Page 3 of Amid Our Lines

“Mate.” Eric stopped, not sure how to continue because Kojo was serious, wasn’t he? This wasn’t just teasing. He was actuallyserious, a stubborn tilt to his head that was at odds with the grin that still lingered.

When they’d been younger, Kojo had dragged Eric on all sorts of adventures in the town they’d both grown up in—building a raft to sail the closest river, spending a night in the nearby nature reserve, seeing a film in Manchester when their parents had thought them off in the woods somewhere. Moving to Switzerland on a whim was the adult version of their childhood escapades.

Kojo set his plate aside and leaned forward, eyes intent. “Swiss Alps, Eric. Place looksgorgeous. Lots of history, starry skies, closest town is a thirty-minute drive down the valley.”

For a moment, Eric let himself entertain the idea—pack up and leave for a while, trade a grey November for snowy mountains and crystal-clear air. It wasn’t that simple, though.

“Not much of a music scene, is there?”

“That’s what video calls are for. Plus, you can write songs anywhere, and you might as well be miserable surrounded by glaciers and stunning mountain peaks.”

“I’m not miserable.”

Kojo quirked a silent brow, his lack of response emphasised by the muted cheering on-screen following an English goal.

“I’mnot,” Eric insisted. “It’s been a year since Lucas broke things off—I’m hardly still hung up on him.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re hung up on him specifically. Just…” Kojo waved a hand, the glow of the telly reflected in his dark eyes. “You’re a bit stuck in general. Think a change of scenery could be good for you.”

“Jesus, what is this—honesty hour?” Eric glanced away, appetite gone.

He wasn’t—just, no. He wasn’t miserable. He’d never been more successful as a songwriter, his reputation as a hitmaker soaring afterhis involvement in both Max Fina’s previous album and one he’d done with another British artist, which had won a Grammy for Album of the Year. He’d written it right around the time Lucas had walked out, so at least Eric had drawn some inspiration from the whole mess. And yeah, he’d exchanged his romantic notions for a string of hookups, but that was okay—only fools and crazy people kept trying the same thing again and again and expected a different result, right?

“How about”—Kojo’s face softened—“we discuss it in the morning?”

“I hardly think a few hours of sleep will change my mind.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe things will look different tomorrow.” Kojo reached for his plate. “It’s supposed to rain all day, just for the record. Because this is London in the winter.”

“Not going to happen,” Eric said simply.

Kojo smiled around a bite of mushroom toast. “Eat your veggies, will you? And turn up the volume. I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna win this one.”

“Because we watched it some five months ago and got very, very drunk afterwards to celebrate? You fell asleep on the toilet.”

“Ssh.” Kojo raised a finger to his lips. “Let’s pretend it’s our first time.”

Ha. “That’s what she said?”

Kojo’s laugh was a burst of brightness, dispelling any shadows that might have lingered between them. “Not into virgin porn personally, but knock yourself out.”

“Nah, thanks.” Eric picked his plate back up and inhaled the rich scent of garlic and thyme. “Honestly, I’ll take a modicum of experience over uncoordinated fumbling any day. Been there, done that, am several years too old for it now.”

“A modicum of experience?” Kojo tossed him an amused look. “You some fancy writer type or something?”

“Nailed it.” Eric’s smile came easily now, the memory of William’s hopeful voice banned to a distant corner of his mind, along with any and all doubts Kojo had nudged awake.

A change of scenery? Sure, maybe Eric didn’t currently land a perfect score on the happiness scale, but hewasa twenty-something creative. Questioning himself came with the territory. The answer sure wasn’t some remote Swiss hotel with freezing temperatures, patchy phone reception, and an inherent risk of being snowed in.

No, thanks. Now he just needed to convince Kojo that there were far better jobs in London.

Tomorrow, though.

By the timeEric returned from a morning run, Kojo was awake, bustling around the stove. “Practising my comfort food skills,” he offered when Eric stuck his head in the kitchen. “Doubt a bunch of hungry skiers would appreciate truffle-infused potato foam with a garnish of microgreens. It’s a half-board kind of place—good, simple food more than gourmet type of stuff.”

“How did you even find… What’s the name of the place?” Eric asked.

“Gletscherhaus.”

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