The morning was gray, the normally cloudless sky covered completely with the promise of flooding rain. Every Londoner who walked the streets carried an umbrella in preparation, but not me. I rushed to The Corner, looking for somewhere to hide. If I didn't need to buy milk and eggs, I wouldn't have come out at all on this rainy Sunday, but now I was here, I hoped to wait out the rain. I figured I might as well have a snack while I was out, rather than walk home now and end up caught in the downpour.

I wasn't sure how I'd never noticed the little café that I found in front of me, but The Corner stood humbly, and fittingly, on the corner just three blocks away from my house. A new, bright sign advertising the café's name stood out front, quietly welcoming me in, and I opened the glass door. The place was nearly empty: only one other patron sat at the bar, a very attractive blonde man with glasses, talking familiarly with the man behind the counter who looked very much like him, even wearing glasses, though his hair was a little lighter, and his eyes closer to violet than the first man's cerulean blue.

Both men looked up as I entered, and I felt a little self-consicous as I strode awkwardly to the counter and sat down, a seat away from the attractive man.

"Hello," I greeted them both. I turned to the cashier and asked, "Can I ask for..." I browsed the menu that hung on the wall, "a cup of tea and a raspberry scone, please?"

"A scone?" both men asked at once, the first man incredulously, the second more surprised.

"Er, I mean, no problem," said the cashier, whose nametag read 'Matthew'. "Coming right up."

I smiled and settled into my seat. The first man continued to stare at me, eyebrows raised. I finally acknowledged him. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry," the man laughed, turning back to the tall expresso in front of him, fingering the lid. "My bro and I were just surprised at your order. A scone...even in London, not many people actually want a scone."

"I happen to like them," I said, trying not to sound offended.

"Hey, man, I didn't mean anything by it," he chuckled. "I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones." He offered me a hand that I took automatically.

"Arthur Kirkland," I replied.

Matthew came back to the counter carrying a small plate and a paper cup. With him came another man, more petite, with large brown eyes and coppery hair, who from his clothing I could assume was the cook. "Sorry," he apologized in a heavily accented voice, definitely Italian. "I just wanted to see the one person who's ever ordered a scone here!" he laughed.

"Feliciano...get back to the kitchen...!" Matthew urged him half-heartedly. Feliciano didn't seem to hear Matthew, but chuckled a little and then went back into the kitchen anyway. "Here's your order," Matthew said to me, reaching into the pouch at his waist and pulling in a couple of sugars and creams, and put them next to my plate.

"Thank you," I responded, using one of the sugars in my tea and taking an appreciative sip. Just as I did, the rain began outside, pounding against the glass windows and door.

The door opened behind me and a girl rushed in, a brunette with green eyes, looking relieved at having barely missed the barrage of water. She took a seat at the table closest to the door, and Matthew went to wait on her with a small wave at Alfred. "Duty calls," he smiled.

"You go, bro," chuckled Alfred. The two of us at the bar sat in silence for a minute, half-listening to the news in the background, then Alfred turned to me again. "I know it's super forward, and we don't even know each other, but I'm gonna say it 'cause I'm just that kinda guy."

I raised an eyebrow.

With a slight blush, Alfred said, "I think you're really cute." Then I blushed. "I don't know if that'll, you know, get me anywhere, but I do."

I hesitated, then muttered, "It...is. Erm, getting you somewhere." Alfred looked surprised, and a little confused, so I elaborated, embarrassed, "I...er, also find you quite...attractive," I admitted.

Then Alfred grinned, and I felt butterflies in my stomach.

After that, he asked me to dinner that Tuesday night. I accepted. It had to be the best date I'd ever been on, too, with a simple but nice meal and a trip to the park afterwards, where we got to just get to know each other. It only took me a little while to fall in love with him.

But if there was one thing Alfred and I knew how to do, it was fight. When we got into it, we couldn't stop. We yelled ourselves hoarse, we clenched our fists until our knuckles ached, slammed doors so hard that the building shook, and ran our fingers through our hair in frustration until we looked like we'd been struck by lightning.

One night, I'd had enough. We'd fought three times just that week, and I was tired and angry and frustrated. Finally, I exploded. "Enough!" I yelled. Alfred paused, his face red and his glasses slightly skewed. "It's over!" His brow unfurrowed.

"What?"

"It's over!" I repeated, a little quieter, but with the same force behind it.

He continued to stand and stare at me, several expressions taking turns flicking across his face. "Just go," I urged. "Go."

And he did. He went to the front door and opened it, more calmly than I would have expected. But he turned around to face me again, and in the several months we'd been dating, I'd never seen him wear that look: one so full of pain and sadness. "You know where to find me."

I did, but I told him, from hurt and anger, "I won't look for you!"

"Still," he insisted. "I won't move." And he was gone.