If Only (GxG)

Chapter 49 London

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

Coming home always feels like stepping into a different frequency—like London exhales differently the second I cross the threshold. The air's heavier here. Louder. Full of elbows and uneven floorboards and the kind of noise that never quite leaves your bones. It doesn't ask you to be anything. It just is.

The flat smells like detergent, faint garlic, and someone's overly ambitious air freshener—Ron, probably. He's been on a citrus rampage lately. Last week the bathroom smelled like someone murdered an orange in cold blood.

A stack of half-open parcels is slumped in the hallway, as if they gave up on being useful halfway through delivery. There's a pair of muddy trainers by the stairs that definitely don't belong to any of us, and someone's left a single sock hanging from the banister like a forgotten flag of surrender.

Music floats faintly from the living room—some kind of moody indie guitar thing with a beat too slow to dance to and too steady to ignore.

I drop my bag with a satisfying thud.

And then—chaos.

"Alison!"

Olivia barrels around the corner like a caffeinated cannonball and launches herself into me, arms flung wide like she's staging a rescue mission.

"You've been gone," she declares, clutching me like a Victorian widow. "You've missed approximately twenty-seven minor life events and one very traumatic group dinner."

"Hi to you too," I laugh, hugging her back with a grunt. "I was gone four days."

"Too long. We started spiraling."

Behind her, George appears mid-bite, holding a sandwich like a sacred relic. He's wearing one sock with a hole in it and a hoodie that might be mine.

"She's back!" he crows. "Alright everyone—Alison's returned! You can all resume your personalities!"

From the kitchen, Ron bellows something incoherent ending in "sriracha!" followed by a suspicious metallic crash.

I blink at Olivia. "He didn't burn the flat down, did he?"

"Not yet," she sighs, linking her arm through mine like we're heading into battle. "But we were close on Tuesday. Come on. Tell me everything."

She drags me into the living room, where George is now sprawled across the armchair like a Roman emperor with poor posture, and Ron emerges triumphantly from the kitchen wielding a frying pan like he's just returned from war.

"I made an omelette," he announces. "It contains both dignity and regret."

"Sounds like your autobiography," I mutter.

He tosses a cushion at George and flops onto the sofa with a grunt. Olivia and I collapse beside him, limbs tangled and soft laughter spilling over each other like old habits.

And just like that—without ceremony or permission—it hits me.

This is home.

Not neat, not quiet. Definitely not grown-up. But ours.

The familiar hum of a place where no one's pretending to be anything other than what they are. Where the walls are chipped and the windows whistle in winter and everything smells faintly of garlic and ambition. And me, in the middle of it, bone-tired and sun-kissed and still trying to remember how to be after everything Monaco stirred up.

I lean my head against Olivia's shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch my breath in the kind of silence only old friends know how to hold.