#ꪆৎ. ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ⊹

[clancycatears]

BEFORE HE LEAVES CHAPTER THREE

You finally land a job and secure an interview. Friday comes, and Kyle arrives to help you move your things. In the process, he meets your Mémé.

chapter-specific warnings: humor, more gentleman gaz, shoutout to mémé, more reader backstory, a smidge of angst, gaz’s text bubbles are blue, yours are green, and holly's are orange.

After a lot of convincing, Kyle finally agreed that you could take the bus home. However, he still appeared insistent by the look in his eyes.

Though you struck a compromise.

He could help you move out of Mémé’s house that Friday.

His posture relaxed only slightly at that, but it was enough. You exchanged numbers—his name now tucked into your contacts under “Kyle 🧢”—and scribbled down Mémé’s address for him in your neat, looping handwriting. You noticed the slight upward twitch in his lips when you gave him the written napkin, before waving you goodbye.

By the time you pushed open the front door, it was just past three in the afternoon.

Mémé sat rooted in her favorite spot on the couch, wrapped in a thick knit shawl. On the television, Masterminds droned on, dramatizing yet another decades-old heist. She didn’t even glance up.

“Ah, there y’are,” she said, reaching for her cuppa. “How did it go?”

You kicked off your shoes and crossed the threshold, but paused just shy of the couch as Dodger came bounding down the hallway. He wound himself between your ankles, tail high, chirping and meowing like you’d been gone for years instead of hours.

“I’m moving in on Friday,” you said, smiling softly, leaning down to scoop Dodger into your arms.

Mémé finally looked up, eyebrows furrowing with curiosity. “Lovely. Y’taking your stuff over by th’ bus?”

“No,” you said, settling into the couch beside her, Dodger now purring like an engine in your lap. “I made a deal with Kyle.”

A knowing smirk tugged at Mémé’s cheek. “Did you now?”

You nodded. “He’s helping me move.”

“Mm.” She sipped her tea. “Sounds like a smart lad already.”

You didn’t say anything to that, but your silence said plenty. And Mémé, ever the wise one, let it lie—just long enough for the truth to bloom quietly in your chest.

“I do need to go shopping for a mattress,” you murmured after a moment, glancing over at Mémé as Dodger settled more comfortably into your lap, his warmth sinking into your joggers.

She tilted her head back towards the screen. Another sip of her tea, slow and meditative, before she replied, “That so? I can jus’ have one delivered to ya.”

Your head whipped toward her. “What? No, you don’t have to do that—” you began, hand automatically moving to scratch behind Dodger’s ears. The cat answered with a pleased rumble, leaning into your touch like it was owed.

“Just the mattress,” Mémé said plainly, her tone final. “You c’n buy everythin’ else. Deal?”

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the quiet strength in her profile. Mémé never offered anything she didn’t mean—and she never offered twice. She’d already made up her mind the moment she opened her mouth.

With a sigh, your shoulders sank in defeat. There was no winning with her, not when she got like this.

“Deal,” you relented softly. “But… thank you. Really.”

“C’mon now, hun,” she said with a soft chuckle, setting her cup down on the saucer with a gentle clink. “I’m your nan. Ain’t got a husband to spoil anymore.” She leaned back into the cushions with a fond, almost wistful smile. “I’d much rather help you get a head start on your own.”

You turned to her, the corners of your mouth tugging into a small, reluctant smile. “Okay.”

Thursday lingered for what felt like months, each hour stretching endlessly. You anticipated Kyle’s arrival tomorrow with every bump of your knee at the dining room table.

Mémé left about twenty minutes ago to go grocery shopping, leaving you to your own devices as you scoured the internet for more jobs to apply to. Not much luck, though it’s only been a day since you last did so.

While swiping through a digital map of London, eying any possible establishment that would suit your living situation, your phone buzzes next to your keyboard.

Flipping your phone over, you peer at the lockscreen as an email popped up. Then you stopped everything.

"Congratulations!"

The café you’d applied to had reached out to you.

You were swift to shut your laptop and open up the email. Skimming through, you learn that the place has an open spot for a server, and were willing to take you in for an interview any day now. A name and number had been included at the bottom of the message: Holly, the general manager.

Much to your relief, you’d gotten café experience with your time in the states, a local coffee shop being one of your very first jobs. You’ve been through enough morning rushes and angry customers to know that much. Maybe that experience is what caught their eye.

You opened your messages, thumbs hovering before you started typing out a message to Holly. As much as you loved keeping autocaps off, you make sure to use proper grammer to look professional.

> Hello! I received your email about my application! Is this Holly?

Your eyes linger on your own text for a moment, before darting to the three floating dots at the opposite end.

> This is she! Was reaching out to see if you’d be available for an interview?

You hum, lips closing as you took a moment to think. Tomorrow was moving day, so you’d be busy, and then classes started the week after. Surely Kyle didn’t really mean he’d let you take his car, right? So a day when he’d be available to drive you there himself.

So you settle on the coming Sunday.

> How does Sunday sound?

> Perf! I’ve got 10:30 AM or 1:30 PM?

You grin, relief washing over you in a quiet wave.

> 1:30 PM sounds good

Friday morning comes around, and you’re quick to throw on some modest clothing, before rushing to organize what you had into your two suitcases. You’d gone through your belongings at least three times already, and even with how little you originally moved here with, it still felt like you were leaving behind half your life.

Half an hour ago, Kyle had texted you.

> on my way now. plenty of room in the boot for ya! :)

Mémé leans casually against the threshold to your father’s room, arms crossed, her eyes tracking every move you make as you fold your shirts for the umpteenth time. “Sweet’art, relax. You’ve got everythin’. No shame in comin’ back t’visit if not.”

You glance up, flashing her a teasing grin as you push the last pair of joggers into the corner of your suitcase reserved for clothes. “Who said I wouldn’t visit you?” you hum, your smile widening as you start zipping up your suitcase.

"Just a reminder," she replies, her gaze sweeping through the bedroom, lingering on the worn bedframe and faded photographs as if she were quietly recollecting every memory of your father.

Your father had been a good man when you were a child, the kind who worked hard and made sure to spend time with you on weekends. But as the years wore on, that time became less frequent. His visits dwindled, and soon, the calls stopped coming. The longer it stretched on, the more distant he became.

You could remember the exact day you realized it for the first time. The day he didn’t even text you on your seventeenth birthday. You had waited, staring at your phone, hoping he would reach out. But when the hours passed without a word, the truth settled in. He wasn’t trying anymore, and you knew deep down that he never would again.

Despite that, it was clear that Mémé still cared about him. She never spoke ill of him, even when he barely acknowledged her existence. She would often sigh, the disappointment weighing her down, but her love for her only child never tapered.

You grab your suitcases from the bed, the weight of them sinking into your hands before you plop them onto their wheels. You glance over at Mémé, a slight frown tugging at your lips. “Y’need any help with the garden before I go?”

Mémé blinks, breaking out of her reverie, and meets your gaze. Her eyes soften, the faintest trace of gratitude flickering in them. After a pause, she offers you a gentle smile. "I’d ‘preciate that, dear."

You’re plucking greenbeans out of their delicate vines when you hear a car roll into the gravel driveway. Mémé perks up from beside you, basket full of bean stalks as she follows your gaze to the gray Ford Mustang slowing to a halt.

“S’that ‘im?” she asks, plopping her basket beside the metal railing that supports the vines, and straightening her back.

You glance at her, then turn your gaze back toward the car just as the driver’s side door opens. “Positive.”

Kyle steps out, his silhouette easily recognizable, and your chest tightens in anticipation as he strides toward the two of you. “Ay!” he hollers, before he slows his pace to carefully maneuver between the rows of plants. “Sorry. Traffic.”

You roll your eyes, letting out a quiet laugh. Five minutes over the agreed time? Hardly an issue. “S’okay, was doing some chores before I go anyways.”

Mémé, ever the observer, sizes him up with a curious gaze as he approaches. “You’re Kyle?” she asks, her tone gentle, but there's an unmistakable spark of intrigue in her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure,” he grins, leaning his upper half slightly—since he had to be at least a foot taller than your Mémé—and holding out his hand to shake. His smile widens as she takes it in her own weathered grip. He seems entirely at ease despite the height difference between them.

Mémé’s lips curl into a satisfied smile as she gives his hand a firm shake. “I like ‘im already,” she declares, her voice full of approval, and she tilts her head toward you with a knowing look. “Quite th’ gentleman.”

You hold your hands behind your back, a smile curling at the ends of your lips.

Kyle straightens up after she releases his hand, his posture still impeccable. “Part of my training, ma’am,” he replies, with a modest but proud smile, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Y’military?” she asks. You stand, glancing between the two of them as they continue their back-and-forth.

“Special Air Service, ma’am. Sergeant,” he replies, his pride in his profession evident in the way he speaks.

“Ah.” Mémé clicks her tongue thoughtfully, impressed. “An honor t’have one o’ Her Majesty’s men at m’door.” She bends down to pick up her basket, shifting the conversation to a more casual tone as she heads toward the front door, her eyes still lingering on Kyle. “You’ll have t’come inside an’ have a cup o’ tea wit’ me sometime.”

Kyle chuckles, nodding in agreement. “I’d like that, ma’am.”

You smile sheepishly, your gaze shifting between Mémé’s retreating figure and Kyle, who's still standing in the garden, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets. “My things are inside,” you offer, gesturing toward the house as you start to guide your steps toward the stairs.

He nods, following you with his usual easy gait. "Lead the way.”

Piloting him through the front door, Kyle pauses behind you, lingering on the threshold as his eyes scan the interior of your Mémé’s living room. You turn on your heels and wait for him, watching as his gaze catches every stray thread of velvet on the sofa (thanks to Dodger), every loose picture frame that tilted just a centimeter to the right or left, and the pairs of loafers discarded haphazardly right next to him.

“Lovely place, ma’am,” he murmurs, his gaze landing on your Mémé as she deposits her basket of green beans into the kitchen sink.

Mémé scoffs faintly from her place by the counter. “S’nothin’, lad,” she retorts, though the curl in her lips gave away her contentment.

Kyle’s eyes return to you, and you straighten. “Oh, yes, my things…”

As you turn to roll your suitcases from the staircase landing, Dodger comes bounding down with his tail raised in the air. Kyle’s brow lifts as the feline pads up to him, weaving between his legs to greet him.

“Shit, Dodger—“ you curse under your breath, hurrying to pull your cat out of Kyle’s space. “M’sorry—“

“Dodger?” Kyle’s lips widen into a smile. “So this is the little bugger y’wanted to bring with ya.” His eyes trail after Dodger as you pick him up like a toddler by his arms.

“Oh, yes,” you reply shyly, shifting to cradle Dodger in your arms. “Sorry, he’s very social.”

“No need t’ say sorry, I love cats,” he coos at Dodger, leaning down to his level. “May I pet ‘im?”

“‘Course you can.” You extend your arms, watching as Kyle dragged a gentle palm over Dodger’s tummy, earning an ecstatic purr from within your little kitty’s throat.

You watch as Kyle leans closer to beam down at Dodger’s jovial face, petting him with such tenderness you’d never expect from someone who loaded weapons and fought for his life on the daily.

Kyle could be Kyle outside of the barracks. Not Garrick, not Sergeant, just himself. The thought rooted itself in your head.

“Looks like he approves,” Mémé chirps from the kitchen sink, running tap water over her green beans.

Kyle peeks up at you through his lashes, and you feel that familiar warmth in your cheeks. As he straightens up, you mimic him.

“He car trained?” he tilts his head to your luggage.

“Yes. Plane trained, too.” Setting Dodger back to his paws, you reach for your suitcases, before a short tsk sounds from Kyle.

“Ah-ah, I got it,” he hums, waving your hands away, and taking the handles himself. “Jus’ get the little guy in his carrier, yeah?”

You let your hands flump to your sides. “Thank you…” You whisper, strolling to the sofa to retrieve Dodger’s plane carrier. With a few little clicks of your tongue, your kitty hops onto the couch cushion beside the carrier, slipping inside and sitting patiently on the little bed you’d shoved there for him.

Locking the crate into place, you haul the carrier up and lean it onto your side and expel some of the weight.

"Ready?" Kyle grills, and you nod.

"Ah, wait up," Mémé grumbles, waddling out of the kitchen and to the living room where the two of you stood. "Gotta say g'bye."

"I'll be visiting every other week!" you chortle, though she persists and pulls you into a side hug.

"Mhm," she hums, looking up at Kyle as she ushers him closer.

Kyle's expression shifts to sheepishness as he sidesteps to your Mémé's side, and he releases a small oof as she tugs him to join her little hug with her other arm.

"You take of m'girl now, eh?" she rumbles, cocking a brow to Kyle.

He gives her a quick, well-mannered nod. "Yes, ma'am."

As she releases the two of you, she cups her hands together with a puff of delight. "Y'better. Safe driving, now." She gives the two of you a small wave before turning tail and returning to the kitchen.

"Ready t'go?" Kyle grins, eyeing you as he pushes your luggage to the front door.

You keep Dodger's carrier close, dipping your head as he nudges the door open. "Yeah."

With a small jingle of his keys, his Mustang clicked ajar, and he popped open the boot with a puny grunt.

< chapter two || table of contents || chapter four >

taglist 🏷️ @santanatenofcups

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[clancycatears]

BEFORE HE LEAVES CHAPTER FOUR

You pass your interview and prepare to start your college classes. Kyle has news to share with you, and you struggle with what he tells you.

chapter-specific warnings: humor, gentleman gaz, inaccuracies (military and college), a smidge of angst, anxiety, i hope the timeline so far makes sense.

Settling into the flat—your new life—with Kyle was easier than you thought.

But only for the first week.

It started with returning home to find a giant package on your doorstep. Your mattress. Thank you, Mémé.

It took only a few minutes to set it up in your open room. You had no bed frame, no box spring, and a mere blanket you’d brought to keep yourself warm on the flight to London.

“There’s no way that’d keep you warm!” Kyle had insisted, and with a twirl of his keys, he was out the door. You were left to finish unpacking alone.

Luckily, the bypass closet came with clothes hangers, so you could drape what you had onto a rod that extended throughout the length of the closet. When you took a good look at it afterwards, your heart sank to your stomach.

You really, really didn’t have a lot to your name. A few pairs of shirts and trousers, two cardigans, and a single zip-up hoodie. Okay, not only did you need to go to that interview, but you’d need to repeat outfits for a few days before you could hit up the local thrift store to get a tad more clothing.

Especially since winter was just in a few months.

Before you could sink deeper into thought, Kyle returned. The rattle of the door caught your attention and led you out of your bedroom. He elbowed through the front door with a giant clear bag of bedsheets in his hands.

You cross your arms, watching as he kicks the door shut with his foot, and discards his keys on the kitchen island. “What’s that?”

“Your duvet,” giggles Kyle, setting down the bag beside the sofa and rolling his shoulders. “That mattress was a full size, right? Hope so, ‘cause that’s what I got.”

“You really didn’t have to do that,” you murmur. It had to be the third time since you’ve known him that you’ve said that.

He shrugs, before picking up the bag and marching to your room. “Can’ have you getting much until y'start that job, yeah?”

You follow him in your room, your ears burning. “I could’ve lived without that for a few days.”

“S’okay. Wanna get you as comfy as possible before I gotta go,” he insists, opening up the package before draping your mattress cover on first. “You said that interview was on Sunday?”

“Yes. Can you drive me?” You lean on the threshold to your room.

“Oh!” Kyle perks up, just as he’d started to tuck in the fitted sheet. “That reminds me.”

You raise a brow as he stands up straight, digging into his back pocket. “Catch.” You flinch, cupping your hands out in front of you as he throws you a pair of keys.

“What’s this?” you ask dumbly, jingling the keys between your index and thumb.

“Spare keys for m’car,” he hums, returning to making your bed. “Ordered ‘em yesterday.”

You watch in disbelief as he folds sheet after sheet onto your mattress, keys squeezed under your palm as you let your thoughts wander once more.

Kyle was too trusting—too nice—for a man who was supposed to be a battle-ready Sergeant. Or maybe he could just read you like a book. Read that you were honest and helpless.

Then came Sunday.

Throwing on the most presentable clothes you have, Kyle wishes you a “good luck” from the kitchen as you shuffle out the door.

You don’t know how long you sat in the parking lot, foot tapping against the lower pads of the driver’s seat as you waited for your interview time. You just had to show up fifteen minutes early.

So you pass the time by observing the interior of Kyle’s car. It was neat, tidy. Even the dashboard looked shiny. There was an air freshener—the Little Trees brand—labeled as “Leather”. Didn’t exactly smell of leather, but it still smelled nice regardless.

The windshields were clean, like he’d just washed them. Every window was clear, not a smudge in sight. A few coins of change rested in the center console, along with a pack of gum shoved deeper inside.

Decent mileage on the car, at least for the Mustang. 80,000 miles so far. You feel a little crestfallen, because now that you're using it with him, the miles will rack up faster. You really needed to start saving up for your own beater so you didn't have to dip into your college fund.

The Mustang was a convertible, too. But you assume Kyle didn't use it often, because of how intact the vinyl was. Maybe a small rip or two here and there, but perfectly uncastrated overall. Maybe you could put it to good use when you have your turn with the car.

He took good care of his car, another observation to note.

When the interview with Holly came around, you could tell from her looks alone that she was friendly. Extremely nice, maybe even too nice. Looked to be in her early twenties, dressed professionally, and stacking papers in a café booth when you walked into the establishment.

She gave you a giddy grin, green eyes sparkling with excitement as you took your seat across from her.

The usual questions droned on.

“What are your strengths and weaknesses?” yada-yada-yada.

“Why did you choose us?” yada-yada-yada.

“When can you start?” Bam. Job secured.

Two years of working in a coffee shop in America piqued their interest. You were lucky to have been promoted into a shift manager just before your move, so that likely caught Holly’s attention.

No problem starting from the top again, you’ve done it once, you can do it again.

You left the café with a folded company apron, a short-sleeved shirt to wear under it, and some paperwork to fill out for direct deposits.

Walking through the door with your things, Kyle approaches you with a wide smile. “Ohhh, brilliant! Y'got it?”

“Yes,” you murmur, placing your keys in the dish you set up beside the air fryer. “I start on Wednesday for training.”

“Mm,” he hums, returning to the kitchen to wash a few stray dishes. “Y’get discounts?”

“Is that you asking for free coffee when I work?” You bring your uniform to the washing machine and dryer beside the front door, opening the washer up and shoving your apron inside.

“‘Course I am. Would you?” you can hear the smile on his lips.

You roll your eyes as you cross the kitchen towards your room. “I owe you, anyways. So sure. Pretty sure I could bring plenty home when training starts.”

He bends over to open the dishwasher, filling the racks with the last of the dishes before dropping a packet of detergent into its slot, and starting the cleaning process. “Y’owe me nothin’. Just wan’ some coffee once n’ a while.”

“I can do that.” You return to the washing machine with dirty laundry, adding it to what you’ve already stuffed inside.

Days dragged along, every one giving you a lingering, nervous ache. You were going to pick up where you left off in a new University, but in an entirely new country. New people, new places to see, new teachers and peers, in less than a week.

It was silly, you thought, to be this afraid. On edge. It’s only your third year, then you had just one more until you graduated with a bachelor’s degree.

Something about moving on from your norm, and out of your comfort zone, made you overthink over and over again. How should you act? Should you be yourself? Will the community be ruthless, or welcoming? It’d just have to come with time, the day you start your classes next Monday.

You and Kyle mingled, though not awkwardly in the slightest. He was sweet, gentlemanly, reliable—the perfect roommate, in your eyes.

Tuesday night, after you both cooked up a chicken and homemade macaroni dish together, was where you both got the most free time to actually talk to one another.

Bumping your knee softly under the table, you scrape up a spoonful of your macaroni, your eyes flicking up to find Kyle already looking at you. His cheeks bounced with every chew, his free hand tapping away at the polished wood, before he swallowed and opened his mouth to speak.

“So… about University starting…” he begins, voice low, solemn, like he was about to deliver the worst news of your life.

You gulp down your bite, straightening up in your seat slightly, only worsening the ache in your ass from a lack of cushioning. “What’s up?”

He rubs the back of his neck, pushing his fork into a slice of chicken to hold it in place. “So I'm leaving… gotta go away for a while. Next Tuesday.”

You pause, a spoonful of macaroni stopping midway. You place the utensil back on your plate, resting your elbows on the table to clasp your hands together. “How long?”

He’s quiet for a beat, and you can feel the table rattle as he bumps his knee in a faster tandem than your own. “Few months? Maybe five or fix.”

“Oh,” you utter, keeping your eyes on him, as he does the same with you.

You were aware he was leaving; he's reminded you at least twice. Though you never expected it to be so long. How would you manage without him? You still hardly knew what you were doing. You still found yourself forgetting your house keys or your purse on days where you needed to rush.

Kyle would be the one to blurt, "Oh, forgetting this?" while holding up your lost item. Not an ounce of teasing in his tone, just concern. Admittedly, you were going to miss that.

“But m’sure I c’n get breaks in-between,” he adds quickly, nudging his chicken with his fork. “Jus’ depends how it all goes.”

“You goin’ out of the country?” You scoop your neglected spoonful into your mouth and chew.

Kyle’s eyes cast to the side. “Yes, Herat. Afghanistan.”

You make a small, saddened noise of acknowledgment. You chew slowly, like focusing on the taste of your dinner would soothe the disappointment.

“Rent will pay automatically, don’ worry about that,” he assures, finally shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth. “Pays righ’ f’rm m’bank,” he adds, voice muffled through his chewing.

You nod slowly. “Should I be worried?”

He swallows, perking his head up to you with his brows raised. “‘Course not. Unless there’s a box at th’ door.” His stance hardens as your eyes widen. “Y’don’ have to worry ‘bout that, though. M’good at what I do.”

Your lips twitch into a frown. “Then don’t say it like that.”

“I c’n text, call, when I have time. But thas’ hard t’come by.” His voice pitches, like he’s working to reassure you. “You c’n throw parties, make a mess of th’ place, whatever. As long as it’s still home when I come back.”

Your frown only deepens. “M’not an animal.”

“I know,” he replies hastily, shaking his head and pinching the line between his brows. “Sorry. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

You release a deep sigh, shoulders sagging as you swipe another bit of food into your maw. “Okay, just… Don’t die on me, yeah?”

He chuckles lightly. “Made it this far, haven’ I?”

Despite his efforts, the worry pooling in your stomach is hard to ignore. It festers—growls—whispers its words of refutation into your ears like it wanted to sit there every single day Kyle was away.

You both finished dinner in silence—and this time, not as peacefully. Kyle looked calm. Of course he did; he's done this for years. Leaves for periods of time and leaves the flat to its own devices.

Though now you're here. You could keep the place tidy, take care of Dodger just fine, and have all of the alone time that you desire.

But you didn't want alone time. The last thing you wanted to be was alone. The last thing you wanted was to barely hear from him while he was away. The last thing you wanted was to juggle school, work, and taking care of the flat by yourself. You wanted him here to show you the ropes—to soothe your nerves with his kindness.

You went to bed that night with your pillow tucked to your chest, heart tight and head pounding with the stress of being the woman of the house. You had to be, though. This flat was his and yours now. You had just as much responsibility over it as him.

You had to get out of your comfort zone.

Think of it like the café. Starting from the top shouldn’t be so bad, especially if you already knew what you were doing.

Wednesday morning is abrupt, the blare of your alarm jolting you from your dreamless slumber. Shoving your bedsheets away from your lap, you throw your feet over the mattress and stand up groggily. With a stretch of your arms, you approach your closet, opening it to find your neatly hung apron.

You stand there for a moment, gaze lingering on the article. Today, you get to know more people—more than just your Mémé and Kyle. You need to make a living. You can't chicken out and leave Kyle to pay the rent by himself.

You need t’meet people.

Tugging your apron free, you get to work, undressing out of your sleepwear and throwing on your uniform. Dodger lies curled up by your pillow, his curious green eyes following your every movement as you pace throughout the bedroom, collecting your belongings and shoving them into a small purse.

Wallet, check. Keys, check. Gum, check. Still, you double-checked.

You leave your room to the soft hum of music coming from the kitchen. Of course, Kyle was awake. He was always awake at least an hour or two before you. Rubbed off from his profession, he'd said once.

You smooth your apron down as you cross the kitchen and head straight to the front door. You don't say a word, but you can feel Kyle's gaze eventually burn into the back of your neck as you're shoving your non-slip sneakers onto your feet.

"Hey, mornin'," he murmurs, and you reply with a quick "morning" before tying your shoes together.

You hear him audibly sigh, and the music turns down a beat. "Mind getting me an espresso?"

"Sure, just text me how you like it," you mumble, scooping up your keys from your purse. "See ya."

As you're wriggling the door open and sliding out, you hear a small "see you" before you promptly shut the door behind you.

< chapter three || table of contents || chapter five >

taglist 🏷️ @santanatenofcups

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[clancycatears]

BEFORE HE LEAVES CHAPTER ONE

Moving to the United Kingdom was a rough process. Everything came crashing down at once, and you just had to escape. After applying to the University of London and getting accepted, you have to prepare.

chapter-specific warnings: no gaz content until the very end (sorry), reader backstory, gaz’s text bubbles are blue, while yours are green, reader is a cat person and dodger is the best boy.

You hadn’t meant to uproot everything so fast. Or perhaps, you did.

Home life was stressful, money was tight, everyone was against you, and you needed to escape.

After three years of college in America, a mental breakdown in a campus bathroom stall, and a phone call with your Mémé that ended in tears and hopefulness, you found yourself stuffing your life into two suitcases and a howling cat in an airline-approved carrier.

The ticket was one-way, your Mémé being generous enough to pay 75% of it while you finished the rest.

London was rainy when you landed, and the cab ride from Heathrow was spent staring out a foggy window, watching gray buildings blur together under the drizzle.

You told yourself it was a new start.

Mémé said it was long overdue.

Her townhouse was just outside of the city. It was full of laced curtains, old perfume, and antique teacups no one could drink from. From what you remember, she was quite the collector.

You hadn’t seen her since you were a wee child. You were lucky she even gave you the time of day, let alone the space to let you figure yourself out.

She’s lived in that house since the 70s. She had a deep love for tradition and cleanliness and loved your little feline. Until he started to irritate her.

By week two, she was already “joking” about how much fur was on her furniture. By week six, she wasn’t joking anymore.

It had been nearly two months now, and already the air was shifting—cooler, crisper—as August began to slip into its final days.

“You need t’meet people,” Mémé grumbles, London accent thicker than you could recall. Her lax frame leaned over the stove. The cast iron pan over the bottom right burner sizzled as the omelet inside of it cooked.

“I’m focusing on other things for now,” you reply, fingers dragging over the touchpad of your laptop, as you submit the very last application to your college classes. “Fall is right around the corner.”

“N’ you don’ even have your own place yet,” Mémé retorts with a small grunt, spatula sliding under the omelet and scraping it off of the pan. She plopped the breakfast onto a plate and walked over to the creaky, shiny wooden table you sat by.

You sigh through your nose, the plate tapping lightly as Mémé served your food. “I’m working on that. Just wanted to make sure I get my courses in time.”

“Dodger is driving me insane. The bloke rips my couch a new one every single day. Pissin’ me off,” she grumbles, returning to the stove and cracking another egg. “Tired of smelling that litter box, too.”

You close your laptop with a soft click, shoulders slumping under the weight of too many tabs and not enough options. Mémé had never been a cat person—that much was obvious from the way she wrinkled her nose every time one brushed past her ankles. You vaguely remember she had a dog when you were little. Smokey. A gentle, silvery puff of a thing, all warm eyes, and wagging tail. There were still old Polaroids of her tucked into frames around the house, yellowed at the edges but well-loved.

She’d adored that dog. Talked about her like she’d been family—and in many ways, she had been.

But dog lovers, you realized, had a different kind of heart. A louder one. One that didn’t quite understand the quiet love that came with cats—the slow blinks, the soft purrs, the way they claimed your lap like you were furniture and home all at once.

Mémé had never really understood that kind of love. Not the way you did.

“Can I eat first, at least?” you murmur, picking up your fork and digging into the omelet that was brought to you.

“Jus’ make sure y’clean it.” She’s quick to finish her scrambled eggs and plating them. “I have work t’do in the garden. Make sure th’place is spiffy.”

And then she’s gone, shuffling into the living room to eat her breakfast while watching her usual Masterminds episode. You never saw the appeal.

You finish your omelet with a grumble, leaving your fork on the plate and pushing it aside. When you open the laptop back up, you get to searching.

The longer you looked, the more your heart sank. These budgets were awful, and you reminded yourself that you needed to find a job before Mémé complained about money more than your cat.

So instead of using official websites, you find yourself drifting to Facebook. You remember in America, people would offer up houses, cars, and other weird trinkets for cheap. Maybe you’d find better luck here.

£2,300. £2,187. £2,067. All too high, for your liking at least.

Until you saw it.

Need a roomie! Two Bed, One Bath flat.

Your eyebrow crooks at the price.

£1,850 a month.

Maybe a little too cheap. Cheap means suspicious, worn-down, undesirable. But you decided to examine it further anyway.

Need a roomie! Two Bed, One Bath flat.

hi! the name’s Kyle! :)

my roommate moved out spontaneously last month and the rent is a little too much for me. i could use a replacement!

don’t care who you are. man, woman, fiend, as long as the rent is paid on time then i’ll be happy lol.

about 10 blocks from UOL. sink is a little creaky but i’m working on it! very tidy, i clean it as often as possible.

i just want to find a roomie before i leave! having someone to take care of the place while i’m away makes me a lot less stressed. message me for more details if interested!

Before he leaves? What did he mean by that? Kind of vague not to include that, but you still decide to press.

You scroll down and spot the attachment—an album of photos tucked beneath Kyle’s short, no-nonsense caption. Curiosity tugging at you, you tap to open it and begin swiping through.

The flat wasn’t half bad.

Eggshell walls gave the rooms a soft, warm glow—neutral, a little plain, but easy enough to work with. There was space, more than you expected, considering his last roommate had only just moved out. The carpets looked a little tired—frayed at the corners, faint coffee stains near the couch—but nothing a bit of cleaning couldn't fix. Nothing you couldn’t manage.

The spare bedroom came next. Small. Compact. But cozy in that "maybe-I-could-make-this-work" kind of way. It looked like it would barely fit a full-size bed, maybe a narrow dresser beside it if you got creative. But the window—thank God for the window—faced out toward a patch of rooftops and distant sky. Dodger would love it. You could already picture your kitty perched on the sill, twitching his tail at pigeons while you were off in class.

You swipe again.

The kitchen was simple, worn-in, but charming. Wooden countertops instead of your Mémé’s gleaming marble, with just enough space for meal prep, if you weren’t trying to impress anyone. The dining area was modest—two chairs tucked around a small round table—and the living room held the essentials: a single gray sofa, a 60-inch television resting on an empty Innis stand, and not much else.

Still, it had potential. The kind of place that felt like it was waiting for someone to bring it back to life.

Sure, why not?

But then you spot it.

Posted one month ago.

Shit.

You sigh outwardly, but then really think about it. If it’d been one month by now, why was the post still up? Surely, it’d be taken down if the offer was taken, right?

So you click on the man’s profile.

Kyle Garrick, his name read. Just a single post showing he changed his profile picture last year.

You figured the photo was of him.

The lighting was soft, probably taken at golden hour, casting a warm glow across his skin—a rich, deep brown that looked almost luminous in the sun. His eyes caught your attention first: whiskey-colored, bright and steady, the kind of gaze that felt both grounded and curious. There was a quiet contentment behind them, like someone who didn’t rush through life. His smile was full and unforced, lips slightly parted, like whoever took the picture had caught him mid-laugh.

But it was the scar on his left cheek that made you pause.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a clean line, pale against the warm tones of his skin—but it stood out. Not in a bad way. In a story way. The kind of mark that said something had happened. That he’d lived through something. You found yourself wondering what it was—an accident? A fight? Something less dramatic, maybe—but still, it stuck with you.

Maybe you’d ask about it… if he ever replied.

Right, you had to message him.

You’re quick to return to the post and click on the message option.

You inhale slowly, hands hovering over the keyboard as you think your first words out. And then you start typing.

> hello. i just wanted to know if the offer for your flat is still open? i’m interested, but i hope i’m not too late.

Your fingertips were trembling. Why? Perhaps it was just the fact that your Mémé was the only person you’d talked to since you moved to London, unless the man at baggage claim counted too.

You wait a few moments. No reply, just a delivered popping up under your text. A few beats more, and you’re getting up from the table and taking your empty plate with you.

Great. First decent place you found and the man—Kyle—likely found someone already. Probably forgot to delete the post. You couldn’t blame him.

You scrub your plate extra clean, and pop it into the dishwasher, before finding a plastic shopping bag and making your way to Dodger’s litter box in the mud room.

Once clean, you start to tidy the place. You could never say no to Mémé, you owed her everything for giving you a place to stay.

So you go to work. Do all the dishes, start the dishwasher, clean the fridge inside and out, scrub every marble surface of the kitchen, and start a fresh load of your laundry in the washing machine.

Mémé had a washing machine, but not a dryer. She was old-fashioned and liked hanging her clothing outside on a line under the safe roof of her porch.

You go back inside, a fresh load of dry clothes in a woven bamboo basket. You sank onto the couch with a low sigh, the basket landing beside you. One by one, you folded each shirt, each towel, into careful squares.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You ignored it at first. Just another update, probably. A calendar alert.

You folded a shirt. Then another. And another.

But the buzz came again. A little more persistent this time.

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, eyes examining the lock screen. 4:45 PM. Just about time for supper—Mémé would be back inside soon, calling you to the table in that way she did.

But just beneath the time, something else caught your eye.

A message bubble. Then another.

Facebook — Kyle Garrick messaged you.

Your heart stops for a moment before you’re quick to open your phone and go right to Facebook.

And then there it was.

Your message from earlier, still sitting there... and just beneath it, a reply.

He’d answered.

Several hours late. But still—he answered.

> hey! yes, offer’s still open. though i’d love to get to know my candidate first lol

> what’s your name?

table of contents || chapter two >

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[clancycatears]

BEFORE HE LEAVES MASTERLIST

You're a foreign exchange student from North America, newly arrived in the United Kingdom, and in need of a home before your college classes start. Lucky for you, you find an opening for a two-bedroom flat for cheap.

RATED: R (MDNI 18+) // ONGOING // OVERALL WC: 9K

college!au, gaz x f!reader, set in 2018-2020, inaccuracies (military, college, and medical), lots of time skips, suggestive themes, domestic violence, sexual assault, manipulation/coercion, cheating, depression, alcohol consumption, mild slowburn, strangers to friends to lovers.

TABLE OF CONTENTS (chapters with *** contain explicit content and have a community label)

CHAPTER ONE (1.9K)

CHAPTER TWO (2.2K)

CHAPTER THREE (2.5K)

・ CHAPTER FOUR (2.4K) ・

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

EXTRAS

SERIES TAGLIST FORM (fill out if you want to be tagged when new chapters release)

GAZ MASTERLIST

SERIES PLAYLIST

BLURBS: XXXXX

AUTHOR'S NOTICE: hi! i’m an american learning british culture, so please don’t mind any inaccuracies (in fact, correct me if anything is wrong!). i’m also not a college student, i work full time instead, so this will likely be slow and littered with inaccuracies about college. this series is inspired by @mockerycrow’s roommate!gaz series, and i definitely recommend you check it out! feel free to send any questions about this series to my askbox. i will be happy to answer under #ꪆৎ. ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ⊹

PROGRAMS USED FOR BANNER: Pinterest, Picsart, Foodie, and IbisPaintX.

DIVIDER CREDIT: @cafekitsune

[clancycatears]

BEFORE HE LEAVES CHAPTER TWO

Kyle chooses you as his new roommate, and you realize you were a lot less prepared than you thought—in the home department. You meet him for the first time outside of facebook and learn more about him.

chapter-specific warnings: humor, anxiety spikes, military inaccuracies, gaz is secretly a cat person and loves dodger already, gaz is also a gentleman, bless your mémé’s heart, gaz’s text bubbles are blue, while yours are green.

> pet friendly?

> yes. i have a cat that’s attached to me like velcro

You and Kyle have been texting back and forth for at least twenty minutes now, while the folded laundry sits forgotten by your side. It’s waiting to be packed into your suitcase as you prepare to move to the flat you’ve needed so desperately.

Poor Dodger is a skittish cat. The reason he moved to London with you was that he would cry and meow loudly if you went missing around a corner in your previous home.

You couldn’t stand having to bring him to a shelter after only being there for a short time because you know Mémé—as much of a saint as she is—can’t take care of a cat due to her old age.

You watch as Kyle types his response on the screen.

> hm. is your cat an esa?

> what?

> an emotional support animal

Your heart sank, and your shoulders drooped.

> oh. no

> i mean. pets live here free if they’re an esa, but it’s about a £35 fee if not

You lightened up a little. That’s not terrible. However, you realized that you would need to get Dodger registered anyway.

He could be considered your emotional support animal. However, he's untrained, and you do not have any medical conditions that require one.

With how often he calms you by staying by your side—lying on your lap when you're stressed, meowing at your closed door just to come in and cuddle with you shortly after you open it—his presence makes you feel a little lighter. You might as well register him when you get the chance.

> that’s fine by me

> ok sweet! i could have you come in for a tour of the place if that works for you?

You stare at your screen, contemplating the words for a moment. The idea of him showing you around? Just the thought of meeting him in person made your chest feel tight.

You need t’meet people.

You take a deep breath to calm the nerves that have built up in your throat and respond.

> that sounds great actually. got a date and time?

He types, pauses, and starts typing again. Your fingertips tap against the back of your phone case as you wait.

> wednesday at 12?

Wednesday is the day after tomorrow. You can make that work. You plan to spend Tuesday job searching and applying to multiple positions anyway.

> sounds good

> awesome! see you then :)

“Who’s that?”

You jump in your seat on the couch, your head whipping around to see Mémé standing behind you, her brows raised with curiosity as she looks at your phone.

You realize you are still sitting there, with folded laundry neglected to your side. Your cheeks warm slightly.

“Looked at apartments earlier. Only guy that texted me back.” Liar. He’s the only one you did text.

“Hm. Good. And?” Mémé circles the couch, bending down to pick up the laundry you left behind.

“I’m going there on Wednesday to check it out,” you say, quickly getting to your feet and starting to fold the last of the clothes in the basket.

Mémé hummed in acknowledgment, patting the clothing before turning to you. A smirk spread across her chapped, wrinkled lips. “I’m glad. You’re finally socializing.”

Then she tilts her head and asks, “Do y'need money for the bus?”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.” You shake your head firmly. After folding the last of the clean clothes, you place them back in the basket. Picking it up, you head for your living space upstairs.

You call it a living space because that’s all it is. It isn’t your bedroom; it’s just a spare one that used to belong to your father.

Nudging the door open with your elbow, you quickly open your suitcase and neatly pack the clothes back inside.

Dodger quickly pads in after you, mewing as he hops onto the bed where your suitcase is placed. The big brown tabby tilts his head curiously, his eyes focused on you as if silently asking, "Please, let’s go to bed."

After putting away the last of your clothes, you sigh and flop onto the soft, gray bedsheets of the bed.

You should get some rest since you have a big day ahead of you. As you drift off into a deep sleep, you forget all about dinner with Mémé the moment Dodger lays all six pounds of himself on your chest.

You wake up at 9:00 AM sharp, putting on a decent pair of denim pants with an orange cardigan over a white tank top.

Mémé is in the kitchen and turns to you as you descend the short flight of brown-carpeted steps. "You missed dinner," she huffs, swiping the last of the soapy water on a dirty plate.

"Yeah, m'sorry." You pull your phone out of your pocket, checking to see if you've received any texts from Kyle. Nothing yet.

"Look f' places near th' apartment; it makes travel cheaper," she muses, wiping the sink of any remaining debris before drying her hands with a cloth.

"Right," you reply, quickly sitting down at the dining table and opening the laptop you left there.

As you begin typing, skimming through various links and websites for a potential place, Mémé takes her time floating around the kitchen, cleaning surfaces and wiping dust from the wooden cabinets.

Grocery store? Absolutely. Local fast food joint? Not your preferred choice, but you’re applying anyway. That café just five minutes from the apartment? Without a doubt. You’re determined to land that job.

After wiping the table with a damp rag, Mémé steps behind you to glance at your laptop screen. "So... what's this person's name?"

"Kyle," you reply casually, your eyes glued to the screen. You can feel her gaze burning into the back of your head.

She is silent for a moment, contemplating. "A boy?" she asks.

"Yes. Why?"

"Nothing. Is he nice?"

"Yes, he is." You hover your mouse over another submit button, preparing to send out another application.

"Oh, very sweet," hums Mémé, returning to wiping down the table around you before returning to the sink. "Y'hungry? Breakfast?"

"Yes, please."

As the day went on, you received several responses from various places. The grocery store was fully staffed, while the fast food restaurant said they preferred to look for better candidates. The café didn’t respond at all. The other twelve places you contacted also seemed uninterested.

However, Kyle had never texted you. He was likely busy setting up the apartment, possibly creating more space for you, even though it would just be a tour of the place.

Well, it's better to get some rest anyway. Your eyes are aching from staring at a screen all day.

When Wednesday rolled around, you threw on a casual pair of black joggers and a beige t-shirt. Very plain. But modest and simple.

> i'm on my way

No response.

The bus ride wasn't terrible. It took half an hour to reach the apartment home, costing £1.75. You sat in the back, zoning out while staring out the window on your left.

You feel your fingers start to tremble as you get off at your stop, a block away at the bus terminal. With each step, you find yourself picking at your cuticles, tearing them up. But why are you so nervous? This is a new beginning—a positive one. You’re about to meet someone in a country that’s foreign to you.

You stand in front of an old, worn brick building that has two floors and three sets of flats. The stone steps leading up to each door are adorned with various flowers and weeds, giving the place a charming and homey feel.

The window next to the front door of the third flat had its curtains drawn to the side. That flat belonged to Kyle. The other two windows were completely shut, indicating they were occupied. Owned. Full capacity.

As you step up the flight of stairs to Kyle’s door, your heart begins to race, and your chest feels tight and uneasy. Fuck, why did this have to be so nerve-wracking? You hesitate, your hand hovering just before the intricately carved white door.

There’s a peephole—what if he already saw you?

You swiftly remove the band-aid and knock twice, then place your hands politely behind your back.

After a brief pause, the doorknob wiggled, and the door swung open as Kyle showed himself. You were greeted by his presence face-to-face.

He wore a neatly ironed plaid brown cardigan and sleek brown trousers. The top of the cardigan had a few missing buttons, making the white tank top underneath visible.

He stood tall, probably around six feet two inches, maybe a little more. His face was as charming as it looked in his profile picture. Thankfully, there were no signs of catfishing or any deception. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, and his pearly white teeth were visible as his lips lifted. He tilted his head downward slowly to meet your gaze.

"Hey!" he chirped, stepping aside and gesturing inside. "C'min; I can show you your room."

When you shuffle into the flat, it looks no different than what you saw in Kyle's pictures. The same eggshell-colored walls, limited furniture, and dim lights are caused by sunlight pooling through the open windows.

Kyle walks past you, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on you. As you both enter the living room, you glance at the sofa. Same slightly worn beige couch. Looked comfy, though.

"The door to your left is my room," Kyle said, gesturing to the closed door in the left corner with his chin. He then pointed to the right end. "The one on the right is yours."

Kyle leads you into your room, and you take a moment to look around. It’s small and a bit cramped, but it does have a walk-in closet, which means you won’t need to worry about fitting a dresser into the limited space left for your bed.

Wait. A bed. You don't even have your own mattress. Great. Why hadn't you thought of that?

"Hey, er..." Kyle pauses while you take your peek. "I didn' see a car outside. How did y' get here?"

You turn to face him, your heart racing as you push past the worry of having to buy a whole bed and frame. "Oh, um..." You reach up to fiddle with your fingers. "I took the bus."

"Bloody hell. Could've told me. It's not a big deal driving to get you." Kyle waved a hand in front of him as if treating the situation like mud on the soles of his shoes.

"No, no, that's okay. I appreciate it, though," you murmur, reaching up to rub the back of your neck.

"Y'don't have a car?" he asks, brow raised in concern.

"No. But I plan to get one soon. The place is still close to UOL, so bus rides won't be too bad—"

Kyle's laugh interrupts you, and you blink up at him curiously. "You can jus' use my car, y'know. I'm not around much anyway, as long as you pay for petrol, though."

"Are you telling me I’m moving in?" you ask as you leave the bedroom, picturing how you want it to look later.

"'Course. Honestly, you're the only person who brought up bringing a pet. I love pets," he hums as he follows you. "A pet could keep you company while I'm away, too."

“Why are you away, though? You never mentioned that.” You follow Kyle as he walks into the kitchen, resting his elbows on the small island between the stove and the living room.

"Ah... I'm in the military," Kyle replies, his eyes casting to the side before returning to you. "I could be gone for months at a time. Sucks."

You say "Oh," stretching out the vowel while nodding slowly.

"So it'd save me some quid if you could drive me to and from the base," he adds after a beat of silence. "If that's okay with you?"

"Oh, that's fine." You lean against the island opposite him.

"Y'said you're from the States, yeah?"

"Yes?"

"Do y'know how to drive on the left side of the road?" he continued with a small chuckle.

"'Course I do, grandma taught me when I moved here," you reply, shrugging your shoulders. "Caught on pretty quickly."

"You're takin' the piss," he giggles, lowering his head before looking back at you.

"Excuse me?" Your brows pinch with confusion.

"Christ. You really are American." He stood up straight and turned to the cabinet closest to him.

You watch as he opens the cabinet to take out two glasses. "What?"

"You're joking." He turns on the sink, the handle creaking before water spills out into the glasses.

"I'm not."

"No, like���That's what that means," he turns back to you, handing you your glass of water as he takes a sip from his own.

"Oh," you murmur, your cheeks flushing a light red as you take the glass from him. "Got more to learn, I guess."

< chapter one || table of contents || chapter three >

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[clancycatears]

Can I be added to the team list of before he leaves? I really like the fic so far.

Also, the best birthday gift that I have received is the update of the fic.

i assume you mean taglist!!! and also happy birthday!!! <3

yes, before he leaves has a taglist!!! you can fill it out here!!! but i must inform anyone that wants to be tagged in new chapters that there will be mature topics!!!

yes, it’s very fluffy and domestic right now—but it’ll get a little bit messier in later chapters, so it’s very important that everyone knows it is an 18+ story, and chapters with graphic content will be labeled as such!!!

[clancycatears]

really wanna improve my writing style for chapter three of before he leaves tbh….. need to lock in

[clancycatears]

chapter three of before he leaves is bordering 3k words now. might have to move some content into chapter four teehee

[clancycatears]

um. just realized before he leaves chapter two posted before i could finish it!!! i guess i got the scheduling wrong but oh well. </3 i can add the content i was supposed to in chapter three.

[clancycatears]

wrote 1.5k words so far for chapter two of before he leaves... so hyped rn.

[clancycatears]

just got the idea of a roommate!gaz mini series….. currently on a roll with my writing motivation rn. (i’m so sorry my brain is full of gaz)

[clancycatears]

hehe. why thank you. <3

BEFORE HE LEAVES (A Roommate!Gaz Series)

CHAPTER ONE

table of contents - gaz masterlist

chapter two >

moving to the united kingdom was a rough process. everything came crashing down at once and you just had to escape. after applying to the university of london and getting accepted, you have to prepare.

chapter-specific warnings: no gaz content until the very end (sorry), reader backstory, gaz’s text bubbles are blue, while yours are green, reader is a cat person and dodger is the best boy.

a/n: woohoo! time to start. i was literally typing out this chapter in my head at work lol. anyways, i hope this is a good beginning! this is my first series, after all.

; 1.9k words.

You hadn’t meant to uproot everything so fast. Or perhaps, you did.

Home life was stressful, money was tight, everyone was against you, and you needed to escape.

After three years of college in America, a mental breakdown in a campus bathroom stall, and a phone call with your Mémé that ended in tears and hopefulness, you found yourself stuffing your life into two suitcases and a howling cat in an airline-approved carrier.

The ticket was one-way, your Mémé being generous enough to pay 75% of it while you finished the rest.

London was rainy when you landed, and the cab ride from Heathrow was spent staring out a foggy window, watching gray buildings blur together under the drizzle.

You told yourself it was a new start.

Mémé said it was long overdue.

Her townhouse was just outside of the city. It was full of laced curtains, old perfume, and antique teacups no one could drink from. From what you remember, she was quite the collector.

You hadn’t seen her since you were a wee child. You were lucky she even gave you the time of day, let alone the space to let you figure yourself out.

She’s lived in that house since the 70s. She had a deep love for tradition and cleanliness and loved your little feline. Until he started to irritate her.

By week two, she was already “joking” about how much fur was on her furniture. By week six, she wasn’t joking anymore.

It had been nearly two months now, and already the air was shifting—cooler, crisper—as August began to slip into its final days.

“You need t’meet people,” Mémé grumbles, London accent thicker than you could recall. Her lax frame leaned over the stove. The cast iron pan over the bottom right burner sizzled as the omelet inside of it cooked.

“I’m focusing on other things for now,” you reply, fingers dragging over the touchpad of your laptop, as you submit the very last application to your college classes. “Fall is right around the corner.”

“N’ you don’ even have your own place yet,” Mémé retorts with a small grunt, spatula sliding under the omelet and scraping it off of the pan. She plopped the breakfast onto a plate and walked over to the creaky, shiny wooden table you sat by.

You sigh through your nose, the plate tapping lightly as Mémé served your food. “I’m working on that. Just wanted to make sure I get my courses in time.”

“Dodger is driving me insane. The bloke rips my couch a new one every single day. Pissin’ me off,” she grumbles, returning to the stove and cracking another egg. “Tired of smelling that litter box, too.”

You close your laptop with a soft click, shoulders slumping under the weight of too many tabs and not enough options. Mémé had never been a cat person—that much was obvious from the way she wrinkled her nose every time one brushed past her ankles. You vaguely remember she had a dog when you were little. Smokey. A gentle, silvery puff of a thing, all warm eyes, and wagging tail. There were still old Polaroids of her tucked into frames around the house, yellowed at the edges but well-loved.

She’d adored that dog. Talked about her like she’d been family—and in many ways, she had been.

But dog lovers, you realized, had a different kind of heart. A louder one. One that didn’t quite understand the quiet love that came with cats—the slow blinks, the soft purrs, the way they claimed your lap like you were furniture and home all at once.

Mémé had never really understood that kind of love. Not the way you did.

“Can I eat first, at least?” you murmur, picking up your fork and digging into the omelet that was brought to you.

“Jus’ make sure y’clean it.” She’s quick to finish her scrambled eggs and plating them. “I have work t’do in the garden. Make sure th’place is spiffy.”

And then she’s gone, shuffling into the living room to eat her breakfast while watching her usual Masterminds episode. You never saw the appeal.

You finish your omelet with a grumble, leaving your fork on the plate and pushing it aside. When you open the laptop back up, you get to searching.

The longer you looked, the more your heart sank. These budgets were awful, and you reminded yourself that you needed to find a job before Mémé complained about money more than your cat.

So instead of using official websites, you find yourself drifting to Facebook. You remember in America, people would offer up houses, cars, and other weird trinkets for cheap. Maybe you’d find better luck here.

£2,300. £2,187. £2,067. All too high, for your liking at least.

Until you saw it.

Need a roomie! Two Bed, One Bath flat.

Your eyebrow crooks at the price.

£1,850 a month.

Maybe a little too cheap. Cheap means suspicious, worn-down, undesirable. But you decided to examine it further anyway.

Need a roomie! Two Bed, One Bath flat.

hi! the name’s Kyle! :)

my roommate moved out spontaneously last month and the rent is a little too much for me. i could use a replacement!

don’t care who you are. man, woman, fiend, as long as the rent is paid on time then i’ll be happy lol.

about 10 blocks from UOL. sink is a little creaky but i’m working on it! very tidy, i clean it as often as possible.

i just want to find a roomie before i leave! having someone to take care of the place while i’m away makes me a lot less stressed. message me for more details if interested!

Before he leaves? What did he mean by that? Kind of vague not to include that, but you still decide to press.

You scroll down and spot the attachment—an album of photos tucked beneath Kyle’s short, no-nonsense caption. Curiosity tugging at you, you tap to open it and begin swiping through.

The flat wasn’t half bad.

Eggshell walls gave the rooms a soft, warm glow—neutral, a little plain, but easy enough to work with. There was space, more than you expected, considering his last roommate had only just moved out. The carpets looked a little tired—frayed at the corners, faint coffee stains near the couch—but nothing a bit of cleaning couldn't fix. Nothing you couldn’t manage.

The spare bedroom came next. Small. Compact. But cozy in that "maybe-I-could-make-this-work" kind of way. It looked like it would barely fit a full-size bed, maybe a narrow dresser beside it if you got creative. But the window—thank God for the window—faced out toward a patch of rooftops and distant sky. Dodger would love it. You could already picture your kitty perched on the sill, twitching his tail at pigeons while you were off in class.

You swipe again.

The kitchen was simple, worn-in, but charming. Wooden countertops instead of your Mémé’s gleaming marble, with just enough space for meal prep, if you weren’t trying to impress anyone. The dining area was modest—two chairs tucked around a small round table—and the living room held the essentials: a single gray sofa, a 60-inch television resting on an empty Innis stand, and not much else.

Still, it had potential. The kind of place that felt like it was waiting for someone to bring it back to life.

Sure, why not?

But then you spot it.

Posted one month ago.

Shit.

You sigh outwardly, but then really think about it. If it’d been one month by now, why was the post still up? Surely, it’d be taken down if the offer was taken, right?

So you click on the man’s profile.

Kyle Garrick, his name read. Just a single post showing he changed his profile picture last year.

You figured the photo was of him.

The lighting was soft, probably taken at golden hour, casting a warm glow across his skin—a rich, deep brown that looked almost luminous in the sun. His eyes caught your attention first: whiskey-colored, bright and steady, the kind of gaze that felt both grounded and curious. There was a quiet contentment behind them, like someone who didn’t rush through life. His smile was full and unforced, lips slightly parted, like whoever took the picture had caught him mid-laugh.

But it was the scar on his left cheek that made you pause.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a clean line, pale against the warm tones of his skin—but it stood out. Not in a bad way. In a story way. The kind of mark that said something had happened. That he’d lived through something. You found yourself wondering what it was—an accident? A fight? Something less dramatic, maybe—but still, it stuck with you.

Maybe you’d ask about it… if he ever replied.

Right, you had to message him.

You’re quick to return to the post and click on the message option.

You inhale slowly, hands hovering over the keyboard as you think your first words out. And then you start typing.

> hello. i just wanted to know if the offer for your flat is still open? i’m interested, but i hope i’m not too late.

Your fingertips were trembling. Why? Perhaps it was just the fact that your Mémé was the only person you’d talked to since you moved to London, unless the man at baggage claim counted too.

You wait a few moments. No reply, just a delivered popping up under your text. A few beats more, and you’re getting up from the table and taking your empty plate with you.

Great. First decent place you found and the man—Kyle—likely found someone already. Probably forgot to delete the post. You couldn’t blame him.

You scrub your plate extra clean, and pop it into the dishwasher, before finding a plastic shopping bag and making your way to Dodger’s litter box in the mud room.

Once clean, you start to tidy the place. You could never say no to Mémé, you owed her everything for giving you a place to stay.

So you go to work. Do all the dishes, start the dishwasher, clean the fridge inside and out, scrub every marble surface of the kitchen, and start a fresh load of your laundry in the washing machine.

Mémé had a washing machine, but not a dryer. She was old-fashioned and liked hanging her clothing outside on a line under the safe roof of her porch.

You go back inside, a fresh load of dry clothes in a woven bamboo basket. You sank onto the couch with a low sigh, the basket landing beside you. One by one, you folded each shirt, each towel, into careful squares.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You ignored it at first. Just another update, probably. A calendar alert.

You folded a shirt. Then another. And another.

But the buzz came again. A little more persistent this time.

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, eyes examining the lock screen. 4:45 PM. Just about time for supper—Mémé would be back inside soon, calling you to the table in that way she did.

But just beneath the time, something else caught your eye.

A message bubble. Then another.

Facebook — Kyle Garrick messaged you.

Your heart stops for a moment before you’re quick to open your phone and go right to Facebook.

And then there it was.

Your message from earlier, still sitting there... and just beneath it, a reply.

He’d answered.

Several hours late. But still—he answered.

> hey! yes, offer’s still open. though i’d love to get to know my candidate first lol

> what’s your name?

chapter two >

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[clancycatears]

gah!!! thank you. <3 (i appreciate the audience that reads it already)

BEFORE HE LEAVES (A Roommate!Gaz Series)

CHAPTER TWO

table of contents - gaz masterlist

< chapter one | chapter three >

kyle chooses you as his new roommate, and you realize you were a lot less prepared than you thought—in the home department. you meet him for the first time outside of facebook and learn more about him.

chapter-specific warnings: humor, anxiety spikes, military inaccuracies, gaz is secretly a cat person and loves dodge already, gaz is also a gentleman, bless your mémé’s heart, gaz’s text bubbles are blue, while yours are green.

a/n: ehehehe! i was kicking my feet under my desk while writing this. i love my boy so much. i’m working on my writing and how i can improve. shoutout @sai-int for giving me the name of that vocabulary app she downloaded lmao!!! every chapter is going to be a lot longer than the first.

; 2.2k words.

> pet friendly?

> yes. i have a cat that’s attached to me like velcro

You and Kyle have been texting back and forth for at least twenty minutes now, while the folded laundry sits forgotten by your side. It’s waiting to be packed into your suitcase as you prepare to move to the flat you’ve needed so desperately.

Poor Dodger is a skittish cat. The reason he moved to London with you was that he would cry and meow loudly if you went missing around a corner in your previous home.

You couldn’t stand having to bring him to a shelter after only being there for a short time because you know Mémé—as much of a saint as she is—can’t take care of a cat due to her old age.

You watch as Kyle types his response on the screen.

> hm. is your cat an esa?

> what?

> an emotional support animal

Your heart sank, and your shoulders drooped.

> oh. no

> i mean. pets live here free if they’re an esa, but it’s about a £35 fee if not

You lightened up a little. That’s not terrible. However, you realized that you would need to get Dodger registered anyway.

He could be considered your emotional support animal. However, he's untrained, and you do not have any medical conditions that require one.

With how often he calms you by staying by your side—lying on your lap when you're stressed, meowing at your closed door just to come in and cuddle with you shortly after you open it—his presence makes you feel a little lighter. You might as well register him when you get the chance.

> that’s fine by me

> ok sweet! i could have you come in for a tour of the place if that works for you?

You stare at your screen, contemplating the words for a moment. The idea of him showing you around? Just the thought of meeting him in person made your chest feel tight.

You need t’meet people.

You take a deep breath to calm the nerves that have built up in your throat and respond.

> that sounds great actually. got a date and time?

He types, pauses, and starts typing again. Your fingertips tap against the back of your phone case as you wait.

> wednesday at 12?

Wednesday is the day after tomorrow. You can make that work. You plan to spend Tuesday job searching and applying to multiple positions anyway.

> sounds good

> awesome! see you then :)

“Who’s that?”

You jump in your seat on the couch, your head whipping around to see Mémé standing behind you, her brows raised with curiosity as she looks at your phone.

You realize you are still sitting there, with folded laundry neglected to your side. Your cheeks warm slightly.

“Looked at apartments earlier. Only guy that texted me back.” Liar. He’s the only one you did text.

“Hm. Good. And?” Mémé circles the couch, bending down to pick up the laundry you left behind.

“I’m going there on Wednesday to check it out,” you say, quickly getting to your feet and starting to fold the last of the clothes in the basket.

Mémé hummed in acknowledgment, patting the clothing before turning to you. A smirk spread across her chapped, wrinkled lips. “I’m glad. You’re finally socializing.”

Then she tilts her head and asks, “Do y'need money for the bus?”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.” You shake your head firmly. After folding the last of the clean clothes, you place them back in the basket. Picking it up, you head for your living space upstairs.

You call it a living space because that’s all it is. It isn’t your bedroom; it’s just a spare one that used to belong to your father.

Nudging the door open with your elbow, you quickly open your suitcase and neatly pack the clothes back inside.

Dodger quickly pads in after you, mewing as he hops onto the bed where your suitcase is placed. The big brown tabby tilts his head curiously, his eyes focused on you as if silently asking, "Please, let’s go to bed."

After putting away the last of your clothes, you sigh and flop onto the soft, gray bedsheets of the bed.

You should get some rest since you have a big day ahead of you. As you drift off into a deep sleep, you forget all about dinner with Mémé the moment Dodger lays all six pounds of himself on your chest.

You wake up at 9:00 AM sharp, putting on a decent pair of denim pants with an orange cardigan over a white tank top.

Mémé is in the kitchen and turns to you as you descend the short flight of brown-carpeted steps. "You missed dinner," she huffs, swiping the last of the soapy water on a dirty plate.

"Yeah, m'sorry." You pull your phone out of your pocket, checking to see if you've received any texts from Kyle. Nothing yet.

"Look f' places near th' apartment; it makes travel cheaper," she muses, wiping the sink of any remaining debris before drying her hands with a cloth.

"Right," you reply, quickly sitting down at the dining table and opening the laptop you left there.

As you begin typing, skimming through various links and websites for a potential place, Mémé takes her time floating around the kitchen, cleaning surfaces and wiping dust from the wooden cabinets.

Grocery store? Absolutely. Local fast food joint? Not your preferred choice, but you’re applying anyway. That café just five minutes from the apartment? Without a doubt. You’re determined to land that job.

After wiping the table with a damp rag, Mémé steps behind you to glance at your laptop screen. "So... what's this person's name?"

"Kyle," you reply casually, your eyes glued to the screen. You can feel her gaze burning into the back of your head.

She is silent for a moment, contemplating. "A boy?" she asks.

"Yes. Why?"

"Nothing. Is he nice?"

"Yes, he is." You hover your mouse over another submit button, preparing to send out another application.

"Oh, very sweet," hums Mémé, returning to wiping down the table around you before returning to the sink. "Y'hungry? Breakfast?"

"Yes, please."

As the day went on, you received several responses from various places. The grocery store was fully staffed, while the fast food restaurant said they preferred to look for better candidates. The café didn’t respond at all. The other twelve places you contacted also seemed uninterested.

However, Kyle had never texted you. He was likely busy setting up the apartment, possibly creating more space for you, even though it would just be a tour of the place.

Well, it's better to get some rest anyway. Your eyes are aching from staring at a screen all day.

When Wednesday rolled around, you threw on a casual pair of black joggers and a beige t-shirt. Very plain. But modest and simple.

> i'm on my way

No response.

The bus ride wasn't terrible. It took half an hour to reach the apartment home, costing £1.75. You sat in the back, zoning out while staring out the window on your left.

You feel your fingers start to tremble as you get off at your stop, a block away at the bus terminal. With each step, you find yourself picking at your cuticles, tearing them up. But why are you so nervous? This is a new beginning—a positive one. You’re about to meet someone in a country that’s foreign to you.

You stand in front of an old, worn brick building that has two floors and three sets of flats. The stone steps leading up to each door are adorned with various flowers and weeds, giving the place a charming and homey feel.

The window next to the front door of the third flat had its curtains drawn to the side. That flat belonged to Kyle. The other two windows were completely shut, indicating they were occupied. Owned. Full capacity.

As you step up the flight of stairs to Kyle’s door, your heart begins to race, and your chest feels tight and uneasy. Fuck, why did this have to be so nerve-wracking? You hesitate, your hand hovering just before the intricately carved white door.

There’s a peephole—what if he already saw you?

You swiftly remove the band-aid and knock twice, then place your hands politely behind your back.

After a brief pause, the doorknob wiggled, and the door swung open as Kyle showed himself. You were greeted by his presence face-to-face.

He wore a neatly ironed plaid brown cardigan and sleek brown trousers. The top of the cardigan had a few missing buttons, making the white tank top underneath visible.

He stood tall, probably around six feet two inches, maybe a little more. His face was as charming as it looked in his profile picture. Thankfully, there were no signs of catfishing or any deception. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, and his pearly white teeth were visible as his lips lifted. He tilted his head downward slowly to meet your gaze.

"Hey!" he chirped, stepping aside and gesturing inside. "C'min; I can show you your room."

When you shuffle into the flat, it looks no different than what you saw in Kyle's pictures. The same eggshell-colored walls, limited furniture, and dim lights are caused by sunlight pooling through the open windows.

Kyle walks past you, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on you. As you both enter the living room, you glance at the sofa. Same slightly worn beige couch. Looked comfy, though.

"The door to your left is my room," Kyle said, gesturing to the closed door in the left corner with his chin. He then pointed to the right end. "The one on the right is yours."

Kyle leads you into your room, and you take a moment to look around. It’s small and a bit cramped, but it does have a walk-in closet, which means you won’t need to worry about fitting a dresser into the limited space left for your bed.

Wait. A bed. You don't even have your own mattress. Great. Why hadn't you thought of that?

"Hey, er..." Kyle pauses while you take your peek. "I didn' see a car outside. How did y' get here?"

You turn to face him, your heart racing as you push past the worry of having to buy a whole bed and frame. "Oh, um..." You reach up to fiddle with your fingers. "I took the bus."

"Bloody hell. Could've told me. It's not a big deal driving to get you." Kyle waved a hand in front of him as if treating the situation like mud on the soles of his shoes.

"No, no, that's okay. I appreciate it, though," you murmur, reaching up to rub the back of your neck.

"Y'don't have a car?" he asks, brow raised in concern.

"No. But I plan to get one soon. The place is still close to UOL, so bus rides won't be too bad—"

Kyle's laugh interrupts you, and you blink up at him curiously. "You can jus' use my car, y'know. I'm not around much anyway, as long as you pay for petrol, though."

"Are you telling me I’m moving in?" you ask as you leave the bedroom, picturing how you want it to look later.

"'Course. Honestly, you're the only person who brought up bringing a pet. I love pets," he hums as he follows you. "A pet could keep you company while I'm away, too."

“Why are you away, though? You never mentioned that.” You follow Kyle as he walks into the kitchen, resting his elbows on the small island between the stove and the living room.

"Ah... I'm in the military," Kyle replies, his eyes casting to the side before returning to you. "I could be gone for months at a time. Sucks."

You say "Oh," stretching out the vowel while nodding slowly.

"So it'd save me some quid if you could drive me to and from the base," he adds after a beat of silence. "If that's okay with you?"

"Oh, that's fine." You lean against the island opposite him.

"Y'said you're from the States, yeah?"

"Yes?"

"Do y'know how to drive on the left side of the road?" he continued with a small chuckle.

"'Course I do, grandma taught me when I moved here," you reply, shrugging your shoulders. "Caught on pretty quickly."

"You're takin' the piss," he giggles, lowering his head before looking back at you.

"Excuse me?" Your brows pinch with confusion.

"Christ. You really are American." He stood up straight and turned to the cabinet closest to him.

You watch as he opens the cabinet to take out two glasses. "What?"

"You're joking." He turns on the sink, the handle creaking before water spills out into the glasses.

"I'm not."

"No, like—That's what that means," he turns back to you, handing you your glass of water as he takes a sip from his own.

"Oh," you murmur, your cheeks flushing a light red as you take the glass from him. "Got more to learn, I guess."

< chapter one | chapter three >

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.