loving your beloveds

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“No.”

You looked up from your tablet. “No?”

Yelena folded her arms. “No.”

You glanced down at the schedule in front of you. “The interview is in twenty minutes.”

“No.”

“You already agreed to it.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You signed paperwork.”

“I did not read paperwork.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It becomes your fault when you continue speaking.”

Your smile tightened. Across the conference room, Yelena narrowed her eyes. You had endured three weeks of chasing the most stubborn woman on the planet through hallways, briefing rooms, training facilities and rooftops.

Three weeks of arguments and sarcastic comments delivered with enough confidence to make anyone else retreat. Unfortunately for Yelena, you weren’t anyone else.

“You need to attend.”

“No.”

“You have a contractual obligation.”

“No.”

“You are going.”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

Yelena looked suspicious. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

Something flickered across her face. Confusion.

You stood, gathering your papers. “I’ll tell Val you refused.”

Immediately, Yelena scowled.

Cowardly satisfaction warmed your chest. There it was, her one weakness, Val. Not fear exactly, something more like annoyance severe enough to qualify as fear.

“You are threatening me.”

“I am reporting back to my employer, which is my job.”

“You enjoy this.”

“Immensely.”

“You are terrible person.”

“You’ll survive.”

Yelena stared at you for several seconds. Then she pushed herself upright. You bit back a smile.

“Good choice.”

“I hate you.”

“See you in twenty minutes.”

The door slammed behind her. You grinned at your tablet. Small victories. Very small victories.

The strange thing was that you genuinely hadn’t expected progress. The first time you’d met Yelena Belova she’d looked at you like you’d personally invented the masses of paperwork she had to be forced to complete. Now she only looked at you like that seventy percent of the time. It was growth, apparently.

The interview went surprisingly well. Mostly because Yelena spent the entire thing glaring at you from across the room while answering every question perfectly. Whenever the presenter asked something awkward, her eyes flicked towards you automatically.

Waiting. Checking. Looking for guidance.

She didn’t seem to realise she was doing it. You definitely noticed, unfortunately. The problem wasn’t that Yelena was attractive. Everybody knew that. The problem was that the more time you spent around her, the harder it became to maintain professional distance. It was difficult to dislike someone properly once you started noticing things.

The way she always made sure everyone got home safely after missions. The way she hovered near Bob whenever he looked overwhelmed. The way she pretended not to care whilst remembering absolutely everything people told her. The way loneliness seemed to settle around her shoulders whenever she thought nobody was looking.

Those moments were worse, much worse, solely because they made her human. Human was dangerous, it made people easy to care about, and you didn’t have time to care about Yelena Belova.

Your job was managing public perception, not whatever this was becoming.

“You’re staring.”

You nearly jumped. Yelena was standing beside you, far too close. The interview had ended. You hadn’t even noticed.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I was thinking.”

“About me?”

“No.” You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet you keep following me around.”

“I literally get paid to.”

That made her laugh. Actually laugh. Not a sarcastic huff or a smug little noise, but a real laugh. Your stomach did something silly, and Yelena seemed just as surprised by it.

The moment stretched, then she looked away first.

“You must stop making that face.”

“What face?”

“That face where you think too much.”

You frowned. “I don’t have a face for that.”

“You definitely do.”

She walked away before you could respond, leaving you standing there like an idiot.

The weeks passed. Yelena continued arguing with every instruction you gave, and then Yelena continued following every instruction you gave.

You told her to arrive on time. She complained for ten minutes and showed up five minutes early. You told her not to threaten reporters. She argued about free speech and behaved perfectly. You told her she needed media training. She called it psychological warfare and attended every session.

The worst part was that she started seeking you out.

At first it happened occasionally, then daily, then constantly. You’d look up from your desk and find her sitting there. Sometimes saying nothing. Sometimes stealing snacks. Sometimes complaining about literally everything.

“Why are you here?” you asked one afternoon.

Yelena shrugged. You stared, waiting for something sarcastic or something earnest. Yelena only stared back.

“Staring is not an answer, Yelena.”

“I am just existing.”

“Elsewhere is an option.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Another shrug. Your chest felt strangely warm.

The rest of the team noticed long before either of you admitted anything. Especially Ava.

“You’re doomed.”

You looked up. “Doomed?”

“Doomed.”

Ava pointed across the room. Yelena was kicking a vending machine, a wide grin on her face as chocolate bars fell into Bob’s waiting hands at the bottom.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never do.”

“There is nothing happening.”

Ava laughed, more amused than you had ever seen her. “You realise she only listens to you, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“Yesterday Bucky asked her to stop throwing her knives at walls indoors.”

You paused. “Okay, and?”

“She ignored him.”

“Reasonable.”

“You asked her the same thing thirty seconds later.” You winced. Ava folded her arms, brows raised. “What happened next?”

“…she stopped.”

“Exactly.”

Your face felt hot. “There is nothing happening.”

“Sure.”

“Nothing.”

“Whatever helps.”

You hated conversations with Ava, mostly because she was usually right.

The thought planted by Ava followed you home that evening. It stayed while you made dinner, while you showered, and while you lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Nothing was happening. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure you believed yourself anymore, and somewhere across the city, completely unaware of the crisis she’d caused, Yelena Belova was probably doing exactly the same thing.

Nothing happened all at once. That would have been easier. You could have pointed to a specific moment and blamed it. A mission. A conversation. One particular look.

Instead it happened gradually, slipping beneath your skin so quietly that by the time you realised what was wrong it was already far too late.

Yelena became part of your routine. Morning hot drinks would appear beside your laptop without explanation. She would send text messages arriving at ridiculous hours, about anything and everything, from her childhood to Bucky’s habits.

Most people would’ve found her exhausting, but you found yourself smiling whenever her name appeared on your screen. Which was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing.

The worst realisation arrived on a random Tuesday. Nothing special had happened. You’d spent most of the day dealing with scheduling disasters and a journalist determined to ask invasive questions.

By the time you finished, your head was pounding.

Yelena had been away on a mission. Three days, which was not that long in the grand scheme of things. Yet when you walked into headquarters and realised she wasn’t there, disappointment hit so hard it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

The feeling stopped you in your tracks. You hated it immediately, not because it hurt, but because it meant something.

People weren’t supposed to become necessary. Especially not people like Yelena. Especially not when she could leave tomorrow and never look back.

The thought lingered. Uncomfortable. Heavy.

By the time she returned two days later, you’d almost convinced yourself you were being ridiculous.

Then she walked through the door, tired and bruised, but alive. Relief crashed into you so violently that your eyes burned.

That was the moment you knew.

Not because she was beautiful. Not because she made you laugh. Not because she occupied every spare corner of your thoughts, but because seeing her safe felt like being able to breathe again.

You were absolutely screwed. The rest of the Thunderbolts noticed too. Whether through gossip with Ava or something else entirely, you weren’t sure.

“Just ask her out.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Across the break room table, Bob looked genuinely confused.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not asking anyone out.”

“You stare at each other constantly.”

You glared. Bob remained irritatingly sincere.

“Yesterday she spent twenty minutes looking for you.”

“She needed paperwork.”

“No she didn’t.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Bob smiled, something warm yet mischievous beneath it. You considered throwing something at him.

“You’re all insane.”

“If that’s what helps.”

Everybody had apparently decided gaslighting you was a team-building exercise. Ava smirked whenever Yelena entered a room. Alexei kept asking inappropriate questions. Bucky looked permanently exhausted by the entire situation.

Nothing changed, at least not until the party.

The invitation arrived on a Thursday morning. You hated it immediately. “Tell me we’re not going.”

Val smiled. The expression filled you with dread. “We’re going.”

“Why?”

“Public relations.”

“I am public relations and I’m advising against it.”

Val laughed. You briefly considered quitting.

The event itself was exactly as awful as you’d expected. Every powerful person in New York gathered in one room to pretend they enjoyed each other’s company.

The Thunderbolts looked equally miserable.

You spent the first hour doing your job. Redirecting conversations. Managing interviews. Preventing disasters. The usual. Everything was fine.

Then Kate Bishop arrived. You liked Kate. She was funny and friendly. Easy to talk to. None of this was Kate’s fault, which unfortunately did absolutely nothing to stop the feeling that settled in your chest when Yelena saw her.

The way her entire face lit up. The way she immediately crossed the room. The way Kate launched herself into a hug. The way Yelena laughed.

You’d heard that laugh before, yet somehow hearing it now felt different. Your stomach twisted.

Yelena wasn’t yours, and she never had been. Never would be. The thought hurt more than it should have. So you ignored it. You smiled. You worked. You accepted a drink. Then another. Then another.

By the fourth glass, everything felt pleasantly distant. By the sixth, your emotions had become impossible to ignore.

Across the room, Yelena and Kate were still talking. The sight made your chest ache.

You hated yourself for it. Kate hadn’t done anything wrong. Yelena hadn’t done anything wrong. The problem was entirely yours. Months of feelings you’d never meant to develop. Months of pretending friendship was enough. Months of wanting things you couldn’t have.

You finished another drink. Bad idea. Excellent idea? Impossible to tell anymore.

Eventually someone sat beside you. You didn’t look up.

“You are drunk.” Yelena, because why wouldn’t she be there?

You laughed weakly. “No.”

“You can barely focus eyes.”

“Rude.”

“You are drinking somebody else’s champagne.”

You looked down. Apparently she was right.

“That explains a lot.”

Yelena sighed. The sound was surprisingly fond, and that almost made things worse. Almost.

“Come.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m working.”

“You stopped working approximately three drinks ago.”

You frowned. “Maybe four.”

“Definitely six.”

Your dignity was rapidly abandoning ship. “You’re very bossy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You taught me.”

Warmth spread through your chest. Dangerous warmth, the sort that made honesty feel tempting.

Yelena crouched beside your chair. Concern softened her expression. “You need go home.”

The tenderness in her voice nearly destroyed you.

You looked away first. “Fine.”

The journey home blurred together, all taxi lights and rain against windows. The only vivid thing was Yelena’s shoulder beside yours. Every time the car turned a corner your arm brushed hers. Each touch lingered far longer than it should have.

By the time you reached your apartment, emotions had tangled themselves into something impossible to contain.

Yelena helped you inside. You hated how much it made your chest hurt.

“Better?”

You stared at her, at the concern in her eyes. Something cracked.

“You like Kate.”

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Yelena frowned. “What?”

“You like her.”

Realisation flickered across her face. Then confusion. Then something else. Something unreadable.

“No.”

You laughed. It sounded awful. “That’s okay.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Explain what?”

The room tilted slightly. Your throat tightened. Every emotion you’d spent months burying suddenly felt impossible to hold.

“Nothing.”

Yelena moved closer. “Tell me.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence, complete silence. Your stomach dropped. You wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to open beneath you. Wanted anything except the look on Yelena’s face, something hopeful, like she’d spent months wanting to hear those words.

Like they meant something. “Oh.”

You laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

Yelena didn’t move. Neither did you. The space between you suddenly felt microscopic.

Your gaze dropped to her mouth. Then back to her eyes. Something changed. The air itself seemed to shift. You could feel it. The pull. The possibility.

Yelena leaned forward slightly. Your breath caught. So did hers. For one suspended moment it felt inevitable. Then she stopped, her eyes closed briefly.

When she opened them again, there was something heartbreaking in her expression. “No.”

The word barely sounded like her. You stared, confused, hurt, and embarrassed. Every horrible feeling at once.

Yelena’s jaw tightened. “You are drunk.”

The disappointment hit harder than it should have. You looked away, humiliation burning through every inch of you. Yelena stood and took a step back, creating distance where moments earlier there had been none.

“Get some sleep.”

You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear it. The front door clicked shut minutes later, leaving you alone with the worst sinking feeling you’d experienced in years.

What you didn’t see was Yelena standing outside your building in the rain for almost twenty minutes afterwards. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Trying desperately to convince herself she’d done the right thing, and failing completely.

The hangover was unpleasant, but the shame was worse. You woke with fragments and scattered memories of champagne and rain against taxi windows. Then came the memories of Yelena’s voice, brewing a feeling in your chest so intense it still lingered even after consciousness returned.

Every attempt to piece the evening together made your head hurt. The details stayed frustratingly out of reach. You remembered getting drunk. You remembered Yelena taking you home. You remembered crying.

Everything after that dissolved into haze.

By lunchtime you were considering moving countries, or actively considering changing your name.

Then Yelena stopped answering your messages. The first day wasn’t unusual. Sometimes missions happened, or schedules changed. You told yourself not to overthink it.

The second day felt strange. The third day hurt. By the fourth, there was no pretending anymore.

Something had happened. You just didn’t know what.

Every interaction became awkward. Brief. Careful. Whenever you entered a room, Yelena found a reason to leave. Whenever meetings finished, she disappeared before you could speak to her. Whenever your eyes met, hers darted away first.

The rejection settled heavily beneath your ribs.

You couldn’t stop picking at it, couldn’t stop wondering. Had you embarrassed yourself? Had you said something awful? Had you crossed a line?

The uncertainty was almost worse than knowing.

At least certainty would’ve given you something solid to grieve. Instead you found yourself trapped in limbo, unable to move on and unable to understand.

The situation reached its lowest point during a team briefing. You were discussing media appearances. Normally that would’ve meant arguing with Yelena for twenty minutes. This time she barely spoke.

You hated how much you noticed. You hated how much it mattered.

When the meeting ended, everyone stood. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped. The familiar sounds barely registered.

Yelena left without looking at you. Again.

Something inside you finally cracked.

Not dramatically, not visibly. Just enough. The sort of break that happened quietly. The sort nobody noticed except the person experiencing it.

You gathered your things and left before anyone could speak to you.

Unfortunately, the Thunderbolts had never respected boundaries in their lives.

You made it halfway down the corridor before hearing footsteps.

“Hey.” You kept walking.

“Hey.” Ava. You continued walking. She caught up easily. “You look miserable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I gathered.”

Ava fell into step beside you. Silence stretched. You knew that look, the one that meant she was thinking. You dreaded it immediately.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

You sighed. “Ava.”

“What happened?” The concern beneath her voice nearly undid you.

You looked away. “She won’t talk to me.”

Understanding flickered across her face. Followed by irritation, though not directed at you. At someone else. Someone very specific.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

You frowned. “What?”

Ava pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.

“What?”

“She’s an idiot.”

Your stomach twisted. The words landed harder than they should have, because part of you already knew.

If Yelena didn’t feel anything, she wouldn’t be avoiding you.

People only ran from things they cared about.

The thought offered comfort. It also offered absolutely no solutions. By that evening, apparently the entire team had reached the same conclusion. Yelena discovered this the hard way.

The intervention happened without your knowledge, which was probably wise. You would’ve died from embarrassment.

Yelena walked into the communal kitchen expecting coffee. Instead she found five people staring at her.

Alexei smiled. The expression was deeply concerning. “Hello.”

Yelena immediately turned around.

Bucky blocked the doorway. “No.”

“What is this?”

“Intervention.”

“I would rather die.”

Ava pointed at a chair. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

Eventually she sat, muttering something in Russian that probably wasn’t complimentary.

“You’re being stupid,” Ava informed her.

“What else is new?”

“This time it’s affecting other people.”

Yelena’s jaw tightened immediately. Everyone noticed. Bob leaned forward.

“She looks sad.”

“I know.”

The words escaped before Yelena could stop them.

Ava raised an eyebrow. “There it is.”

Yelena groaned. “Please stop talking.”

“No.”

“I hate all of you.”

Alexei looked delighted. “Excellent. We are making progress.”

Yelena considered violence, but, unfortunately, there were too many witnesses.

Bucky folded his arms. “You like her.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“You’ve been miserable for days.”

“No.”

“Yelena.”

She closed her eyes. The argument was becoming difficult to maintain. Mostly because it was complete nonsense. The truth sat heavily in her chest. Painfully obvious. Painfully unavoidable. She liked you. She liked your stubbornness, your sarcasm, the way you challenged her, the way you looked at people like they mattered.

The way your happiness had somehow become important. Terrifyingly important. Yelena hated that. Loved it too, which was arguably worse.

“You are all very annoying.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“No.”

Ava sighed dramatically. “Then stop acting like an idiot.”

Yelena stared at the table. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The sound filled the silence.

“You don’t understand.”

Ava’s expression softened immediately, more than enough to make Yelena uncomfortable.

“We do.”

“No.”

“You really think she cried over this because she doesn’t care about you?”

That got her attention. “What?”

Ava froze. Realisation crossed her face. “Oh.”

“What?” Nobody spoke. Yelena stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped over. “What!?”

The answer arrived anyway, visible in every expression around the room. Before anyone could stop her, she was already moving. Out the door, down the corridor, and into the rain.

You were exactly where she expected. The small café two streets from your apartment. The one you visited whenever you needed to think. The one she’d memorised months ago without realising.

Rain poured from the sky, and you stood beneath the awning staring out at the street. Lost in thought. Yelena stopped several feet away, suddenly terrified. For someone who fought monsters and survived impossible situations, this felt absurdly difficult.

You noticed her a second later. The moment your eyes met, your expression shifted. Hope. Confusion. Pain. The sight nearly broke her.

“Hi.”

You swallowed. “Hi.”

Rain hammered against the pavement. Neither of you moved, neither of you looked away. Eventually you laughed softly. The sound carried no real amusement.

“Have I done something?”

The question hurt, because you genuinely didn’t know. You’d spent days blaming yourself.

Yelena felt sick. “No.”

“Then why—”

“I was scared.”

You stared. The answer clearly wasn’t what you’d expected. Yelena took a shaky breath.

“I did not know what to do.”

Your brow furrowed. “What happened?”

The memory returned to Yelena immediately. Your confession, the almost kiss, the look in your eyes. Yelena stepped closer. Rain soaked through her jacket. Neither of you seemed to care.

“You told me you loved me.”

Your face drained of colour. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh God.”

The horror in your expression would’ve been funny under different circumstances. Yelena couldn’t quite manage laughter.

“I almost kissed you.”

The world seemed to stop. Everything narrowed.

“I was drunk.”

“You were.”

The words sounded painfully final. Your chest tightened. Of course. Of course she’d waited because you were drunk. Of course she’d regretted it afterwards.

The disappointment must’ve shown. Yelena stepped even closer, close enough that you could see raindrops clinging to her eyelashes. Close enough that your pulse became impossible to ignore.

“I wanted to kiss you.” You stopped breathing. Yelena’s voice softened. “I wanted to kiss you before you were drunk.”

Something fragile unfolded inside your chest. Dangerous hope. The kind you’d spent months trying to kill.

“I didn’t remember.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were avoiding me because—”

“I know.”

Her hand found yours, warm despite the rain, steady despite everything. You looked down, and then back up.

Yelena was smiling. “I am very stupid.”

A laugh escaped you. Unexpected. Wet with lingering emotion. “Yeah.”

“I know.”

“You really hurt my feelings.”

Guilt flashed across her face immediately. “I know.”

The sincerity made your chest ache. You squeezed her hand. Yelena squeezed back. Neither of you let go.

“You could’ve just talked to me.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is true.”

Yelena watched you carefully, like she was still waiting for permission, still waiting for certainty. You solved the problem by stepping closer. Close enough that her breath brushed your skin. Close enough that neither of you could pretend anymore.

The smile that spread across Yelena’s face was beautiful. You’d never seen anything like it.

“You know,” you murmured, “if you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve started with that.”

Yelena laughed. A genuine, bright sound. Then she kissed you, soft at first, even tentative. Almost disbelieving. The moment your lips met, months of tension seemed to unravel all at once, finally becoming something real.

You kissed her back immediately, one hand finding her jacket, and the other settling on her cheek. Rain soaked both of you completely, but neither of you cared.

The world had narrowed to this.

To her. To the way she smiled against your mouth. To the way relief flooded your chest so intensely it almost hurt.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved far. Foreheads touching. Breathless and laughing. Yelena brushed her thumb across your cheek.

“You still have terrible schedules.”

You rolled your eyes. “There she is.”

“There I am.” Then she kissed you again before you could answer.

This time, neither of you stopped.

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“You’re joking.”

You wince. “No.”

“Kidding.”

“No.”

“This is actually what it’s like in here?”

You step inside anyway, dropping your keys into the bowl by the door. The heat settles over your shoulders immediately. You have become so used to it that part of you barely notices anymore.

Jack notices. “Jesus Christ.” The door shuts behind him. You hear him exhale, and then you hear him exhale again. “You live like this?”

The embarrassment arrives before you can stop it. Not because the flat is untidy. It isn’t. Not because there’s anything particularly wrong with it. You just suddenly become aware that somebody else is seeing the reality of it. The awkward little coping mechanisms. The things that seem normal until somebody from outside witnesses them.

“It’s not usually this bad,” you mumble.

Jack raises an eyebrow. The expression alone tells you he doesn’t believe that for a second.

After twelve hours at work, neither of you have much energy left. The shift has settled heavily into your bones. Usually, by this point in the evening, you would be alone. You would drag yourself upstairs, change clothes, attempt to cool down, and spend the next several hours trying not to think about how exhausted you are.

Having Jack here changes the shape of the evening entirely. It should feel awkward. The relationship is still new enough that some part of you occasionally waits for awkwardness to appear.

Instead, you mostly feel relieved.

Jack sets your bag down beside the sofa. The movement is so casual that your chest aches a little. You had not asked him to carry it. He had simply picked it up when you left the hospital and refused to hand it back.

“You need a fan.”

“I have a fan.”

Jack follows your gaze. The fan occupies its usual place in the corner of the living room. It rattles faintly. One side vibrates more enthusiastically than the other. The noise it produces sounds less like cooling equipment and more like a pensioner clearing their throat.

Jack stares at it, then at you, then back at the fan. “Honey, I don’t think that counts. It isn’t even rotating.”

“It works.”

“It sounds like it’s filing a complaint.”

You laugh despite yourself. The sound catches you off guard. Everything has felt difficult recently. The heat. The lack of sleep. The endless cycle of work and recovery and work again. Laughing feels surprisingly nice.

Jack notices. His expression softens immediately. That softness still affects you more than it should.

People see confidence when they look at him. They see somebody capable and charming and endlessly self-assured.

You see the man who quietly remembers your coffee order. The man who checks whether you’ve eaten. The man currently looking around your overheated apartment as though he’s distraught that you live in such conditions.

You move towards the kitchen. The routine is instinctive by now. Freezer. Tap. Tea towel.

“What are you doing?”

The question follows you. You don’t answer, not immediately. Jack appears in the doorway just in time to watch you unfold a frozen tea towel.

You run it beneath cold water, then you drape it around the back of your neck. The relief arrives so quickly that your eyes close. A quiet sigh escapes before you can stop it. When you open your eyes again, Jack is staring. His expression suggests he has just witnessed something deeply upsetting.

“What?”

“You keep frozen towels in your freezer.”

“Yes.”

“Multiple towels?” You hesitate. Jack points accusingly. “Multiple towels.”

The embarrassment creeping up your neck becomes significantly worse. “Maybe.”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s practical.”

“You’ve adapted.”

The laugh that escapes him makes you roll your eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t think I want to.”

Unfortunately for both of you, the ritual is not finished. You cross the kitchen and retrieve a large bowl. Jack watches suspiciously. You fill it with ice. His eyes narrow. Then he follows you back into the living room, where you place the bowl directly in front of the fan. The rattling machine immediately begins blowing cooler air across the room.

Jack stares. You try very hard not to look pleased with yourself. “You’ve made your own air conditioning?”

“Exactly. Good trick, isn’t it?”

“No. Absolutely not. This is some sort of fucked up survival documentary.”

“It works.”

His hand slides across his face. The sight is so ridiculous that your shoulders shake with laughter. You expect him to keep teasing. Instead, his expression gradually changes. The amusement fades first. Concern settles in its place.

The shift is subtle enough that somebody else might miss it. You don’t.

Jack glances around the flat again. The open windows, the fan, the bowl of ice, the frozen towel around your shoulders. The tiredness hanging from every movement you make.

“You haven’t been sleeping properly.”

The observation lands gently. You look away. Your relationship is still new enough that being looked after feels strange sometimes. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

The words are quiet. No frustration or judgement, just simple certainty. You focus very hard on adjusting the towel. Jack waits. The silence stretches. You know he isn’t going to push, and that somehow makes it harder. Eventually you shrug.

“Gets a bit warm at night.”

“A bit?” His disbelief is immediate. The corner of your mouth twitches. Jack shakes his head. Then he points towards the front door. “Get your stuff.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“You’re staying at mine.”

The answer arrives so quickly it feels rehearsed. You stare at him. Jack stares right back. The determination in his expression makes nervous warmth bloom somewhere beneath your ribs.

“Jack.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard my argument.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I live here.”

“I know, honey. It’s tragic.” You laugh despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches. Encouraged, he steps closer. The distance between you disappears with embarrassing ease.

“I’ve got air conditioning.” You roll your eyes. “Every room.”

“Please stop.”

“A swimming pool.”

You hate how persuasive that sounds. The hesitation must show on your face because satisfaction immediately appears in his expression. Not smugness, but something softer. Something warmer. Like he already knows you’re considering it and that he has won.

Your chest does an annoying little flutter. Jack reaches for your hand. The gesture is simple. Easy. His fingers slide between yours naturally. You still notice every second of it.

The exhaustion weighing you down all evening suddenly feels heavier. The thought of another night in this flat feels worse. The thought of spending the evening with him feels impossibly appealing.

You look down at your joined hands, then towards the rattling fan and the melting bowl of ice. A reluctant smile appears before you can stop it.

“One night.”

Jack’s grin arrives immediately. You are suddenly very aware that one night is exactly what you said the last time you stayed over.

The drive to Jack’s house is quiet in the comfortable way that seems to happen more often these days. Early on, you had worried about silence. Worried that you would run out of things to say. Worried that your tendency to retreat into yourself after long shifts would eventually become frustrating for somebody as naturally social as Jack.

Instead, he has somehow made room for it.

You spend half the journey staring out of the window and the other half trying not to fall asleep. Jack keeps one hand on the steering wheel and occasionally glances across to make sure you’re still awake.

The second time he catches you fighting a yawn, he laughs. “You’ve got about ten minutes left until you can sleep as much as you want, sweetheart.”

“I’m awake.”

His smile lingers for the rest of the journey.

By the time you pull into his driveway, your body feels heavy with tiredness. The heat hasn’t helped. Neither has the shift. Every muscle aches with the familiar exhaustion that comes after a day spent constantly moving, constantly thinking, constantly responding to somebody else’s emergency.

You follow him to the front door. The moment he opens it, cool air spills into the evening. The relief is immediate. Your shoulders drop before you can stop them. The tension sitting between your shoulder blades eases. Even your breathing feels easier somehow.

Jack notices, and a quiet look of satisfaction crosses his face as you step inside. You hate that he’s right. You hate it even more because part of you feels ridiculously grateful.

The house smells faintly of laundry detergent and whatever Jack cooked yesterday. Nothing fancy. Nothing particularly distinctive. Just lived-in. The sort of smell that belongs to somewhere safe.

You slip your shoes off by the door and immediately feel awkward about how comfortable you are here, though not because Jack has ever done anything to make you uncomfortable. Quite the opposite.

The problem is that every time he includes you in his life so naturally, some shy and uncertain part of you still doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Jack disappears upstairs with your bag. You wander into the living room. The temperature alone feels miraculous. You lower yourself onto the sofa. The cushions sink slightly beneath your weight. For the first time all day, your body stops bracing against something.

A few moments later, Jack returns. Something grey lands in your lap. You look down at a sweatshirt, Jack’s sweatshirt. The one you’ve stolen often enough that you’re surprised he still bothers pretending it belongs to him.

“I’m not cold.”

“You will be.”

Your argument dies immediately. Jack’s smile widens. The traitor, always knowing what you need before you know. You pull the sweatshirt over your head, watching as the sleeves cover half your hands and taking in how the fabric smells faintly of him.

Something embarrassingly soft settles in your chest.

Jack watches the entire process. The look on his face becomes dangerous.

“Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“You were.”

His laugh follows you as you curl further into the sofa. A strange sort of peace settles over the room afterwards. The television remains off. Neither of you seems particularly interested in filling the silence.

You talk a little about work mostly, sharing stories from the shift. The sort of conversations that make no sense to anybody outside healthcare but somehow become funny when shared with somebody who understands exactly what you mean.

At some point your shoulder ends up against his. Then your head drops to his shoulder. Then, without either of you consciously deciding it, you’re curled against his side.

The progression feels so natural that you barely notice it happening. Jack’s arm settles around you. Your eyes close. The steady rise and fall of his breathing becomes impossible to ignore.

Exhaustion creeps up on you slowly. The air conditioning hums somewhere in the background. The sofa is comfortable. Jack’s hand begins moving absent-mindedly in gentle strokes against your upper arm. The combination is fatal.

“You falling asleep?” The question sounds distant.

“No.” Your voice emerges slightly slurred.

Jack laughs quietly. The vibration carries through his chest. You feel it where your cheek rests against him.

“You are, honey.”

“I’m listening to you.”

“You just stopped responding for two minutes.”

You consider defending yourself. Unfortunately that sounds like a lot of work. Sleep wins.

The next thing you know, sunlight has shifted. For several moments, you remain caught between dreaming and waking. Warm, comfortable, and safe. Awareness returns gradually. The weight around your waist. The steady heartbeat beneath your ear. The hand resting lightly against your side.

Jack.

Your eyes open. Embarrassment arrives instantly. At some point during the nap, the two of you have become tangled together. One of your hands is curled into the front of his t-shirt. His arm remains firmly around you.

Your face grows warm. The reaction is ridiculous. You’ve been dating for months. That doesn’t stop it.

You attempt to move. The arm around your waist tightens slightly.

“No.” The word is rough with sleep. You freeze. Jack hasn’t even opened his eyes. His voice emerges again a few seconds later. “Stay there.”

A nervous smile pulls at your mouth. “You fell asleep.”

“Mhm.”

The response makes you laugh. Finally, he opens his eyes, and the fondness in them hits you with the same force it always does. No matter how often it happens, you never seem prepared for it. His gaze lingers for a moment. Not intense or scrutinising, just affectionate. The sort of look that makes you feel strangely fragile, like all of your feelings are sitting somewhere obvious.

“You sleep alright?”

You nod, though the truth is that you cannot remember the last time a nap felt that restful. Jack smiles a slow, pleased sort of smile. It’s the kind of smile that appears whenever he thinks he’s taken care of you successfully. You know that look by now.

A little while later, he disappears upstairs to change. When he returns, he’s carrying a towel over one shoulder. “Pool?”

You stare. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. You should probably be surprised. You’re not.

The pool glitters beneath the late afternoon sun. Heat still hangs in the air outside, though nowhere near as oppressive as it felt earlier.

Jack sits on one of the loungers while you lower yourself into the water, clad in a swimsuit Jack had conveniently bought ‘just in case’ you came over when it was hot outside.

Only after a moment do you realise he’s removing his prosthesis. The movement is familiar, and you have seen him do it before. The first time had made you nervous, mostly because you hadn’t known what was appropriate. Whether to offer help or to look away. Whether acknowledging it would somehow make things awkward.

Jack had solved the problem himself by treating it exactly as what it was. Normal. Now you simply shift closer and hold out your hand when he passes it over.

“Thanks.” You rest it carefully beside his towel. A minute later he slides into the water.

The grin that appears on his face tells you everything. “Better?”

You groan. “Don’t.”

“Better?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

You splash water towards him. His laughter echoes across the garden. The sound settles somewhere warm inside your chest. For a while, neither of you talk about much. You float. You swim. You enjoy the simple relief of cool water against sun-warmed skin.

Eventually you find yourselves leaning against the side of the pool together. Jack’s shoulder brushes yours. His hand drifts towards yours beneath the surface. Your fingers lace together automatically. The gesture feels small, yet familiar. Intimate in a way grand declarations never seem to be.

The afternoon sunlight dances across the water around you. For the first time all week, you aren’t thinking about work. For the first time all week, you aren’t thinking about the heat.

You’re only thinking about how nice it feels to be here with him.

By the time you climb out of the pool, your hair is damp, your skin feels pleasantly cool for the first time in days, and the heavy exhaustion that had been dragging at you since the end of your shift has softened into something manageable.

Jack retrieves his prosthesis while you gather towels. He sits on the edge of the lounger, drying off while you hand him the things he needs without either of you really discussing it. Early in the relationship, you would have worried about getting it wrong. Now it simply feels like another small way of looking after each other. The sort of thing that happens naturally when somebody becomes important.

You are both changed and back downstairs when the first message arrives.

Dana: On the way.

A second appears before you’ve even finished reading it.

Robby: Dana drives like a criminal.

Dana: Shut up.

A third follows.

Trinity: bringing snacks!

Jack glances at the screen over your shoulder. “We should probably start getting ready.”

“We?”

“You’re helping.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m a guest.”

“Nope.”

The answer comes so quickly that it catches you off guard. Something flickers across his expression. Warm and certain, like the idea of you thinking anything different had genuinely never occurred to him.

“You stopped being a guest a while ago.”

Your stomach promptly forgets how to function. Jack seems entirely unaware of the effect he’s had, or perhaps he’s aware and choosing not to acknowledge it. Both possibilities feel dangerous.

You end up helping anyway. Partly because saying no feels impossible, but also because moving around the kitchen with him turns out to be strangely enjoyable.

Jack works with easy confidence. You spend most of your time passing things over, opening cupboards, fetching ingredients and trying very hard not to stare whenever he reaches around you.

The kitchen isn’t particularly large, and neither is your ability to behave normally around somebody you’re dating. Several times you nearly walk directly into him, and the third time it happens, his hands settle instinctively on your waist to steady you. Heat rushes immediately into your face.

Jack smiles, though it isn’t teasing. Just deathly fond. That somehow makes it worse.

By the time the doorbell rings, the garden is ready. Food waits on platters. Drinks sit in ice-filled tubs. The barbecue is heating up outside.

Dana arrives first, carrying enough food to suggest she believes supermarkets may cease to exist overnight. Robby follows behind her with a bag of buns tucked beneath one arm.

Mel and Langdon appear shortly afterwards. Dennis and Trinity arrive together. Samira enters carrying drinks and immediately begins discussing something work-related before she’s even taken her shoes off.

Within twenty minutes, the house feels completely different. Louder. Busier. Full.

Normally, this would be the point where nerves begin creeping in. You have never particularly enjoyed being the centre of attention. Large groups often leave you feeling like you’re trying to keep pace with a conversation that started before you arrived.

Tonight feels easier, maybe because these people already know you, and because you’ve met them enough times now. Or, maybe, it’s because Jack never strays very far.

His hand brushes your back as he passes behind you. His shoulder nudges yours while you’re standing beside the drinks table. Little moments. Tiny things. Each one grounding, making it easier to relax.

The evening settles into a comfortable rhythm. The entire thing feels like chaos, but it is comfortable chaos. The kind that comes from people genuinely liking one another.

You find yourself smiling more than usual, and speaking more than usual too. Not much. Just enough that Jack notices.

You are halfway through a conversation with Samira when you happen to glance across the garden and catch him watching you. The expression on his face makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. Pride, not the loud kind, but something quieter, as though seeing you happy matters to him.

The realisation leaves you oddly emotional. You look away first. The alternative feels dangerous.

Later, once food has been eaten and the evening begins slipping towards night, people spread out across the garden in smaller groups. String lights glow overhead. Music drifts softly from a speaker somewhere near the house. The air remains warm, though no longer unbearable.

You end up curled into one corner of the outdoor sofa. Jack sits beside you. Close enough that your knees touch and so that every so often his arm brushes yours. The conversation nearby fades into background noise. For a few moments, neither of you says anything.

You simply sit together. The silence feels nice. Then Jack glances towards the house.

“You know…”

The words immediately make you suspicious. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no. Don’t hurt yourself.”

His laughter escapes instantly. “I have good ideas.”

“Debatable.”

The smile he gives you is entirely too pleased, and your stomach performs an irritating little flip. Jack gestures vaguely towards the house.

“The spare room’s still empty.”

You narrow your eyes. Jack’s expression remains completely innocent. You don’t believe it for a second.

“Right.”

“Could probably do something with it.”

“Mhm.”

“Seems a waste otherwise.”

You bite back a smile. The corner of his mouth twitches. The two of you sit in silence for another moment. Then his hand quietly finds yours, warm fingers sliding between yours. The simple familiarity of it makes your chest ache.

You are not ready to move in together. Not yet. The relationship is still growing. Still becoming something. The thought doesn’t scare you the way it might have once.

That surprises you.

Months ago, the idea would have sent you running. Now it simply feels distant, a possibility sitting somewhere on the horizon.

Jack squeezes your hand lightly. No pressure. No expectation. Just warmth. The sort he gives freely.

Around the garden, laughter erupts from one of Robby’s stories. Dana immediately accuses him of exaggerating. Trinity agrees. Mel disagrees. Dennis looks exhausted. Samira is laughing too hard to contribute. Langdon appears to be reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

The sight makes you smile. Jack notices, and his gaze shifts towards you. For a second, the noise around you seems to fade.

Not completely. Just enough.

You think about the apartment waiting for you across town. The rattling fan, the bowls of ice, the frozen towels.

You think about this instead.

About cool air and afternoon naps. About somebody carrying your bag without being asked. About hands finding yours automatically. About never having to question whether you’re wanted.

Jack lifts your joined hands and presses a brief kiss against your knuckles. The gesture is so casual that nobody else notices. Your heart nearly stops anyway.

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

You nod. The answer feels too big to explain properly. Loved, perhaps, though the word still feels fragile enough that you hesitate to touch it.

Jack smiles. The expression settles something inside you.

Around you, the evening continues exactly as before. Friends talking. Music drifting through the garden. The smell of barbecue lingering in the warm summer air.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.

There is only this. There is only a borrowed sweatshirt waiting upstairs, a house that already feels strangely familiar, and a man sitting beside you with your hand tucked securely in his.

The rest can wait until morning.

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You hand him his coffee.

“Cheers.”

“No problem.”

Then you move on to the next customer. Jamie stands there for a second. Waiting. People usually linger. They ask questions. They smile too much. They laugh at things that aren’t funny.

You are already asking the next person whether they want oat milk. It bothers him. Not enough to say anything, but enough to remember you.

The café cart sits in a little corner of Richmond’s training ground offices. Mostly executives, staff members, coaches and visitors drift through. You have worked there for nearly two years and know most people by name. Most people know yours.

Jamie doesn’t.

For weeks he is simply another customer. An irritating one. The sort who orders the same thing every single day and somehow still manages to complain.

“Coffee’s hotter today.”

“It is coffee.”

“I’m just saying.”

You smile brightly. “Thank you for your feedback.”

His eyes narrow. You beam at him. The interaction leaves him strangely annoyed. It leaves you amused.

You tell your colleague Hannah about it later.

“The footballer?”

“The footballer.”

“The fit one?”

You snort. “They’re all fit.”

“No, but he’s proper fit.”

“He acts like somebody who got told he was good looking once and built his entire personality around it.”

Hannah nearly chokes laughing. The conversation should have ended there. Instead, somehow, Jamie starts appearing more often.

One coffee in the morning becomes one coffee in the morning and another in the afternoon. Then sometimes he turns up for bottled water. Or a snack. Or absolutely no reason you can identify.

You start suspecting he simply enjoys being difficult.

“You’re smiling.”

You look up from the till. Jamie is leaning against the counter.

“Yes?”

“You always smiling?”

You glance around, grinning cheekily. “No. Sometimes I commit crimes.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Close. The tiny victory surprises you more than it should. Something shifts after that, though not dramatically. Not enough for anybody else to notice. Just enough that conversations start happening.

Small ones. Meaningless ones.

Jamie complains about the weather. You tell him he lives in England and should adjust his expectations. Jamie complains about training. You tell him nobody is forcing him to kick a ball professionally for enormous amounts of money.

Jamie complains about literally everything else. You tell him that sounds difficult in the same tone people use with toddlers.

The strange thing is that he keeps coming back. You cannot work out why. You are not particularly exciting in your eyes. Your life is ordinary. You go to work, you visit your family, you split rent with two friends, and you spend entirely too much money on takeaway when you’ve had a rough day.

Nothing about you belongs in glossy magazines, and nothing about you belongs near famous footballers.

The difference between your worlds feels obvious, sometimes painfully obvious. Especially when you catch fragments of conversations about brand deals and luxury holidays and cars worth more than your yearly salary.

Things so far removed from your own life that they feel fictional. You never mention it. Never let yourself dwell on it.

Then one Tuesday afternoon Jamie arrives looking genuinely furious. Not his usual dramatic annoyance. Actually angry. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the tension in his jaw, in the way he throws a twenty-pound note onto the counter.

“Cappuccino.”

You start making it. Silence stretches between you. Normally he would have complained about something by now. The quiet feels wrong.

Eventually you glance over. “Bad day?”

“No.”

The answer comes too quickly. You hum. “Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re acting like you know I’m lying.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

His expression grows even darker. “What’s funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” You finish the coffee, placing it carefully on the counter. “People who aren’t upset don’t stomp around looking like someone has just pissed on their £300 trainers.”

For a second you think he might snap at you. Instead something unexpected happens. His shoulders drop, only slightly, but enough to notice. The anger doesn’t disappear. It just looks heavier suddenly, less dramatic, more real.

Your chest tightens. You don’t know much about Jamie Tartt. Only what everybody knows. The endless confidence. Seeing a crack in all that armour feels strangely intimate.

You don’t push. People always appreciate that.

“So,” you say lightly, “if murder isn’t on the agenda, your coffee’s ready.”

His laugh catches him off guard. You hear it. The surprise crossing his face. The sound does something ridiculous to your stomach.

He takes the cup. For a moment neither of you move. The air feels oddly crowded. Jamie clears his throat first.

“See you tomorrow.”

The words arrive casually. As though they mean nothing. As though he doesn’t come here every day anyway. You smile.

“Probably.”

He leaves. The door swings shut behind him. You stare after him for a second longer than necessary. By the time your shift ends, you’ve almost forgotten about it. Almost.

The problem arrives three days later. You are carrying two crates through the service corridor when one slips. The contents crash across the floor. Several bottles burst open instantly, and cold liquid splashes over your shoes.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Embarrassment hits first, then frustration. You already know cleaning this mess is going to keep you late. The week has been exhausting enough without this.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. Not from the accident, but from everything else. The bills and the long hours and the endless feeling that no matter how hard you work you’re always one step behind.

You hate crying. Especially at work over something stupid.

A sharp voice interrupts your thoughts. “You alright?”

You look up. Jamie, because of course. Why wouldn’t it be? For one horrifying second you think he has noticed your watery eyes. His expression changes. Concern. Actual concern. The sight startles you.

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I dropped some bottles.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

A shaky laugh escapes. Mortifying. You immediately look away.

The corridor suddenly feels too bright. Too narrow. Too small. Nothing terrible has happened. That almost makes it worse. You know exactly how silly you must seem. Getting emotional over a few broken bottles. Over a bad week. Over nothing.

Then Jamie crouches beside the mess without another word.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Something catches painfully in your throat. People are kind to you all the time. Friends. Family. Colleagues. Still, something about the simple certainty of it lands differently.

Maybe because Jamie Tartt is the last person you expected it from.

For a moment neither of you speak. The silence settles around you.

The realisation arrives all at once. You like him. Not just tolerate him. Not just find him amusing. You genuinely, properly like him.

The thought should have felt exciting. Instead it fills you with dread, because liking Jamie Tartt feels a little bit like standing at the edge of something very high and knowing exactly how much it would hurt if you fell.

You spend the entire weekend trying to convince yourself that nothing has changed. The problem is that something has. The knowledge sits awkwardly beneath your ribs, impossible to ignore now you’ve noticed it.

You like Jamie in a way that extends beyond amusement and friendly conversation. You like him in a way that makes your stomach flutter whenever he walks through the café doors, in a way that makes you hate yourself slightly, not because there is anything wrong with liking somebody.

But, because it feels ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

You know exactly what people like Jamie date. Women whose lives look beautiful and effortless. Women who seem to belong in the same polished world he inhabits. You spend your days steaming milk and apologising for card machines that aren’t working.

The gap feels embarrassing.

Enough that by Monday morning you’ve decided the sensible thing is to ignore the whole situation.

The door opens at half past eight. Your heart immediately does something stupid. Jamie hasn’t even said anything yet. He just walks in wearing a Richmond training jacket and that permanently irritated expression he seems to have been born with.

You hate that you notice how nice he looks.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He studies you. You focus aggressively on the coffee machine.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You nearly spill milk everywhere. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You risk a glance upward. His eyebrows have pulled together. Genuine confusion. The sight makes you want to laugh. Of course Jamie notices immediately. The man is fuelled almost entirely by attention, and any deviation from normal behaviour apparently triggers an investigation.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’ what?”

“Hmm, I don’t believe you.”

You hand over his coffee.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. A familiar warmth settles in your chest. Dangerous. You need to stop doing that. Need to stop collecting little moments with him as though they mean something.

The trouble is that Jamie seems determined to make it difficult.

Over the next few weeks he starts lingering. Not in a subtle way, but in a Jamie way. The football equivalent of a toddler dragging a chair into the middle of a room and demanding everybody admire his efforts.

You are wiping tables one afternoon when he appears beside you. “Why’re you doing that?”

You stare. “I’m cleaning.”

“Don’t they have people for that?”

“I am people for that.”

He looks genuinely puzzled. You laugh despite yourself. His expression brightens instantly, like he’d been waiting for it. The realisation catches you off guard. Jamie likes making you laugh. The thought follows you home.

By the time you finally crawl into bed, you are annoyed with yourself. Nothing good can come from this, nothing at all. You know that.

Then one Friday afternoon you walk into the staff area and hear your name. The sound stops you immediately.

“…they’re nice.”

Jamie’s voice.

You freeze. A horrible instinctive reaction.

Not wanting to be noticed. Not wanting to interrupt. Not wanting to hear something that might hurt.

A second voice answers. Sam. You recognise him from around the training ground. “Nice?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then Sam laughs. The sound carries through the doorway. “You fancy them.”

Your stomach drops. Silence. You should leave, you know you should. Instead you remain rooted to the spot. Waiting. Every nerve in your body suddenly awake.

“What if I do?”

The words hit like a physical thing. For a second everything goes completely still.

Sam says something else, but you don’t hear it.

The rushing in your ears is too loud. You move before either of them can emerge. Your face feels unbearably hot.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur. You make drinks, serve customers, smile automatically. Nothing feels real.

Jamie fancies you.

The sentence keeps repeating. Absurd and impossible. You spend all evening trying to poke holes in it. The possibilities pile up endlessly.

None of them help.

Monday arrives. Jamie appears at eight thirty-one.

You know because you’ve spent the last minute staring at the door like an idiot. The second he walks in, panic explodes through you. He knows. He doesn’t know. You know.

Which somehow feels worse.

Your smile wobbles. Jamie’s eyes narrow instantly. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“The weird.”

You nearly groan.

“The weird? Please stop calling it that.”

“So you admit it exists.”

You hate that he’s won. A little grin spreads across his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I work here.”

“You’ve been avoiding me while working here.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing useful appears. The grin widens. God. You really do like him. A deeply unfortunate discovery.

“Coffee?” You ask desperately.

“Please.”

The conversation ends there. Thankfully.

The rest of the day feels wrong. You catch yourself searching for him, wondering where he is. The uncertainty gnaws at you, and by closing time you’re exhausted.

You lock up, gather your things, and head toward the bus stop. Rain starts halfway there, because why wouldn’t it? Cold droplets splatter across your jacket. You mutter several rude observations about British weather.

A car horn sounds, and you ignore it. It sounds again, and you turn. Jamie is leaning across the passenger seat of an expensive car that probably costs more than every possession you’ve ever owned combined.

Your stomach immediately performs a backflip.

“Get in.”

You blink once. “No.”

“It’s raining.”

“I can see that.”

“So get in.”

You laugh. Actual disbelief. The expression on his face suggests he thinks this is the most straightforward conversation in human history.

“I’m not getting into a stranger’s car.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“You absolutely are.”

He looks offended. Genuinely offended. The sight nearly makes you smile.

“We’ve known each other for months.”

“I know your first name.”

“You know loads more than that.”

“Not enough to get kidnapped.”

Jamie stares. You stare back. Rain continues pouring down. Finally he groans. “You’re impossible.”

A strange flutter fills your chest. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still counts.”

For a second he simply looks at you. Something softer settling behind his eyes. Less guarded. The expression catches you completely off guard.

Then he says quietly, “I wasn’t joking, you know.”

Your breath catches. The rain suddenly feels very far away. “What?”

“I like talking to you.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. Jamie glances away first, a tiny crack in his confidence.

You realise with sudden shock that he looks nervous. The discovery changes something. Makes him seem younger somehow, more real and more human. You smile before you can stop yourself.

A proper smile. The kind you cannot fake. His shoulders visibly relax. Like he’d been waiting for your reaction as if it mattered. The thought sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“You like talking to me?”

His face immediately scrunches. “Don’t make it weird.”

A laugh bursts out of you, bright and uncontrollable. The sound seems to pull one from him too. For a moment the world narrows, just you and him. Just rain and laughter and a feeling neither of you quite knows what to do with.

Then reality returns. Jamie clears his throat. “So?”

“So?”

“Can I give you a lift home now?”

You hesitate. Long enough to make him nervous again, and more than enough to make yourself nervous. Then slowly, despite every sensible thought in your head, you walk toward the car.

The smile that appears on Jamie’s face is so unexpectedly pleased that your heart immediately sinks, because this is getting worse. Much, much worse.

And for the first time, you aren’t entirely sure you want to stop it.

The inside of Jamie’s car smells expensive. That is the first thing you notice. The second is that it is strangely tidy. You are not sure what you expected. Maybe footballs rolling around on the floor. Maybe empty bottles. Something. The spotless interior somehow feels more unsettling.

You fasten your seatbelt. Jamie pulls away from the curb. For a few seconds neither of you says anything. Rain taps softly against the windows. The city slides by outside. Your pulse feels unreasonably loud. This is ridiculous.

You have served this man coffee almost every weekday for months. You have argued with him about biscuits. You once spent ten minutes debating whether pigeons are evil.

None of that should make sitting beside him feel this significant.

Yet it does. The silence stretches, like both of you are trying to work out where the edges are.

Eventually Jamie glances across. “You always this quiet?”

A laugh escapes. “You mean compared to your usual experience of me while I’m physically at work?”

“Yeah.”

“Then no.”

Something relaxes in him. You see it in the way the corner of his mouth lifts. You find yourself smiling back before you can stop it.

Everything about this feels dangerous. The journey should be short. Instead traffic grinds everything to a halt. London is apparently deciding to conspire against your ability to behave normally.

You spend nearly forty minutes crawling through streets that should take fifteen, and by the end of it you’ve somehow talked about everything.

Your terrible secondary school, his first football boots, his mum. The cat you desperately want but cannot afford. The fish he accidentally killed when he was ten. That one nearly makes you cry laughing.

“I was a child.”

“You forgot to feed it.”

“I thought my mother was feeding it.”

“You left it for two weeks.”

“I said I was a child.”

Every time you laugh, something bright appears in his expression. Something almost boyish. You are beginning to suspect Jamie likes making you happy as much as he likes seeing you laugh. The thought follows you right up until he pulls outside your flat.

Then reality crashes back in. The building looks exactly as it always does. Slightly worn. Slightly shabby. Home. You suddenly become acutely aware of every crack in the brickwork, every peeling corner of paint, and, in turn, every difference between your life and his.

Embarrassment creeps in unexpectedly. You know it is stupid, and yet it is there all the same.

Jamie’s eyes flick toward the building. Then back to you, no judgement. The relief almost annoys you.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“No worries.”

You reach for the handle, and then pause, something tugging painfully inside your chest. The feeling that if you leave now, whatever happened today might disappear. Become something easy to dismiss. A strange afternoon, nothing more.

Jamie seems to feel it too. Neither of you moves. The rain continues falling outside. Soft and steady.

Finally he speaks. “You wanna get dinner sometime?”

Your breath catches. There it is. The thing that has been slowly approaching for weeks. The thing you have spent entirely too much time pretending not to notice. Fear arrives first, not excitement, not happiness. Fear, because suddenly it is real. All the reasons it will never work rush forward at once.

He is famous. You are not. He earns more in a week than you probably will in years. Your worlds barely touch. People like him do not date people like you. Not seriously. Not for long. Not in real life.

The hesitation lasts only a second. Long enough that Jamie’s expression changes immediately.

The brightness disappearing, his shoulders tightening. Something twists painfully in your chest because you become all too aware that he thinks you’re rejecting him.

The sight hurts far more than it should.

“You don’t have to.” His voice sounds careful now. Too careful. Like somebody trying not to sound disappointed.

Your heart sinks, because for all his confidence and arrogance and impossible ego, there is something unexpectedly vulnerable underneath.

Something you’ve been catching glimpses of for months. You don’t want to hurt him. You definitely don’t want to be the reason that look appears on his face.

“It’s not that.”

He studies you. Waiting. Honesty arrives before you can stop it. “Jamie, I don’t really know why you’re asking me.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“You could date basically anyone.” The words feel embarrassing the moment they leave your mouth. Too honest and revealing. You stare down at your hands. “I make coffee.”

“So?”

You laugh softly. A sad sort of laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His confusion appears genuine. That somehow makes everything worse. “You know what it means.”

“No, I don’t.”

You finally look at him. The frustration in his expression catches you off guard. Real frustration.

“You think I care where you work?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Because yes, obviously he cares. Isn’t that how the world works?

Jamie’s stare sharpens, like he can actually see the thoughts moving through your head. The possibility makes you want to crawl under the seat.

“I like you.”

The words land heavily between you. No room to misunderstand. Your pulse stumbles.

Jamie shakes his head slightly. Still looking frustrated. “I like talking to you.”

His voice softens. “I like seeing you.”

Another beat. “I look for you when I come in.”

Your chest hurts. Not painfully, just intensely. The way feelings sometimes do when they grow too large. Nobody has said something like that to you in a very long time. Not with that kind of certainty.

Jamie waits, for once not pushing.

You realise suddenly that he seems far more nervous than you do. The discovery settles something inside you, and makes everything feel less frightening. Less impossible. More real. A tiny smile slips onto your face.

The tension immediately leaves his shoulders. The reaction is so instant it nearly makes you laugh.

“That wasn’t a no.” His eyes narrow.

“It wasn’t.”

“So is it a yes?”

You shake your head. Amusement bubbling despite yourself. “You are unbelievably impatient.”

“Yeah.”

At least he’s honest. The laugh that escapes you feels lighter than anything you’ve felt all week. Maybe all month. Jamie’s smile grows, beautiful enough to make your stomach flip.

“Okay.” The word leaves your mouth quietly.

His entire face brightens. The transformation happens so quickly it steals the breath from your lungs. You suddenly understand why people forgive him so easily. When Jamie is happy, it feels a little bit like standing in sunlight.

The thought terrifies you.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Jamie.”

A grin spreads across his face. Completely unstoppable. “Nice.”

You laugh. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The ego.”

“It’s not ego.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You’re taking me on a date.”

You groan immediately. “There he is.”

His laughter follows you out of the car. Warm enough that you find yourself smiling all the way to your front door.

The date happens four days later. You spend most of those four days convinced you’ve lost your mind.

By Thursday evening you’re certain of it. The restaurant isn’t particularly fancy, and you suspect that is deliberate.

Jamie arrives five minutes early, but you arrive seven minutes early. The sight of him waiting makes something flutter inside your chest.

The date itself is surprisingly easy. Conversation flows naturally. You laugh. He laughs. Nobody seems to care that he’s famous. For a few hours he is simply Jamie. Just a man making you laugh across a table.

Halfway through dessert you catch him looking at you. The softness in his expression nearly undoes you.

“What?”

His smile appears slowly. “I was right.”

A nervous warmth spreads through you. “About what?”

“Asking you out.”

Your eyes roll automatically. Something suspiciously fond settles in his expression. The sight catches you completely off guard. Then he reaches across the table, just enough for his fingers to brush yours.

Your heart feels painfully full, and you are very aware that the future remains uncertain. Maybe there will be problems, maybe there will be mistakes, and maybe the differences between your worlds will matter eventually.

But, tonight, they don’t. Tonight there is only Jamie smiling at you. Only the warmth of his hand against yours. Only the strange wonderful certainty that somewhere along the way the arrogant footballer who annoyed you every morning became somebody important.

And judging by the way Jamie is looking at you now, as though he still cannot quite believe his luck, you suspect he feels exactly the same.

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