jules

Leah told herself it was an accident.

She wasn't the type to stalk someone. That wasn't her. She didn't have time, for one, she was busier than ever, being pulled in a hundred directions, media obligations, training, friend birthdays she barely made it to.

So she definitely didn't go out of her way to be on the same street in Chelsea on a Wednesday morning.

She definitely didn't glance up from her phone in the queue at the florist on Elystan Street and nearly drop her oat milk flat white when she saw her.

Zofia.

Black trousers. Oversized sunglasses. No makeup, or just the subtle kind that made it look like she wasn't wearing any. White maybe satin, probably silk, button-down tucked into her waist like it was made for her. A fur-trimmed coat , the same one, of course, casually draped over one arm like it had no business being that beautiful.

She was standing outside a small grocer, scowling at her phone like it had insulted her personally.

Even her annoyance was hot.

Leah stared. She didn't mean to.

She stared for too long.

And then, too late, Zofia looked up.

Their eyes met.

And Zofia's expression shifted from neutral to disgusted in exactly one second.

⸻

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

That was how Zofia greeted her. Not a hello. Not even a fake smile.

She slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head and took a slow step forward, heel to pavement like she was walking into a courtroom, one eyebrow risen, lip curled.

"Are you stalking me?"

Leah blinked. "What? No. No, I was- I was literally just-"

Zofia raised a single eyebrow.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

Leah swallowed. "I promise I didn't know you'd be here."

Zofia tilted her head, as if studying some insect on glass. "Really. You didn't know I do my weekly produce shop, right here every Wednesday morning at exactly ten-thirteen?"

Leah froze. "I- I didn't know you did that."

"Interesting." Zofia crossed her arms, sunglasses slipping slightly. "So you just happened to be here. At my usual shop. In a twenty-metre radius. Holding a... tulip?"

Leah glanced down at the tulip she'd been planning to give to her physio as a thank-you. It suddenly looked very suspicious.

"I swear, I didn't plan this."

"Do you follow all women you meet once and fail to impress?"

Leah's mouth dropped open. "I didn't- I wasn't trying to follow you. I was just-"

Zofia sighed, long-suffering, and turned away slightly, an expression garnishing her face as if she was contemplating, Leah couldn't figure out what exactly it was though, before swiftly attempting to walk away.

Leah chased her a few steps. "Okay, okay. Look. Maybe this is insane. Maybe this is weird. Maybe I am the insane weirdo? I get that. But can I just- can I buy you a coffee? Just, like, as a 'sorry for looking like a stalker' kind of thing?"

Zofia glanced over her shoulder. "You want to take me to a coffee shop. After you spied on me?"

"I wasn't- it's not spying. I'm not even good at spying. I don't-"

"You'd be a horrible spy," Zofia said, flat.

Leah blinked. "So... is that a nooooo..?"

Zofia didn't answer at first. She just watched Leah like she was deciding whether to kill her or let her suffer naturally.

Then she sighed again, exaggerated and elegant. "I don't do coffee shops."

Leah blinked. "What?"

"It's overpriced," Zofia said. "And bitter, bad quality. It's like most men actually. And oat milk makes people think they have personalities."

Leah opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"Okay... do you want tea? A croissant? I don't care, just-"

"No," Zofia said simply.

Then, after a pause... slow, disinterested, eyes flicking lazily over Leah's frame:

"You can come to mine."

Leah blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I can make actual coffee at home. If you're so determined to waste my time, you can do it in my kitchen."

"I'm not trying to waste your time."

Zofia turned her back fully, walking away now. "Then walk little faster please."

⸻

The flat was in Belgravia. Of course it was.

Five floors up. Real marble, not the fake kind. Antique mirrors. Dark wooden doors with matte black handles. No visible neighbours. Quiet enough to hear the elevator cables hum.

Inside, the place was... exactly what Leah expected.

Aesthetic violence.

Velvet armchairs that looked like they'd seen more secrets than conversations. Books stacked sideways on windowsills. A massive, oil-painted portrait of a woman Leah couldn't decipher who... maybe she should've picked history instead of geography, it could've proved helpful now.

The kitchen wasn't huge, but it was sleek. Too sleek. Like no one actually cooked there. Even the kettle looked judgmental.

"Sit," Zofia said, without looking at her.

Leah sat.

She felt like a kid being summoned to the headmistress' office. Everything echoed. Even her breath felt too loud.

Zofia moved like she wasn't in a rush but wanted you to be.

She poured water into a pot instead of a kettle. Of course she did. Old-school. Deliberate. Not for show. Just because she could.

She didn't speak.

Not while the water heated. Not while she spooned coffee beans into a gold-rimmed french press and pressed down like she had more important things on her mind than whoever was sitting at her kitchen island, trying not to stare at her profile.

When she finally turned around, Leah straightened automatically.

Zofia placed the mug in front of her without ceremony. "Here."

Leah reached for it. "Thanks."

"It'll be bitter," Zofia warned.

Leah sipped. "I don't mind."

"You should."

⸻

Zofia leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"So," she said flatly. "Are you going to explain why you're obsessed with me, or are we going to sit in silence until you faint from how hard you're trying to look relaxed?"

Leah flushed. "I'm not obsessed."

Zofia raised one brow. "You're holding the mug like it's a wedding proposal."

Leah looked down. Loosened her grip. "You're really good at making people feel stupid."

Zofia shrugged. "No. I'm good at spotting liars."

"I'm not lying."

"Then what exactly are you doing?"

Leah sighed. "I just- I wanted to see you again."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Zofia looked unimpressed. "Try harder."

Leah bit her lip. "Because you're interesting. Because you don't care if people like you. Because you scare me a little."

Zofia's gaze didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened.

"I don't do flattery."

"I'm not flattering you."

"You want something."

"I don't," Leah said. Then paused. "Maybe. I don't know yet."

Zofia nodded slowly, like she'd heard this before. A hundred times.

"Most people want to fix me," she said. "Or break me. Or wear me."

"I don't want to fix you," Leah said. "I just want to talk to you."

"That's worse."

⸻

The silence sat thick between them. The coffee steamed. The clock ticked.

Zofia turned away first.

"You can finish that," she said over her shoulder, already walking out. "Then let yourself out."

"Wait-"

Zofia stopped. Half-turned.

"You're not going to kick me out now?" Leah asked.

Zofia tilted her head. "You haven't annoyed me enough yet."

"Is that... a compliment?"

"No."

Leah smiled anyway. "See you again?"

Zofia looked her over, expression unreadable.

Then:

"We'll see."

And she was gone.

Leah Williamson stood with a glass of bubbles and her tie half-undone, trying not to look like she wanted to leave.

Football had bought her the invite. She'd taken the photos, shaken the hands, nodded through speeches. She was being watched, always, but no one knew her here. Not really. And even if they did, she doubted they'd care.

The room buzzed with a language that wasn't spoken. Looks passed like currency. There was laughter, soft and low, like something rehearsed. Power clung to the air the same way perfume clung to the walls.

And then the room went still.

Not physically, no. The music kept playing. Cutlery still clanked . But something shifted.

Leah turned instinctively.

And saw her.

⸻

She didn't enter so much as she appeared, a silhouette in black silk, hair like something carved and coiled, and a fur coat that clung to her shoulders like history. It wasn't the fur that stunned Leah, it was the way she wore it, like it meant something. Like it wasn't for show.

The dress, pitch black, long-sleeved, slit high, it screamed elegance in the most impolite way. Every line was deliberate. Every movement, slow. Not out of shyness, but disdain. She walked as if she were already disappointed by everyone in the room.

And maybe she was.

She didn't smile. Not once. Not as the doorman bowed, not as the waitress offered wine, not as heads turned with her every step.

Leah was caught.

Staring. Watching. Practically leaning.

The woman moved to the edge of the room and stopped beneath a massive arrangement of white orchids. She didn't mingle. She didn't check her phone. She stood with her arms loose, a glass of red held perfectly between manicured fingers.

Cold. Still. Composed.

Leah had no idea who she was.

But she wanted to know what her voice sounded like.

⸻

She waited ten minutes before approaching.

It felt longer.

With every second, Leah considered turning back. What the hell was she even doing? She hated people who acted as if they were above others. She hated pretentious charity nights. She hated—

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, ignoring every rule she believed in.

The woman didn't look at her right away.

When she did, her gaze was slow. Heavy. Not hostile, but clinical. Like Leah was being measured. Weighed.

Zofia. Though Leah didn't know her name yet. Only that her eyes were the colour of still water and her face looked like it had been trained not to betray anything.

"If it were," she said, "would that have stopped you?"

Her accent was there, Slavic, maybe Baltic, but so fine-edged it felt sculpted. Each syllable deliberate. Cool.

Leah smiled. "Probably not."

A pause.

Then, with faint irritation: "Sit down, then."

Leah obeyed. Somehow, it felt like a dare.

⸻

The silence between them was clinical. Then unbearable.

"Sooo..." Leah started, leaning her forearms against the table. "Enjoying yourself?"

Zofia took a sip of her wine. "No."

Leah blinked. "Well, that's honest."

"I don't particularly enjoy pretending to care about the ego of men who buy paintings they'll never hang. Do you?"

Leah grinned. "Depends. Are you always this charming, or is it just me?"

Zofia's eyes didn't move. "Do you always speak like this to women you don't know?"

"I don't know," Leah said lightly. "You don't feel like a stranger."

"I'd prefer to remain one."

Another silence. This one intentional.

Leah resisted the urge to fidget. Zofia wasn't just cold, she was completely unreadable. She didn't flirt, didn't flinch, didn't ask anything back, and in all honesty, it was something Leah had experienced in a long while.

She simply sat. Still, silent, devastating.

But Leah didn't move.

⸻

"You're not from here," Leah said eventually.

Zofia's brow arched, minutely.

"That obvious?"

"Not in a bad way."

"Mm."

Leah tilted her head. "Polish?"

Zofia nodded once.

Leah caught the twitch of something... an old sadness? just under her expression. Gone too quickly to be sure.

"I'm Leah."

"I know who you are."

That surprised her. "Oh?"

Zofia finally turned to meet her eyes. "I like football, your team... arsenal? it's good."

Leah leaned back, amused. "And yet here I am. No idea who you are."

"Good."

"Are you always this friendly?"

Zofia sipped her wine again. "You've already asked me that."

"And you didn't answer."

Her mouth quirked. Barely.

"I'm rarely anything at all. People like to project what they want."

"And what do you think I want?"

"You're still here. That tells me enough."

⸻

A long pause. Leah watched her more carefully now.

Something in the way Zofia held her jaw, stiff, but not arrogant. Defensive. Her hands were too still. The glass too full. She'd perfected the art of appearing untouched.

"I like people who don't smile," Leah said finally. "It usually means they're paying attention."

Zofia's eyes flickered. Not softening. Just... noticing.

"Or it means," she replied, "they've learned that smiling gets them nothing."

Leah wasn't sure what to say to that. So she didn't. Just let it sit.

Then, Zofia turned her head slightly. Almost a curiosity.

"Very poetic Leah. You don't strike me as the kind who enjoys rejection," she said.

Leah laughed softly. "I don't."

Zofia's voice was very quiet. "Then why haven't you left?"

Leah met her gaze. Steady. Sure.

"Because I think you're lying."

"About what?"

"You don't want me to leave."

Zofia said nothing.

But she didn't tell her to go.

⸻

They sat like that for a long time.

Long enough that someone came by with canapés. Zofia waved them away. Leah grabbed one and ate it with mock ceremony. Zofia didn't laugh, but she didn't roll her eyes either.

Leah didn't push again. She just sat with her. Let the silence return. Let it live.

It was Zofia, in the end, who broke it.

"You're bolder than most people in this room."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

"Should I ask for a second date now, or later?"

Zofia looked at her, blank as stone.

Then, so quiet it could've been a breath:

"You won't be getting one."

Leah smiled anyway.

"We'll see."

⸻

Zofia left before the night was done.

No goodbye. No number. Just vanished.

But not before Leah saw her glance back once, just once. as she slipped her coat over her shoulders and disappeared through the marble archway.

She didn't smile.

You lost count of how many times it happened after that. The first time was maybe an accident. The second? Just curiosity. The third? That was something else. That was her fingers on your skin like she was memorising you. That was gasping her name like it meant salvation. That was her smirking down at you after, sweaty and smug, whispering, “Told you it’d be good.”

But you never talked about it. Not really. You just… were. Tangled in each other more often than not, but no one ever said the word relationship. You weren’t her girlfriend. She wasn’t yours. You were something between best friends and soulmates and fuckbuddies and whatever else you could name—but it wasn’t defined. And weirdly, it worked. It shouldn’t have. But it did.

Leah was always showing up at your flat like she owned the place, dropping her keys on your table, making herself toast, wearing your jumpers, leaving her shampoo in your shower. She called it “convenience.” You called it “suspiciously girlfriend-like behaviour.” She winked and said, “Shut up and come here,” and you did, every time.

You’d wake up with her wrapped around you, legs tangled, her nose buried in your neck. Sometimes she’d fall asleep mid-conversation, her voice drifting off with a mumble, and you’d stare at her, wondering when exactly you’d become hers, unofficial as it all was.

And when you were out? It was constant chaos. The way she’d brush her fingers over your back when she walked past. The way you’d whisper something in her ear just to watch her face go pink. The way the others stared at you both like they were waiting for the inevitable.

At training, Beth would side-eye you constantly. “I swear to God, if you two start dry humping in the canteen again—”

You grinned. Leah shrugged. “Don’t be jealous, Beff.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “I’m jealous of your delusion.”

Katie, of course, just stared at the both of you and muttered, “Yous are absolutely unhinged.”

And maybe you were. But it was fun. It was flirty. It was yours.

Like that time you were at an Arsenal girls’ dinner, and you wore that red dress—the one that clung like sin and dipped just low enough to make Leah choke on her wine. You didn’t even have to say anything. She spent the whole night with her hand on your knee under the table, thumb moving in lazy circles, eyes dark with all the things she couldn’t say out loud.

“You wore that to kill me,” she hissed.

You smirked. “You’re not dead yet, are you?”

“I will be. On God.”

And later that night, in the taxi, with the driver politely pretending not to notice, she leaned over and whispered, “If you don’t let me take that dress off with my teeth, I swear to God—”

You kissed her before she could finish. Because yeah. You wanted her too. Always.

There were quiet nights too. Nights where it wasn’t about sex or flirting or chaos. Just you, curled into her side on the couch, her hand tangled with yours, a movie you weren’t watching playing in the background.

“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” you said once, voice quiet.

She snorted. “Aren’t we?”

You looked at her. “Are we?”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed your forehead, like that was enough.

It wasn’t always perfect. Sometimes she got distant. Sometimes you panicked and pulled away. But you always came back. Always found your way back to each other like gravity. Like fate. Like something inevitable.

And it got harder and harder to pretend you weren’t in love with her. Because you were. You are.

Like that time she was away for England camp, and you got sick, and she called you five times a day to check on you, sending Deliveroo to your flat, threatening to murder your immune system personally.

Like when she found you crying once after a shit day, and instead of asking questions, she just pulled you into her lap and held you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” she whispered into your hair. “Just not without me.”

One night, after a win, after too many drinks, after a celebration that ended with the both of you tucked into each other in a corner of the pub, she looked at you and said, “You ruin me, you know that?”

You blinked. “In a good way or a bad way?”

She smiled, slow and lazy and full of something that felt like forever. “The best.”

Then she pulled you into a kiss so soft it broke something inside you.

Eventually, something had to give. You knew that. She knew that.

So when she showed up at your place one night with a bottle of wine, your hoodie on, and a nervous look in her eyes, you knew something was different.

“I want to call you mine,” she said.

You stared at her. “You already do.”

She shook her head. “No. I mean—mine. Girlfriend. Partner. The real thing.”

You swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve been sure. For ages. I just… didn’t want to scare you.”

You grinned. “Terrified, actually.”

“But still here?”

“Always.”

And then she kissed you. And that kiss? That kiss tasted like something new. Something real. Something that was always going to happen.

Because this thing between you? It was never casual. Not really. It was fire and softness and chaos and safety. It was teasing and inside jokes and clothes stolen from each other’s wardrobes. It was forehead kisses and hand squeezes and whispering “marry me” half-jokingly when you caught each other staring. It was Leah saying “I’d fight a bear for you,” and you replying, “Good, because I attract danger.”

It was everything. It is everything.