What Happens When Worlds Collide?

The Parallel Four Book One Part Fifteen Chapter Fifteen

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen.

It was during the Easter break of my final year at secondary school that I once again made the rounds of London’s top tourist attractions—but none of them, not even the Changing of the Guard or the Tower of London, could hold a candle to the absolute showstopper that was Vinka, gliding through the arrivals gate at Heathrow.

She moved like she had her own soundtrack and lighting crew. That long blonde ponytail swished from side to side like it had been trained in choreography, and her suitcase rolled along behind her like a well-behaved pet. She wasn’t just walking through the arrivals lounge—she was owning it, like the runway was hers and Heathrow had better be grateful.

Her jeans looked like they’d been applied with a spray gun, and the matching denim waistcoat did absolutely nothing to help my ability to remain upright. She caught my eye, smiled, and it was all I could do not to drop the “Welcome to Britain” sign I hadn’t actually made but probably should have.

Every step whispered, “Admire if you dare.”

And trust me—I dared.

Vinka’s ice-blue eyes sparkled as she spotted me. In a heartbeat, she was running—arms out, ponytail flying like a victory flag—and then she was in my arms, all warmth and familiar curves and the scent of something soft and Scandinavian. When her lips met mine, the world blurred.

My brain officially went offline.

My knees turned to treacle.

My heart went full brass band mode.

This wasn’t just a reunion—it was a collision of every kiss we’d ever shared, every whispered promise under starlit Swedish skies, every night tangled together beneath rough lodge blankets or smooth hotel sheets. Her body remembered mine, and mine responded like we’d never been apart.

I might’ve made a noise—something between a gasp, a laugh, and a hiccup—but words were out of the question.

I’d have had more luck quoting Shakespeare while skydiving.

I stammered, shuffled like a malfunctioning robot, and flushed so red I probably lit up the terminal. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny rational part of me asked, “How do actors stay cool kissing world-famous beauties on screen?”

Mental note: never ask Harry. His reply would involve something unprintable, unsanitary, and likely fishing-related.

Still clinging to Vinka like a man hanging off the edge of a cliff—albeit a very warm, denim-clad cliff—I managed to peek over her shoulder and catch sight of Marlin, who, from a distance, looked almost identical. Same figure, same confident stride—just with a brunette twist, like Vinka’s twin had decided to dye her hair for a bet. From behind, the two of them resembled the back end of a double miracle.

Every teenage lad back home had that tennis poster on their wall—you know the one, all cheek and smirk. But Vinka and Marlin made it look like the PG version of something far more divine. They didn’t walk, they glided. They didn’t wave, they radiated charm. And judging by the way every bloke in the terminal suddenly remembered how to blink, I wasn’t the only one noticing.

Meanwhile, Johan was now thoroughly entangled in Marlin’s arms, looking like a man who’d just stumbled into the VIP lounge of paradise with no idea how he got there. His face wore that unmistakable expression of someone who’d realised too late that there’s no manual for this kind of reunion—and certainly no refund policy.

And then there was Petra. For a split second, my brain almost filed her under “Vinka” — the same tall, athletic frame, the same sunlit hair catching the light as she moved, that same determined grace in her stride. But where Vinka’s eyes carried that cool Nordic mischief, Petra’s were warmer, softer, and right now fixed solely on Tim.

One heartbeat she was just another face in the crowd, the next she was running—hair flying, smile breaking wide, eyes locked on him like he was the only person in the building. He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground in a hug that looked half like a rescue, half like he was never letting go. A whole year apart melted in that moment, and the rest of us might as well have been furniture for all they noticed. She pulled back just far enough to take him in, hands on his face as if checking he was real, then kissed him in a way that made it very clear the year had been far too long.

When they finally broke apart, Tim still had that dazed, slightly winded look of a man who’d just gone twelve rounds with his own emotions and lost happily. Petra kept one hand hooked in his, like she wasn’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t vanish if she let go.

I caught his eye over her shoulder. For a split second, there was pride there — not the puffed-up kind, but the quiet sort that says, this is mine, and I’m not letting it go. Then, just as quickly, he narrowed his eyes at me in that silent, brotherly warning: Don’t you dare say a word.

I raised my hands in mock surrender and went back to holding Vinka close, but inside, I was grinning like the cat that’d found the cream. Some things didn’t need to be said — and this was one of them.

Ingrid had come along for the Heathrow pickup and was now running her own little command post from a red phone box on the concourse, looking for all the world like a covert MI6 handler reporting in from the field. She rang Anna first, confirming in brisk, efficient tones that her daughters had landed intact, still beautiful, still fully clothed, and currently being shepherded towards Hitchin via the rail network. Without missing a beat, she switched lines to Sylvi and Lars, assuring them that Marlin had neither eloped nor been recruited by an all-girl pop group, but was instead being joyfully smothered by Johan — who at this very moment was wrapped around her like a particularly affectionate limpet, and showed no signs of releasing his catch.

On the train, I sat next to Vinka, trying not to grin like a fool, while Petra took the window seat opposite, knees angled towards Tim as if she couldn’t bear to put any more space between them. She was practically glowing, a year’s worth of unsent smiles and unsaid words sparking every time their eyes met. Every so often she’d catch her reflection in the glass and adjust her collar or smooth her skirt — not out of vanity, but as if she needed to be sure she looked exactly right for him.

Tim, for his part, was playing it cool — or at least trying to. He leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out, but there was no hiding the way his gaze kept drifting back to her, like he was still half-afraid she might disappear if he looked away.

Across the aisle, Johan and Marlin were in their own little world, hands linked on the table between them, occasionally leaning in to swap quiet jokes that made them both laugh under their breath. Every now and then, Marlin would glance out the window at the countryside sliding past, her free hand resting on Johan’s arm as if to remind herself he was really there.

Ingrid, meanwhile, perched nearby with a battered Penguin paperback on her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. She kept glancing over her glasses at the six of us, a small, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. Without Harry to spar with, she was the lone adult in a carriage brimming with the energy of young couples reunited — the hum of conversation, the rustle of travel sweets, the occasional burst of laughter.

Back at Johan’s house, we tried to mix things up so no one was left out. My younger sisters threw themselves into entertaining Petra with hopscotch, baking misadventures, and endless rounds of “Guess the Swedish Word.” They did their best, but Tim’s presence kept pulling her back into his orbit. He drifted in and out of the kitchen, offering her tea, stealing biscuits when Mum wasn’t looking, and making her laugh in that way that turns heads in a crowded room.

Johan and I bunked together again, like old times. Vinka and Petra were given my room, while Marlin got the guest room. That was the plan, anyway. By the second night, Petra had quietly moved in with my sisters, claiming it was because of “midnight giggling” and “too many pillow-fluffers” — though I suspected it was more about letting Tim sleep without feeling the weight of her being just down the hall. Vinka and Marlin ended up in solo luxury — each with their own room, their own window, and, from the look of it, their own growing fan club.

That first evening back at Johan’s, the six of us ended up in the living room, half-sunk into the worn but comfortable chairs, the low table cluttered with coffee cups and the last few slices of Ingrid’s cardamom cake. Johan and Marlin were tucked together on the sofa, their knees touching, talking in that easy rhythm couples fall into when they’ve been apart too long. Vinka had perched on the arm of my chair, leaning down every so often to poke me in the shoulder when I tried to wind her up. Tim was opposite, one arm slung along the back of his chair, looking more at ease than I’d seen him in months — though his eyes had a habit of drifting back to Petra.

Petra, curled into the corner nearest Tim, laughed along with the rest of us, dropping the odd Swedish word into the conversation to show she hadn’t forgotten. But now and then, she’d glance at him in that quiet, thoughtful way of hers, like she was trying to store the moment for later. She knew that when we left for the night, she’d be next door at Stephen’s house, bunking in with Phoebe and Susan — both notorious for sleeping like logs and only waking when Mum shouted them down to breakfast. Tim, meanwhile, would be alone in his own room, the house still and silent.

And what could possibly be going through her mind? Perhaps she was wondering if he’d think of her in that quiet, or if he’d lie there replaying their reunion in the terminal. Maybe she was imagining the creak of the stairs if she dared to shorten the distance between them. Or maybe — just maybe — she was already weighing whether those two human alarm clocks she was sharing a room with could sleep through a midnight wander.

The laughter in the room rolled on — about missed trains, bad coffee, and Johan’s hopeless attempt to iron a shirt that morning — but between Tim and Petra, there was another conversation happening entirely, spoken only in glances.

When the evening finally wound down, Tim and Petra stepped out into the cool night air together. The two houses sat side by side, their windows glowing softly against the dark. Ingrid called a last goodnight from Johan’s doorway as they crossed the short stretch to Stephen and Tim’s place.

Inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and Mum’s ever-present lavender polish wrapped around them. Phoebe and Susan had already vanished upstairs, leaving the hallway in that hushed state houses have when most of its occupants are asleep. Stephen and Johan were settling into Johan’s bedroom next door, I had Stephen’s old room, and Marlin was in the guest room.

Tim lingered at the foot of the stairs, Petra beside him. They climbed together, steps slow and measured, the muffled tick of the landing clock the only sound. At the top, they paused — Tim’s door on one side, Phoebe and Susan’s on the other. For a moment they just stood there, the space between them alive with all the things they hadn’t said over the past year.

Petra reached out, fingers brushing his hand, and he caught them, holding on as though letting go would start their separation all over again. She smiled — soft, private — and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips. It was far too brief for a year apart, but long enough to promise there’d be more.

“Goodnight, Bondepojke,” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Goodnight, älskling,” he murmured back.

She slipped into Phoebe and Susan’s room, the door clicking quietly shut. Tim stood there a moment longer, hand resting on the doorframe, before finally turning into his own room. Somewhere behind the other door, Petra was smiling into the dark.

Upstairs, Petra slipped into Phoebe and Susan’s room, closing the door softly behind her. She changed into her nightdress, the lamplight casting long shadows across the walls, and slid under the covers. Across the landing, Tim had done the same — pulling on an old T-shirt, kicking off his socks, and stretching out on the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

For a while, Petra lay still, listening. Phoebe and Susan’s breathing deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep — the kind that would survive a brass band parade. Certain they were well and truly out, she eased back the covers, padded barefoot across the landing, and slipped into Tim’s room.

He shifted over without a word, and she climbed in beside him, curling close under the blankets. A whole year’s absence closed in on them at once — the warmth, the quiet, the soft exchange of whispers too low for anyone else to hear. Time seemed to slow, marked only by the faint ticking of the landing clock.

They stayed like that until the creak of the stairs announced Tim's Mum heading down to the kitchen. Petra slid out of bed, straightened her nightdress, and darted back across the landing. She eased open Phoebe and Susan’s door, slipping into bed just as one of them stirred and mumbled.

“Just went to the loo,” she whispered, pulling the covers up to her chin. Within seconds, the room was still again. Only Petra’s faint smile in the dark hinted that anything unusual had happened at all.

By the time Petra came down to the kitchen the next morning, Tim's Mum already had the kettle on and the smell of toast drifting through the house. Phoebe and Susan stumbled in ahead of her, still half-asleep, hair pointing in every direction like they’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Petra looked the complete opposite — hair neatly brushed, eyes bright, and that subtle, unmistakable glow that comes from a very good night’s sleep… or something close to it.

Tim was already at the table, toast half-buttered, moving with the slow, deliberate ease of someone who’d been up for a while. He didn’t look at Petra straight away, but when he did, it was only for the briefest second — just enough for a private glance to pass between them. She poured herself tea, calm as anything, though the faintest curl of a smile touched her lips.

Tim's Mum bustled about the kitchen, asking who wanted eggs and whether the milk needed topping up. Phoebe grumbled about Susan stealing her slippers, Susan pretended not to hear, and Petra sat between them like the picture of innocence — except for the occasional, almost imperceptible flicker of her eyes toward Tim.

They didn’t speak directly, not about anything that mattered, but there was something unspoken at the table, running just under the surface. Whatever it was, Tim's Mum didn’t seem to notice. Phoebe and Susan certainly didn’t. But Petra knew. And so did Tim.

The next morning, armed with travel cards, Johan’s dad’s camera, and enough snacks to sustain a Scout troop, we caught the early train into London. It was the full line-up: me, Stephen, Marlin, Johan, Tim, and Petra. Aunt Ingrid opted for a quiet day at home (translation: laundry and a cup of tea in peace), while uncle Harry, wisely, volunteered for school holiday DIY.

We tumbled out at King’s Cross like a pack of overexcited puppies and set off on a whirlwind tour of the capital — Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, and the Changing of the Guard, where the band was in full pomp and the soldiers managed to look intimidating and mildly bored all at once. Tim insisted on trying to make one of them smile by narrating a joke about a nun, a corgi, and a double-decker bus. He failed spectacularly but earned a soft giggle from Petra, which seemed to be his actual goal. Her eyes lingered on him just a fraction longer than necessary, as if she was remembering the quiet warmth of his arm around her the night before.

Then it was on to Covent Garden, where we watched a street magician narrowly avoid setting his trousers on fire, and Piccadilly Circus, where Johan bought a snow globe of Big Ben that he claimed was “for his mother,” though we all knew Marlin had already claimed it for their shared bookshelf. Vinka and I dawdled at every bookstall we passed, fingers brushing now and then, lingering looks exchanged over vintage paperbacks. Tim and Petra drifted a little behind the rest of us, their hands almost touching but not quite, trading small smiles that spoke of shared secrets.

At one point, Tim took an accidental detour into a shop selling bowler hats and spent five minutes pretending to be a Victorian banker until Petra dragged him out by the lapels. She was laughing, but her expression softened when he leaned close to whisper something only she could hear — whatever it was, it made her cheeks flush just enough for me to notice.

By mid-afternoon, our legs were tired, our stomachs were rumbling, and we were running dangerously low on charm. So, we headed to Lyons Corner House — the beacon of civilisation for weary London tourists and sugar-deprived teenagers alike.

We were seated in a plush booth with white tablecloths and waitresses in starched uniforms who glided rather than walked. A proper afternoon tea was ordered — finger sandwiches, warm scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, and enough tea to sink a battleship. Tim declared it “a meal fit for royalty,” to which Petra replied, “Then take off your hat,” without missing a beat. He obeyed with mock solemnity, but under the table, I caught the faintest movement — her foot brushing his ankle. His answering grin told me the conversation between them was still going, only now without words.

Conversation bounced between giggles and serious debates over jam-first vs cream-first. Vinka and I sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing bites and quiet smiles, while Johan and Marlin snuck kisses between mouthfuls of Battenberg. Across the table, Petra and Tim were fast becoming their own brand of adorable chaos—passing sugar lumps, playfully arguing over biscuit hierarchy, and generally behaving like a rom-com in progress.

By the time we drained the last teacup and Johan attempted to steal one of the doilies “for posterity,” we were all stuffed, slightly giddy, and glowing with the kind of happiness that only comes from good company, better food, and being young in a big city.

Outside, the London sky was streaked with gold as the sun dipped behind rooftops. We strolled back to the station in contented silence, arms linked in a tangled parade of friendship and love, feeling like the world was somehow ours—at least for today.

The weekend brought the next big event on our social calendar — the annual combined Sea Cadet and Army Cadet barbecue and open evening down at the unit. It was a proper local fixture, the sort of tradition where the smell of slightly-singed sausages lingered for days afterwards and Mrs Jefferies’ “secret recipe” coleslaw (spoiler: it was always Mrs Jefferies, whose secret ingredient was, apparently, “none of your business”).

There was no question of invitations — both contingents were on parade. Johan and I wore our Sea Cadet No.1s, boots polished to a mirror shine, caps set just right. The Army Cadets were in battledress, sharp creases and brass gleaming in the sun. Tim stood among them with his new Lance Corporal stripe sewn onto his sleeve, the pride in his posture impossible to miss.

The weather was perfect — warm sunshine, a gentle breeze off the water, and light that made every photo look like it belonged in a brochure. Among the crowd, Vinka, Marlin, and Petra stood out like a trio of Easter portraits, each in a different beautiful dress that caught the sunlight in its own way. Petra had that extra glow, a mix of pride and something softer, her eyes often finding Tim across the parade ground.

He kept himself busy — part duties, part distractions. One minute he was marshalling younger cadets or ferrying supplies, the next he was caught in a quiet exchange with Petra at the edge of the crowd. They had a knack for finding little pockets of time together — a shared grin at the drinks table, a few murmured words over Ingrid’s photo album, a laugh when she tugged him free after he somehow stapled his trouser leg to the noticeboard.

Harry and Ingrid set themselves up like seasoned event spectators — folding chairs in the shade, bottles of ginger beer in hand, commenting on proceedings with quiet amusement. Meanwhile, the camera made the rounds, capturing the Sea Cadets and Army Cadets standing proudly side by side, the guests looking effortlessly elegant, and Tim and Petra in those easy, unguarded moments that seemed to say more than any posed photograph could.

It was the sort of evening where the uniforms gleamed, the dresses flowed, and the sun lingered just long enough to make everyone wish it wouldn’t set.

The event was in full swing by the time we’d finished laying out the trestle tables. Parents were shepherded off for a guided tour, complete with a slightly temperamental slideshow (“That’s not Norway, that’s Portsmouth in the fog”), before being treated to a short display of knot-tying, drill, and rescue techniques. Johan and I were somehow roped into providing the running commentary, which kept the crowd chuckling — mostly at our expense.

Then came the barbecue. Harry manned the grill like a battlefield commander, barking orders to Tim, who was flipping burgers with the focus of a man in a medal contest. Every so often, he’d lob one in Petra’s direction with a wink and a “Catch!” — she caught every single one without dropping a crumb, grinning at him in that way that carried just a trace of the night before.

Johan and Marlin vanished for a while and returned slightly flushed and faintly scented of marshmallows. Vinka and I took charge of drinks, ladling out squash and tea with such exaggerated charm that one of the mums asked if we were available for weddings.

As the sun slid behind the rooftops, someone struck up a guitar and the cadets launched into songs they’d half learned on sailing trips and minibus journeys. We joined in on the choruses, laughed our way through forgotten verses, and shamelessly made up new ones on the fly. There was one particularly heartfelt rendition of Drunken Sailor that ended with Harry producing a hip flask, claiming, “Purely for dramatic effect.” No one believed him.

When darkness settled and the fairy lights blinked to life, we gathered in a loose circle around the firepit — the usual suspects, side by side. Vinka’s head rested on my shoulder, Marlin’s legs were draped over Johan’s lap, and Tim and Petra sat shoulder to shoulder, mock-arguing over the last toasted marshmallow. He accused her of theft; she accused him of being a sore loser. But between the jibes there were quiet glances, the kind that lasted just a second too long, as though each was quietly replaying the memory of slipping through the darkened landing the night before.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t glamorous. But there, in the glow of the fire and the hum of voices, with smoke curling lazily into the Easter night, it felt like the sort of evening you’d remember years from now without quite knowing why — only that it was perfect.

The embers in the firepit were down to a soft orange glow by the time we finally called it a night. Goodbyes were drawn out, as they always were, full of promises to meet again before the Easter was done. The group drifted apart in twos — Johan and Marlin heading back to Ingrid and Harry’s, Vinka with me, while Tim and Petra peeled off towards Tim’s house.

The streets were quiet, the only sound the rhythmic scuff of their shoes and the faint hiss of a Easter breeze moving through the hedges. They didn’t talk much; they didn’t need to. The warmth from the fire still clung to them, and every now and then their hands brushed, neither pulling away.

At the front door, Tim unlocked it with the slow care of someone not ready for the night to end. Inside, the house was dark except for the landing light Tim's Mum had left on. Phoebe and Susan were already asleep — Petra could hear the faint, even breaths from behind their bedroom door as they reached the top of the stairs.

She lingered, eyes on Tim’s door just opposite. He held her gaze for a long, steady moment, a question in his eyes and an answer in hers. Without a word, she slipped into Phoebe and Susan’s room, changed quietly into her nightdress, and lay still until their breathing deepened into the telltale rhythm of the truly asleep.

Minutes later, she eased back the covers, padded barefoot across the landing, and slipped into Tim’s room. The door closed behind her with the softest click. He was already half-sat up, as if he’d been waiting for the sound. She slid in beside him, and they settled under the covers, the hum of the Easter night outside blending with their whispered words.

It was later — much later — when Petra heard the familiar creak of Mum heading downstairs to the kitchen. She slipped back across the landing, eased into bed beside the still-slumbering Phoebe and Susan, and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

By morning, no one in the house would have known anything was different. But for Tim and Petra, the firepit wasn’t the only thing that had burned slow and steady through the night.

One lazy afternoon, Vinka and I found ourselves beneath our favourite tree in Butts Close, the park humming with life but somehow silent around us. We’d laid out my old army blanket like seasoned picnickers, though all we had were a couple of apples, a bottle of lemonade, and a shared sense that time was stretching just for us.

She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, her ponytail tracing lazy patterns in the grass as she absentmindedly tugged at a dandelion stem. I was stretched out beside her, hands behind my head, watching clouds drift by like slow ships.

“I think that one looks like a Viking longboat,” I said, pointing.

She turned to squint at the sky. “It’s clearly a dragon,” she said, matter-of-fact, “probably guarding the princess who’s pretending not to notice the handsome boy hiding under the tree.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said, nudging her knee with mine. “Do I at least have a sword?”

“You’ve got a rusty penknife and a compass with the ‘N’ missing. But your heart’s in the right place.”

I laughed, but then turned serious. “Do you ever wonder if it’ll always be like this?” I asked. “Us, together. No matter where we end up?”

She looked at me then, properly, with those steady ice-blue eyes that always seemed to see more than I was saying.

“I don’t wonder,” she said softly. “I know.”

Her hand found mine in the grass and gave it a squeeze, and for a moment, everything else faded—the exams, the Marines plans, the future looming like a distant mountain range. Right then, the only thing that mattered was the cool shade of our tree, the warmth of her fingers, and the soft rhythm of her breath beside mine.

We stayed like that for what could have been an hour or a minute, not speaking, not needing to. Just two young souls stitched together by time, laughter, letters, and love, waiting patiently for the world to catch up.

We gathered near the glass wall overlooking the runway, trying to carve out a little corner of calm in the chaos. Outside, a silver jet idled with quiet menace, waiting to spirit away the three girls who had filled our lives with light and laughter for the past fortnight.

Vinka’s hand was wrapped in mine, firm and steady, though her thumb kept tracing small circles in my palm — a quiet tremor betraying her calm exterior. Johan held Marlin close, forehead resting lightly against hers as if memorising her features.

Tim and Petra stood slightly apart from the rest of us, facing each other like the world beyond their small bubble didn’t exist. His hands were in hers, their fingers locked tight, and they just… looked at each other, holding the kind of gaze that carried a thousand unspoken things. Two weeks of stolen nights, whispered laughter in the dark, and warmth shared under the same blanket hung between them, unbroken.

Petra’s voice was soft, almost trembling. “I don’t want to go.”

Tim swallowed hard. “Then don’t.” It came out half a plea, half a joke, but his eyes told her he meant every word.

She gave a sad smile and stepped closer, resting her forehead against his. “We’ve had the best two weeks of my life.”

“Mine too,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone. “I’m not going to forget a single moment.”

They kissed then — not hurried, not shy — a slow, lingering kiss that was equal parts goodbye and promise. When they finally broke apart, Petra’s eyes shone. She touched his face lightly, as if committing it to memory.

“Write to me,” she whispered. “Tell me everything. And don’t leave out the bits I really want to hear.”

His smile was faint but sure. “Every word.”

Vinka gave Tim a brief hug and a knowing smile, Marlin squeezed his arm, and then the three girls linked arms and headed toward the security gates — backs straight, heads high, wheeled suitcases trailing behind them.

Tim didn’t move until they disappeared from sight. And even then, it took Johan’s quiet “Tea. We need tea. Possibly with brandy,” to break him from the spot.

The airport café was doing its best to be cheerful — pale yellow walls, plastic flowers in cracked glass vases, and a chalkboard boasting “The Best Bacon Bap in Bedfordshire!” None of us had the heart for a bap. We ordered tea, found a wobbly Formica table by the window, and stared out in silence as another plane taxied away.

Eventually, Johan broke it. “They’ve not even taken off yet and I already feel like someone’s taken a bite out of me.”

I nodded. “Same. Like a gut punch from the inside. With extra turbulence.”

Tim leaned forward, elbows on the table, and let out a long breath. “Alright… I should probably tell you something.”

Johan glanced at me, then back at him. “Petra?”

Tim gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Yeah. We weren’t just talking in the evenings. She stayed with me. Every night. Slipped across the landing after Phoebe and Susan were out cold, left before Mum was up. We didn’t waste a second.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Stayed with you as in…?”

“As in,” he said firmly, meeting my eyes without flinching, “we were together. Properly. For the whole two weeks. I’ve never felt anything like it. It wasn’t just… you know. It was close. Intense. We talked for hours, laughed in whispers so we didn’t wake anyone. And when we weren’t talking…” He stopped, but the warmth in his expression said the rest.

Johan let out a low whistle. “And here I thought you were just looking smug because she hugged you.”

Tim smiled faintly. “That too. But this… this was different. I’ve never known anyone like her. Every night felt like the whole world outside that room stopped existing. We’d been apart a year, and in those two weeks, we made up for every single minute.”

I gave him a slow nod. “Then you’d better write to her. Not just a few lines about biscuits — I mean something that tells her exactly how you feel.”

He smirked. “I will. And maybe I’ll even make it legible. But some things…” He paused, leaning back in his chair, a private smile tugging at his mouth. “Some things don’t belong on paper.”

Johan grinned. “Too right. And maybe don’t mention this bit to her parents.”

Tim chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound, and for the first time since the girls had walked through security, there was a spark in his eyes again — the look of a man who’d lived that Easter he’d never forget.

The engines hummed steady, and the clouds rolled past like slow waves. Marlin had the aisle seat, I had the window, and Petra sat between us, clutching the envelope Tim had given her like it might vanish if she let go.

We’d been quiet since take-off. Marlin pretended to read a magazine, I stared out at the shrinking patchwork of English fields, and Petra… well, Petra looked like she was somewhere else entirely. Not England, not Sweden — somewhere softer, warmer, lit by the kind of light you only get in memories you don’t want to lose.

I turned from the window. “You and Tim seemed… close.”

Marlin glanced up, a little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Very close.”

Petra flushed, but didn’t look away. “We were,” she said quietly.

What came next, she told us in low tones, the engines masking her words from anyone else. How, every night, once Phoebe and Susan were out cold, she’d slip across the landing to Tim’s room. How they’d lie there in the dark, whispering until the small hours, sometimes laughing so hard they had to bury their faces in the pillow, sometimes saying nothing at all because being close was enough. And how it hadn’t just been talking.

There was no blush of embarrassment in her voice — only that quiet certainty you hear when someone knows they’ve been exactly where they were meant to be. “It felt,” she said, “like we were making up for the whole year apart. Every minute mattered.”

Marlin gave her a knowing grin, but I just smiled and shook my head a little. Stephen’s brother — the one I’d half-expected to spend the fortnight eating biscuits and dodging chores — had found something, someone, worth slowing down for. And from the look in Petra’s eyes, she’d found the same in him.

I leaned back against the headrest, watching her as she finally tore open Tim’s letter, her smile growing with every line. Whatever the next months brought, I knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t the kind of Easter either of them would forget.

Min älskling,

You’ll be halfway home, and I’ll probably still be standing in the kitchen pretending to tidy up, just so it doesn’t feel like you’ve really gone.

I don’t know how to start this without it sounding like something out of a daft film, but I’m just going to say it — these last two weeks have been the best of my life. Not just because you were here, but because you were here with me. Every night, every laugh, every whispered word in the dark — they’re burned into my head like the best kind of scar.

I’ll miss waking up and finding you there, hair all mussed, eyes half-closed, giving me that look that made me forget what day it was. I’ll miss the way you fit so perfectly in my arms, like you were made for that exact spot. I’ll miss your laugh — the real one — the one you tried to keep quiet so Phoebe and Susan wouldn’t stir.

I keep thinking about all the things we talked about, and all the things we didn’t have to talk about because we already knew. You’ve made me feel like I’m not just some lad bumbling through life — like I’m someone worth waiting for.

I’ll write to you — properly, not just about biscuits — and I’ll be counting the days until I see you again. And when I do, I’ll be making up for every moment we’re apart.

Always yours,

Tim

Petra unfolded the letter with the kind of care you’d give something fragile, smoothing it over her lap before she began to read. The hum of the engines seemed to fade as her eyes moved across the page.

I watched her expression shift — first a small, private smile, then the faintest crease at the corner of her eyes, like she was holding back a rush of feeling. Marlin had stopped pretending to read and was watching her too, though neither of us said a word.

By the time she reached the end, Petra’s cheeks were flushed, and she pressed the paper against her chest for a moment as if she could keep his words warm that way. Then she folded it carefully, almost reverently, and slipped it back into her bag.

She didn’t need to say anything — not to us, not right then. The way she sat back in her seat, eyes unfocused and lips still curved in that quiet, contented smile, told me she was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with him.

And I knew, without question, that Tim’s words would be read a hundred times over before summer came again.

Petra’s head eventually tipped against my shoulder, her breathing settling into that slow, even rhythm that only comes with deep sleep. One of her hands was still loosely hooked through the strap of her bag, as if even in dreams she wasn’t letting go of that letter.

Across me, Marlin closed her magazine and leaned in just enough so her voice wouldn’t carry beyond us. “She’s gone, hasn’t she? Properly gone.”

I knew what she meant. Not gone as in leaving England, but gone in that way where a piece of you belongs to someone else now. I glanced down at Petra’s peaceful face and nodded. “Yes. And I think he has too.”

Marlin gave a small, knowing smile. “Good for them.”

“Good for them,” I agreed, though there was a thread of protectiveness running through my voice. Stephen’s younger brother might be rough around the edges, but I’d seen the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d held her at the airport like he was anchoring himself. He wasn’t playing at this.

We let the conversation drop after that, the two of us sitting in companionable silence while the clouds rolled past the window. Somewhere down below, England was slipping away, and ahead of us, Sweden was drawing nearer — but for Petra, I knew her thoughts would be staying in that quiet bedroom across the landing for a long time yet.

Min älskade Bondepojke,

I’m home, but it doesn’t feel like it. The house is full of voices and movement, but there’s this quiet underneath it all — the kind I only knew in your room at night when the rest of the world was asleep. I keep finding myself listening for your footsteps, for that low laugh you tried to keep quiet so no one else would wake.

Your letter hasn’t left my side. I’ve read it so many times I could recite it by heart, but I still keep opening it, tracing the words like somehow I can feel you there in the ink. It makes me smile, and it makes me ache, both at once.

I miss the way you’d shift over without a word when I came in, how your arm would find its way around me like it belonged there. I miss your warmth, your voice, the way you’d kiss me slow, like we had all the time in the world. Two weeks wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.

I’m holding you to every promise you made when the lights were out — and yes, I remember them all. I’ll be counting the days until I’m back across that landing. Until then, write to me, tell me everything, and don’t hold back.

Always yours,

Petra

Min älskling,

I’ve read your letter so many times the paper’s starting to feel thin, and every time I get to the bit about “counting the days,” I have to stop and breathe. Because I’m counting too.

The house feels too big without you. Even with Stephen crashing about and Mum asking me to fetch things every five minutes, it’s still quiet in the wrong places. I keep catching myself looking at the landing, half-expecting to see you there, hair mussed from sleep, giving me that smile that made the whole world feel steady.

Nights are the worst. I lie there thinking about you slipping through the door, that first moment when you’d curl up next to me, and it was like everything I’d been missing all year suddenly made sense. You made me feel like more than just “Stephen’s younger brother.” You made me feel like someone worth holding on to.

I meant every word I said in the dark. And when I see you again, I plan to make good on every single one of those promises — twice, if I can manage it. Until then, keep writing. Tell me the little things, the things no one else gets to know. I’ll do the same.

Yours, completely,

Tim

It was the Thursday after Easter when Tim came home from town looking like he’d been punched in the gut. He dumped his satchel by the door and headed straight for the back garden, where I found him punching the hell out of the old bag hanging from the apple tree.

“You alright?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Nope. Failed it.”

It didn’t take much to figure out what he meant. He’d gone to sit the Army entrance test that morning — the one he’d been talking about for months like it was already in the bag.

“Bad as that?” I said, leaning next to him.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Worse. Thought I’d breeze through it. Didn’t even get halfway on some of the stuff. Felt like the 11-plus all over again. Or Hadham Hall.” He kicked at the grass. “Guess spending the last year mucking out stalls and stacking hay bales instead of going to school wasn’t the smartest plan.”

I let him stew for a moment. Tim didn’t do well with instant sympathy — you had to let him talk first.

“I just… I wanted to get out, you know?” he went on. “Prove I could do something without sitting in a classroom being told I’m thick. Working on the farm, doing cadets, rugby — I felt like I was good at something. And then today… it’s like they held up a mirror and all I saw was what I’d been dodging.”

I took a deep breath. “Then use it. Go back to school. Work. Hard. Get yourself caught up. You can still join the Army — you’re not finished, you just hit a wall.”

He gave me a sceptical look. “You reckon?”

“I know,” I said firmly. “You’ve got grit, Tim. You’ve been turning up for cadets in the rain when half the lads stayed home. You’ve been doing farm work most grown men would whinge about. So take that same graft and put it into catching up. Next time you sit that test, you’ll be ready. Properly ready.”

For a moment, he just stared at me. Then he nodded, slow but certain. “Alright. No more bunking off. I’ll go back. But if I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.”

I smirked. “Fine. Just make sure your way involves showing up to class.”

He gave a half-smile — the first I’d seen all day. “Deal.”

Min älskling,

I’m writing this because I promised I’d always tell you the truth — even when it makes me look like an idiot.

I sat the Army entrance test this week. Thought I’d smash it. I didn’t. Not even close. It felt like the 11-plus all over again, sitting there watching the clock and knowing half the questions were looking at me like I’d just landed from Mars. I walked out thinking, that’s it, game over.

The truth is, I’ve been bunking off school for months, working on the farm, telling myself I didn’t need the books when I had my hands and my head. I liked earning a wage, doing something real. But today was a wake-up call. Turns out the Army wants both — muscle and brains.

Stephen sat me down after and didn’t let me wallow. He told me straight — go back to school, work harder than I think I can, catch up, and then go back and sit it again. He reckons I can do it. I’m not sure if I believe him yet, but I’m going to try. For me. And for you.

I don’t want to be the lad who almost did things. I want to be the one who did them. So, from now on, no more bunking off, no more hiding behind easy work. I’ll do this the hard way if I have to.

And when I pass — because I will — I want you there.

Always yours,

Tim

Min älskade Bondepojke,

Your letter made me smile and ache all at once. I’m proud of you for telling me the truth — even if it wasn’t easy to write. I’m even prouder that you’ve decided to get back up instead of giving in. That’s the Tim I know.

You say you’re not sure if you believe Stephen yet — then borrow my belief for now. I know you can do this. You’ve already shown you can work harder than anyone when it’s something you care about. This is the same. Only now, you’re not just proving it to other people — you’re proving it to yourself.

I don’t care if you have to stay late after school, sit in the front row, or fill the margins of every notebook you own. I don’t care how long it takes. What I care about is you not giving up. Because the boy I was with at Easter wasn’t someone who quits. He was stubborn, strong, and so full of fight that I couldn’t help but love him more for it.

When you pass that test — and you will — I’ll be there, and I’ll be the proudest girl in the world. Until then, keep writing to me, and keep going. One day, you’ll read this back and realise it was just a small step in a much bigger journey.

Yours always,

Petra

When Tim walked back into school after Easter, it was like dropping a stranger into someone else’s life. Half the teachers thought he was a new student, and the ones who did remember him gave him the kind of cautious nod you give to someone you’re not sure will stick around. They slotted him straight into the bottom set — the class where, frankly, no one cared much if you turned up or not.

But Tim did. Every single day.

He’d made himself a deal: no slacking, no drifting. He even volunteered for detention every afternoon, claiming he “needed the desk space.” The other lads thought he’d gone mad, but in that empty classroom, he worked like a trojan — pages of maths problems, reading comprehension exercises, spelling drills until the pen left a dent in his fingers.

It wasn’t glamorous. No one was clapping him on the back or telling him he was a genius. But he could feel the difference week by week — words coming easier, numbers starting to make sense, his handwriting tightening up. Petra’s letter stayed folded in his pencil case, and when he got stuck, he’d take it out, read a few lines, and push on.

By the time the summer term ended, he was a different lad. Not perfect — but ready.

A week after breaking up for the holidays, he walked back into the recruiting office, this time with a mate from cadets. Same desk, same clipboard, same pile of tests. But this time, the questions didn’t look like riddles in a foreign language. He took a breath, worked through them, and when the sergeant looked up with a grin and said, “You’ve passed,” Tim felt something deep in his chest click into place.

He didn’t shout, didn’t punch the air — just smiled, steady and sure. Because this time, it wasn’t luck. It was earned.

Min älskling,

I’ve been waiting a long time to write this letter — and now I finally can.

I passed.

Walked back into the recruiting office last week, same as before, only this time I wasn’t that lad guessing his way through. I knew what I was doing. I sat the test, worked through every question, and when the sergeant told me I’d passed, I didn’t even need to say anything. I just shook his hand and thought of you.

You should know something else — somewhere in all that grind, I found my thirst to learn again. I actually wanted to pick up a book. Wanted to get the answer right. I’m not just doing this for the Army now — I’m doing it for me.

And for us.

Because, with the money I’ve saved from the farm and odd jobs, I’ve booked a flight. This summer, I’m coming to Sweden. No more letters being the only thing between us — I’ll be there, in front of you, and I plan to make every minute count.

I want you to see the lad who didn’t give up. The one you believed in when no one else did. And when I step off that plane, I hope you’ll still want to be the girl who stood by him.

Counting the days,

Din Bondepojke

When the post landed that morning, Petra was already half-watching the window like a cat waiting for the milkman. The moment she saw the familiar handwriting, the rest of the mail was abandoned on the kitchen table — bills, catalogues, and a postcard from Aunt Ingrid — all left to fend for themselves.

She took Tim’s letter straight out to the veranda, like it needed open air and sunlight to be read properly. I followed, mug of coffee in hand, pretending I wasn’t watching her every move.

By the second line, her mouth had gone soft with a smile. By the fourth, she was chewing her lip the way she does when she’s trying not to cry. And when she got to the part about the flight to Sweden, she let out this little gasp — like she’d just been told the world was hers for the summer.

The tears came then — big, unstoppable ones, rolling down her cheeks in warm little rivers. She didn’t even bother to wipe them away, just clutched the letter to her chest like she could hold onto the words themselves.

I didn’t say anything right away. I just sat there, letting her have the moment. But eventually she turned to me, voice trembling through the smile.

“He passed,” she said, as if it was the only truth that mattered. “He’s coming.”

I gave her my best older-sister smirk. “So I take it you’re pleased, then?”

She tried to laugh it off, but her cheeks were flushed and her whole face was lit from within. That’s the thing about Petra — she’s hopeless at pretending she doesn’t care.

And in that moment, I knew this summer was going to be different.

That morning, Petra was still floating around the lodge in a haze, Tim’s letter never leaving her hand for more than a minute at a time. She’d read it over breakfast, again while hanging washing, and again while leaning against the veranda rail, eyes far away.

By mid-morning, she was sat at the kitchen table with the letter spread flat, tracing the lines with her fingertips like the ink itself was precious. That’s when I heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel drive.

I glanced out of the window — and froze.

There he was. Tim. Same battered holdall slung over his shoulder, hair a bit windswept, eyes scanning the place like he’d just landed on another planet and couldn’t believe he’d actually made it. No escort, no big announcement — just him, turning up under his own steam like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Petra…” I said slowly.

She looked up, still in that dreamy, half-present state. “Mm?”

I tilted my head towards the window.

She followed my gaze, and the next thing I knew, the chair went clattering backwards. She was out the door and down the steps in a blur — bare feet on the gravel, tears already spilling down her cheeks before she’d even reached him.

He dropped the bag, caught her as she flung herself into his arms, and just held on. No words, no explanations — just that fierce, breathless kind of hug that makes the rest of the world fade away.

From the kitchen, I could see them swaying slightly, his forehead against hers, her hands tangled in the back of his shirt like she was afraid to let go. It was the sort of moment you don’t intrude on — you just store it away, because you know they’ll both remember it for the rest of their lives.

They didn’t come back inside straight away. In fact, I’m not sure how long they stood there in the drive, murmuring low and laughing in that private way only they understood. Eventually, Petra tugged him down the path towards the sea, her hand locked firmly in his like she’d been waiting all year to reclaim it.

I let them go. Some moments aren’t meant to be supervised.

They wandered along the shoreline for hours — I could see them from the lodge window, tiny figures against the sweep of blue and gold, stopping every so often to skim a stone or lean into each other. At one point, Petra pulled something from her pocket and showed it to him. Even from that distance, I could tell it was the letter. He laughed, kissed her forehead, and tucked it into his own jacket pocket as if to say mine now.

By the time they came back, the sun was sinking low and the salt air had tangled their hair. Tim looked lighter somehow, like he’d left every bit of worry on the other side of the North Sea. Petra, for her part, looked as though she’d been lit from the inside — cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and that rare calm that only came when she felt completely safe.

That evening, we all ate out on the veranda, pretending not to notice how often their knees brushed under the table or how she’d rest her head against his shoulder when she thought no one was looking. Later, when the rest of us drifted inside, they stayed out there, curled together on the bench under a blanket, the quiet hum of their voices carrying through the open window.

By the time Petra came in to say goodnight, Tim was already upstairs. She kissed my cheek — quick, distracted — and disappeared without another word. The faint creak of floorboards overhead told me exactly where she was headed.

And I thought to myself — if this is how the summer starts, it’s going to be one to remember.