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He barely lets the phone ring before picking it up. The screen lights up with his stupid face immediately. Looks like he's in a cream-painted room with one brown wall – typical Fletcher.

The smile that washes over his face is immediate when we adjust to the screens.

"Hey!"

I smile back at him. "Hey."

There's an undeniable hammer in my chest when I take him in. His curly hair is a little unkempt, and his eyes look like he could use some more sleep, but he's genuinely happy. Or so it comes across, anyway.

"So... Harrison's just got back. You gave him quite a bruise, Fletch." I keep a poker face.

He winces. "Yeah, about that... I was just having a funny five minutes, as they say."

I laugh. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Is he pissed with me?"

I shake my head. "No, but I think he wants to bang our heads together. I, uh, agreed to go see a doctor and try to sort myself out. I could probably do with some counselling or something, I don't know."

He's now on his bed – or what I assume is his bed – and grins down the phone at me. "That's good, Ades. Fantastic. Even if it's just the natural healing process, it's good to do, you know?"

Why is this so fucking awkward? It wasn't awkward in the bank, but then I suppose that was because of adrenaline and fright.

This is worse than the bank. This is even more awkward than the bloody coffee shop, too.

Oh, yeah, because I've only just realised Fletcher isn't just about safety to me, it's way more than that. It's understanding, it's attraction, lust, nostalgia, and I believe some sort of love.

Can you still love someone after you've fallen out of love with them for so long? I don't know. I know I was deeply in love with him when we were together. For the longest time, I think I still was in love with him, until I met Sophia. The thing about Sophia was I was deeply in love with her as well. She was a distinct entity and part of my life. I didn't think about Fletcher a lot during that time... until I saw him in the bank.

There's a difference between love and being in love with someone, and it's something I've learned since after Fletcher left. The more I think about it, the more I think I've always loved Fletcher deep down. The hatred was legit because of what he did and because of my perception of the book. But I wonder if I hated him so much because of a warped love I still held – and do hold – for him.

As I look at Fletcher over the phone, I wonder if love can stay dormant. Plants stay dormant during the winter so they can blossom and bloom during spring and summer, and I wonder if love can be the same. Can feelings not wax and wane like the moon, but instead rest and hibernate until such a time the cloud clears and it's time for it to shine again?

My life is so fucked up in so many ways, I'm not even sure anymore.

"So, I assume you've read some of the book?" he asks, almost as if he's sensing the awkwardness, too.

I nod. "Yeah, I read two chapters."

"What'd you think? As I said before, feel free to go full critique on it and hate it. I don't care."

I laugh. "You'll be disappointed. I actually enjoyed it. Fletch, your writing is... out of this world. I'm also fully okay to say how I got my impressions wrong about it. You really... dug into our life, but in a different way."

He cocks his head. "What'd you mean?"

"The male main character, the one you're writing... he's bisexual, unsure of himself and finding his way. Did you take that from what I told you about me? It felt like it."

He looks away for a second. "I kinda stole the idea from you, yeah. What you told me about how you came to find out you were and everything? That."

"When I first heard about the book, all I knew was that you wrote me as the bad guy who cheated for no reason. I guess I just took this anger and sort of ran with it because I was still mad at you for actually cheating, and mad at myself for what I did," I admit. "I never thought you might actually... understand me." Deep down I wonder if we're exactly like the coffee and the beach – two things that shouldn't go together, but weirdly do. Despite our hatred and shit, now we're beyond that, we still get on.

He smiles. "At the time, I didn't. I was angry, confused, tortured from that night, and really just displaced in life. When I told you it was good for us both if I left, I hated myself. For days, I thought I was wrong and I should go back to you, but I wasn't wrong. We were both torturing ourselves because of London Bridge and thus torturing each other by not being able to deal with it."

I fall silent.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "So I did what I told you I was going to do: soul search. I got myself help and went to what I knew: words. The book is a culmination of everything we went through. The male character will go through a terror attack, but the story is mainly the tale of healing himself and working out how much he loves the woman. But what I also wanted to do with it was understand not just myself, but you, Ades. I owed it to you. That's why I told you I wrote the book for you. I sat down and I read so many stories of people finding out they were bi, how some people reacted after being cheated on, women's revenge stories... and then I read more about how people find their way back to each other."

"Fletch, you really got it. These two chapters along, I really—you listened to me." I ignore his mention of getting back to each other. That's too much to deal with right now, but something to deal with later.

"This is gonna sound so arrogant. I don't mean for it to be. But I did a lot of maturing after I left, Ades."

I nod and swipe at a stray tear as it falls from my left eye. "The day you left, you said it was best for both of us and I never really saw it. When I met and fell for Sophia, I thought weirdly that it was meant to be because I found her. Now I think it's slightly different, I just... haven't figured it out yet."

He takes a breath, thinks better of it and says, "When I decided to write this thing, it was three days after I left, and everything was still raw. The parts I wrote first were the terror attack stuff later on—you know what I was like for never, ever writing out of sync? I broke it with this. I just didn't know what I was doing. The plot never came until later, but I knew the general gist of what was coming."

I gasp. "Fletcher Ward never writes a book out of chronological order!"

"Surprise!" He laughs. "But the first few chapters with the characterisation and him working out where to go from finding out he's been cheated on... those parts I actually wrote last. After a while, I knew what the plot would be, and knew those chapters had to be the beginning. I penned down a rough outline, but couldn't bring myself to do it yet. I even wrote the ending before the start. Those first few chapters didn't need much editing at all after it got signed. Just a few sentences combined and a few grammar errors, but they're ninety-nine per cent the same as the first draft versions."

"Really?"

He nods. "I like to think because I spent so long agonising on how to tap that character and make it reflect how I understood you and how your journey was."

I fall silent for a few seconds before saying, "You've really understood me. Thank you, Fletch, for listening and understanding. I always knew it was a bit unfair to tell you when I did, especially after what happened. I just never thought it was relevant until I saw us going all the way, you know, like marriage, kids, a nice house, whatever. It was just the wrong time and the wrong way."

He shakes his head. "No, you told me when you were ready to. No matter what I was going through, I shouldn't have said some of the shit I did or reacted the way I did."

I shrug. "I've genuinely had worse comments thrown my way when people find out. At the time, it stung deeply, but the more time went on, I knew it was your depression talking. It is what it is. I think after hearing you in the bank, it kinda just hits me how much shit you were going through. I... understand you. Especially now."

He sighs and adjusts his position. The phone moves with him, and he's now in a different part of the room. "You don't need to justify it to me, Ades. I get it."

I shake my head. "No, I don't feel I have to. I want to. Right now, while I might not have gone through what you went through before—I've told you this—I kinda get it more than ever. The way you don't want to talk to people because they don't understand, the way the dead can't get out of your head. I'm getting there, I think, but it's haunting. Worse than nightmares. It's a nightmare that's never-ending because they're while you're both awake and asleep. It's... weird. But I think in a way my mind is settling because I have you right now. Harrison's a fucking angel, but he doesn't get it. You were there."

"That's why I'm your safe space right now." He nods. "The pregnant woman, Leanne, from the London Bridge attack? We sometimes text, mainly on the anniversary, but sometimes she'll message to say hi or whatever. She messaged me after we got out of the bank. For the longest time, she was the only one I could talk about the incident with because, well, she was there."

"How's her kid doing?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Last I heard, they were fine. Think she got a boyfriend now? I don't know. But, yeah, they're fine. My point is that I get that, Ades. The mind looks for reasoning, understanding, and to be validated. The only people who can do that are people who've been there, and for you, I was literally there."

I look at the hand my phone isn't in. It's still bandaged; the doctor said it would be for a week before I need to be seen again to put it in a splint or something. I missed most of what she said because it was right after the heist.

"How's your mum?" I ask. There are so many things I want to approach discussing with Fletch, but I don't know how to, or if he wants me to.

"She's... not handling it well. I think she's confused, mainly. He's her son, and she loves him, but she hates it all, you know? She's staying with me right now and says it's for me, but I'm more and more aware the longer she stays, that I think it's for her."

I nod. "Fletch—" I stop.

"You don't need to fill in the blanks, Ades. I think, for now, we can leave that subject alone. Another day, I think."

My response is to nod because I don't know what else to do. Harry's right; we need to discuss it, but I know Fletcher is the hurt one here, and the more emotionally tied to it all with Sam being his brother as well. It's got to be on his terms and probably best face-to-face.

"I'll let you get on, anyway. You've probably had enough of my ugly mug for the day. You feeling okay?" Fletch asks.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll get a doctor's appointment whenever they can fit me in. Hopefully soon, but you know GP waiting times," I joke.

He laughs. "Text me when you've managed to get one. Listen, Ades, whatever you need, whenever you need it, just message or call me, all right? Want someone to talk to? Call me. Want someone to... I don't know. Come and bring you ice cream and cry with you at three in the morning? Let me know. I'm here, all right?"

"Thanks, Fletch. I mean it. Thank you."

He smiles, and it sets off the start of spring in my heart. He says I must be sick of his ugly mug by now, but little does he know I'm not. His mug has never been ugly at all. Even through the hate and the pain, I've always found him the most attractive guy on this planet.

I just wish I'd never thrown it all away. But then, that's the point of something being dormant, isn't it? There's a reason they hibernate and wait for better weather; they're only meant to come out in certain weather so they can thrive. Maybe love is actually like that after all, because it's meant to come back when it's in better conditions to be treated right.

Like now. It's just not quite done yet, and we need to foster this a little bit more to give it the best chance at thriving. 

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