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Chapter Twelve

T he train hummed steadily beneath them, carrying them through southern France towards Italy.

Myst leaned against the window, her legs tucked under her, scrolling absently through her phone as George stretched his long frame across from her, one leg angled into the aisle.

He had a paperback rugby memoir in one hand and a bag of gummy bears in the other.

“Do you ever not think about rugby?“ Myst teased, when he paused to fish another gummy bear out of the bag and pop it in his mouth. Her pale blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she gestured at the book. “Even on a romantic train ride through the French countryside, you’re strategizing.”

George looked up, pretending to be scandalised, his deep voice laced with mock offense. “And do you ever not think about Instagram? You’ve been glued to that thing for half the trip. What are you doing, checking if your followers approve of your snack choice?”

“First of all,” Myst said, holding up a finger as she tried not to laugh, “I was answering an email. Second, my fans love knowing what I’m snacking on, thank you very much.

And thirdly,” she dramatically dropped the phone face down on the table, “I am now fully present for this riveting discussion about gummy bear tactics.”

“Good.” George popped a green gummy bear into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before leaning forward. “Because I could use some advice. Which flavor is the best team player, the red or the yellow?”

“Neither,” Myst said without missing a beat. “It’s the orange ones. Everybody underestimates them, but they always come through in the end.”

“Interesting theory,” he mused, nodding solemnly. “You’d make a decent coach, you know. If this whole music thing doesn’t work out.”

“Ha!” Myst rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in her laughter.

She reached for her messenger bag, tugging it onto her lap.

“Speaking of music… here.” She pulled out a worn leather notebook, its edges frayed from years of use, and flipped it open to a page filled with handwritten lyrics and tiny doodles in the margins.

“What’s this?” George asked, swapping the bag of gummy bears for the notebook. His tone shifted, softening as he saw the vulnerability in her expression.

“Just something I’ve been working on,” she said lightly, though the way her fingers lingered on the page betrayed her nerves. “A song. About you, actually.”

“Me?” George’s brows shot up, his rugged face lighting with both surprise and cautious delight. “Now I’m intrigued. Go on then, sing it.”

“Not a chance,” Myst said, laughing as her cheeks turned pink. “It’s still rough. But you can read it, okay?”

She’d gone from teasing to serious, and George could tell this was important to her. She wanted his approval, perhaps, to put their relationship in her music, to put it out there for the world to see? He swallowed, nodding, and lowered his eyes to the page.

I saw you standing in the glow of the crowd, A beautiful stranger, but somehow allowed To break past the walls I’d been holding so tight, It wasn’t just a glance, it was love at first sight.

And when the world got loud, you didn’t say a thing, But somehow, your silence could still make me sing.

You were my beautiful stranger, but you’re not anymore,

Love hit me like lightning, shook me to the core.

You’re the calm in the wild, the spark in my fight,

Now I’m singing your name to the stars every night.

“Wow,” George said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked up, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time, or maybe just understanding her in a way he hadn’t before. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say, Myst. It’s beautiful.”

“Really?” she asked softly, grabbing the notebook back and clutching it to her chest.

“Really.” He reached across the table, his large hand enveloping hers. “I didn’t realize I meant that much to you.”

“Well, you do,” she said, her smile shy but genuine. “So don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Player of the Year.”

“Too late,” he said, grinning, but the emotion in his eyes gave him away.

“And… you’re okay with me writing and singing about it?”

“I am very okay with it.” He squeezed her hand, finding a certain smug satisfaction in knowing she’d be singing about him to the whole world. “As long as you don’t mimic Taylor Swift any harder, yeah? I’ll be less okay with a breakup song.”

She burst out laughing, and George felt his heart swell with happiness.

Rome welcomed them with open arms, the city’s golden light casting everything in a romantic glow. For the next few days, they wandered hand in hand, losing themselves in cobblestone streets and hidden piazzas.

“Wait till you see this place,” Myst said one afternoon, leading George down a narrow alley lined with ivy-covered walls.

She stopped in front of a tiny café with wicker chairs spilling onto the sidewalk.

A chalkboard menu listed espresso drinks and pastries in looping script. “Best coffee in the world. Trust me.”

“Big call from an Aussie coffee snob,” George said, raising an eyebrow. “But I trust you.” He smiled as she pulled him inside, her excitement contagious.

That evening, the golden glow of the setting sun bathed Rome in a warm, amber light, softening the edges of its ancient rooftops.

Myst stared at her reflection in the mirror of their hotel room, fussing with the cascade of dark waves framing her face.

She tugged at a strand absently before turning to George, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, watching her with an expression that made something flutter in her chest.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to bribe you with more espresso gelato?” she teased, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nice try,” George replied. He stepped closer, tucking his hands into his pockets like he was holding back some grand secret. “But you’ll just have to trust me for once, won’t you?”

“Trust you?” Myst raised an eyebrow dramatically, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “This is coming from the guy who tried to convince me Vegemite on toast was fine dining.”

“Hey now,” George said, hand over his heart as if wounded. “You didn’t even give it a proper chance. Uncultured palate, that’s what it is.”

“Uncultured!” Myst gasped, feigning offense, but her giggle gave her away. “Fine. Lead the way, Mr. Sophistication.”

George offered her his arm with a crooked grin, and they headed out into the Roman evening together.

The streets were alive, buzzing with chatter and laughter, the occasional accordion music drifting from distant corners.

Myst felt herself relax as they walked hand in hand, the bustling world around them fading, leaving only the quiet warmth between them.

When George finally stopped in front of an old stone building without even a sign above the door, Myst tilted her head, curious. “This doesn’t look like your usual rugby pub.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” George said, his grin widening as he pushed open the door and led her inside. They climbed a narrow staircase lit by flickering candles, each step creaking under their weight until they emerged onto a rooftop terrace.

Myst froze, her breath catching as she took it all in.

A single table sat at the centre of the terrace, dressed in crisp white linen and surrounded by the soft glow of lanterns.

Beyond it, the skyline of Rome stretched endlessly, domes and spires silhouetted against the fiery hues of dusk.

A violinist stood off to one side, playing something gentle and achingly romantic.

“George...” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She turned to him, her eyes wide. “You did this?”

“Well,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I might’ve had some help. But yeah, thought you deserved a night that wasn’t about schedules or crowds. Just us.”

“Just us,” she repeated, her voice softer now. She reached for his hand, squeezing it as if to ground herself. “It’s perfect.”

They sat down, the conversation flowing as effortlessly as the wine poured into their glasses.

Myst found herself laughing, genuinely laughing, at George’s recounting of a particularly disastrous team dinner back home.

For a moment, it felt like Rome disappeared entirely, leaving them in their own bubble of light and laughter.

As dessert arrived, some sort of decadent chocolate creation Myst could barely focus on, her smile faltered slightly. She traced the rim of her glass with one finger, her thoughts suddenly heavier.

“George,” she began, her voice quieter now, “do you ever... feel like you’re losing yourself? Like everyone else has a say in who you are, and you’re just... there, trying to keep up?”

George leaned forward, his brows knitting together in concern. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sorry, that sounded dramatic.” She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I guess I mean... with my career, sometimes it feels like I’m more ‘Myst’ the brand than Myst the person.

Everything’s so... big. Loud. Everyone wants a piece of it, and I forget what it’s like to just be me. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” George said softly. “It does.” He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His touch was warm, steady. “But you’re not just a brand, Myst. You’re you. And when it gets too loud, I’ll remind you of that, okay? Every single time.”

Her throat tightened, and she nodded, biting her lip to keep her emotions in check. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Anytime,” he said simply, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before pulling her back into the moment with another one of his easy smiles. “Now, finish your dessert before I eat it.”

Their day culminated on a quiet bridge overlooking the Tiber River on their route back to the hotel, the water shimmering under the moonlight. They stood side by side, leaning against the railing, the distant hum of the city fading into the background.

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is real,” George murmured, his voice low and thoughtful.

He turned to look at her, his intense blue eyes searching hers.

“Us. Being here together. It feels... fragile, you know? Like we could lose it if we’re not careful.

But I don’t want to lose it. I want to make this work, Myst. No matter how hard it gets. ”

Myst’s breath caught, her chest tightening with an ache that was equal parts joy and fear. But when she met his gaze, she knew her answer. “I want that too,” she said firmly, reaching for his hand. “I’m all in, George. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” he echoed, squeezing her hand as they turned back to the view. And for that moment, with the river flowing steadily below them and the stars scattered like promises above, it felt like enough.