Sometimes change is good Weston thought as he emptied his office’s desk drawers. Always alone, Weston needed his day job to connect to the world.

Things were different now after the Tilda Gate.

Weston did not turn into a sex symbol overnight, but he intrigued. People wanted to know what was so terrific about the man who seduced Tilda Brentwood. No one denied his talent for writing. Still, they doubted it was this that made the woman fall in love.

Colleagues tried to take selfies with Weston or having books signed throughout his lunchtime. For the moment, everything was new and not too annoying.

At the same time, it was the end of an era, Weston’s head trembled with stories begging to be written and Tilda to the point he found his day job distracting if not to say a setback to both his inspiration and love life.

So, Weston resigned, he made enough money with his books and desired free time to be with Tilda when she was not running on talk shows on the Tv and radios. The good thing about writing was he could do it everywhere, but Weston did not follow Tilda around like a groupie, he preferred to watch her on TV, where personal questions made her blush like a teenager.

Tilda had a few concert dates scheduled, and Weston’s parents were coming to London to see her. The singer made time running the stores with Weston to buy a few things despite her busy program.

The woman appreciated these moments where she did banal things like any ordinary citizen. Here, Tilda pointed at a few items, “what do you think of this mug, oh, and these towels?”

They were blue, and the man creased his lips, making Tilda shove Weston with her elbow, “come on, don’t be such a prude, free yourself.”

Free was how Weston felt in Tilda’s presence. The man thought he could not be happier, but every day spent with Tilda proved the contrary.

They went on to buy a few groceries; “I didn’t know you liked honey and cinnamon so much,” Weston said, seeing Tilda pick them. The Internet did not give him this information; the web was not as efficient as he imagined, how did her followers miss this?

“Oh, ehㅡyeah,” Tilda replied.

People smiled as they saw them pass holding hands. The tenants in the area where Weston lived restrained themselves from stalking behaviors, asking politely for photos or autographs from either one.

The couple was walking on the street leading to the apartment when a little girl in a red cloak and matching beret stopped them. The girl was seven, maybe eight years old, and she wore a long brown braid which stuck out of the beret, she also held a bright red balloon.

“You’re beautiful,” the girl said to Tilda, handing her a pin in the shape of a W she then turned looked at Weston, “you’re dazzling sir, you shine like a star, can I give you a kiss?”

The two adults turned to look at each other.

“Eh, well, I need her permission first,” Weston said, looking at Tilda, who already began to sulk.

“You may,” Tilda said with the weeping voice of a baby.

Weston bent down, and the girl kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” the little girl said, and off she went skipping on her way.

“Are you angry?”

Tilda turned her head away, “no.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Tilda, look at me when you say that.”

Tilda turned to face Weston’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I can’t believe you are jealous of a child, I mean it’s not like I deprive you of affection when you want,” the man said while he pulled on Tilda’s cheek.

As soon as Weston let go, Tilda stuck out her tongue at him. Weston smiled and grabbed her in a side hug, where he deposited a kiss on her forehead, “I’m yours, and yours alone.”

The man’s words reassured Tilda, who blushed, and the couple pursued on their way.

It was only later when Weston entered his apartment that he realized the little girl was alone and not accompanied. The encounter with her was peculiar even though nothing strange happened, Weston, as he replayed the whole scene. Weston scolded himself; his writing made him suspicious of any action, especially now his life was followed.

The paparazzi stayed at a respectable distance across the street, despite what Weston first thought Gabriel Saint Clair interested the nation more than their idle. Photos of his daily life regularly made the gossip columns; Weston laughed as he even found articles about the hygiene products he brought in Boots.

“Weston, the car will be here in 10 minutes. I’ll see you after the concert.”

“Okay,” Weston replied while he put the groceries in the fridge.

“I’m so stressed.”

Weston stopped what he was doing to look at Tilda, who fidgeted with her hands, “why?”

“I’ll be singing in front of your mom.”

Weston closed the fridge and came to hug Tilda, “don’t pressure yourself.”

A few minutes later, Tilda left.

Weston went to pick up his parents at Kings Cross, where they directly went to Tilda’s concert. It was an acoustic show and very intimate. Of course, the Edmonds were sitting in the best seats.

It was the first time Weston saw one of Tilda’s live, the man’s heart halted when she came on the stage, and the opening notes of her voice sent Weston in another dimension. Tilda’s eyes seemed to be staring straight at him, making him feel she sung for him alone.

Another flash occurred; it had been a while, and the man thought their haunting days were over. Here Tilda sang with groggy, inaudible voice, and she forgot the words of the song. People laughed and shouted to get her off the stage. In the backstage, Theresa screamed at Tilda, who collapsed. Once again, the woman mumbled things Weston could not hear.

Why did Weston see these things?

Weston tried piecing the fragments together, but he did not know if it was the future or a delusion. What the visions were didn’t matter; all the man knew was that he hated them.

The images frightened him; his heart raced with the thoughts that something could be wrong with Tilda though she was there in front of him in good health.

Perhaps these flashes were warnings.

Once the concert ended, Weston and his parents joined Tilda in her lounge. Weston immediately went to kiss Tilda under his mother’s gleaming eyes.

His father coughed on purpose to remind the lovers of their presence in the room.

“Oh, Tilda, this is my mom, Alice.”

Tilda got up to hug the woman who suddenly felt like crying.

“She’s a real fan,” Charles said, but Weston saw something else when the two women hugged, the scene looked like a reunion.

The man felt his body hairs stand up as if there was a window open, and the sensation persisted as it was Charles turn to embrace Tilda.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” Charles said who looked at his son as though he was giving his approval.

Weston smiled, showing all his teeth relieved to see that Tilda made a good impression.

Wanting intimacy for their first meeting, it was in Weston’s apartment they returned to after Tilda had signed some autographs and taken a few photos. Some people who recognized Weston asked him for autographs too.

Alice and Charles were staying the night. Weston, who first feared awkward stances, was surprised how things flowed naturally.

Both Tilda and his parents appeared to be at ease. If it weren’t their first meeting altogether, Weston would have sworn it was something they often did.

Weston gazed at Tilda, he knew she was tired, yet she smiled and held conversations with Alice about cooking, amongst other things.

After dinner, Weston convinced his dad to go for a walk.

“Don’t mind them, Tilda, they do that when they need to talk,” Alice reassured.

Weston kissed Tilda on the forehead and left with his father, leaving the two women facing each other on the couch.

“So, Tilda, are you happy with my Weston?” Alice asked, taking both of Tilda’s hands in hers.

Alice was the same, full of love and warmth; this was how it was. Even now, Tilda felt positive energy emanating from the woman. From the first moment, they met the two women who loved each other like a mother and a daughter. Tears welled in Tilda’s eyes as she replied, “I’m happy; I love your son more than life itself.”

“Oh, gosh, you’re going to make me cry,” Alice said, wiping away a tear.

“Are you sure about this, son?” Charles asked.

“I’ve never been this sure.”

“There’s no going back, you know.”

“But I don’t want to go back; I never will,” Weston replied.

Charles tapped his son on the shoulder, “good, she’s a lovely girl.”

Their conversations ended there; the men came back to find the women laughing, Weston was relieved as he watched them. His eyes met Tilda’s. There was no doubt he would love her for the rest of his life.

Half an hour later, everyone went to sleep.

“So, did I do well?” Tilda asked.

“They adore you,” Weston said, giving Tilda a small peck before following a more passionate kiss, which ended with both of them being topless and wondering how one kiss could lead to this.

“Your parents are here, Weston,” Tilda said.

“They’re down the hall, and they both are heavy sleepers, trust me an earthquake could occur, and my parents would still be sleeping,” Weston said with raising his eyebrows.

The man was hard to resist; the night seemed too short for the two lovers who opted to make the bed quake instead of the earth