it’s late on a friday night, and omid is at his dad’s so they have baran’s whole house to themselves. they’re leaning against the counter, eating grocery store ice cream and talking about the week they’ve had, and trinity presses a palm into the counter and leans back. what does baran see? trinity’s tricep ripples outward, and suddenly baran gets a little bit dizzy.

as soon as she’s recognized it in that one little spot, she sees it everywhere. the extra bulk on her shoulders, the way her back is a little bit broader, muscle laid a little bit thicker on her forearms. have you bee working out?

huh? oh, yeah, just a little. why, like what you see?

baran snatches trinity’s ice cream bowl away, deaf to her complaints, and presses trinity’s open hands over her hips instead. yes, i do. pick me up.

why?

what, you can’t do it? 

trinity groans, wraps an arm under baran’s ass and lifts until she’s in the air, face hovering above trinity’s instead of right in front of it. 

from there, it’s a race to get her tongue down trinity’s throat. she’s just gotten her nails done, but she doesn’t mind the risk of ruining the set if it means she can scrape her nails over trinity’s arms as her free hand (trinity is holding her in one arm???) wraps around baran’s waist, encouraging her to rock into the abs that have now materialized on her body, through her shirt. 

it’s not like she didn’t find trinity unbelievably attractive before, but having something hard to drag her clit against over and over isn’t something she’s ever going to complain about, especially not with how trinity is forcing an arch into her back. baran should feel a little unstable, this high up in someone’s arms. she doesn’t.

trinity sets her down on the counter, smoothing her hands over the tops of baran’s thighs and occasionally over her clothed mound, inviting her to rock her hips up. there are no wasted opportunities, though. baran tugs a confused trinity’s arm up, up, and into her mouth, and digs her canines in while trinity presses two fingers inside elsewhere. 

she stays biting until she comes. 

The shift was long and fucking brutal, and Cassie had a ridiculously comfy couch and a nice spare duvet and pillows, and a soft tank top with a well-loved, stretched out neckline, and she was all around sweet, just the fucking best, as always.

But there was a buzzing coming from somewhere in the apartment, and Victoria could feel herself going insane as she lay on the couch. She put in a valiant effort, but after half an hour she got up and went in search of whatever it was. Cassie wouldn’t mind, right? Cassie would never know, she reassured herself, the woman already fast asleep by now, surely.

She crept around the apartment, checking the kitchen and bathroom, even briefly poking her head in Harrison’s room. Nothing.

Only one other possibility.

Victoria, very carefully, terrified of creaking floorboards, pressed her ear against the wood of Cassie’s bedroom door. There!

Maybe Cassie just listened to white noise while she slept. Totally normal. She wouldnt mind if Victoria poked her head in, would totally turn it off or down if Victoria explained it was bothering her. Hey, Cassie may be asleep and she could turn it off without the older woman ever even knowing!

As slowly and as gently as possible, Victoria turned the handle and inched the door open.

Cassie’s room was a beautiful mess, clothes strewn in an organized chaos, relegated to different piles, an underwear drawer hanging open so she could easily grab a clean pair, clutter covering every surface, and her double bed at the centre of it, sheets rucked up, clearly left unmade when she left this morning, and crumpled up by her ankles.

And there, in the centre of the bed, legs spread in greeting, was Cassie, head thrown back against the headboard, looking oh so relaxed, pussy stuffed full with a vibrator letting out a continuous hummmm.

Victoria felt herself redden, blood rushing up to her cheeks in embarrassment of walking in on her friend in such an intimate position, stumbling into the door slightly whilst she tried desperately to ignore the fact that the rest of her blood was pooling low in her stomach.

The sound of her stumbling didn’t rouse Cassie much, she only squinted one eye open before closing it again. Victoria had apologies ready to slip off her tongue when Cassie spread her legs further apart and patted the mattress next to her, waving a hand lazily to beckon her over.

And maybe she was pathetic, maybe she was needy and desperate for love affection sex something. In any case, she still found herself drifting over to Cassie, the lightness of her head contrasting with the heaviness of her body as she eagerly stumbled over. She planted herself next to Cassie, joining her in leaning her back against the headboard. Her body stayed rigid, didn’t know if she would ever be able to relax again, and then Cassie rolled her head over, forehead landing easily on her sweaty shoulder.

“Was wondering if you’d pay me a visit tonight.”

A shuddering breath tumbled out of her lungs. From here she could see the steady clenching and unclenching of Cassie’s abdomen, could see how her cunt was clenching around the toy as it sent waves of pleasure through her body, despite what her relaxed face seemed to present. She could also feel her underwear getting wetter and wetter, her own pussy clenching, but unfortunately around nothing. She had to get out of there, “Cassie, I am so, so sorry-“

“Shhhh,” Cassie’s arm trailed up Victoria’s own, nails lightly scratching her flushed skin, before tightening around her wrist. The lump in her throat was getting thicker and thicker, but Cassie was gentle as she easily guided her hand down until it wrapped around humming silicone, Victoria’s hand briefly catching on the wet warmth of Cassie’s slick and lube covered clit. “Hmmm. Could you help me out right now, sweetheart. My arms are so tired.”

She sat frozen for a few seconds, bones vibrating at the same frequency as McKay’s cunt, breathless and wanting and so desperate to please. As gently as she could muster, she pulled the toy out, before sliding it back in. Cassie’s head tipped back slightly from it’s place on Victoria’s shoulder, exposing her neck, as a soft moan was pulled from her. Victoria repeated the motion, eager to create more sounds, soon finding a rhythm, slow and easy.

Cassie was slipping further and further from her shoulder, slipping down Victoria’s body slightly, as the pleasure took over her body. “You like that?” She couldn’t help but murmur the tease, pressing the toy deeper and faster into the woman’s pussy, saliva pooling in her mouth at the lewd, wet sounds it was making with every movement, edges of her fingers getting damp with every inward thrust, catching the slick that was building up with the pleasure Cassie was feeling, the pleasure that she was giving her - God she wanted to taste her.

A guttural moan was Cassie’s answer to the question, and, right as a pleased laugh was slipping out of Victoria’s mouth, the stretched out neckline of her tank top was pulled down in a quick movement, exposing her tits, one of which Cassie quickly latched on to. The thrusts of the vibrator stuttered as Victoria whined at the sensation, only moving again once Cassie’s hips started moving and her teeth grazed across her nipple, pulling a breathy moan out of her but also spurring her into motion.

Her movements became more frantic, no rhythm anymore, as her own pleasure distracted her from good, consistent thrusts into Cassie’s cunt. The woman deserved better, but it was hard to dwell too much on that thought when one of her tits is receiving so much attention, tongue swirling over the sensitive areas where teeth just scraped, pleasure and pain combining into something so magnificent she arched her back far enough she was sure it would break.

And then there was warm hand slipping into her underwear, sliding through her folds, becoming drenched in the slick that had been building up ever since she opened that bedroom door. Never once removing her mouth, Cassie, ever so gently, pushed a finger into Victoria’s pussy.

The intrusion of something other than her own fingers caused her to flutter around Cassie, trying to squeeze round the slender single digit before it began moving. Cassie didn’t have to wait long before another finger joined, the increase in thickness filling her up in just the way she needed as Cassie pumped her fingers into her, her walls squeezing desperately around her, pulling her in for more, more, more.

Victoria was practically useless to Cassie now, except in keeping her hand warm and mouth occupied, her head so fuzzy with pleasure, arms weak as her blood centred around her tits and her pussy, unable to do anything but whine and moan as her muscles tensed, nerves firing throughout her body, rendering her practically useless in everything except receiving pleasure.

She had just enough strength left in her body to shove the toy deep into Cassie for one last, long time, only half conscious of what she was doing, only knowing it was doing something for the woman by the vibrations her moans were sending through her tit. She must have been doing something right though, as (and she’d feel proud of herself for this later) Cassie’s breathing picked up, deep moans near constant as her tongue stopped lapping and her fingers paused in their motion, her body shuddering and legs spasming alongside Victoria’s, pussy squeezing so tightly around the toy it was forced out, even with the pressure of Victoria’s hand.

Cassie continued to shudder through the orgasm, toy left buzzing between her legs, fingers warming Victoria’s cunt and breath ghosting her breast. Victoria’s now empty hand fell between the older woman’s legs, feeling the warm come that had gathered there, protecting it from the cool air of the room. Cassie regained her strength quickly, and restarted her movements with a brand new rigour, fingers curling inside Victoria’s velvety hole, stroking that spot she always had trouble reaching on her own, and sucking hard on her chest, hard enough Victoria wondered if she was trying to pull milk from it.

Cassie’s clever hands and her evil, evil tongue, easily rendered Victoria a useless whining mess, incapable of anything except curling into the pleasure, writhing as her abdomen tightened, so close to release, so ready to burst. And with one clever press of the heal of Cassie’s hand against her neglected clit, she was gone.

Cassie’s release had been beautiful - shuddering and deep groans and a nice and neat collection of come. Victoria’s release was messy - the pleasure consumed her mind and body, and was too much to be simply expressed in a soft whiny moan, no, it was a loud, high moan, drawn out from the base of her throat as her head fell back hard, probably bruising against the headboard. And her body did spasm like Cassie’s, limbs contracting as she finally came, back arching before she was curling back in on herself, already overstimulated. But the most embarrassing part was how she came. Never in her life has she experienced this, but as she cried out, as her abdomen tensed, she felt a gush a wetness surround her, soaking the underwear she was still wearing and Cassie’s fingers and bed. Cassie continued fingering her through her orgasm, mouth now pulled away to apparently watch the show, pulling more squirt out with the movement - fuck it was neverending.

When it did finally stop, when her body seemed to be back to normal, Victoria’s hands - both, even the one covered in Cassie - sluggishly rose to cover her face. Fuck my stupid fucking body, fuck i fucked up everything.

Her breathing evened out, and, if she was capable of moving she would figure out a way to run home in the come soaked underwear and old tank top damp with Cassie’s spit. The older woman wiggled her fingers a couple of times before slowly removing them, slowing a couple times when Victorias oversensitive cunt clenched around them, devastated at the loss.

Once she was free from the pussy prison, she lay back down next to Victoria. The med student lay still, silently holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop behind her trembling hands. But Cassie just moved her easily - she always did - to press against her side, intertwining their sticky bodies.

A sweet kiss was placed against Victoria’s sweaty brow, the vibration of her warm voice echoing through her chest, shaking Victoria’s skull as the words enveloped her, “so good for me, so good, baby. We’ll get you cleaned up in the morning, okay? You were so pretty. You’re so pretty for me.”

The words swirled around her fuzzy mind and aching limbs, encapsulating her like a cocoon. She pressed her face deeper into Cassie’s chest and let a lullaby of gentle breaths and a distant vibration pull her to sleep.

***

English is not my mother tongue, so please excuse my mistakes, I hope you enjoy! Lots of love!

warnings: humiliation, mention of bondage, bruises, domination

................................................................................................................................

The Lion and the Lamb

Gentle fingers traced the lines of your face. Your eyebrows, the contour of your nose, your lips. The soft skin of your cheeks, which she had slapped so passionately last night. This morning, they were bathed in a pleasant pink, as if you had a fever.

Cersei loved watching you sleep. The sun kissed your face, you looked so peaceful. She knew that peaceful look was merely the result of your physical exhaustion from the night before. When you were asleep, she could look at you in a way she never could during the day, not even when you were together. That would be too much.

She leaned her head against your shoulder and placed her hand on your chest to feel how calmly you were breathing. You were so good for her. Cersei had never found anyone who was so naturally suited to her. She needed someone who was obedient to her, someone she could rule over. And in you, she had found someone who clearly enjoyed the control she had over you. She decided what you wore, she decided your hairstyle. When she had a bad day, you were her outlet. She tied you to the bed, sat on your face, and drank wine while you gasped for air beneath her. Or she sent you naked through the castle to the kitchen to fetch grapes for her, knowing you could run into her brother or father at any moment.

And you, you idiot, felt like you were chosen. The queen wanted you in her bed. Who wouldn't? The queen used her perfect hands to touch you. You loved how obsessed she was with you. And Cersei was crazy about you. No one was allowed to touch her precious jewel.

Sleepy, you raised your hand to your eyes to block out the bright sun. Cersei leaned over you when she heard you wake up. Long blonde hair fell into your face. “Good morning, my little lamb.”

Her voice was soft, her hair like flowing honey. You smiled sleepily and rolled into her arms. “I want to cuddle,” you murmured needily.

Cersei raised an eyebrow, amused. “Someone is suddenly very strong-willed.”

“The nights are yours, the mornings after are mine.”

“Remind me when we agreed on that arrangement.” She pulled your hair defiantly to look at you. You blinked shyly.

“You're lucky you entertain me so well,” she said sharply. And she scrutinized your face, covered with false courage. Fear spoke through your eyes. “You know I don't like compromises.”

Her fingers traced the scratches on your back; they were still fresh. It still hurt and reminded you that she really didn't like compromises. It hurts,” you whispered softly, as if you were giving up. You just wanted a little sympathy from her. You wanted to know that she cared about how she left you behind. When her lust-driven anger used you as its target.

“You can leave anytime if you don't like it,” she murmured hoarsely. “I sleep well alone in my bed, but don't pretend we both don't know how much you actually need this.”

Her gaze was dark. But that wasn't what mattered to you. You wanted to be more than just her toy, and you knew you understood her so well. You could be so good to her, but she just had to let you.

“Let me understand your anger, I want to be there for you,” you tried again, wrapping a strand of blonde hair around your finger. You knew that Cersei had been angry when she came yesterday, you knew that most of the time her hurt, her frustration, was the trigger for your little twisted game, but she could never honestly admit that to herself.

“I don't need pity,” her voice was hard. "All I need is for you to be good to me. When everything out there is against me, I need you to know that I still have power somewhere."

Your eyes scanned hers. Somewhere inside her, there had to be something that radiated vulnerability. But Cersei was skilled at blocking out everything that gnawed at her heart.

You exhaled in resignation, pressing a loving, gentle kiss on her cheek before burying your face in her arms again.

“What was that for?” asked Cersei, unaccustomed to such affectionate gestures. Your flowery kiss burned hot on her cheek.

“If I can't be there for you, then at least I can give you my love and be gentle with you.” Your voice sounded muffled against her chest, but luckily you didn't see Cersei's face tense at your words.

“I'm not a child whose pain needs to be kissed away. And you can't give me anything, I take what I want. And what I take from you is your obedience.” Her fingers tugged lightly at your hair again and you knew you couldn't crack the nut.

“So if you're not interested, you're welcome to kiss my pain away.” You turned onto your stomach and allowed Cersei a glimpse of last night's artwork, covered in scratches and bruises. Some wounds had not yet completely closed, and the bruises had already taken on other colors.

She sighed and sat up. “You're very demanding this morning,” she murmured, reaching behind her to take the cream jar from the nightstand. Her slender fingers spread the lotion evenly over your wounds, just as she had done last night before going to sleep, when you were half asleep, half exhausted, already completely dazed on your pillow.

When she introduced this little aftercare ritual back then, you felt so unworthy and were surprised by this sudden act of affection. “I can ask another maid to do it later or do it myself,” you quickly offered when she started treating your wounds. “I don't let other people clean my toys after I've played with them,” she had simply said, and you fell silent.

And now, a few months of playing later, you were lying there again, feeling sad. You had feelings for this woman, unfortunately you both knew that. And it was sick, how could you love someone like her? Sometimes she really tormented you, you had to beg her for mercy in tears. Seeing her eyes glitter even more greedily, her dark laughter, and how she seemed to find it even more exciting, frightened you, and yet it also turned you on, which made the whole thing even sadder. Your head wanted her gentleness, your body her angry lust.

“Have you lost your tongue, little lamb?” asked your mistress, who didn't fail to notice how quiet you suddenly were. The cream landed back on the nightstand and she lay down next to you again.

“Tell me how I can be good to you, I'll do anything,” you whispered. She stroked your hair, which had fallen into your face as you rolled onto your stomach, back behind your shoulders.

“I don't know what you think you could save in me, but all I need from you is, I repeat, your obedience, and you already give me that. You are my property, my pretty little lamb, that's all.”

You were really just her stupid toy. She would play with you until you became too boring for her. Until your body was worn out, until she had left too many scars on you, and then you would be too unsightly for her and she would bring a new little lamb into her lion's den. It hurt you.

“It's just our little game,” she added when you didn't say anything. Our little game? It was her little game and you were allowed to play along.

“Our little game,” you repeated, murmuring. “Fine, let's play.”

You suddenly grabbed her hips to turn her onto her back before quickly sitting on top of her. Her eyes sparkled dangerously beneath you, her lips twitching.

“What do you think you're doing?” Her voice was low, dangerous.

“Oh, come on,” you rolled your eyes. “I'm misbehaving and giving you a reason to punish me. That's how the game works, isn't it?”

“Careful!” Her hands shot angrily toward your throat, but before they reached their target, you grabbed her wrists and pressed them against the bed. She gasped angrily.

“I don't know what you dreamed about last night that made you wake up this morning and decide to be a brat,” she spat. “But we both know that you'll be begging me for forgiveness later, so think wisely about what you're doing.”

Your face hovered silently above hers. She was angry, you could feel it in the heat radiating from her skin. God, she was beautiful. Bravely, you leaned down and kissed her passionately. And she kissed you back.

Cersei didn't let herself be kissed often, but she kissed you often, everywhere. Mostly when she had gone too far and held you crying, signaling with silent kisses on your hair that you weren't the reason for her anger and that she didn't hate you.

She bit your lower lip demandingly, pressed her hips against yours, and tried to push you away. At first you could fight it, but then you slid down to the right side, giving her enough room to bend her left leg and brace her foot against your stomach. That created distance between your hands and her wrists, and you had to let go of her to support yourself, otherwise you would have fallen off the bed. Cersei used her newfound freedom to sit up. She took your hands to stabilize you properly on her lap again.

“You think you're so smart, don't you?” she hissed. “How did you imagine this would work, hm?”

You remained silent, placed her hands on her shoulders, and attempted to push her back onto the pillow. However, Cersei was not only taller, but also significantly stronger than you. One of her hands remained on your lower back while the other found the back of your head and pulled you back by your hair.

You screamed, your hands immediately flying to your head. The pain was excruciating. Tears welled up in your eyes. Offended, you jumped out of bed and began to cry quietly.

Cersei sat in bed, half amused, half confused, where you had left her. “What?” she sneered, looking at you standing in front of her. “Did that hurt, little baby?” Her voice dripped with false sympathy, she was mocking you.

It hurt. Deep inside, your heart was bleeding, but how could you explain that to someone who obviously no longer had one? Whoever had stolen hers.

“I don't know what's wrong with you this morning,” Cersei continued. “Maybe I gave you too much freedom and you forgot your place.”

Her words hit you hard. Too much freedom? Had it been too much freedom that allowed your feelings to come out? And now it was too late, her little lamb was spoiled.

“I'm sorry,” you cried desperately, burying your swollen face in your hands. There you stood, naked and crying at her bedside. “I'll do anything. Just don't replace me.”

“Replace you?”

“Replace you?” She stood up and took your hands away from your eyes. With raised eyebrows, she looked down into your tear-filled eyes. “What's wrong with you, little lamb?”

“Oh, Cersei,” you wrapped your arms around her and cried even more bitterly than before, before a breathy whisper left your lips: “I love you.”

You expected a lot. You waited for her hand to slap you. You waited for her to yell at you and accuse you of finally going too far. What kind of world did you think you lived in that a dirty whore of the queen, Cersei Lannister, would say she had feelings for you? But none of that happened.

“You silly little lamb,” Cersei said quietly after a short silence. Her fingers dug into your skin like claws, but it didn't feel dangerous, like she was threatening you; it felt like possession. Like someone was going to come through the door at any moment and tear you from her arms. “I'm not someone who's easy to love. Especially not by you, since you're so naive. But I think you know that.”

You nodded quietly, sniffling. What was she supposed to say to that now?

“Is that why you put on that whole show this morning? Because your poor heart is a little confused?” She leaned back to look at you searchingly. You nodded again. “You little idiot.” She sat down on the edge of the bed again, you next to her.

“I don't want to be just your doll to play with,” you whispered boldly. Damn, Cersei had really given you too much freedom, making you think you could now make demands. “Let me in, you know me and my heart, you know I am devoted to you. I would do anything for you.”

“You're not the problem, my little lamb.” Cersei tapped the tip of your nose, her eyes sad.

“Please just tell me that I'm more to you than a body you use for your pleasure.”

“If that were all you were to me, you wouldn't be here anymore.” Cersei stared at you without blinking, examining every twitch on your face. She searched for any sign of evil intentions on your part, but your face was a clear mirror of your honest heart: red, flooded with tears, and full of longing.

“I've seen you cry many times, but this is the first time I don't want you to cry,” she said, slightly amused.

You snorted and smiled weakly. “Please take care of me.”

“As long as you're with me, no one will ever hurt you! You're mine, and I protect what belongs to me,” she said quickly, grabbing your hands.

“I'm not talking about the others, I don't care about them.” There was pain in your voice, and pain struck Cersei when she realized you were talking about her. “Don't break my heart, my Cersei, I beg you.”

You were asking the impossible of her. She had to swallow all the ridicule and scorn about this request because, at the end of the day, you were important to her; she couldn't deny that.

“I'll try,” her fingers traced little lines on the back of your hand. A hint of shame came over her when she realized that your greatest fear wasn't out there, it was sleeping next to you in bed every night.

“Promise me. Please.” You squeezed her hands; that was all you wanted.

“I promise I'll try.”

You laughed. “Lannisters don't make their promises just like that, am I right?”

Cersei shook her head seriously. She would have liked to give you more, to say more, but she couldn't. It was dangerous. At least, that's what she thought. Feelings and vulnerability were too dangerous to allow. “My promise to try is worth a lot.”

Cersei had been planning this for months. When she first began this endeavour, she wondered if milk of the poppy would be useful. She had used it on Robert once when he insisted on bedding her but decided against using it on you. She wanted the risk, the danger of you potentially waking up at any moment. To begin with, it had started slow, a casual touch here, a brush of a hand there. Cersei carefully built up your tolerance to her flesh on yours until you came to expect it, to almost crave it. She liked the way you leaned towards her when you poured her wine, or when your fingers lingered for too long in her hair after brushing it. She liked to watch you in the mirror, eyes slightly glazed as you absentmindedly fingered through her hair. 

When you had first arrived in Cersei’s service, she felt nothing more than a slight curiosity towards you yet the longer you stayed with her, the more obsessive she became. While it wasn’t uncommon for women of high status to have a lady-in-waiting stay in their bed-chambers, Cersei had never had one in such an intimate space. Not since she was a little girl afraid of the monsters in the dark. 

That all changed when she heard some of the guards talking about how fuckable you were. 

Not only did Cersei have them killed, but you were now to spend every moment with her. You didn’t mind, not considering that it was a promotion. You were lowborn, never destined for anything more than cleaning chamber pots and drawing baths. When you were promoted to Cersei’s lady-in-waiting, hushed whispers echoed throughout Kings Landing. That privilege was reserved for highborns, not someone like you. 

You didn’t mind sharing a bed with Cersei, if anything you preferred it. You had shared a bed with your three sisters from the time they had been born until you left for Kings Landing. There was something comforting about hearing the sounds of another person breathing. You had always been a vivid dreamer, able to describe your dreams in such detail you often wondered if they were actually memories. Since staying with Cersei, your dreams had taken on more… adult… content. Where before you saw her casual touches as friendly, you now found yourself reading into them. Wanting them to mean more. 

Cersei remembers the night when her thoughts became more sinister as clear as day. It had been a week since you had started staying with her and it had been a week since she had slept properly. She would feign a peaceful sleep until she heard your breaths deepen and even out; then her eyes would snap open and she would watch you like a predator in the dark. On that particular night, you had been moving more than usual. At first, Cersei thought you were having a nightmare and reached over to wake you but when you let out a whimper and arched into her touch, she realised just how wrong she was. She looked at you closer, at your reddining face, furrowed brows and light sheen on your body. Her fingers lingered, ghosting over your forearm, causing the hairs on your arm to raise. You grunted and rolled towards her, causing Cersei to jump slightly and pull her hand away. She bit her lip and smiled, her eyes darkening as she imagined being the cause of your wet dream. Her smile dropped as quickly as it arrived when a nasty thought entered her head. She's probably dreaming about some stable boy. 

Cercei slapped you hard and you awoke with a jolt, you sat up sharply, cupping your hand to your face as you looked around, your sleep-addled brain struggling to catch up. 

“What? What’s happening?” 

“My sweet mouse, you were having a nightmare.” Cersei soothed you, running her hands through your hair and bringing your head to her chest. “I tried to wake you.”

You craned your neck to look up at her, her expression almost dared you to challenge her but you trusted her. Why else would she have hit you? Besides, her believing you were having a nightmare was much less embarrassing than her finding out that you were having a sex dream. A sex dream about her no less. You also couldn’t help but enjoy the tingle left behind by her slap.

“Thank you. Sorry your grace, I didn’t mean to disturb your own sleep.”

“It is quite alright.” Cersei pauses for a moment “Sometimes I find it helpful to talk through the dream.”

You blushed, still slightly groggy and in no way up to elaborate lying “I-I can’t really remember your grace.” 

“Shall I get you milk of the poppy? It would aid your sleep.”

“Thank you your grace but there’s no need. I tried it once before and it gave me no dreams at all. I would rather have…unpleasant dreams than none at all.”

“Well if you won’t share your nightmares or take poppy milk, then I suggest we try to sleep. I have council meetings tomorrow and I need to be well rested.”

“Of course your grace. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Y/n.”

~~~~~

From that night onwards, Cersei was addicted. She craved you like a drug and it only got worse once you were asleep. Seeing your peaceful face, so trustingly restful. She would trace her fingers over your nose, your eyebrows, along your lips, down the column of your throat and between your breasts. Her fingers went where she wanted her mouth to go. One night, she decided to be brave. She was a lion and lions were afraid of nothing. So she flicked her thumb quickly over your nipple. She did it so quickly she wondered if she had done it at all. That thought prompted her to go back, to gently roll it between her fingers over your nightgown. Your lips parted in with a needy sigh and Cersei bit back a growl. Her favourite thing to do was see how far she could push your body before it sent signals to wake you up. Turns out it only took a few weeks of Cercei training you for her to be able to slip a finger into your wet hole. The taste of you was so delicious that she got herself off with your essence on her tongue and her fingers shoved into her cunt. She gently opened your mouth and wiped her fingers clean on your tongue after that endeavour. It almost made her cum again to see you swallow what she put in your mouth. 

You were going to be such a good little slut.

One night, Cersei decided she wanted to take things further. She wanted to wake you up. She wanted to watch your eyes roll back and tears leak out she fucked you hard into the mattress. She wanted to put your pretty little tongue to good use and cum on your face as you struggled to breathe. This new, reckless desire had absolutely nothing to do with Ellaria Sand looking at you a little too closely. 

Cersei started how she always did, with tracing over your features. She enjoyed the method of it, the order each of the stages were completed. She liked watching your body get more and more needy. Today, however, she rested over your hips. She held herself over you, not prepared to let you feel her weight just yet but she wanted you to feel her presence. Once her fingers had finished tracing their intricate map across your skin, she let her mouth follow. Cersei let her lips and tongue trace over where her fingers had been and once she reached your breasts, she undid the lacing keeping your nightgown together. She felt her mouth water at the sight and wanted nothing more than to bite down on your pillowy flesh but she refrained. 

Not yet she whispered to herself. No, instead of satiating her needs, she reached back and slipped a finger over your entrance. Your hips bucked unconsciously, rubbing against her cunt and causing a moan to slip out. She stilled instantly. She didn’t want you to wake yet. Once satisfied you weren’t going to wake, she continued gently running her finger around your tight hole, gathering your wetness. She gently hovered over your pubic bone, she was sure you could feel her heat radiate onto you yet still you didn’t stir. Cersei’s cunt throbbed and clenched at the thought of you knowing she’s doing this to you. She ran her finger higher up and shivers when she hears you whimper. She found your clit. She gently applies a little more pressure and smirks when your hips twitch once again. She begins to grind down on you, wanting to get off using you whether you knew it was happening or not. 

Her hips jerk to a stop.

She’s getting ahead of herself.

She needs to slow it down again so she returns to your breasts, licking your nipples till they turn into rock-hard pebbles. Cercei leans back to admire her work. You're a panting mess and she hasn't even touched you properly. 

Cersei slides down your body till she’s got your pussy in her line of sight. She gently spreads your legs open, running her nails along the insides of your thighs. She settles between them and watches with baited breath as your cunt pulses. She lets out a quiet chuckle and the puff of air makes it clench harder. Finally finally Cersei decides to indulge herself. She presses her tongue flat against you and your hips twitch once again. She licks as her nose bumps into your clit, her teeth lightly grazing your swollen bud before she goes back down to where she really wants to be. She briefly looks up at your face to see her handiwork. She puts more pressure on your clit, licking faster and harder as she hears your breathing get louder and heavier, your natural rhythm she had become accustomed to was gone. She feels your thighs clench around her head and fingers wrap in her hair as a loud moan escapes your lips.Cersei sees you looking down at her, your eyes glazed as you try to work out what just happened. 

“Cersei?”

“Oh little mouse” Cersei cooed “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

She moved up from where she was resting between your legs and squeezed your jaw so you would open it. 

“Swallow” she purred, before spitting in your mouth. 

You did as she said and watched as her eyes darkened. 

“Stay still.” 

You did as you were told, refraining from reaching up and touching where you desperately wanted to touch. Cersei rocked back and forth over your cunt, her juices mixed with your own until the room was filled with lewd sounds. Cersei leaned forward, getting a better angle and wrapped her hand around your throat. You felt your breathing get shallow as she began to grind on you harder. 

“Open.” 

You did as you were told and even stuck your tongue out. You watched as Cersei gently let spit drip down her lips and into your mouth. Once again, you swallowed.

“Good girl.” She rasps out as she comes. You come too, her words affecting you more than you thought they could. 

Once you had both come down a little Cersei rolled off you and looked at you with a sinister glint in her eye.

“I’m going to fuck you properly in ways you wished your precious stable boy fucked you.” Cersei growled and you shook your head in confusion.

“What stable boy?”

“Don’t act dumb I’ve seen you with him.” She grabs your pussy and you gasp “This is mine now. No one else gets to touch it ever again.”

“I’m a virgin, Cersei. There is no stable boy.”

You watch as her features soften slightly before returning to their hard edge “I’m your first?”

“Yes.”

by half past six your head feels as though someone has taken a chisel to the inside of your skull.

it had started sometime after lunch.

a dull ache behind your left eye.

annoying, but manageable.

then your editor had decided the feature due monday actually needed rewriting because “the angle wasn’t quite there yet.”

three interviews.

two phone calls.

one source who’d insisted on speaking entirely off the record before proceeding to say absolutely nothing of value.

by the time you’d finally shut your laptop, the headache had evolved from mildly irritating to genuinely vindictive.

which was why you now found yourself standing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the nearest grocery store.

you hated grocery shopping.

too many people.

too many trolleys.

too many families somehow managing to occupy the entire width of every aisle.

you adjusted the sleeves of your camel coat before grabbing one of the small baskets by the entrance.

panadol.

frozen peas.

go home.

that was the mission.

nothing more.

nothing less.

you’d been inside less than four minutes.

already someone had stopped dead in the middle of an aisle to answer their phone.

another had abandoned their trolley diagonally across the walkway as though it had simply given up on life.

you silently wondered whether common sense had become optional.

the pharmacy aisle came first.

thank god.

you reached for a packet of panadol extra, dropped it into your basket and exhaled quietly.

one thing down.

one to go.

the freezers were towards the back.

you turned the corner…

and immediately heard shouting.

not angry shouting.

worse.

drunk shouting.

“…i’m tellin’ yer, cait, six tubs is a perfectly fuckin’ reasonable number!”

an irish accent.

thick enough that it bounced off the freezer doors.

another voice answered immediately.

calmer.

australian.

“…katie.”

“what?”

“you’re not buying six tubs of ice cream.”

“why the fuck not?”

“‘cause there’s two of us.”

“exactly!”

“…that doesn’t help your argument.”

“it fuckin’ does.”

“it really doesn’t.”

you slowed instinctively.

you hadn’t even reached the aisle yet.

“…yer always do this,” the irish woman complained dramatically.

“do what?”

“judge me.”

“i’m not judging you.”

“yer judgin’ me.”

“katie.”

“yer judgin’ me and me ice cream.”

you closed your eyes briefly.

dear god.

“…i’m compromising.”

“that’s not compromising.”

“i said i’d only buy six.”

“you started at ten.”

“see? compromise.”

there was a long silence.

“…i’m begging you.”

“for what?”

“inside voice.”

“…this is me inside voice.”

you pinched the bridge of your nose.

your headache pulsed harder.

of course.

of course the universe would place you beside the loudest people in north london on the one evening you simply wanted painkillers and silence.

you contemplated turning around.

finding another supermarket.

moving countries.

“…fine!” the australian sighed.

“grand.”

“two tubs.”

“…five.”

“two.”

“…four.”

“katie.”

“…three?”

another pause.

“…two.”

“thank you.”

“…and nandos?”

“…yes, we’ll get nandos.”

“fuckin’ knew you’d come around, love.”

you heard what sounded suspiciously like someone punching the air in celebration.

followed immediately by something clattering onto the floor.

“…did you just drop frozen chips on your foot?”

“…maybe.”

“jesus christ.”

“they attacked me.”

“the chips attacked you.”

“they absolutely fuckin’ did.”

you stared blankly at the ceiling.

perhaps if you waited long enough-

they’d leave.

another burst of laughter.

definitely not.

and with the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for jury duty, you forced yourself around the corner towards the freezer you actually needed.

the scene waiting for you somehow managed to be even more chaotic than you’d imagined.

a dark-haired australian woman stood beside an overflowing trolley, one hand pressed against her forehead in visible defeat.

next to her, a shorter brunette was leaning against the freezer doors as though they were the only thing keeping her upright.

jeans, hoodie, messy hair, trainers.

and four tubs of ice cream already in the trolley despite the earlier negotiations.

one more balanced under her arm.

she was also very obviously several pints into the evening.

her cheeks were pink.

her grin enormous.

and from the unmistakable smell lingering in the air-

beer. quite a lot of it.

the australian noticed you first.

her expression changed instantly.

mortification.

absolute, unmistakable mortification.

“…sorry,” she said automatically.

you gave a small, polite nod. “it’s quite alright.”

it wasn’t- not remotely, but you obviously wouldn’t say that.

you crouched in front of the freezer and searched for the frozen vegetables.

peas, peas, peas.

where were-

“oi.”

you ignored it. 

“oi!” 

the voice came again.

closer this time.

“…cait.”

“…don’t.”

“…there’s a posh lady.”

“…i can see that.”

“…i’m gonna say hello.”

“…katie.”

“…what?”

“…leave the poor woman alone.”

“…why?”

“…because she’s clearly just trying to buy her shopping.”

there was a beat. “…i can multitask.”

you closed your eyes for one brief second.

then reached into the freezer for the frozen peas.

please.

just let me buy my peas in peace.

before your fingers could even close properly around the bag-

“how’s it goin’, so?”

the voice is suddenly much closer.

you straighten slowly, frozen peas in one hand, basket in the other.

the brunette is standing directly beside you now.

she isn’t particularly tall.

doesn’t seem remotely intimidating.

just… impossibly cheerful.

and very, very drunk.

up close, the smell of beer is even more obvious.

not unpleasant, just unmistakable.

she smiles like she’s known you for years. “yer alright?”

you blink once. “…yes.”

“grand.” she nods decisively, as though this has confirmed something deeply important. “i’m katie.”

you say nothing.

she doesn’t appear bothered by this in the slightest.

instead she sticks her hand out.

“well?”

you look at it.

then at her.

then back at it.

“…are you expecting me to shake your hand?”

“well…” she grins. “that’d usually be how introductions work.”

“i wasn’t planning on introducing myself.”

“ah.” she nods thoughtfully. “that’s a fair point, to be fair.”

behind her, the australian woman has physically covered her face with one hand. “…katie.”

“what?”

“leave her alone.”

“i’m only bein’ friendly.”

“she doesn’t look like she wants friendly.”

katie waves a dismissive hand. “yer can’t know that.” she looks back at you. “do yer?”

you stare at her for a long moment. “…no.”

“see?” she points triumphantly at her girlfriend. “i told yer.”

the other woman sighs the sigh of someone who has accepted this is simply her life now. “that’s not what she meant.”

“close enough.”

another pause, and katie studies you with open curiosity. “haven’t seen yer round before.”

“…i live nearby.”

“do yer now?”

“yes.”

“that’s handy.”

“…for what?”

“bein’ nearby.”

you look at her.

she looks back.

completely serious.

your headache somehow gets worse.

“…right.”

“yeah.” another nod. “i live nearby an’ all.”

“i gathered.”

“did yer?”

“you’re buying enough food to survive a small apocalypse. not to mention if you lived far it wouldn’t make sense to purchase ice cream, now would it? it would melt by the time you arrived home.”

she glances into the trolley. “…fuck.” she looks back at caitlin. “she might actually have a point.”

“i’ve been saying that for ten minutes.”

“have yer?”

“yes.”

“huh.”

she scratches the back of her neck. “must’ve missed that bit.”

you take the opportunity to step around her. “well.”

“hang on.”

of course.

you stop.

very slowly.

“…yes?”

“what’s yer name?”

you look at her for a second. “…why?”

“‘cause i’ve told yer mine.”

“i didn’t ask.”

“true.” she seems delighted by that answer. “still.”

“…i’d rather not.”

“that’s mysterious.”

“it’s private.”

“that’s mysterious and private.”

you resist the urge to sigh.

instead you look her up and down.

hoodie.

beer.

slightly crooked stance.

the trolley overflowing with food she very clearly doesn’t need.

“…do i know you?”

katie blinks. “nah.”

“…then why are you talking to me?”

she looks genuinely confused. “‘cause yer standin’ there.”

“…”

“…”

“an’ every friend starts off as a stranger.”

you stare at her, and your head throbs more in that ten seconds than it has in the past few hours. “…as if i’d waste my time trying to become your friend.”

there’s a beat. then-

katie bursts into laughter.

proper laughter.

head tipped back.

shoulders shaking.

“jesus christ.” she wipes at one eye. “yer ruthless.”

you don’t respond.

caitlin, meanwhile, looks like she’d quite like the floor to open up beneath her.

“…i’m so sorry,” she says, stepping forward and taking hold of katie’s sleeve. “she’s had about four pints.”

“five,” katie corrects proudly.

“that… doesn’t help.”

“thought honesty was important.”

“not right now.”

katie ignores her completely, still smiling at you. “i like yer.”

“…that changes nothing.”

“worth a shot.”

“it wasn’t.”

“probably not.”

caitlin finally manages to tug her backwards a step. “come on.”

“aw, cait.”

“we’re leaving the nice lady alone.”

“she wasn’t very nice.”

you answer before you can stop yourself. “thank you.”

katie points at you immediately. “see? she’s got jokes.”

“she doesn’t.”

“she absolutely fuckin’ does.”

caitlin lets out a long breath. “i promise she’s much less… this… when she’s sober.”

you glance between them. “…i should hope so.”

“me too.” there’s genuine desperation in caitlin’s voice.

for the first time all evening, you almost feel sorry for her.

almost.

but then you remember she made the conscious choice to date her, and all sympathy goes flying out the window.

you shift the frozen peas beneath your arm and adjust your basket.

“next time,” you say evenly, looking directly at caitlin, “perhaps put a leash on her before bringing her into public.”

there’s a split second of silence.

then katie barks out another laugh so loud a man at the end of the aisle actually turns to look.

“fuckin hell!” she’s still laughing. “did yer hear that, cait?”

“unfortunately.”

“she told yer to put me on a leash!”

“yes, i was here.”

“that’s brilliant, i’ll be using that.”

“i don’t think it was intended as a compliment.”

“still funny though.”

you’ve already turned away.

this conversation has exceeded your tolerance by several minutes.

as you walk towards the checkouts, you can still hear katie behind you.

“she’s deadly!”

“you’re never seeing her again.”

“ah, y’never know!”

“i’m making sure of it.”

“i didn’t even get her name!”

“and you’re not going to.”

“shame, that.”

their voices fade into the background as you round the corner.

you tighten your grip on the basket.

panadol.

peas.

home.

finally.

⸻

the weekend arrives quietly.

for once, so does your townhouse.

no neighbours climbing walls.

no coffee catastrophes.

no inexplicably loud irish women attempting to befriend you in the frozen food aisle.

just silence.

exactly as weekends ought to be.

⸻

your doorbell rings at precisely nine seventeen on saturday morning.

not nine sixteen.

not nine eighteen.

precisely nine seventeen.

you open the door to find your younger sister standing on the front step, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a grey cat carrier resting beside her feet.

thackery peers out through the mesh door with complete innocence.

you already don’t trust him.

“good morning.”

“morning.”

lefa smiles. “thank you again.”

“it’s two days.”

“i know.”

“i’m looking after a cat, not performing open-heart surgery.”

“debatable.”

you raise an eyebrow.

she sighs dramatically. “he’s… spirited.”

“he’s eight.”

“exactly.”

“that’s generally considered elderly.”

“not for him.”

you glance down at the carrier and thackery blinks up at you with wide green eyes.

he looks deeply offended that his character is currently being questioned.

“he seems perfectly normal.”

lefa laughs. “that’s because he’s plotting.”

“he’s a cat.”

“precisely.”

you crouch down, opening the carrier door.

thackery steps out with all the quiet confidence of someone arriving at a hotel he’d personally booked.

he stretches once, sniffs the hallway, then begins inspecting your house as though he’s conducting a formal valuation.

“…see?” you say.

“he’s exploring.”

“give him twenty minutes.”

“you’re catastrophising.”

“i wish i was.”

you straighten, folding your arms. “lefa.”

“yes?”

“it’s a cat.”

“yes.”

“he eats.”

“yes.”

“he sleeps.”

“occasionally.”

you pause. “…occasionally?”

she smiles far too sweetly “he also climbs.”

“climbs what?”

“everything.”

you glance towards your staircase. then towards the bookshelves. then towards the tall sash windows overlooking the street.

“…define everything.”

“everything.”

you stare at her. “…you’re exaggerating.”

“i’m actually understating.”

thackery chooses that exact moment to leap effortlessly onto the console table beside the front door.

without so much as a running start.

he sits and looks directly at you.then begins washing one paw.

“…show-off,” you mutter.

lefa beams. “i told you.”

“that proves nothing.”

“give him time.”

you sigh. “i’m beginning to regret agreeing to this.”

“too late now.”

“i could still change my mind.”

“my uber’s already booked.”

“convenient.”

“i thought so.”

she checks the time on her phone before looking back up. “harry’s already at the airport.”

“then you’d better go.”

“are you sure?”

“yes.”

“positive?”

“lefa.”

“i’m just checking.”

“you’re going to miss your flight because you’re interrogating me about a cat.”

she laughs. “fine.”

then, just before she reaches the door-

“oh.”

you already dislike that tone. “what?”

“don’t leave the balcony door open.”

“…why?”

“he likes birds.”

“…”

“…”

“that’s not an answer.”

“he once followed a pigeon onto the neighbour’s garage.”

you blink. “followed.”

“yes.”

“onto.”

“yes.”

“the garage.”

“…yes.”

you stare at her for a long moment. “that sounds like a you problem.”

“It became one.”

you shake your head. “i cannot believe you’re saying this with a straight face.”

“i’ve had years of practice.”

you open the front door for her. “go.”

she laughs, stepping outside before turning back one last time. “i love you.”

“i love you too.”

“call me if anything happens.”

“nothing is going to happen.”

“…if you say so.”

“i do.”

she smiles knowingly. “good luck.”

“i won’t need it.”

the door clicks shut.

silence returns almost immediately.

you stand in the hallway for another moment. then look down. and thackery is still sitting on the console table… watching you.

“…well.”

he blinks. 

“it’s just you and me.”

he blinks again.

you nod once. “this will be remarkably uneventful.”

thackery lets out a quiet, almost suspicious-sounding meow.

you choose to ignore it.

that…

would prove to be your first mistake.

⸻

by half past eight, the sun had long since slipped behind the rows of victorian townhouses.

the last of the evening light lingered only as a pale blue haze above the rooftops while warm garden lights cast soft pools of gold across neighbouring terraces.

inside your house, it was quiet… dangerously quiet. no purring, no claw clacking, snoring, nothing.

you looked up from your book. “…thackery?”

nothing.

your brow furrowed.

he wasn’t exactly a vocal cat, but he usually appeared the second he heard his own name.

“thackery?” still nothing.

you closed the book over a finger, listening.

silence.

a feeling you didn’t particularly care for settled in your stomach.

you stood.

the sitting room, empty.

kitchen, empty.

hallway, empty.

“thackery.”

you checked beneath the dining table, inside the downstairs bathroom, behind the curtains for reasons you couldn’t fully explain.

nothing.

“…for heaven’s sake.”

you made your way upstairs.

guest room, empty.

office… 

empty.

your own bedroom-

your eyes landed on the open balcony doors.

the lace curtains drifted lazily in the evening breeze.

you stopped slowly. “…no.”

crossing the room in quick strides, you stepped onto the balcony.

the flower boxes sat undisturbed.

your chair remained exactly where you’d left it.

but the stone balustrade…

there were neat little paw prints across the thin layer of pollen.

your eyes closed. “…please don’t.”

you leaned over the edge.

nothing.

your house sat slightly higher than the neighbouring gardens, separated by old brick walls and mature hedges.

you couldn’t see much from here.

just patches of lawn, soft lighting, voices, laughter, music.

your neighbour.

of course.

you pinched the bridge of your nose “thackery.”

no answer.

you disappeared back inside, already reaching for your phone.

lefa 🩷

you: has thackery ever jumped off a balcony?

the typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

lefa: …what did you do

you: i have done nothing.

lefa: y/n.

you: i asked him politely not to.

lefa: y/n.

you sighed.

you: i think he may have jumped into the neighbour’s garden.

three dots… then-

lefa:😐

lefa: you had ONE job

you: i appreciate the reminder.

lefa: is he okay??

you glanced back towards the balcony.

you: i don’t know.

lefa: go get him???

you stared at the message.

right. because obviously.

you: i was hoping he’d simply return.

lefa: he’s a cat not a boomerang

you rubbed your temple.

and suddenly, your headache hadn’t disappeared since the supermarket.

if anything, it had somehow managed to worsen.

you: i’m aware.

lefa: please go get my son 😭

you looked at the screen for another second before locking your phone with considerably more force than necessary.

“…wonderful.”

you walked towards your wardrobe.

if you were going to knock on a stranger’s door… you supposed you could at least look vaguely presentable.

not that there was much to change.

you caught your reflection in the mirror.

smoothed an imaginary crease from your jumper.

tucked one loose strand of hair back into place.

looked at yourself for another second. “…what are you doing?”

you frowned.

for heavens sake, you were collecting a cat not attending a gala.

giving yourself a small shake of the head, you grabbed your keys and headed downstairs.

the closer you got to the front door, the louder the music became.

along with voices- many voices.

someone burst into laughter loud enough to carry over the garden wall.

someone else shouted something entirely unintelligible.

you opened your front door.

warm summer air greeted you immediately.

along with the unmistakable smell of charcoal- barbecue. how you detested barbecue. 

you followed the pavement a few doors before stopping outside the neighbouring townhouse.

the garden gate stood open with fairy lights glowing overhead.

conversation drifted through the hedge.

you could hear at least a dozen different people. excellent.

exactly what you wanted.

a crowd.

you inhaled once, lifted your hand, and knocked.

almost immediately, someone inside shouted-

“i’ll get it!”

another voice called after them.

“katie, leave it!”

“ah would ye relax!”

footsteps approached, quick and slightly uneven.

then the door swung open.

⸻

the door flew open with considerably more enthusiasm than necessary.

standing in the doorway was the same woman from the supermarket.

except tonight…

she looked even drunker.

her cheeks were pink from the evening air, one arm loosely wrapped around a half-empty pint glass while the other clung dramatically to the doorframe as though it were performing an essential public service.

she squinted, blinked once, then pointed directly at you. “…ah, for fuck’s sake.”

you stared back. “…good evening.”

“i fuckin’ know you.”

“yes.”

katie’s face lit up with genuine delight. “i do know ye!” she announced over her shoulder. “told ye i knew her!”

from somewhere behind her another woman wandered into view, blonde, holding a bottle of beer and already grinning before she’d even reached the doorway. “who d’you know now?”

katie jabbed another finger in your direction.  “her.”

the blonde looked between the two of you. “…have you met before?”

“course we have.” 

she looked back at you. “…have you?”

you sighed quietly. “unfortunately.”

the blonde burst into laughter and katie looked scandalised.

“‘unfortunately’?” she repeated. “that’s a bleedin’ awful thing to say.”

“and yet,” you replied evenly, “it still remains accurate.”

“jesus christ,” the blonde laughed. “she’s funny.”

“she’s rude.”

“both can be true.”

katie ignored her completely. “yer the wan wi’ the peas.”

“…the what?”

“the frozen peas!” she said, as though this were perfectly obvious. “yer head was hurtin’.”

“…correct.”

“see?” katie beamed triumphantly towards the blonde. “i remembered.”

“i’m impressed,” the blonde admitted.

“i’ve got a fuckin’ brilliant memory.”

“you tried to pay for your shopping with your driver’s licence once.”

“details.”

“you also attempted to jump off the london bridge.”

“once in a lifetime experience that would’ve been.”

“debatable.”

the blonde rolled her eyes before offering you an apologetic smile. “sorry. i’m beth.”

you inclined your head politely. “hello.”

katie gasped dramatically. “she never told me her name.”

“did you ask?”

“…”

beth waited.

“…”

“…i did, and she said no.”

beth snorted. “shocking.”

“i was workin’ up to doing it again.”

“were you?”

“aye.”

you regarded the pair of them for a long moment.

one loudly intoxicated, and one clearly enjoying every second of it.

your returning headache throbbed in protest. “…if this is the standard procedure for answering your front door,” you said dryly, “i’m beginning to understand the state of modern society.”

beth bit her lip to stop herself laughing.

katie, meanwhile, looked genuinely thoughtful. “…d’ye know…” she nodded slowly. “that’s actually a bit fuckin’ harsh.”

“i thought i was being generous.”

beth laughed outright.

katie looked at her in betrayal. “whose side are ye on?”

“not yours.”

“rude.”

“accurate.”

you pinched the bridge of your nose. “if i may…” both women looked back at you. “…i’m actually here for a reason.”

katie frowned. “…are ye?”

“yes.”

“fuck.” she took a sip of her beer. “ah thought ye’d come to see me.”

“…an understandable mistake.”

beth had to turn away, laughing into the neck of her bottle. “she’s taking the piss out of you.”

“i know she is.”

“and you’re letting her.”

“’cause i like her.”

you closed your eyes for the briefest moment. “…that concerns me.”

“see?” katie said proudly to beth. “we’re havin’ a conversation.”

“i’m not entirely convinced this qualifies as one.”

before katie could launch into another entirely unnecessary speech, a familiar voice drifted over from somewhere deeper inside the house.

“katie?” another beat. “who’s at the door?”

katie called back without taking her eyes off you. “it’s me new friend!”

“…she is not your new friend,” beth corrected immediately.

“she will be.”

“she very much won’t,” you said at the same time.

beth dissolved into laughter again. “this is the funniest thing i’ve seen all week.”

there’s movement further inside the house.

someone weaving through the crowd with an easy confidence that suggests it’s their home.

then-

leah appears.

one hand still gripping a tea towel slung casually over her shoulder, the other balancing a plate she’d clearly been taking somewhere before she’d been interrupted.

she’d changed since the last time you’d seen her.

gone were the jeans and coat.

instead, she wore a white ribbed tank top tucked into a pair of grey lounge shorts, the waistband of a pair of black calvin klein boxers just visible above them. a backwards cap hid most of her hair, though a few blonde strands had escaped around her face.

rings caught the warm garden lights every time she moved her hands.

she looked… comfortable.

like she’d lived in this moment for years.

the second her eyes landed on you, her entire face brightened.

“hiya, pretty girl.” the grin that spread across her face was unmistakably tipsy. “what do i owe the pleasure?”

you sighed through your nose. “good evening, leah.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“i’m aware.”

she leaned one shoulder against the doorframe beside katie, smiling lazily. “so?”

you folded your arms. “my sister’s cat has apparently decided your garden is more interesting than mine.”

“…your cat?”

“my sister’s.”

“important distinction?”

“very.”

leah nodded solemnly. “right.” then she laughed softly. “oh.”

you raised an eyebrow. “‘oh’?”

“that’ll be thackery.”

you blinked. “…you know his name?”

“hard not to.”

“why?”

beth snorted into her drink.

leah rubbed the back of her neck. “…he’s become quite popular. and it says so on his collar.”

there was something in the way she said it that immediately made you suspicious. “…popular?”

“mm.”

“define popular.”

before leah could answer, katie enthusiastically cut in. “the wee lad’s gettin’ passed around the fuckin’ garden.”

you stared. “…pardon?”

“everyone loves him.”

beth nodded. “kimmy’s had him.”

“foxy’s had him.”

“lia had him for about ten minutes.”

“lessi thinks he’s perfect, she asked if she could keep him until we noticed the collar.”

katie beamed. “he’s havin’ the fuckin’ time of his life.”

you closed your eyes briefly. “…of course he is.”

leah laughed. “he genuinely just wandered in like he owned the place.”

“that,” you muttered, “sounds exactly like him.”

“he’s very friendly.”

“he’s a menace.”

“same thing, sometimes.”

despite yourself… the corner of your mouth threatened to move. only slightly.

but leah noticed. of course she noticed.

her smile softened almost imperceptibly. “he’s alright,” she said. “promise.”

you looked back at her. “…i wasn’t worried.”

“liar.”

“…excuse me?”

“you’ve got that face.”

“what face?”

“‘i’m pretending not to panic but internally i’m already writing apology messages to my sister.’”

you stared at her for a long moment. “…i dislike how accurate that was.”

“i know.”

there was something infuriatingly pleased about the way she smiled afterwards.

your eyes drifted away for half a second.

purely because she happened to move.

she reached up to adjust the cap on her head.

the motion pulled the fabric of her tank top taut across her shoulders, rings glinting under the fairy lights as her fingers disappeared briefly beneath the brim.

without thinking, your gaze dropped. only for a heartbeat.

the waistband of her boxers peeked above the shorts. the collection of silver rings covering her hands. the stupidly relaxed posture.

she looked… ridiculously self-assured.

your eyes lifted again almost immediately.

straight back to hers.

she’d caught you.

the grin spreading across her face turned almost unbearably smug. “like what you see?”

heat flared annoyingly at the back of your neck. “…don’t flatter yourself.”

“didn’t answer the question.”

“i chose not to.”

“strategically?”

“mercifully.”

leah laughed quietly. “i’ll take that as a maybe.”

“take it however you’d like.”

“careful,” beth murmured into her bottle with a grin. “she’s flirting with you.”

“i am not,” you and leah said at exactly the same time.

beth looked between you both. “…sure.”

“right,” leah said, still smiling to herself. “come on.”

you frowned. “…where?”

“to retrieve your criminal.”

“he’s not a criminal.”

“he trespassed.”

“he’s a cat.”

“the law doesn’t discriminate.”

you stared at her. “…that’s perhaps the most ridiculous thing you’ve said to me.”

“today?”

“in general.”

“i’ve got time to top it.”

“i’m sure you do.”

leah pushed herself away from the doorframe, gesturing for you to follow. “this way.”

you stepped inside.

immediately, the warmth hit you.

charcoal, grilled food, fresh-cut grass, music playing low enough that conversations still floated easily above it.

the garden was bigger than you’d expected, dotted with fairy lights strung between fences and trees.

people were scattered everywhere.

some perched around the outdoor table, others stood with drinks in hand.

someone was tending to the barbecue.

someone else was laughing so hard they had to lean against another person for support.

for one brief second-

every conversation seemed to pause.

heads turned, and you felt every pair of eyes settle on you.

“leah?” someone called from further across the garden.

“who’s that?”

leah looked over her shoulder, then back at you with that same easy grin.

“everyone,” she announced, gesturing towards you with the tea towel still draped over her shoulder, “this is my favourite neighbour.”

you gave her a flat look. “…i’m your only neighbour.”

“wrong, there’s the old couple on the other side of me.”

“that doesn’t make me your favourite.”

“certainly helps seeing as we have more in common.”

“more meaning nothing. so i’ll be sure to let the rest of the street know they’re in with a chance.”

a ripple of laughter spread around the garden.

“her name’s y/n,” leah continued, ignoring you entirely. “she’s here to rescue thackery before he decides he actually lives here.”

“he absolutely does not live here.”

“he seems to think he does,” beth said with a grin.

“he’s already accepted chicken from three different people,” emily added.

“an’ cuddles from nearly every fucker here,” katie declared proudly, lifting her pint.

caitlin sighed into her own drink. “language.”

“i’m bein’ restrained.”

“that’s restrained?”

“very.”

“god help us.”

you looked back towards leah. “…he’s a menace.”

“he’s very charming.”

“those are not mutually exclusive.”

“exactly.”

you narrowed your eyes. “…i’m beginning to notice that’s a recurring opinion of yours.”

“because i’m usually right.”

you made a noncommittal sound that was somewhere between a sigh and quiet disbelief.

“come on,” leah said, nodding further into the garden. “he’s over there.”

your gaze followed where she pointed. and there-

curled comfortably in kim little’s lap while emily fox scratched beneath his chin and alessia russo fed him tiny pieces of grilled chicken she definitely wasn’t supposed to-

was thackery.

utterly content. purring loudly enough that you could hear it from where you stood.

you stared. “…traitor.”

as though he’d heard you, thackery lazily opened one eye.

looked directly at you.

then promptly leaned even further into emily’s hand.

the garden erupted into laughter.

even you couldn’t quite stop the small, deeply offended huff that escaped you.

leah heard it immediately.

“careful,” she murmured, stepping up beside you with a smile tugging at her lips. “i think he’s chosen us.”

you looked at her. “don’t get attached.”

“too late.”

“he’ll forget you all exist by tomorrow.”

“that’s hurtful.”

“it’s realistic.”

“you’re very pessimistic.”

“you’re very optimistic.”

“one of us has to be.”

you glanced sideways at her. and she was already looking at you.

still wearing that lazy, alcohol-softened smile.

for someone you’d only crossed paths with a handful of times…

she looked at you with an ease that was becoming strangely familiar.

and, despite yourself…

you didn’t look away straight away.

“right,” you said, tearing your eyes away from her. “if everyone’s quite finished stealing my sister’s cat…”

“borrowing,” beth corrected.

“kidnapping,” you replied.

“he walked in voluntarily,” kim called from her chair, one hand still absentmindedly scratching beneath thackery’s chin. “we’ve got witnesses.”

“he’s also accepted grilled chicken,” alessia added. “i think he’s made his decision.”

“he absolutely has not.”

thackery, proving spectacularly unhelpful, rolled onto his back with a contented meow.

“look at him,” vic laughed. “he’s thriving.”

“he’s betraying me.”

“same thing,” leah said.

you shot her a look. “…don’t.”

“what?”

“encourage him.”

“i don’t think he needs encouraging.”

you sighed. “…thackery.”

one ear flicked in your direction. nothing else.

“thackery.”

he looked at you, blinked once, then tucked his face against kim’s arm.

a chorus of sympathetic noises rippled around the garden.

“oh,” beth winced. “that’s rough.”

“he chose violence,” chloe added.

“he chose comfort,” kim corrected.

“he chose chicken,” you muttered.

“that’s fair,” emily admitted.

leah folded the tea towel over one shoulder again. “he’s surprisingly popular.”

“i can see that.”

“can’t blame him.”

“i can.”

you stepped across the lawn.

thackery finally seemed to realise something was happening.

his head lifted, and his green eyes found yours.

“…don’t even think about running.”

he blinked innocently.

“he’s considering it,” leah observed.

“i know.”

“cats are little arseholes,” katie announced from somewhere behind you.

caitlin sighed. “katie.”

“what? they are.”

“you said you liked him five minutes ago, not to mention coopurr?”

“i do like him. and i love coopurr, but he’s still a little arsehole.”

“…”

“…what its true? all cats are arseholes.”

“language,” lia laughed.

“christ wally, i’m irish, it’s punctuation.”

that earned another round of laughter.

you reached kim, who smiled apologetically. “sorry.”

“don’t apologise.”

you carefully scooped thackery into your arms.

the little traitor didn’t protest.

if anything, he looked mildly inconvenienced that his evening was ending.

“unbelievable,” you murmured, smoothing a hand over his back. “i’m taking care of you.”

he answered by purring.

“he doesn’t even look guilty,” beth observed.

“because he isn’t.”

“he should be.”

“he’s a cat.”

“exactly.”

you adjusted him against your shoulder before glancing around the garden. “well… thank you… for making sure he didn’t wander off.”

the words came a touch stiffly.

as though they weren’t entirely accustomed to being spoken.

but they were genuine.

kim smiled. “he’s lovely.”

“he’s exhausting. i’ve had him for less than twelve hours and he’s already trying to kill himself.”

“same thing,” leah chimed in again.

you looked at her with exaggerated disbelief. “…is that genuinely your answer to everything?”

she shrugged. “works more often than you’d think.”

“i find that deeply concerning.”

“and yet…” she smiled. “you keep ending up in my presence.”

you opened your mouth. closed it again.

“…through absolutely no fault of my own.”

“i never said it was.”

“fate seems determined to ignore your opinion,” beth said with a grin.

“or yours,” chloe added.

you chose not to acknowledge either of them.

instead, you looked back at leah.

“well…”

she raised an eyebrow.

“thank you.”

the smile she gave you this time was different- smaller, less playful even.

“you’re welcome, darling.”

your stomach did something deeply inconvenient.

you chose to ignore it. completely.

“goodnight.”

“night, pretty girl.”

you rolled your eyes so dramatically it almost hurt. “…goodnight, leah.”

turning on your heel, you headed back towards the inside of the house, thackery purring contentedly against your shoulder.

behind you, the barbecue slowly resumed.

conversation picked back up.

music drifted through the warm evening air once more.

only when the back door clicked shut behind you did beth nudge leah with her elbow.

“pretty girl?”

leah blinked. “…what?”

beth grinned. “nothing.”

“beth.”

“nothing at all.”

except she was smiling far too much for that to be true.

⸻

thursday has always belonged to home.

it doesn’t matter how old you are.

it doesn’t matter how busy work becomes, how many countries you’ve lived in, or how many airports you’ve wandered through with a suitcase that feels heavier than it did the week before.

thursday is home.

when you were twenty-two and reporting from buenos aires, you called in from a hotel lobby because the wi-fi in your room had given up halfway through the day.

when you were twenty-four in hanoi, you balanced your laptop on the windowsill of your apartment, eating takeaway pho while your family tucked into roast chicken three continents away.

when you spent six weeks following elections across eastern europe, your father simply moved dinner back an hour because your train had been delayed crossing into austria.

nobody complained.

they just waited.

your mother always says traditions only survive if everyone treats them as non-negotiable.

the lovetts have always been remarkably good at not negotiating.

—

by quarter to six you’ve finished everything your editor asked of you.

your notebook closes with a satisfying snap.

three emails sent.

two interviews confirmed.

one article filed.

your desk is left exactly as you found it that morning.

you’ve never understood people who abandon mugs, loose papers and charging cables everywhere.

work is easier when your surroundings aren’t arguing with you.

“heading off, lovett?”

you glance up to see your editor is leaning against the doorway with his own coat already slung over one shoulder.

“yes.”

“first week still treating you alright?”

“very much so.”

“good.”

he smiles. “don’t work too hard.”

you consider that. “…i’ll try.”

he laughs. “that’s the least convincing thing i’ve heard all day.”

you offer him a polite smile before slipping your satchel over your shoulder.

outside, london feels different to how it does in the mornings.

less expectant, but more content.

people drift home instead of hurrying towards somewhere.

the air smells faintly of rain despite the sky remaining stubbornly blue.

you’ve always preferred london in the evenings.

the city exhales.

you decide to walk part of the journey before catching the underground.

there’s no rush.

there never is on thursdays.

you stop briefly at the florist you’d noticed earlier in the week.

your mother insists flowers are an unnecessary expense.

she also smiles every single time somebody buys them.

“good evening,” says the florist.

“evening.”

you study the buckets lining the pavement.

hydrangeas.

sweet peas.

peonies almost past their season.

then you see them.

white lilies.

your mother’s favourite.

“those, please.”

the florist wraps them carefully in brown paper. “special occasion?”

“thursday.”

he looks mildly confused and you simply smile.

“it’s family dinner.”

“ah.”

somehow, that seems explanation enough.

—

your parents’ house hasn’t changed.

the black railings still need repainting.

the climbing roses still threaten to take over the front of the house every summer.

the brass knocker is still slightly crooked after christopher somehow managed to loosen it with a football when he was eleven.

your father insisted he’d repair it.

he never has.

you secretly hope he never will.

home isn’t perfect.

it’s familiar.

before you’ve even reached the front steps, the front door swings open.

“…mum.”

vivienne lovett stands there with a tea towel thrown over one shoulder. “you’re early.”

“by four minutes.”

“exactly.”

she kisses both your cheeks before immediately taking the lilies from your hands “you didn’t need to bring flowers.”

“i know.”

“they’re beautiful.”

“i know.”

she rolls her eyes.

“still impossible.”

“genetics.”

“your father’s fault.”

“i’m standing right here.”

sebastian lovett’s voice drifts through the hallway.

he appears a moment later, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading glasses perched lower on his nose than they’re supposed to be “good evening, lovey.”

“evening, dad.”

he kisses your forehead once.

brief, uncomplicated, but entirely him.

“journey alright?”

“fine.”

“work?”

“good.”

“good?”

“productive.”

he nods once. “splendid.”

coming from your father, it’s practically an emotional speech.

your mother disappears into the kitchen with the flowers. “don’t just stand there, sebastian.”

“i’m greeting my daughter.”

“you’ve greeted her.”

“twice, technically.”

“exactly.”

you smile to yourself as your father quietly hangs your trench coat beside his.

he still does it every time you come home.

he’s done it since you were fourteen.

you’ve offered countless times.

he’s never once accepted.

voices spill from the kitchen.

lefa.

obviously.

“…i’m just saying, if harry hadn’t panicked-”

“he reversed into a stationary bollard,” christopher says.

“because it came out of nowhere.”

“the bollard?”

“yes.”

“the one concreted into the ground?”

“they’re unpredictable.”

you step into the kitchen just in time to watch your younger sister steal a roasted carrot straight from the baking tray.

“leona-faye.”

your mother doesn’t even turn around.

“i’m tasting.”

“you’re stealing.”

“same difference.”

“not in this kitchen.”

lefa sighs dramatically before looking up.

her face brightens immediately.

“lovey!” before you can say anything she’s wrapped you in a hug that almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

“hello to you too.”

“i’ve missed you.”

“i saw you five days ago.”

“exactly.”

“that’s hardly a lifetime.”

“It felt like one.”

you laugh softly. “dramatic.”

“says the journalist.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you lot make weather sound like warfare.”

“only when it’s interesting.”

lefa grins. “see? dramatic.”

christopher appears beside her carrying a stack of plates.

“lovey.” he leans down, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head and immediately notices your expression.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you’re analysing something.”

“…your plates aren’t stacked evenly.”

he looks down. “…they’re not.”

without another word he adjusts them.

winnie watches the exchange from the other side of the island before laughing. “you’re impossible.”

“which one?” christopher asks.

“yes.” she responds, avoiding the question.

you and christopher glance at one another. “…fair.”

“i knew i liked this family,” winnie says.

your mother looks over her shoulder. “you’ve been part of it for years, darling.”

winnie’s smile softens. “still nice hearing it.” she walks over and hugs you. “hello, stranger.”

“hello, winnie.”

“first week survived?”

“surprisingly.”

“told you you’d love it.”

“you did.”

“and?”

“…you were right.”

she beams. “i’m framing that.”

“don’t.”

“too late.”

from somewhere behind you-

“i heard that!” your father appears in the doorway. “if anyone is framing anything tonight, it’s the fact our eldest daughter admitted someone else was right.”

“dad.”

“remarkable scenes.”

“you’re all insufferable.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says brightly.

“except mum.”

your mother snorts. “oh, sweetheart.”

“what?”

“i’m worse than all of you.”

the room falls quiet for exactly two seconds.

then everyone starts laughing, even sebastian. especially sebastian. you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed this.

not just seeing them, but hearing them.

the familiar overlap of conversations.

your mother’s wooden spoon tapping lightly against a saucepan.

christopher quietly correcting where the serving spoons sit on the table without even noticing he’s doing it.

lefa talking enough for three people.

your father pretending not to smile while absolutely smiling.

winnie moving around the kitchen as though she’d grown up inside it.

for the first time in years…

home doesn’t feel borrowed.

it feels yours again.

the kitchen has always been the heart of the house.

not the drawing room.

not your father’s study.

not even the dining room where every thursday eventually ends.

the kitchen.

it’s where birthdays began before anyone else is awake.

it’s where christmas mornings smelt like cinnamon before presents had even been opened.

it’s where your mother insists every meaningful conversation somehow belongs.

the room hasn’t changed nearly enough for the number of years that have passed.

the aga still gives off its familiar warmth.

the old clock above the dresser still runs three minutes fast because your father once claimed it encouraged punctuality.

your mother never corrected it.

she simply started living by it.

your cherry bourbon pie sits neatly in the centre of the island, still tucked inside its pie carrier.

mother notices it immediately. “lovey.”

“yes?”

“you brought dessert.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

she walks over, unclipping the lid with surprising excitement. the smell of butter and cherries escapes almost instantly. for a brief second, nobody says anything. then-

“…good lord,” christopher mutters.

lefa leans across the island. “is that-”

“don’t.” your mother’s voice is gentle but firm.

she doesn’t even look up from lifting the pie free.

“i wasn’t going to touch it.”

“you absolutely were.”

“…alright, i was thinking about touching it.”

“thinking leads to doing.”

“that’s a dangerous philosophy.”

“it’s worked for twenty-something years.”

lefa sighs dramatically.

“this family has no faith in me.”

sebastian looks up from pouring everyone a glass of water. “earned, sweetheart.”

“whose side are you on?”

“your mother’s.”

she gasps theatrically. “traitor.”

he smiles into his glass. “i’ve been happily married for thirty years.”

“twenty-nine,” your mother corrects automatically.

“see?” your father gestures towards her with quiet satisfaction. “proof.”

winnie laughs softly from beside the oven, where she’s checking on something simmering in a saucepan. “he’s got a point.”

“thank you, win.”

“don’t encourage him.”

“too late.”

vivienne cuts a look towards her husband that somehow manages to be both exasperated and impossibly fond.

you’ve spent your entire life watching them communicate like this.

half sentences, shared looks, corrections that aren’t really corrections. love, translated into routine.

your mother turns back to the pie. “it’s beautiful.”

“thank you.”

she studies the lattice for a moment longer. “your edges are neater than mine.”

“mum.”

“they are.”

“you taught me.”

“i know.” she smiles to herself. “still unfair.”

christopher wanders over, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets. he studies the pie with the concentration of someone assessing an engineering project. “…it’s symmetrical.”

“of course it is,” lefa says. “it’s y/n.”

he nods once. “good point.”

you look between them. “…what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

christopher shrugs. “if one side had more cherries than the other, i’d assume someone else made it.”

“that’s ridiculous.”

“is it?”

“…”

“…”

“…no.”

“thought so.”

lefa grins triumphantly. “she admitted it.”

“i admitted nothing.”

“you absolutely admitted something.”

“i chose not to continue the conversation.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

“lovey.”

you turn towards your younger sister. “yes?”

“hypothetically.”

“…i don’t like that word.”

“hypothetically,” she continues anyway, “if i accidentally dropped this pie…”

“you wouldn’t.”

“but if i did.”

“you won’t.”

“…”

“…”

“you’d cry, wouldn’t you?”

christopher answers before you can.

“yes.”

“i would not.”

“lovey.”

“christopher.”

“you alphabetise your bookshelf.”

“by author.”

“then genre.”

“yes.”

“then publication date.”

“…”

“…”

“…that’s beside the point.”

lefa folds her arms. “you iron tea towels.”

“only the linen ones.”

there’s a beat of silence.

winnie blinks. “…you iron tea towels?”

“only if they’re linen.”

“bit deranged if you ask me…”

“it prevents creasing.”

“they’re tea towels.”

“exactly.”

“they’re designed to get dirty.”

“that doesn’t mean they should begin dirty.”

winnie looks helplessly towards christopher. “is she serious?”

“completely.”

“terrifying.”

“occasionally.”

“i heard that.”

“you were supposed to.”

your mother reaches across the island, squeezing your hand once. “there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your things.”

you smile.

“thank you.”

“however…”

“…”

“…you do iron tea towels.”

“…only the linen ones.”

your father clears his throat. “i think we’ve established that.”

everyone laughs. including you unfortunately.

it comes easier here than it does anywhere else- without effort or thinking.

lefa steals another roast potato.

this time your mother catches her immediately “leona-faye.”

“i’ve committed now.”

“put the next one back.”

“that’s fair.”

she actually does.

which somehow surprises everyone more than if she hadn’t.

sebastian watches her for a second before quietly sliding the bowl two inches closer in her direction.

nobody misses it.

least of all your mother. “sebastian.”

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m not.”

“you just moved the potatoes.”

“did i?”

“you did.”

he glances down. “…must’ve slipped.”

lefa bites the inside of her cheek so hard she’s practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

your mother looks from one to the other, then simply sighs. “honestly.”

“what?” father and lefa ask together.

christopher shakes his head. “you’re impossible.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says.

“except lovey.”

you look up. “pardon?”

“you’re impossible in… a completely different way.”

“thank you?”

“it wasn’t a compliment.”

“i gathered.”

“she means,” winnie says warmly, rescuing the conversation before it can spiral, “you’re all impossible for completely different reasons.”

“exactly.”

lefa points at her. “see? she speaks lefa.”

“i speak youngest sibling because i too, am the youngest sibling.”

“there’s a difference?”

“a significant one.”

“i’m learning.”

“quickly.”

you watch the three of them together for a moment- christopher leaning lazily against the worktop, winnie absent-mindedly straightening the stack of napkins he’d left slightly crooked, lefa perched on a stool swinging one foot as she plots whichever joke she’ll make next.

it strikes you then, quietly, that despite spending years chasing stories across the world…

you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to know every person in a room by heart.

“right,” your mother says, clapping her hands together once. “before someone subtly offends someone else…” she looks directly at lefa. “…everyone to the table.”

almost instinctively, chairs scraped against the wooden floor.

christopher pulls winnie’s chair out before sitting himself.

your father reaches automatically for your mother’s hand as they walk the few steps into the dining room.

and of course, lefa nudges your shoulder. “race you.”

“to the table?”

“yes.”

“it’s six feet away.”

“…coward.”

before you could answer, she’d already darted past you, laughing to herself.

you watched her go with an involuntary smile.

some things, you thought, never really changed.

but thank god for that.

everyone falls into the same seats they’ve occupied for years.

not because anyone ever assigned them.

because they never needed to.

your father sits at the head of the table nearest the window.

your mother opposite him.

christopher to your father’s left, winnie beside him.

you opposite the pair of them.

and lefa, despite repeatedly insisting she’s a grown adult with a medical degree and a mortgage, sits beside you exactly where she’s sat since she was old enough to graduate from a highchair.

some habits simply outlive childhood.

the room settles into a comfortable hum.

plates are passed.

serving spoons exchanged.

your mother insists everyone takes vegetables before potatoes.

lefa immediately reaches for the potatoes.

“leona-faye.”

she pauses, spoon halfway to her plate. “…yes?”

“vegetables.”

“i’ve had vegetables.”

“when?”

“earlier.”

“while stealing them doesn’t count.”

“i wasn’t stealing.”

“borrowing?”

“sampling.”

your father nods thoughtfully. “quality control.”

“thank you,” lefa says.

“you’re welcome.”

your mother doesn’t even look at either of them. “both of you.”

they exchange identical expressions of innocence.

christopher watches them for a moment before quietly serving himself broccoli.

“i’m staying out of this.”

“smart,” winnie murmurs.

“survival instinct.”

“years of practice.”

your mother finally slides the bowl of potatoes across. “now.”

lefa brightens immediately. “see? delayed gratification.”

“don’t make this sound educational.”

“everything’s educational.”

“not everything.”

“most things.”

“absolutely not.”

you shake your head, reaching for the carrots. “how you’ve managed to become a doctor remains one of life’s great mysteries.”

“neurosurgeon,” lefa corrects.

“which somehow makes it worse.”

“my patients adore me.”

“your colleagues don’t.”

“they’ll tolerate me either way.”

“that’s optimistic.”

“i’m choosing confidence.”

“you’re choosing delusion.”

“same difference.”

“they are quite literally opposites.”

winnie laughs into her napkin. “i’ve missed thursdays.”

“you were here last thursday,” christopher reminds her.

“exactly.”

“that isn’t long enough to miss something.”

“i disagree.”

“of course you do.”

she smiles at him. “i missed you too while i was at work today.”

he tries very hard not to smile.

fails completely.

your father notices. “you’re getting soft.”

christopher looks up. “i’ve always been soft.”

“that’s true,” lefa says.

“rugby ruined the illusion though. because then you got strong and started deciding you could attack us- even when we were children and i was a head taller than you.” you add.

“i’ll have you know i’m terrifying.”

“to who?”

“outside people.”

“certainly not to us.”

“that’s because you lot have known me too long.”

“unfortunately,” you say.

“you wound me.”

“you’ll recover.”

“eventually.”

he points his fork towards you. “that sounded familiar.”

“must run in the family.”

“unfortunately.”

“fortunately,” your mother corrects gently “there’s a difference.”

“debatable.”

your father tops up everyone’s water glasses as the conversation drifts comfortably from one thing to another.

nobody asks him to.

he simply notices they’re empty.

he’s always been quietly observant like that.

doing things before anyone thinks to ask.

your mother catches him reaching for her glass before she’s even touched it. “thank you.”

he nods once. “of course.”

it’s such a small exchange that it almost disappears beneath the rest of the conversation.

you notice anyway, you always have.

love, in your family, has never been particularly loud.

it lives in filled water glasses.

chairs pulled out.

flowers placed in vases.

coats hung without asking.

the little things.

always the little things.

“alright,” you rmother says after everyone has finally begun eating properly.

she rests her knife against the edge of her plate and looks around the table. “i’ve heard enough discussion about potatoes.”

“have you?” lefa asks.

“yes.”

“because i still have opinions.”

“keep them until dessert.”

“that’s censorship.”

“that’s motherhood.”

lefa sighs dramatically. “fine.”

your mother smiles. “good.”

she glances around the table once more “how was everyone’s week?”

it’s never a formal tradition.

no one announces that they’re taking turns.

it simply… happens.

every thursday.

without fail.

sebastian goes first, as he usually does.

“a client finally agreed to stop trying to outsmart the market.”

“did they?”

“no.”

christopher nods knowingly. “thought as much.”

“they merely accepted i was right.”

“which is close enough.”

“close enough.”

your mother smiles into her wine. “you’ve been saying the same sentence for thirty years.”

“because people continue proving me correct.”

“modest, as always.”

“painfully.”

lefa groans. “i’ve inherited his confidence.”

“unfortunately,” you murmur.

“genetically unavoidable.”

“i blame dad.”

“i’ll accept responsibility,” your father replies.

“thank you.”

“provided i also receive credit for your intelligence.”

“absolutely not.”

“worth asking.”

your mother shakes her head fondly before looking towards winnie. “and arsenal?”

winnie swallows before answering. “busy.”

“good busy?”

“mostly.”

she smiles softly. “everyone’s healthy.”

“which makes my job considerably easier.”

“you’ve settled in beautifully there,” your mother says.

“i’ve been very lucky.”

christopher nudges her knee gently beneath the table. “don’t be so modest, luck had nothing to do with it.”

she smiles at him. “thank you.”

“just stating facts.”

your mother turns to you then. “and you, lovey?”

you set your fork down. “it’s been good.”

“just good?” lefa asks.

“very good.”

“better.”

you smile. “i really do like it.”

“the bbc?”

“mm.”

“already?”

“it feels…” you pause, searching for the right word.

“…steady.”

your father nods once “a good agency.”

you laugh softly.

“yes, dad.”

“good editors?”

“very.”

“colleagues?”

“lovely.”

“office?”

“surprisingly quiet.”

lefa raises an eyebrow. “you like quiet?”

“i’ve spent years filing stories from airports.”

“…fair.”

“it’s nice having a desk.”

“a permanent one?”

“yes.”

your expression softens almost without thinking. “it’s strange.”

“in what way?” vivienne asks.

“unpacking.”

they all look at you, and you smile to yourself. “for years everything i owned fitted into two suitcases.”

“now?”

“now i’m deciding where plants should go.”

lefa laughs. “that’s oddly wholesome.”

“isn’t it?”

“very.”

you nod. “i’ve got a favourite cafe, a routine, a butcher who recognises me. i even know which floorboards cream and which ones don’t.”

your mother smiles in that quiet way mothers do when they hear exactly what they’d hoped to hear. “you’re home then.”

you look at her. “…i suppose i am.”

for a second, nobody says anything.

the silence isn’t awkward, it never is here.

it’s simply… full.

then lefa clears her throat dramatically. “so.”

you don’t even look at her. “…no.”

“you know what i’m going to ask.”

“i do.”

“and?”

“no.”

“lovey.”

“lefa.”

“the townhouse?”

you sigh.

“it’s lovely.”

“but…”

“…”

“…”

“there it is,” christopher says. “there’s always a but.”

you glance between them. “…there is one downside.”

lefa grins immediately. “the neighbour?”

you point your fork at her. “don’t look so pleased.”

“i’m invested.”

“you shouldn’t be.”

“too late.”

you sigh the sort of sigh reserved for people who have accepted they’re about to be thoroughly outnumbered.

“she’s… unusual.”

“that’s kinder than what you called her on tuesday when we were on the phone,” lefa says.

you look at her. “…i don’t recall.”

“i do.”

“of course you do.”

“i wrote some of them down.”

christopher nearly chokes on his water. “you what?”

“only the particularly good ones.”

“leona-faye.”

“for posterity.”

“delete them.”

“absolutely not.”

your father looks faintly amused. “i’d quite like to hear them.”

“sebastian,” your mother warns.

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m merely curious.”

“that’s how she gets you.”

“it works every time,” lefa says cheerfully.

“i’m aware.”

you set your knife down.

“she isn’t unusual in a concerning way.”

“that’s reassuring,” vivienne says.

“just…” you search for the right word, “…persistent.”

“persistent?”

“she keeps appearing.”

“she does live next door,” christopher points out.

“i’m aware.”

“that tends to increase the likelihood.”

“thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”

“happy to help.”

lefa leans onto one elbow. “how many times have you actually spoken?”

“…twice.”

“twice?”

“once while i was climbing into my own bedroom.”

there’s a beat.

your father blinks. 

“i’m sorry?” your mother slowly lowers her fork “…you were doing what?”

you close your eyes briefly. “i left my keys inside.”

“y/n.”

“i know.”

“you climbed the outside of a three-storey townhouse?”

“yes.”

“using the ivy.”

“yes.”

“and the balcony.”

“…yes.”

christopher lets out a low whistle. “i’d pay money to see that.”

“i’m glad you didn’t.”

“did you make it?”

“eventually.”

“without injury?”

“…mostly.”

your mother stares at you for a long moment. “i’ve raised three children.”

“you have.”

“and this whole ttime genuinely believed you were the sensible one.”

“i am.”

“you climbed a building.”

“it seemed logical.”

“did it?”

“at the time.”

lefa grins. “i’m obsessed with this.”

“don’t be.”

“i’ve never been prouder.”

“that’s unfortunate because it only goes downhill from here.” you say with a fake grin before continuing to cut into your food.

“did this neighbour help?” winnie asks gently.

you shake your head. “not particularly.”

“she mostly stood there making comments.”

“what sort of comments?” christopher asks.

“‘need some help there, darling?’”

lefa snorts.

“and that her bicep was available.”

she bursts into laughter. “she offered you her bicep?”

“amongst other things.”

“that’s brilliant.”

“it wasn’t.”

“it absolutely was.”

you point your fork at your younger sister “you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“because it’s objectively funny.”

“it wasn’t funny.”

“lovey.”

“what?”

“you were scaling a victorian townhouse before breakfast.”

“…”

“…”

“…when you put it like that.”

“there isn’t another way to put it.”

even your father smiles into his wine- small, brief, but unmistakable.

you notice. of course you notice.

traitor.

“and then?” lefa asks eagerly.

“then i went to the café the following morning.”

“mm?”

“and she walked straight into me.”

“accident?”

“yes.”

“coffee?”

“…yes.”

“everywhere?”

you look down at your plate.

“…my coat.”

your mother looks up immediately. “which coat?”

“…the sable one.”

her expression drops. “the one i gave you?”

“it came out.”

“thank heavens.”

“after dry cleaning.”

your mother visibly relaxes. “good.”

lefa blinks between the pair of you. “hold on.”

“what?”

“you’re both more upset about the coat than the person.”

you and your mother look at her simultaneously.

“…yes.”

“that feels unhealthy.”

“it was sable,” you both say together.

christopher laughs.

“apple.”

“tree.”

your father nods. “expensive tree.”

“very expensive tree,” christopher agrees as your mother swats his hand.

winnie smiles quietly into her glass. “and after the coffee?”

you shrug. “that was mostly it.”

“mostly?”

“i saw her yesterday.”

“doing?”

“arguing over cherries.”

lefa drops her cutlery onto her plate. “i’m sorry?”

“cherries.”

“you argued over fruit?”

“she took the best punnet.”

“technically,” christopher says, “did she?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m simply asking.”

“she had her hand on it first,” you admit.

“aha.”

“but i wanted that one.”

“and did you tell her?”

“…yes.”

“politely?”

“…”

“…”

“…mostly.”

lefa laughs so hard she has to put her glass down. “i adore this woman.”

“you don’t know her.”

“i know enough.”

“she sounds hilarious.”

“she sounds irritating.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

winnie smiles softly. “i’m just trying to imagine this woman.”

lefa laughs. “good luck.”

“what?” you ask.

“i can’t quite picture her.”

“there isn’t much to picture.”

“humour me.”

you shrug, spearing another carrot with your fork.

“blonde. athletic. talks far too much.”

“and her name?”

“…leah.”

winnie’s hand pauses for the briefest fraction of a second around her glass.

barely long enough for anyone to notice.

except christopher.

he catches her eye across the table.

one eyebrow lifts. what?

she gives the tiniest shrug. maybe.

he studies her for another moment. really?

another almost imperceptible nod. don’t.

she understands immediately. of course not.

the conversation never stops.

lefa is already talking again. “…did you at least get the cherries?”

you nod. “eventually.”

“she gave them to you?”

“…yes.”

“see?” lefa says triumphantly. “she likes you.”

you nearly laugh. “she absolutely does not.”

winnie lowers her eyes to her plate, hiding the small smile threatening to appear.

she doesn’t say another word.

not yet.

⸻

you wake before your alarm.

not because you have to.

because you always do.

the room is still blue with early morning, the london skyline only beginning to stir beyond the tall sash windows. somewhere below, a bin lorry rattles along the street. a pigeon lands briefly on the balcony outside your bedroom before thinking better of it and flying away again.

you lie still for another minute.

today is your first day.

there’s excitement somewhere beneath the surface, though anyone watching would struggle to find it. excitement, in your experience, has never been loud. it exists in the small things: laying tomorrow’s clothes out the night before. sharpening pencils that don’t need sharpening. checking a train timetable you’ve already memorised.

routine has always been the closest thing you’ve had to luck.

you sit up, smooth the duvet flat with the palm of your hand, and step onto the wooden floor.

your mother used to say a tidy room made for a tidy mind.

your father insisted it was simply good discipline.

between the two of them, there had never been much room for disorder.

you never minded.

because to you, there’s comfort in knowing exactly where everything belongs.

the kettle goes on before you’ve even opened the curtains.

earl grey.

and a bagel split in half. 

one half is spread with the strawberry marmalade you’d bought on arrival- the same kind you’ve been eating since childhood. the other is topped with cottage cheese, honey, and blueberries.

to the uninitiated, the combination might be off-putting. but to those with a broader palette, there’s something quietly refreshing about mixing things that are never meant to go together.

the radio hums softly in the background, low enough to sit inside the silence rather than disturb it. a familiar song drifts through- the beatles’ all you need is love. something you once played on repeat at ten years old, long past the point of your mother developing a headache for it.

you’ve eaten the same breakfast for nearly twelve years.

there was a period in buenos aires where you couldn’t find decent bread.

another in hanoi where you gave up looking entirely.

you still found a way.

habits travel surprisingly well.

the newspaper sits folded beside your mug.

old instinct.

you read it cover to cover, annotating almost absent-mindedly with a pencil balanced behind your ear.

journalists never really stop being journalists.

they simply get paid to ask questions, or not at all.

by half seven you’ve showered, dressed and packed your bag.

your navy trousers have been pressed twice.

your white shirt doesn’t possess so much as a wrinkle.

your trench coat hangs neatly over one arm.

the overpriced, leather satchel your father bought you when you graduated from university still looks almost new, despite following you across four continents.

you’ve always taken care of your things.

they’ve taken care of you.

on the hall table sits your notebook.

three fountain pens.

your wallet.

phone.

train pass.

everything accounted for.

you’ve lived in enough cities to know that forgetting something before work isn’t an inconvenience.

it’s a choice.

you simply choose not to.

the move back to london had surprised everyone except you.

your older brother had expected new york.

your grand-parents had put money on paris.

your mother suggested geneva.

your father had merely nodded once and said,

“good papers.”

which, coming from him, bordered on overwhelming enthusiasm.

you loved travelling.

you loved sleeping in hotel rooms that overlooked cities whose names you still pronounced incorrectly.

you loved filing stories from airports.

you loved waking somewhere new every few weeks.

until one morning you realised you could no longer remember what it felt like to have neighbours.

or a favourite café.

or somewhere that felt like yours.

london had never really stopped being home.

it had simply waited.

your new editor had described you as ‘exactly the sort of journalist we’ve been missing’.

you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

but you’d accepted anyway.

today was the beginning of something steadier.

a desk with your name on it.

colleagues you’d eventually learn.

plants you might accidentally keep alive.

a life measured in months instead of assignments.

it felt…

nice.

a little strange, slightly terrifying, but overall… mostly nice.

you check your watch.

8:02.

perfect.

your train leaves in twenty-three minutes.

exactly enough time.

you slip your book into your coat and pull your trench coat over your shoulders.

the front door clicks shut behind you.

you descend three steps before instinctively patting your coat pocket.

left pocket… empty.

right pocket…. empty.

your satchel.

wallet.

phone.

pens.

notebook.

you stop, very slowly.

“…”

the key.

you picture it immediately.

hall table.

next to the bowl.

exactly where you’d placed it while tying your shoelaces.

still inside.

you close your eyes.

once.

you’ve been called many things in your life.

driven.

careful.

meticulous.

some editor in washington once described you as pathologically prepared.

and yet on the first morning of your new job, you have locked yourself out of your own house.

you look up.

third floor.

your bedroom window.

still open.

…well.

that’s unfortunate.

⸻

you hook one polished shoe onto the narrow iron railing and immediately regret wearing work trousers to attempt what is, objectively, a terrible idea.

your front door key is sitting exactly where you left it.

inside.

on the hallway table.

the bedroom window, however, is still open.

third floor.

which had seemed wonderfully convenient ten minutes ago.

now it just feels mocking.

still…

you’ve committed.

one hand grips the ivy. the other finds a crack in the brickwork. your foot searches for the tiny lip of the neighbouring balcony.

“right,” you mutter to yourself.

“don’t look down.”

your trench coat shifts against your shoulders.

something slides free.

you don’t even have time to catch it.

thud.

your book lands face-down on the pavement.

you squeeze your eyes shut.

“for christ’s sake.”

if anyone hadn’t noticed you before-

“bit ambitious for a tuesday, innit?”

you certainly have their attention now.

you twist carefully enough to avoid plummeting to your death.

a woman stands on the pavement outside the neighbouring house, dressed for a run. black running shorts, some red hoodie with the label ‘emirates’, ankle socks, and trainers. she’d clearly only just stepped outside.

she bends to retrieve your book.

you wince.

please don’t bend the cover.

she turns it over in her hands.

“my lai 4?”

her eyebrows lift as she flicks through a couple of pages before looking back up at you.

“business or pleasure?”

you don’t stop climbing.

“pleasure.”

she blinks.

“…pleasure?”

“last time i read it i was about nine.”

there’s a pause… a proper one.

“you read about the my lai massacre when you were nine?”

you glance down at her.

“you didn’t?”

there’s just enough sarcasm behind it that the corner of her mouth twitches.

“darling,” she says, lifting the book towards you, “just because i look intelligent doesn’t mean i am that intelligent.”

you reach down just enough to take it back, inspecting the corners before sliding it carefully beneath your arm again.

“you don’t even look intelligent.”

she places a hand against her chest.

“i beg your pardon?”

“so i’ve no clue what you’re trying to say.”

she lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“what a lovely first impression.”

you ignore her, stretching towards the next handhold.

almost…

almost-

“need some help there, darling?”

“…”

“a hand?”

“…”

“my exceptionally toned bicep?”

“…”

“perhaps the fire brigade?”

“shut it.”

you haul yourself higher.

“i’ve almost got it.”

“those are famous last words.”

“they’re present words.”

“debatable.”

you manage another foothold before calling over your shoulder,

“you talk funny.”

“excuse me?”

“your accent.”

“my accent?”

“you’re not from around here.”

she folds her arms, looking far too amused for someone watching a stranger attempt accidental self-destruction before breakfast.

“i live here.”

“not what i asked.”

“i’ve lived in central london since i was seventeen.”

“for work?”

“amongst other things.”

“where before?”

“milton keynes.”

you hum thoughtfully.

“explains the twang, i suppose.”

“‘i suppose?’”

you look down. “yes?”

“that choice of words.”

“what about it?”

“tells me everything.”

“does it?”

“belgravia?”

“close.”

she waits. “mayfair.” an expression of complete understanding crosses her face. “ah.”

“what’s ‘ah’ meant to mean?”

“means you sound like keira knightley.”

you frown. “pardon?”

“during her marvelous performance of ‘bend it like beckham’, specifically.”

“…”

“…”

“i’ve absolutely no idea what that means.”

“i’m not surprised.”

“is it an insult?”

“not exactly.”

“a compliment?”

“not entirely.”

“that’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“it’s observational.”

“you’re observational.”

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t praise.”

“i’ll take what i can get.”

despite yourself, you smile.

only for a second.

she notices.

of course she notices.

“there it is.”

“what?”

“proof you can smile.”

“don’t get used to it.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

you shake your head and reach for the balcony above.

your fingers catch.

your foot follows.

success.

“ha.”

you swing one leg upwards-

and immediately feel your coat snag on an iron flourish beneath the railing.

you freeze.

“…”

“…”

slowly, you look down.

she’s already looking up.

“…fire brigade?” she offers.

“don’t.”

“the bicep’s still available.”

“don’t.”

“ladder?”

“…”

“darling?”

“…”

she presses her lips together.

you can actually see her fighting it.

“if you laugh-”

“i’m trying very hard not to.”

“harder.”

“it’s difficult.”

“harder.”

a tiny snort escapes her.

you point a warning finger.

“unbelievable.”

“you told me i didn’t look intelligent.”

“you still don’t.”

“that’s rather cruel.”

“it’s merely observational.”

she laughs then.

not loudly.

just enough that it echoes down the quiet street.

it’s annoyingly infectious.

you hate that it makes you smile again.

“i’m leah,” she says once she’s recovered.

you blink.

“that’s quite a leap.”

“well, if i’m going to witness this heroic ascent, i feel we ought to be on first-name terms.”

you consider that.

“…i’m y/n.”

“lovely to meet you.”

“i’d shake your hand.”

“but you’re halfway up a building.”

“exactly.”

another tug.

the coat refuses to budge.

leah glances from you…

to the third-floor window…

back to you.

“…you know,” she says carefully, “most people call a locksmith.”

you sigh.

“where’s the fun in that?”

⸻

the next morning, you leave five minutes earlier.

not because you’re hoping to avoid your neighbour.

certainly not because you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of yesterday wondering whether milton keynes really does produce accents like that.

pure coincidence.

obviously.

the little café on the corner is already busy.

exactly how you remember it.

you’ve missed london cafés.

the newspapers stacked neatly beside the till.

the hiss of steaming milk.

the low murmur of conversations before the city properly wakes.

it feels familiar, comfortable even.

you step forward when it’s your turn.

“a six-ounce flat white,” you say, almost absent-mindedly. “extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate.”

the barista doesn’t even blink. “of course.”

you move to the end of the counter to wait, your satchel resting neatly against your leg as you glance over the morning headlines spread across a newspaper someone has left abandoned on a nearby table.

behind you, the café door opens.

someone laughs.

a chair scrapes against the wooden floor.

the usual soundtrack of a busy morning.

you pay none of it any attention.

until-

something solid collides with your shoulder.

there’s a sharp knock.

a gasp.

then warmth… far too much warmth.

coffee splashes across the front of your cream sable coat, soaking into the fabric with horrifying speed.

silence.

you look down, then very, very slowly back up.

your eyes travel from a pair of trainers…

to black sweatpants…

to a grey quarter zip…

before finally reaching a familiar face.

you give her a slow once-over.

register her.

the woman from yesterday.

of course it is.

“…you imbecile.”

leah blinks.

“…”

“…”

“we meet again.”

you don’t even acknowledge it.

instead, you lift one stained sleeve.

“this…”

you gesture towards yourself.

“…is a sable coat.”

leah squints at it. “you’re telling me they skinned a load of sables for that?”

“well, it’s not faux, is it, sherlock?”

“…”

“…”

“looks the same to me.”

you actually gasp. “that’s perhaps the most offensive thing you’ve said.”

“more offensive than being called an imbecile?”

“considerably.”

you inspect another stain and your expression falls. “oh, wonderful.”

leah shifts her weight. “sorry.”

“this is entirely your fault.”

“is it?”

“you’re like a bad omen.”

she places a hand dramatically against her chest. “i beg your pardon?”

“first you witness me attempting mount everest via victorian architecture.”

“fair.”

“now you’ve ruined my coat.”

“ruined feels dramatic.”

“it’s sable.”

“yes, you’ve mentioned for the umpteenth time.”

“i’m going to be late for work.”

“possibly.”

“my coat’s covered in coffee.”

“objectively.”

“and i’m coffee-less.”

“temporarily.”

“all because you’ve decided gluing your eyes to your cellular is more important than observing where you’re walking.”

leah pauses. “…cellular?”

“yes.”

“you called it a cellular.”

“i did.”

“who says cellular?”

“people with vocabularies.”

“people over eighty.”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m beginning to think you enjoy irritating me.”

“a little.” despite herself, leah smiles. “tell you what.”

you already dislike the sound of that.

“i’ll buy you another coffee.”

you blink. “it’s the twenty-first century.”

“…yes?”

“as a woman, i don’t require someone else to purchase my coffee.”

before she can answer, you turn back towards the counter. “another six-ounce flat white, extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate, please.”

the barista nods sympathetically. “coming right up.”

you reach into your wallet, find your card, and hold it over the reader.

a hand appears beside yours.

beep.

approved.

you stare at the card machine.

then very slowly over your shoulder.

leah is already slipping her card back into her pocket.

“see?” she smiles, entirely too pleased with herself. “all better, darling.”

“…”

“…”

“you are unbelievable.”

“i’ve heard.”

“i said no.”

“you did.”

“quite clearly.”

“also true.”

“and yet.”

“and yet here we are.”

you sigh through your nose. “i don’t like you.”

leah nods thoughtfully. “i’ve noticed.”

“…”

“…”

“you’re buying my next coffee.”

one eyebrow lifts. “i thought you didn’t need someone else paying.”

“i don’t.”

“right.”

“i’m choosing to let you.”

“how generous.”

“don’t get used to it.”

you collect your replacement coffee as your name is called.

without another word, you turn and leave.

the little bell above the café door jingles softly behind you.

leah watches you disappear through the window, coffee forgotten in her hand.

only once you’re halfway down the street does she realise she’s smiling.

she hadn’t chosen this cafe by accident.

she’d simply wondered whether the woman next door might start her mornings here.

but if one thing is for certain, she definitely hadn’t expected to wear half her coffee instead.

⸻

you tell yourself you’re not thinking about her.

it’s an easy lie to maintain, in theory.

you’ve been in war zones, press rooms, airport terminals at 3:00am, where everything smells like instant coffee and panic. you’ve written entire features on people you never met and never thought about again.

so a woman next door who calls you “darling” like it’s punctuation shouldn’t be difficult to forget.

and yet.

she keeps appearing anyway.

not in any dramatic way.

just… in gaps.

between emails, while you’re brushing your hair, while you’re standing at the sink waiting for the kettle to boil.

you’re annoyed about it.

mostly.

it’s manageable annoyance.

the kind you can file away under irrelevant.

it’s wednesday when you decide you need cherries.

thursday dinners have never been optional in your family. not when you were travelling, not when you were in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, not when deadlines stacked up like collapsing shelves.

you show up.

or you call.

or you send something that tastes like home in a plastic container.

this week, you’ve decided on cherry pie.

your mother used to make it when you were younger, sleeves rolled up, flour on her cheek, insisting that pastry was “a test of character.”

you never failed it.

you just never admitted you liked it.

you leave your house mid-morning, coat already on, hair pinned neatly back, everything exactly where it should be.

you don’t rush.

you never rush.

there’s no reason to.

the farmers market is only a few streets away, tucked between a church and a row of older brick buildings that have survived long enough to become picturesque instead of derelict.

it’s busy in that soft, summer, london way- woven baskets, paper bags, the smell of bread and fruit and damp wood.

you move through it with quiet efficiency.

you don’t browse.

you select.

you already know what you want.

the cherry stall is near the centre.

bright red spilling out of wooden crates, the vendor calling prices to no one in particular.

you reach for a punnet at the same time as someone else.

your hand closes around it.

another hand lands just before yours.

warm.

firm.

you both pause.

you look up first.

of course you do.

it’s her.

you take your time with it- eyes lifting slowly, registering a pair of baggy blue jeans, a familiar coach leather jacket you had eye’d online a few months ago, that same faint expression of mild amusement like she’s perpetually one step ahead of a joke you haven’t heard yet.

you sigh. “christ’s sake.”

leah’s mouth curves immediately. “now i’d definitely classify this as a meet-cute if we hadn’t already met before.”

you stare at her hand still on yours.

then at the cherries.

then back at her.

“hello, leah.”

“hello, darling.”

a beat.

she tilts her head slightly. “fancy giving me my hand back? i’m going to need it if i want to carry this box out.”

you realise, belatedly, that your hand is still on top of hers.

you withdraw it quickly, like it’s suddenly too warm to exist. “you can’t have this box.”

leah raises an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because it’s the best box here.”

“debatable.”

“and i need it.”

“technically,” she says, far too calmly, “this is a free country, meaning i’m allowed to have whatever box i please.”

you narrow your eyes. “i had it first.”

“and technically,” she repeats, “you didn’t. your hand fell on top of mine. so if we’re being precise, you had me first.”

there’s a pause.

you look at her. “well... i don’t want you, so in return i get the box.”

“unfortunately, darling,” she says, completely unbothered, “that’s not how that works.”

you exhale through your nose. “it could be how it works. you shouldn’t fear change, you know.”

“i don’t fear anything.”

“maybe not fear,” you say, finally shifting your attention back to the cherries, “but manners certainly fear you.”

that lands.

leah huffs a laugh. “lovely. you’ve got jokes.”

you glance at her briefly. “i’m a real robin williams myself.”

“are you?”

“sure. now can you please give me the box?”

leah leans slightly closer to the stall, eyes flicking over the fruit. “what’s it for?”

you hesitate for half a second. “i’m making cherry pie.”

that gets her attention in a different way.

not obvious.

just a subtle shift.

“for what?”

“family dinner.”

“aren’t you the full package,” she says lightly. “vietnam historian, stand-up comedian, and baker.”

you make a face. “sod off.”

leah smiles. “ouch. i was just about to give them to you.”

you look at her immediately. “really?”

she pauses. “…no.” then with a grin continues, “but it was sweet that you believed me.”

you groan. “unbelievable.”

leah watches you turn slightly away, scanning the remaining punnets like you’re solving a problem in your head rather than choosing fruit.

“not to sound cocky,” she says after a moment.

you don’t look at her. “you’re doing a fabulous job at that.”

“do you have any idea who i am?”

that makes you pause.

you finally glance up.

“yes.”

leah’s expression shifts- just a flicker of something suprised. “really?”

“yes.”

“who?”

you look back at the cherries.

“the woman who spilled coffee all over me and bent my book.”

a beat.

leah blinks. “…i don’t think i bent your book.”

“you contributed.”

“i contributed?”

“you were there.”

leah exhales slowly through her nose. “so you don’t know who i am.”

you glance at her, genuinely puzzled. “am i meant to?”

that lands differently.

leah goes quiet for a second longer than before.

then she smiles, smaller this time. less teasing.

“no,” she says finally. “but let’s keep it that way.”

she reaches down, picks up the exact box you’d been eyeing, and holds it out toward you.

“goodbye, darling.”

you take it immediately.

“thank god.”

leah laughs under her breath, already turning away.

you don’t watch her leave.

you’re too busy checking the cherries like they might personally betray you if you don’t supervise them.

behind you, the stall keeps calling out prices.

the city keeps moving.

and somewhere in the crowd, leah walks off with no cherries, and a faint smile she doesn’t bother to hide.

⸻