If Only (GxG)

Chapter 39 The Park

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

The day was made of soft blue skies and golden sunlight. One of those rare, quiet miracles of a London afternoon when the city felt gentler—like someone had turned down the volume just enough to let the world exhale. The air was crisp but not cold, edged with the faint scent of grass and distant flowers, the soft rustle of leaves overhead barely louder than a breath.

It felt like something sacred.

I'd been planning this for weeks.

Not anything extravagant. We couldn't go out—not really. Not like a regular couple. Not hand-in-hand through a restaurant or leaning into each other at the cinema, not without a hundred eyes asking questions we weren't ready to answer. But I wanted her to have something anyway. Something that felt like a date. Something that said: I see you. I choose you. You're mine—and even if no one else can know it, even if it's just us here, that's enough.

So I packed a picnic bag full of the things that made her eyes soften when no one was looking. A little wedge of the sharp cheese she always stole first from a board, a punnet of fresh strawberries, her favourite sparkling lemonade, those chocolate-covered almonds she pretended not to like but always devoured absentmindedly while reading. I brought the book she'd left at mine, the one she kept saying she'd finish once things calmed down. And of course, Rodger—who was now sprawled belly-up on the grass nearby, basking like a tiny, overcooked sausage roll, completely unaware of the weight the day carried.

Blake sat beside me on the blanket like she belonged there. Like she was meant to live in soft light and quiet places.

She was elegance without effort—white blouse crisp but open at the throat, sleeves rolled just so, charcoal trousers hugging the shape of her long legs. Her dark hair was twisted loosely at the nape of her neck, strands escaping in lazy curls. Sunglasses perched on her nose, the sunlight catching the soft angles of her face. She looked like something from a story—polished, impossible, a bit untouchable—and yet she was here, with me.

She was reading, of course. Leaned back on one elbow, the paperback resting against her thigh. Every so often, her brow would furrow ever so slightly at a line. Her thumb would drift up to press against her bottom lip. She'd smile, subtly, when something amused her.

And I just... watched.

I wanted to soak her in. Memorise every quiet motion, every flick of her eyes across the page. I wanted to keep this version of her locked behind my ribs—the calm, sun-dappled one who let her shoulders fall, who forgot to hold herself so tightly.

She was right there beside me, and still, I ached for her.

I hadn't stopped aching for her since the day we met.

This whole afternoon was about that ache. About easing it. About showing her what she meant to me, in the only way I knew how. Not through words—though I had plenty of those waiting—but through intention. Through the little things I'd remembered. The things she never asked for but always noticed.

Because sometimes, even now, I worried she didn't quite believe she deserved this kind of love. The gentle, constant kind. The kind that asked nothing but to be let in.

And if I was honest—really honest—this wasn't just about her.

It was about me too.

Because sometimes, I still felt like I had to prove I belonged in her life. That I could give her something more than wide eyes and schoolgirl dreams. She'd never made me feel like I wasn't enough—not once. But the doubt still crept in, soft and insidious. I was nineteen. Still in school. She was a grown woman with a PhD, a career, a past that stretched years longer than mine.