Featherlight kisses dance across my skin, sweet breath ghosting in their wake. I smile and sigh his name. In my series of too vivid dreams, this one has to be by far my favourite one.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” The words are softly whispered into my ear before his lips find my temple, my forehead, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose.

“Nooo…” I moan. “Lemme sleep…” Please let me stay in this dream. Just a little while longer. Where I’m engulfed in my favourite scent in the world, the perfect balance between honey-sweet and spicy-warm. Where I feel a quiet rumble against my chest that echoes through my body. Fingers that gently caress my cheek.

“Suno, meri khushi…“

Golden sunlight filters through my closed eyelids, a warm body pressed against mine…

“Open your eyes…”

I pause. “What did you just say?”

“Open your eyes.”

I peel one eyelid open a fraction. Rashid’s smiling face hovers above me. So close I can see the golden flecks in his brown eyes.

I frown. “No, before that.”

His smile widens, and he leans in to kiss my lips: “Suno, meri khushi.“

“What does that mean? And why am I dreaming in a language I don’t even know?”

Rashid laughs, another soft and deep rumble that makes my insides vibrate. “It means ‘hey, my joy’, and you’re not dreaming. You’re really here. With me.”

“What do you mean?” I slowly sit up and look around. I’m in some sort of living room that looks oddly familiar but isn’t. I’ve seen it before, parts of it at least, but not in reality… on a screen…?

“Holy shit, this is your place!” I gasp.

Rashid chuckles and kisses me again. “It sure is. Welcome to London, my love.”

So, this is not a dream. I, Wendell Dupree, am in my boyfriend’s apartment, with my boyfriend, in London. Someone pinch me, this can’t be real.

I might have said the last part out loud because a moment later, I feel a sharp pain jolt my upper arm.

“Ow! You pinched me! That fucking hurt!” I exclaim in protest.

Rashid laughs again and kisses the offended skin. “Just making sure you know you’re not dreaming.”

I mumble something about how I should just get on the next plane to go home if this is how foreigners are treated in this country and rub my elbow. Rashid moves from his place beside me and settles on top of me, pinning me into the couch. I guess I’m not going anywhere for a while. Rashid confirms my suspicion. “You can’t leave,” he says. “You’ve only just got here.” Then he starts kissing me and doesn’t stop. This is much better than being pinched, so I give up any resistance and happily moan into his mouth.

There’s no urgency in our kisses, only tender caresses – fingers brushing cheeks, sweet words murmured against lips, soft chuckles after fifty-four days apart. Fifty-four days without kissing this man.

While my brain is mostly occupied with getting reacquainted with my man, it also slowly remembers how I got here. I basically haven’t slept for the last day or so. Please don’t ask me to do the maths. Jet lag has my mind wrapped in cotton candy, and the approximately 180 pounds of man pressing me into the softness underneath are not making it any easier to gather any coherent thoughts.

The night before my flight I was too restless to close my eyes. I’d gotten up every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything: passport, credit card, Oyster card, phone charger, power adapter (although Rashid said I could just use his charger), toothbrush, underwear. Warm clothes. London is a lot colder than New Orleans. Beanie hat (the one Josie and Rashid say makes me look cute), scarf, warm jacket, jeans, t-shirts, hoodies. Boots. Socks. Lube. Condoms. What? Just in case there’s a shortage in the UK. You never know! Always be prepared!

I also felt lonely in my apartment. As long as I’ve lived here, there’s always been at least one other creature sharing this space with me: my kitten Bruno. But since I’d be gone for three weeks, I took Bruno to his brother Nigel and Auntie Cookie. She volunteered to cat-sit for me, and I hoped Bruno wouldn’t be too upset with me for leaving him behind. I already bought a pack of “Bonkers Purrpops Chicky Licks”, his favourite cat treat, and hid it in the closet, ready to bribe him once I’m back.

Big Mal gave me a lift to the airport and helped me navigate the huge space for as long as he could. Wheeling my flashy, brand-new suitcase (Josie’s Christmas gift to me) over the smooth tiles made me feel like a super-experienced frequent flyer, and I was glad Josie decided to go with the expendable hard-shell version. I originally thought a small duffle bag would be enough, but apparently I’m very good at overpacking (still am), so the extra space came in handy. The suitcase was a beautiful teal colour, which would stand out nicely on the luggage belt (Rashid said), and sported a shiny, bright yellow tag with a red speech bubble on it and the words “NOT YOUR BAG!” In case there was any confusion.

Once I said goodbye to Mal, I walked through security and passport control with a confidence that only touched the surface. On the inside I was freaking the fuck out. I only wished someone could shoot me with a tranquiliser gun and put me out of my misery until I arrived in London. I lucked out on a window seat, but I couldn’t really enjoy the view; I just kept fidgeting in my seat and probably annoyed the heck out of my neighbour. I tried reading, listening to some music (not even the Rockstar Lestat helped!), and watched at least three movies on the plane’s entertainment system.

Then we landed, and I was lost in a haze – ears ringing from the engine, brain in zombie mode, hardly able to believe the buildings outside the window were in a different country. And I’d thought Louis Armstrong Airport was huge, but Heathrow was on a whole nother level. Holy moly…

When I walked out the sliding doors, I was barely functional. My brain had handed in its notice, effective immediately. People everywhere, speaking in all kinds of languages, and for a split second panic crept up in my throat until I spotted a familiar figure standing near the exit. I can’t remember how I got there, only that a moment later, Rashid’s arms wrapped around me, my face buried in his neck, and I was sobbing.

Rashid gently moved us aside to a quieter corner and out of the stream of people. He wiped the tears from my face, concern in his eyes, but I assured him they were happy tears. Despite my meek protests, Rashid insisted we’d take a car to his place in East London, where the warmth of the car, Rashid’s arm around me, and the monotone hubbub of the tyres against the concrete lulled me to sleep. Once we arrived, Rashid somehow managed to manoeuvre half-asleep me, my suitcase and backpack out of the car, into his building, into an elevator and finally into his apartment, where I crashed on his couch, fast asleep before my head hit the very nice, soft quilt on top.

After what felt like nearly not enough kissing, Rashid murmurs a magic word into my ear: “Coffee…”

I groan. I haven’t had a decent coffee in… again… don’t ask me to do the maths.

“I know a place where we can get the best coffee in Walthamstow.” I groan again, because as much as I want coffee, I’m so not ready to move away from the world’s softest cushions.

“They also have the best pastries, Wendell… and they’re vegan.” Rashid’s voice is low and seductive. And ugh, he doesn’t play fair. I also haven’t eaten since… you know. And vegan pastries sound heavenly. If heaven existed and specialised in sweet, sugary, carby glory. Rashid senses my defiance lowering, takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. I let myself fall forward into his arms, knowing he’ll catch me, and we end up kissing some more until I receive a slap on my ass.

“Come on, get dressed!” The energiser bunny that is my boyfriend today insists.

He drags me to the small hallway of his apartment and pulls my beanie over my ears. I poke my tongue out at him – if he treats me like a toddler, I’ll toddler him right back – and put on my jacket before he can help me into it.

We take the elevator downstairs and are greeted by a strong gust of icy wind the moment we step out of Rashid’s building.

“Jay-zuhs, fuck, it’s cold!” I complain, and Rashid laughs.

“Welcome to London.” He winks at me. “I ordered sunshine just for you, but the Royal Mail must have lost it.” He squints at the grey sky as if he expects a postman to descend Superman-style to deliver the missing parcel any minute now. But no such luck.

We walk around the building, down one street and another – and I’ve already completely lost orientation. I just follow Rashid, who has his hand firmly wrapped around mine. I try to take in my surroundings, but there is so much of it. Rashid lives in a super modern building, all sleek lines, glass and metal. There’s a little plaza with a fountain and budding greenery in landscaped planter boxes in front of it. Some benches are scattered around the periphery. Everything looks so clean and tidy. I don’t know what I expected where Rashid lives. I’ve seen glimpses of his apartment on our video calls, but I never expected the building to be so… fancy.

Rashid pulls me along a small path between his building and another one that looks like its twin. Before I know it, we stand in front of a large body of water. It’s quiet. I can still hear the soft hum of traffic, cars honking in the distance and the rattle of a train going over a railway bridge. But it’s all muffled somehow by the nature that surrounds us: the wind rustling through the reeds, a bird squawking somewhere and water lapping softly at the shore.

I’m sure my eyes are wide as saucers as I try to capture it all. In my wildest fantasies I never imagined London to look like this.

I squint at Rashid suspiciously. “Are you sure we’re in London? You didn’t kidnap me in my sleep and drag me somewhere else?”

Rashid laughs. “Yes, this is London. Proper London. Just the green bit. I love the city, but you know I grew up in the countryside, so when I had the money to buy a flat, I knew where I wanted it to be.”

He looks around with a fond smile on his lips and takes a deep gulp of air. I follow his example and am astounded by the fresh crispness of the air. It’s so different from home. My gaze wanders from Rashid’s face to the building behind us and the water in front of us.

“It’s gorgeous, Rashid. I love it.”

His smile widens as he looks at me. When he notices me shivering, he wraps his coat around the two of us as far as it will go and rubs a hand up and down my spine.

“I’m glad you do. I’m happy you’re here.”

I draw my hands in closer, safe in the warm pocket he’s created for us, and lean my head against his shoulder with a sigh.

“I missed you…”

“I missed you, too, khushi.”

“That means ‘joy’, right?”

“Yep.” He confirms.

Something inside my chest unfolds, like petals in spring opening up to the first rays of sun. I’m his joy? Is that what he’s saying? And are we doing pet names now? I try to think back with my sluggish brain, but I can’t remember him using anything other than my name before. I’m ‘sleepyhead’ in the morning – every morning we wake up together – but I always took it more as stating a fact than a form of endearment. I called Rashid ‘bébé’ once when he was asleep. I didn’t know how he felt about cutesy labels, and I didn’t think we were ‘that kind’ of couple. Not yet? But I like ‘khushi’. I like being his joy. I need to find something to call him that is equally sweet and meaningful. ‘Baby’ is so cliché, even if it sounds better in French.

Rashid chuckles softly against my neck. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“Why are you being so mean to me? I’m barely alive here.” I whine. I know I sound like a sleep-deprived three-year-old, but that’s exactly how I feel.

He rubs my back one more time. “You’ll feel better with some food and coffee in your system. Promise.” He takes my hand. “Come on, the ‘Bumble Bean’ is just over there.”

Rashid points to a brick building a little further down the path that follows the water’s edge and a small cafe located at the corner. Like the gentleman he is, Rashid opens the door for me and lets me step through first. I’m immediately engulfed in the most mouthwatering scent of ground espresso and something warm and sweet. I might have moaned a little, or maybe it was the jingle of bells above the door that made the barista behind the counter look up.

It’s a young woman, maybe around my age, with a head of blonde curls and strands dyed in an impossible mix of hot pink, lavender and turquoise. Her wild mane is barely contained by an equally colourful headband tied at the crown of her head. When she sees her new customers, she beams at us.

“Hey, Rashid. Come here for your usual?”

“Hi, Annie. Yes, thanks. But can you make it with almond milk today?”

Annie barely lifts an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Rashid and the barista engage in a bit of small talk that I mostly tune out to look around the cafe. The large windowfront, slightly fogged with condensation and stretching from hip-height to the ceiling, gives me spectacular views of the wetlands. Inside, it feels like the room is just a slightly chaotic extension of the nature outside. Everything is in warm shades of brown and green. Leather sofas, beanbags and small wooden tables fill most of the space, and a row of high chairs runs along the long counter beneath the windows. It’s cosy, and I’m immediately in love.

I realise that both Annie and Rashid look expectantly at me.

“Sorry? I… um…” I stutter, and Annie smiles at me.

“I asked what I can get you, honey bun. I’m guessing you could do with a caffeine fix?” She winks.

“Oh my god, yes!” I reply with a groan, and she laughs.

“Where are you from, sweet cheeks? I’ve never seen you around these parts, and you don’t sound like a local if you don’t mind me saying.”

I can feel the tips of my ears heat up. I didn’t think my accent would give me away immediately.

“New Orleans,” I admit. “Only arrived this morning.”

“Wicked!” Her green eyes light up for a moment, then she taps her chin in contemplation. “Caffeine and sugar, I think. Almond-milk vanilla latte? Large one?”

“Ah-may-zin!” I thicken my accent on purpose. It makes Annie laugh, and I can see Rashid grinning in the corner. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he’s stopped smiling since he so rudely woke me up from my slumber earlier. Actually, I don’t think he’s stopped since I flung myself at him at arrivals.

I join Rashid at the pick-up counter while Annie works on our orders. He wraps his arms around my shoulder, and I lean back into his embrace. I do feel a little light-headed, so having my personal anchor behind me, steadying me, is nice. More than nice.

“So, um… almond milk isn’t your usual?” I enquire and turn to study Rashid’s face. He looks a little bashful.

“It’s whole milk, usually. Cow milk.” He admits, and I gasp. I am not shocked, just a little surprised because we’ve been dating for almost ten months now, and as far as I can remember, I have never seen him eat or drink anything that isn’t vegan. Apparently there is still a lot to learn about my boyfriend.

“You don’t have to change your diet only because of me, Rashid.”

“I know. And I didn’t. I just didn’t want you to feel like you were the odd one out.”

I shake my head, still a bit astounded by this quiet gesture. “You never said anything…”

“It’s only milk, Wendell. No big deal. I’ll survive.”

Annie pushes our two paper cups and a bag over the counter with a smile and a wink. “Have a great day, boys.”

Rashid and I leave ‘The Bumble Bean’ and walk along the path along the lake (Rashid insists that it’s called a reservoir, whatever the difference is). Despite the grey London sky and the chilly air, it is beautiful. I take in big gulps of fresh, clean air and feel it tickle my spirits back to life. Rashid nods towards a bench that is half-hidden underneath a willow tree, and we sit down. I take a first sip of my vanilla latte – pure dairy-free coffee heaven – and let out a groan. It tastes so good.

Rashid chuckles and puts his arm around the backrest, pulling me closer to his side. With a sigh, I let my head fall against his shoulder.

“Nuh-uh, sleepyhead. I need you to stay awake a little longer, or you’ll totally mess up your sleep pattern.”

“A messed-up sleep pattern is my normal.” I growl. It’s true. I’ve never been good at the whole ‘stay awake all day, sleep all night’ thing. Living on the streets for years didn’t exactly help. “My body is telling me it’s sleepy time soon, but it’s all bright and day, and it’s just confusing me.”

“It’s called jet lag.” Rashid kisses the top of my head. “It’ll take a day or two, but it’ll get better, I promise. You’ll also feel it less the more you travel.”

“I will never make fun of you again for being tired when you arrive in New Orleans.” I solemnly promise. I don’t miss the part where he hints that this might not be my first and last big journey.

“I remember the first time I travelled internationally. My parents took me to Dhaka to meet my dad’s family for the first time. I was cranky and cried; I was so tired and overwhelmed by everything.” Rashid continues. “You’re doing great by comparison.”

“How old were you?”

He knits his eyebrows: “Eight? Maybe nine?”

I let out a huff. “You were a child. That’s hardly the same.”

“My dad cried, and he was an adult.”

I give Rashid an inquisitorial look. “Liar. He did not.”

Rashid grins. “No, he did not.” Then his face turns serious. “I don’t think I ever saw my Dad cry. Or show any kind of emotion.” He avoids my curious gaze and drinks from his coffee. “I guess I get that from him.” He adds in a low voice.

I observe him for a moment, surprised. He doesn’t talk about his parents often. I think this is actually only the second time he’s mentioned them at all.

“You’re not your Dad, Rashid.” Of course I never met his Dad but I get the impression that ‘being like his dad’ isn’t a good thing.

“Hard to read, remember? You said that yourself.”

I remember that day. It was a Sunday morning, the day Theo and Ezra were born, and Rashid and I went for a run for the first time. It was the day I had bluntly asked him if he’d ever done it with a man. God, I really could have phrased that better. Talk about awkward moments.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Chaudhury.” I tease him. “I’ve gotten a lot better since then. I can read you like a book now.” It’s not quite true, but he has opened up to me since then, and I’ve started to notice even the little signs that tell me what mood he’s in. Today he is unusually full of smiles and laughter. Like now when he reacts to my jest with a chuckle.

I don’t want to ruin his mood, and I never want to ask too many questions – he might not be comfortable answering – but I’m curious to know more about him.

“Did you go back to Dhaka often?”

Rashid shakes his head. “No, we went once more when I was 13 or 14 years old. After that we didn’t go again. My mum got sick around then, and travelling got complicated. Doctors’ appointments, hospital stays… all that. She needed regular treatment, so long trips weren’t really possible.”

He looks up ahead, his eyes trained on something in the distance as if somehow there’s a window into his past.

“When I lived in Dubai, I had a few days off and could have gone again, but somehow I felt wrong without my parents. So I went to Lucknow instead.” He probably senses my question and explains. “That’s where Mum’s parents were from. North India. I always wanted to go to Bangladesh again and take… hmm…” He stops himself, lips pressed together in a tight line.

My happy Rashid is gone, and I curse myself for bringing something up that upset him. I carefully place my cup on the bench next to me and skim my fingers along Rashid’s jaw. When he turns to give me a rueful look, I try to kiss his sudden sadness away. After a moment, he sighs and leans his head against my forehead.

“I’m happy you are here. I know coming here wasn’t easy for you. A giant leap, and you took it. For me. And it means the world to me. I just want you to know that.”

A giant lump forms in my throat. So far jet lag hasn’t made me cry like Young Rashid, but now I’m not far from it.

“Wasn’t that the plan all along? Us visiting each other as often as we could?” I ask, remembering the conversation we had on the morning after our first kiss.

He shrugs. “Plans sometimes change.” He gives me a long assessing look that makes me squirm a little. To deflect his evaluation of my person, I try to peek around him.

“What’s in the bag that Annie from the coffee shop gave us?”

The smile returns to Rashid’s face. “Oh, you’re in for a treat!”

He turns to retrieve the bag but pauses for a moment.

“Close your eyes.”

I do as he says.

“Now open your mouth.”

I crack one eye open again. “I’ve heard that one before…”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. He waits for me to close both eyes again and obediently open my mouth. I can hear the rustling of the paper bag, and then something gently pushed into my mouth. It’s soft and sugary and still a little warm. It’s sweet dough topped with something silky and vanilla, and then I feel something small and round in my mouth, and when it bursts, it’s like a tiny explosion of tartness.

“Oh my god, what is this?” I moan around the pastry while chewing. “This is so good.”

“It’s the vegan version of a blueberry and vanilla custard brioche.” Rashid leans in to kiss my lips. “I missed you making these noises.” He kisses me again. “And I missed being the one you make these noises for.”

I laugh, narrowly avoiding choking on the pastry, and open my eyes. “Is there more? Please tell me there’s more.”

“More coming right up,” Rashid promises as he shoves another piece into my mouth. This time, I’m ready. I deftly tuck the pastry into my cheek, freeing my mouth for mischief. I swirl my tongue around his fingers, licking down to the tender skin between them, and take his digits as far in as I can while locking eyes with Rashid. He sucks in a breath, clearly mesmerised by this special treatment.

“Right.” He says, a little flustered. I’m so not ashamed – he started it with his talk about the noises I make! “Maybe it’s time to head back to the flat?”

The following three weeks go by much too fast. As Rashid promised, my jet lag was gone after a few days as my body adjusted to London times. We went to Central London on several sightseeing sprees, and I finally got to see the ‘real’ London (despite Rashid’s protests that Walthamstow is London). When Rashid had to work, we usually took the Tube to King’s Cross (with the mandatory visit to Platform 9 3/4) and split up for the day. The first few times I was terrified about getting lost and not finding my way back, but Rashid assured me he’d be a piss-poor agent if he couldn’t find his boyfriend in London again.

As it turned out, the Tube is actually not that difficult to navigate, and the GPS on my phone helped a lot. I’m really glad I switched to an international plan before coming here, so I can use my mobile data. I’m still not too adventurous and stick to a museum or a park while Rashid does his thing. Rashid tries to give me the full London experience, and we eat fish and chips at a local pub. I’m excited there’s a vegan option and convince Rashid to go for the pescetarian one. He orders it after I promise I’ll still kiss him afterwards.

We go to see a play in the West End. The plot involves a theatre company trying to perform a murder mystery, and everything that can go wrong actually goes wrong. I don’t think I have ever laughed so much in my life! All the actors were fantastic! During the interval we got ice cream and wolfed it down in a hurry while the lights were still on. We didn’t want to end up with a cup of half-melted ice cream in a dark theatre.

On a Saturday, Rashid drags me to Wembley Stadium, where the ‘Lionesses’, the national women’s soccer team, play. Rashid insists I call it football. Whatever it is called, Rashid and I both yelled our lungs out in support of the girls (they won!). and I snagged tonnes of pictures and sent them to Etie and Gigi, the soccer-loving kids of one of my tenants back home.

On my last evening in London, I find myself sitting on Rashid’s balcony with a ‘cuppa’ – I’m suddenly drinking tea! With milk! Britain is totally rubbing off on me! – and let my gaze wander across the Wetlands. It really is strikingly beautiful here. I love London. It’s crazy and hectic and charmingly ‘bonkers’ (another new word I learnt!). I love Walthamstow and the Wetlands for being such a quiet retreat. And most of all, I love Rashid. As I blow on the hot tea in my mug, I wonder if I could live here. Permanently.

The thought of leaving New Orleans and moving so far away from Josie and the kids churns my stomach. But saying goodbye to Rashid every few weeks is getting harder and harder each time we have to do it. Could we make it work? Living together? What if I gave up my job, my apartment, and my family, and then Rashid got sick and tired of me? I can feel bile rising in my stomach when I realise that this would make me homeless again. I close my eyes. It’s much too soon for these thoughts. Rashid’s never even mentioned it.

It’s only when I’m back on the plane taking me home to New Orleans that I realise we never made it to Yorkshire. Before my visit, I’d mentioned that I would love to see the place where Rashid grew up and meet his friends, the ones he spends the holidays with every year. I’m a little sad we never made it but reconcile myself to the fact that there will be a next time. I don’t know when – saving for another trip across the fucking ocean will take a while – but I do want to visit Rashid again.

In the meantime, he’s making plans to be in New Orleans next month for Josie’s wedding. I can’t wait to see my beautiful sister as a bride exchanging vows with the love of her life while holding hands with mine.