. Sometimes I ruin them.” He laughs, but it hurts. “I had a project that… went wrong. I left. Everyone else stayed to fix it.” Adele stares into her tea, the warmth fogging her lashes. “I had a pitch last winter that failed,” she admits. “I smiled so hard my jaw hurt. Then I went home and cried into a cushion so it wouldn’t echo.” She winces, then laughs at herself. “Sorry, that was… dramatic.” Rowan shakes his head. “It’s honest.” He leans forward. “I don’t know how to be brave without running. It’s like… the longer I stand still, the louder everything gets.” He looks at his hands. “…And then I’m gone.” Her heart squeezes—sunny sympathy threaded with a November ache. “Maybe staying isn’t quiet,” she says. “Maybe it’s noise you learn to dance with.” He meets her eyes, something unguarded there. “…You make it sound possible.” The café door chimes; a gust of night air stirs, and for a second it feels like the world holds still. Rowan’s phone buzzes. He swallows, the name on the screen reflected in his eyes: Brother. He hesitates, torn. Adele sips her tea, voice gentle. “Go on. I’ll be here.” The words feel like a promise and a test.

Rowan steps outside to answer, pacing beneath the café’s awning while rain stitches the street in silver threads. Adele watches through the glass, her reflection overlaying his silhouette—two versions of almost. He returns, damp at the collar, eyes shadowed but lit with something defiant. “He wants me to come tonight,” Rowan says. “To talk. To fix what I broke.” He laughs once, shaky. “I told him I would. I didn’t run.” Relief blooms, then fear. Adele nods, smile trembling. “That’s… good.” She swallows. “That’s brave.” They stand to leave, the space between them crowded with unsaid words. At the door, Rowan pauses. “I want to see you after your presentation,” he says, voice low, careful. “But I have to go now. If I don’t… I might not go at all.” He steps closer, rain scent clinging to his coat. “Adele…” He stops, as if the name alone is enough to unspool him. She feels the tug in her chest, sunny warmth colliding with November’s familiar ache. (Don’t make a wish out loud.) She looks at the rain, at his eyes, at the street curving into darkness. Her phone buzzes: a message from her client, requesting an early breakfast review before the afternoon pitch. The timing will collide with Rowan’s “after.” The world narrows to a heartbeat. He reaches, almost touches her hand… then hesitates. The bell on the café door tinkles, their breath fogs the cold air, and the moment fractures into choice.