Behind the till, someone tuned the radio to BRfm. Snatches of Welsh filtered through:

"Mae hi'n bwrw glaw drachefn…" (It's raining again…)

"Cân o Gymru yn nes ymlaen…" (A song from Wales later on…)

Elin brought the mugs over. "Toast'll be out in a tick. You two look soaked."

"We're just atmospheric," Papa said.

Peter blew on his coffee and glanced over. "So. Philosophy essay?"

Papa sipped his tea, carefully. "I think I might actually pass this one. Might even enjoy it."

Peter gave him a side-eye. "You? Enjoying something? Must be love or madness."

"Possibly both."

Outside, a man walked past with a sheepdog on a taut red lead, both of them looking more dignified than the weather deserved.

Peter took a sip, winced. "Still better than the coffee in London. Yours still taste like burnt despair?"

Papa nodded, solemn. "Burnt despair, with a dash of oat milk."

Peter raised his mug. "To despair and daffodils."

They clinked cups.

The bell above the door jingled again, and Papa checked his phone. "Nearly time to meet her."

Peter stood, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Is she going to be grumpy or charming today?"

Papa zipped up and grinned. "Both. It's her nature."

They left the café into mist that had started to thicken again — not rain, but the sort of wet that snuck in under collars and behind ears.

Ahead lay the Gwent College campus, half obscured by the haze, all red brick and hopeful posters. Somewhere in there, she'd be finishing her class, already halfway through a retort before they even arrived.

The college building crouched like a brick fortress in the mist, its windows smeared with condensation, its notice boards overburdened with colourful flyers fluttering limply in the damp.

She was already outside.

Coat too big, flapping like a banner in the wind. Hair trying to escape its clip. A spiral-bound notebook clutched in one hand, visibly soaked. The other hand jammed in a pocket, fingers drumming. Her boots were muddy — not by accident, but by intention.

She saw them and shook her head, then held the notebook aloft.

"I told you to bring the umbrella."

"You said it was a maybe drizzle," Papa countered.

"I said you were a maybe drizzle. This is a biblical event."

Peter raised both hands. "I abstain. I just work here."

She turned to him with a grin, eyes glinting. "And you still haven't trimmed that mess on your face. You look like you lost a fight with a badger."

"You should see the badger," Peter shot back. "He's rethinking all his life choices."

She kissed Papa's cheek, a brief, habitual gesture, but not without meaning. He took her soaked notebook and tucked it under his jacket. "How was class?"

"Awful. No one read the chapter, including me. We spent an hour talking in circles about moral frameworks while Sarah said things like 'subjective objectivity' with a straight face."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Sounds advanced."