#f1 ff

Parc fermé is still loud when George steps out of the car, but it’s a different kind of loud now—less chaotic than the race, more like the world trying to remember how to breathe after holding its breath for an hour. His heartbeat is still too fast, adrenaline still sitting under his skin like electricity that hasn’t figured out where to go yet.

He pulls his helmet off in one smooth motion, hair flattened and damp at the edges, and for a second he just stands there, blinking like he’s adjusting to being a person again instead of a driver. His hands are still slightly shaking when he loosens his gloves, and he looks up at the timing screen once more like it might still change if he looks at it differently.

P2.

One hundred races.

It hits him in uneven waves instead of one clean feeling.

And then—

He hears her.

“GEORGE!”

It’s not a call. It’s an arrival.

She’s already running before he even turns fully, weaving through mechanics and officials like none of them exist in the same world she does right now, eyes locked on him with a kind of joy that looks almost too big to fit in her face.

He barely has time to brace himself before she hits him.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

Just completely.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders with such force that he almost laughs from the impact alone, stumbling back half a step as she presses into him like she’s been holding this moment in all day and it finally has somewhere to go.

“You—” she starts, breathless, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, eyes wide and shining in a way that makes his chest tighten without warning, “you just got P2 on your hundredth race. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you understand how cool that is?”

He laughs, still trying to catch up to her energy, hands settling instinctively at her waist like grounding himself.

“I mean,” he says, breath still uneven, “I was there, so I think I’ve got a rough idea.”

She shakes him slightly like she can’t contain it, smiling so hard it almost looks like it hurts.

“No, no, listen,” she insists, leaning in like she’s sharing classified information, “you are going to be unbearable about this for weeks.”

“Me?” he scoffs lightly. “I am extremely humble.”

She gives him a look immediately.

“You literally pointed at the timing screen.”

“I was acknowledging it respectfully.”

“That’s not what that was.”

He’s laughing properly now, not the controlled media kind, but the kind that comes out when someone else is so happy for you that it makes it impossible not to be pulled into it too.

And for a few seconds, it actually feels simple.

Like it’s just a good day.

He doesn’t think when he leans down and kisses her forehead, slow and familiar, and she goes quieter for half a second like the gesture lands somewhere deeper than either of them expected.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

The podium always feels like a different world.

Everything is sharper there—the lights brighter, the noise more structured, the emotions more performative even when they’re real. George stands on the middle step with a smile that he has perfected over years, the kind that looks effortless even when nothing about the moment is.

Champagne sticks to his skin. Cameras flash endlessly. The crowd roars in a way that feels distant and close at the same time.

Lewis is beside him, laughing like this is exactly where he belongs, energy effortless and full. Lando is somewhere nearby too, already being pulled into another version of celebration, another version of the day that will be remembered differently depending on who tells it.

George smiles through all of it.

Because that’s what he does.

Because it is a good day.

It is.

And yet—

There’s a moment, somewhere between the end of the ceremony and the beginning of everything else, where the structure breaks without anyone announcing it.

Lewis is gone first, swallowed by interviews. Lando disappears into a different crowd. The podium empties in a way that doesn’t feel abrupt, just gradual enough that George almost doesn’t notice it until it’s already happened.

He’s still standing there when most people have stopped looking.

Still holding the trophy.

Still smiling.

Just slightly less inside the moment than before.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

Hospitality is quieter, but not in a comforting way.

It’s the kind of quiet that is full of movement—people shifting between conversations, phones buzzing constantly, voices overlapping but never quite connecting. George moves through it the way he always does, greeting, thanking, acknowledging, because that is what the rhythm of these days requires.

“Good drive, George.”

“Thanks.”

“Solid result.”

“Appreciate it.”

Everything is familiar.

Everything is automatic.

At some point, he sets his trophy down on a table near the edge of the room, not because he decides to, but because his hands simply stop needing to hold it for a moment. No one reacts to it. No one looks at it for longer than a passing second.

It just sits there.

Like it belongs to the room more than to him.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

Toto arrives like he always does—efficient, composed, already thinking ahead like the present is just something passing through on its way to somewhere else.

“Tough race,” he says briefly, like it’s already been filed away in his mind.

George straightens slightly without meaning to, that automatic shift into composure clicking into place before he even thinks about it. “Yeah,” he replies after a beat, voice steady in that practiced way, “I think we made the most of it overall.”

A small nod from Toto.

“Good drive, George,” he adds, already half turning away as he says it.

And then he’s gone.

Not unkind.

Not cold.

Just… already somewhere else.

“Kimi, come here.”

The words are simple enough that they almost don’t register as anything more than movement.

George watches for a second longer than he means to, something tightening quietly in his chest before he forces it down again like it was never there in the first place.

“He’s busy,” he says under his breath without really meaning to say it out loud.

But no one hears it.

So it doesn’t matter.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

She finds him a few minutes later when everything has softened at the edges but still feels heavy underneath it all.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says gently, like she’s already seen this version of him before.

George glances at her, tired but still trying. “What thing?”

“The thing where you act like you’re fine,” she replies softly, “and if you say it enough times, everyone around you starts believing it before you even get a chance to figure out if it’s true.”

He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “I am fine.”

She doesn’t react immediately. Just looks at him, steady.

“George.”

“I am,” he repeats, a little quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince both of them at once.

A pause stretches between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

Eventually, his shoulders drop slightly, like something in him gives up the effort of holding everything in place.

“…I’m serious,” he adds, softer now.

“You’re lying,” she says, but there’s no edge to it, no frustration, just certainty.

And somehow that makes it harder to keep deflecting.

He looks away, jaw tightening faintly like he’s trying to organise something inside his head before it comes out wrong.

“It’s stupid,” he says after a moment.

“Then tell me the stupid thing,” she replies, like it’s the most natural response in the world.

That lands.

Not because it pushes him.

Because it doesn’t.

“I don’t know why it bothered me,” he admits finally, voice lower, less controlled, like he’s stopped filtering himself properly. “It shouldn’t have. I’m happy for Kimi, I am, and Lewis—he deserves everything, obviously, I know that.”

He pauses, swallowing once.

“It’s just… I thought maybe today would be my day for five minutes. That’s all.”

The silence after that isn’t empty.

It just feels too real to interrupt.

When she speaks again, her voice is softer.

“You keep apologising for that,” she says, almost quietly.

He frowns slightly. “Apologising for what?”

“For wanting that,” she clarifies. “For feeling it. Like it needs to be justified before you’re allowed to have it at all.”

That makes him still.

“I didn’t—”

“You do,” she interrupts gently, not cutting him off, just finishing the thought for him. “Every time. Like you’re waiting for permission to want something that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

A pause.

“And you don’t need it.”

Something shifts in him—not fixed, not solved, just… loosened.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

Alex appears like he’s stepping into a conversation he absolutely refuses to understand the rules of.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he says.

She doesn’t look at him. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“Perfect,” Alex replies immediately. “I’ve never respected middle things in my life.”

Despite everything, George lets out a small laugh—quick, surprised, real enough that it breaks the tension just a little.

Lily follows behind Alex more quietly.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Just steps forward and pulls George into a hug like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that he needs one, no hesitation, no performance, just steady presence.

When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on his shoulders for a second longer than necessary.

“Happy hundred races,” she says simply, like it’s not a question or a celebration, just a fact she refuses to let get lost.

Then, softer:

“I’m proud of you. Don’t argue with me.”

He almost does.

But he doesn’t.

Alex clears his throat like he’s been waiting for his turn to emotionally disrupt the room.

“Toto is an idiot,” he says casually, like it’s a well-established fact of nature.

“Alex—” Lily starts immediately, already sighing.

“What?” he shrugs. “He is. If your own team forgets something like today, that’s not professionalism, that’s selective memory.”

George lets out another laugh—this one longer, warmer, like it actually stays instead of slipping away immediately.

Alex gestures vaguely, tone softening just a little.

“But you still did it,” he adds.

And that one lands differently.

George doesn’t want the celebration.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just… not at all.

And she understands without him needing to explain it properly.

So they leave.

༺♡༻ ────── ༺♡༻

The restaurant is small in a way that feels almost accidental, like it wasn’t designed to be noticed at all, tucked away from the louder parts of Barcelona where everything still feels slightly too bright, slightly too fast. The kind of place where nothing expects you to perform, not the lighting, not the tables, not even the silence between conversations that drift in and out without meaning to be heard.

George sits down like his body is only just now realising it can stop bracing itself. It’s subtle, not dramatic, just a slow release in his shoulders, in the way his hands rest instead of hovering with tension he didn’t notice he was carrying.

The food comes without ceremony, simple, shared, unimportant in the way dinner becomes when it is no longer attached to anything larger than hunger. They eat without turning it into a moment, without needing it to be anything more than what it is, and for a while, that is enough.

At first, he moves slowly, like he’s still catching up to the idea that nothing here is being judged or watched or measured, but it passes quietly, almost unnoticed, into something more natural. Eventually, he starts eating properly again, like his body remembers what ease feels like when it isn’t being asked to justify itself.

At some point, he steals from her plate without thinking, like it’s instinct more than intention, and she notices immediately, of course she does, but she doesn’t call it out harshly.

“Thought it was just alright,” she says, tone light, like she’s letting him exist without interrupting him.

“I never said it was bad,” he replies too quickly, still not looking up properly, and that alone gives him away more than anything else.

“George,” she says again, softer this time, and something in him loosens at the sound of it, like the name itself is permission to stop holding so tightly.

“I’m hungry,” he adds, quieter, and this time it actually feels like him speaking instead of him managing himself.

After a while, they leave without deciding to make it a decision. The night outside is cooler, softer in the way cities become when they are no longer demanding attention, when even the lights feel less sharp. They walk without direction, not because there is anywhere to go, but because standing still feels heavier than moving.

His hand finds hers naturally, like it has done this before, like it will do it again, and neither of them comments on it because there is nothing to explain.

Somewhere along the walk, he speaks, voice lower now, less careful than earlier in the day, less like he’s filtering every word before it leaves him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like it slips out before he can organise it into anything more structured.

She slows slightly beside him, not stopping him, just adjusting to him. “For what?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because she knows there is no single answer that will fit cleanly.

He looks down for a moment, then exhales. “I don’t know,” he admits, and there’s no attempt to fix it into something clearer than it is.

That earns a soft pause from her, not disappointment, not frustration, just understanding. “Exactly,” she says quietly, like that is enough on its own.

Later, back in the room, everything finally settles in a way the rest of the day never allowed it to. The air feels still instead of heavy, quiet instead of sharp. George comes out of the shower still slightly damp, hair messy, shoulders no longer carrying the same invisible weight they had been all day, and for a moment he just stands there like he’s recalibrating what it feels like to exist without expectation pressing against him.

Then he walks to her.

No hesitation. No explanation. No attempt to rebuild anything he spent the day carefully holding in place.

Just collapse.

She holds him immediately, steady and certain, like it is the most obvious thing in the world that this is where he is supposed to be.

After a while, her voice comes quietly into the space between them, soft enough that it feels like it belongs only there.

“Thank you for remembering,” he says.

She exhales slowly, like the words land somewhere deeper than everything else did today, and after a beat he answers just as quietly, almost like it’s the simplest truth he has all day.

“I did not remember,” she says.

A pause.

Then softer—

“I never forgot.”

Avi's Radio📻: So, how was it? Frankly speaking, this was my first attempt at angst or hurt comfort, and i have n idea how it turned out. And sorry if the writing is inconsistent, it took me like 3 days to write. Thank you for reading!!<3

Taglist: If you want to be added or removed, just leave a comment or dm me! @hereforfanfictionsfr @valeelavvale @maladaptive-anxiety @harrystyleskiwi9 @sonasarchive @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velisa003 @gulaabjamun08

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The London season began like a waltz—predictable in its rhythm, expected in its elegance.

Debutantes filled the parlors of Mayfair with laughter and lace, hopeful mamas arranged introductions like battle strategies, and eligible men surveyed the room as though it were a market.

You, however, sat unmoved in the chaos of it all.

As the eldest Bridgerton daughter of your generation—niece to the famed Daphne, Duchess of Hastings—you were no stranger to the dance of courtship.

You had received suitors each season since your coming out, and as of last season, you sent them away with practiced grace and mild disinterest.

You were admired, certainly—renowned for your wit and celebrated beauty—but you were hardly easy to impress.

It was not that you were cruel, only… resolute.

You believed in marrying for love, not convenience, and though your family’s standing made you an undeniable prize, you refused to be won like a trophy.

And so, as you stood beside your mother in the ballroom of the Featherington estate, you watched the swirling dancers with an expression that betrayed only mild curiosity.

Until he walked in.

The doors opened wide and in stepped him—Lando Norris, the Duke of Bristol.

The buzz in the room was immediate and unmistakable. He was not a stranger to the ton, nor to its gossip.

Known for his rakish smile, whispered escapades with barmaids, and a suspiciously frequent presence at one of London’s more notorious gentlemen’s clubs, the Duke was a man often discussed behind fans and teacups.

Though he was recently betrothed to Lady Magui Corceiro of Arleshire—elegant, obedient, and, by all appearances, a perfect duchess-to-be—none in the room could ignore the sharp, magnetic presence of the man himself.

Lando was trouble.

And yet—he was beautiful trouble.

He was all dark curls and striking eyes, a crooked smirk playing at his lips as he surveyed the room, his hands clasped behind his back like he owned the very floor upon which he stepped.

When his gaze swept across the crowd and landed on you, something sparked—sharp, electric, and undeniable.

Your posture did not change, but your breath did. Just slightly.

The music swelled again, another dance beginning. Suitors came and went, offering their hands, their compliments, their family names.

You obliged politely. You smiled, curtsied, laughed at appropriate moments—but your mind remained with the Duke of Bristol, who now stood near the refreshment table, engaged in an idle conversation with Lord Featherington. His eyes, however, remained elsewhere.

On you.

“He’s looking this way,” your younger sister whispered beside you, nudging you playfully.

“I’m aware,” you replied, tone neutral.

“And he’s coming this way.”

You turned just in time to see Lando Norris weaving through the crowd with the grace of a man used to parting seas.

He stopped before you, bowed deeply, and said with a voice smoother than sin, “Lady Bridgerton. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

You curtsied, your expression unreadable.

“Duke Norris. I was beginning to think you were merely a ghost spoken of in scandal sheets.”

He laughed, charmed instantly, as though your words were the first true ones he’d heard all night.

“I am very much flesh and blood, I assure you.”

“So I’ve read,” you returned, letting your gaze linger just a second too long.

Around you, the air shifted. The room hadn’t gone quiet, but it felt quieter. As though the ballroom itself held its breath.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, extending a hand.

You paused—long enough for him to wonder if you’d decline—before placing your gloved hand into his.

“Very well, Duke. I still have space left on my dance card, but do try not to ruin my slippers.”

The orchestra began anew. As he led you to the floor, you felt it again—that current, that pull.

The way your hand fit in his, the subtle strength in the press of his palm to your back, the way his eyes never seemed to stray.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” he murmured, his tone intimate though his words were innocent.

“Do you often expect women to faint at your feet, Your Grace?”

“Not always. But I was warned of your… indifference.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Especially in drawing rooms.”

“And yet, I want to hear everything from you.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Such a dangerous line for a man with a fiancée.”

He faltered, just briefly, before offering that infamous smile.

“She and I are… a match on parchment, not in person.”

“And what are we, Duke Norris?”

He studied you for a moment too long. “An interruption. A welcome one.”

You did not answer. You didn’t need to.

The song ended, and as you stepped away from him, the room resumed its rhythm—but your heartbeat did not.

Somewhere, beneath lace and velvet, sparks had turned to embers.

And Lady Whistledown, no doubt, had already begun to write.

The morning sunlight spilled gently across the pale carpeted floor of the Bridgerton drawing room, filtering through embroidered curtains and dappling the upholstery in soft gold.

The air smelled faintly of spring jasmine and black tea, and the peaceful clink of porcelain cups echoed in companionable rhythm with the rustling of newspaper print and idle conversation.

You sat by the window in a sky-blue and cream colored day dress, flipping through a book you had no true intention of finishing.

Across from you, your younger brother was attempting to charm your eldest cousin into a chess match he had no chance of winning, while another sibling picked at the piano keys absently, humming a tune that had long gone out of fashion.

The scene was delightfully domestic—until the door burst open.

“Have you seen it?!”

Your cousin Emma’s voice rang out like a hunting horn, and all heads turned as she stormed into the room, skirts swishing in her wake and a half-folded paper clutched in one gloved hand.

“Emma,” you said slowly, raising an eyebrow, “should you really be making an entrance that dramatic before tea?”

But Emma was already waving the paper about as though it were aflame. “Lady Whistledown. Page two. Top of the column.”

Your fingers froze over your book. The entire room shifted in energy.

Your brother reached for the paper first, snatching it from Emma’s hand and reading aloud in his best impersonation of Whistledown’s tone:

“Though the Featherington ball sparkled with expected elegance, it was a single waltz that drew the ton’s breath into their fans. One must ask: what is a Bridgerton doing wrapped in the arms of a Duke already promised to another? And more importantly—why did they look as if the rest of the ballroom had disappeared entirely?”

A chorus of gasps and stifled laughter broke out among your cousins, your youngest sister squealing and swatting the arm of her twin.

You, however, merely closed your book with deliberate calm.

“She must be running out of scandal if she’s resorting to printing dance cards.”

Emma plopped into the seat beside you, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

“Don’t be coy. You were practically glowing that night.”

You gave her a look. “I was overheated from too many quadrilles.”

“Please. The Duke of Bristol looked like he would devour you where you stood.”

Across the room, your oldest brother choked on his tea.

“Emma,” you warned, though your cheeks had grown suspiciously warm.

She leaned in, all feminine conspirator and far too pleased with herself. “Tell me the truth. Was it just a dance?”

You gave a long-suffering sigh, smoothing your skirts.

“It was one waltz. Barely three minutes long.”

“Yes, and that’s all Lady Whistledown needed to light the entire city aflame.”

There was no denying it—the article had consequences.

While you had maintained every measure of propriety during the dance, the intimacy, the spark, had been… undeniable.

You had felt it. Lando had felt it. And so, apparently, had everyone else.

The ton wasted no time.

By midday, the invitations to luncheons arrived not-so-subtly addressed to you and the Duke, and your mother had already received no less than four veiled inquiries into whether your dance with Lando had been sanctioned by his betrothed.

You felt yourself recoil slightly at the word.

Betrothed.

A barrier you had not dared to cross, yet somehow, found yourself drawn toward again and again.

Even now, your thoughts betrayed you—replaying the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his hand at your waist, the deliberate slowness with which he had spoken your name.

That afternoon, you made a silent vow.

No more dances. No more rooms full of whispers. No more proximity that might invite ruin.

And yet, the very next evening, you found yourself at the Ashbourne estate for their annual spring garden soirée—and there he was.

The Duke of Bristol.

He looked absurdly good, as though carved for moonlight, dressed in deep emerald silk that set his eyes aglow.

Lady Magui was not with him—word was she had taken ill and remained in the countryside—but Lando was very much present. And he wasted no time seeking you out.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said as he appeared beside you, his voice a velvet thing in the hush of twilight.

“Your Grace.” You kept your posture stiff, your expression unreadable. “I assume you’ve read the paper.”

He smirked. “Ah. So we are addressing the matter directly, then.”

“I’d rather not,” you replied coolly. “Especially if we are to avoid becoming the subject of tomorrow’s column.”

“And yet, here I am,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer. “Drawn like a fool to candlelight.”

You stiffened, your fan fluttering nervously in your hand. “You should not say such things.”

“I shouldn’t,” he agreed. “But I have never been particularly well-behaved.”

You met his gaze. “Perhaps that is why your name appears more frequently in scandal sheets than invitations.”

His grin deepened. “And yet you still accepted my dance.”

“You asked.”

“And you said yes.”

Your breath caught. It was infuriating—the way he could disarm you with a smile, undo weeks of practiced composure with a single glance.

You looked away, toward the hedges, the flickering lanterns, the safety of anything else.

“I’m not a woman who will be hidden behind doors or whispered about in corners,” you said finally, voice steady.

“You are engaged. And I will not be some tragic footnote in your family’s history.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then:

“You are no one’s footnote.”

You turned back to him, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

He looked at you as though you were made of starlight. And you hated that you liked it. That it made something within you soften, ache, want.

“I cannot be the reason you ruin yourself,” you whispered. “Even if… even if I wish it could be different.”

He reached for your hand, and though he barely brushed your glove, you felt it like a flame.

“I would ruin myself a thousand times,” he said lowly, “if it meant I could be yours.”

You pulled away then, heart pounding, before propriety could snap under the weight of such a confession.

Before your name became not just rumor, but scandal.

You disappeared into the rose gardens alone, breath caught, thoughts aflame.

And somewhere in the city that night, Lady Whistledown had dipped her quill into the ink pot.

Night had long since fallen over.

The Bridgerton manor sat quiet, shrouded in a soft hush that only the late hours could bring.

Candles had been extinguished room by room, replaced by the flicker of moonlight that spilled in through gauzy curtains and danced across polished floors.

Yet you were not asleep.

You paced softly in the gallery above the entrance hall, a robe of pale lavender silk drawn over your nightdress and slippers muffling your steps.

The household had retired for the evening, and still sleep evaded you.

Perhaps it was the dread of morning callers, the unbearable weight of unsolicited offers of courtship, or perhaps it was the latest column from Lady Whistledown tucked in the drawer of your writing desk—its words still echoing in your mind.

“One of our more eligible daughters remains shockingly unattached. But word among the housekeepers and coachmen is that she waits for someone—someone who already belongs to another. And he, reckless creature that he is, keeps appearing like a ghost when all others have gone to sleep. Tell me, dear reader, what keeps a lady from accepting a proposal unless her heart has already given its answer?”

You had crumpled the paper in your palm before you could finish your tea.

And yet—every word had rung true.

Your gaze fell on the front door. You had not meant to descend the stairs. You had not meant to slip outside. But something—something inevitable—pulled you forward.

The chill of the garden air kissed your skin as you stepped onto the terrace, drawing your shawl tighter around your frame.

The scent of roses hung thick in the night. Above, the moon cast silver shadows onto the stone, the stars sharp as needlepoints in the vast navy sky.

That was when you saw him.

A figure in the darkness, shoulders cloaked in black, stepping through the break in the hedge with the confidence of a man who had trespassed here before.

“Your Grace,” you breathed, startled by the wildness of your own heartbeat.

Lando stopped a few paces from you. “I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

“You should not be here.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “here I am.”

The night swallowed your protests.

You should have fled back inside. You should have told him to leave, to forget you, to go back to the woman he was meant to marry and leave the foolish whispers of affection behind. But something in your heart stilled as he drew closer, the hem of his coat catching on the gravel.

You could not look away from him.

“You’ve read the paper,” he said, voice gentler now. “Whistledown. Always precise with her daggers.”

“She may not name names,” you replied, tone brittle, “but the world is not blind.”

“I do not care what the world says.”

“But I do,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Because I have to.”

You turned from him, clutching your arms to your chest as you gazed out at the garden, its roses ghostly in the moonlight.

Behind you, Lando stood still, as if tethered to some invisible string pulled taut between you.

“I am not like the others,” you continued. “You know that. I was not raised to cause scandal for sport, nor would I—could I—betray my own name.”

He said nothing. And so you spoke again, barely more than a breath:

“Then why do I want to let you?”

It was an admission, as dangerous as it was honest. The night seemed to still with it, the breeze itself holding its breath.

You heard him step toward you then, each footfall deliberate, until he was standing close—so close, you could feel the warmth of him even through the cool air.

“Because,” he murmured, “we are already lost in this, you and I.”

You turned to face him. His eyes met yours, and in them was everything you feared and everything you craved—desire, ache, devotion.

A man slowly unraveling.

“I feel like I am losing my mind,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

“They push me toward her, toward Magui, and all I can think of is how her hand does not fit in mine. How her laugh does not echo in my chest. How she is not you.”

Your lips parted, but the words would not come.

“I never meant for this to happen,” he continued. “I never meant to—fall for you. But I have. And it is ruining me.”

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest. “Then why not stop? Why not walk away before we both shatter?”

He reached for you then. His gloved hand brushed your cheek, and you let him—for just a moment. For just this breath between the before and after.

“I cannot,” he said. “Because the only time I can breathe is when I am near you.”

The night pulsed with the truth of it. The silence that followed was not empty, but full of things unspoken. Things felt.

You should have stopped it there.

But instead, your fingers found his lapel.

You tilted your head, rested your brow to his. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you like you were a secret he could not bear to part with.

No kiss was exchanged.

But everything else was.

And when he pulled away—slowly, painfully—you were left breathless.

“I must go,” he said, voice ragged.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You must.”

But neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, Lando stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as quietly as he had come, swallowed by the very night that had hidden him.

You stood alone beneath the moon, heart in your throat, shame clashing against longing like thunder in a storm.

Above, the windows of the manor remained dark.

And somewhere in the shadows, Lady Whistledown was lurking—ready to set fire to everything you thought you could keep hidden.

It began with distance.

Not a loud, dramatic withdrawal, but the quiet sort—measured, precise, and maddening. The sort that makes one question if they had only imagined everything that came before.

In the days following that moonlit confession in the garden, you did not see the Duke of Bristol.

Not at your aunt’s musical evening, nor at the Ridley’s spring fête, nor even at the bishop’s charity breakfast where half the ton gathered.

Your eyes sought him in every room, in every carriage that passed, in every drawing room filled with polite chatter and tittering laughter.

And yet, Lando Norris was nowhere.

He had disappeared into his obligations, back into the arms of his duty. Back into the orbit of Lady Magui, the delicate, quiet beauty whose every movement was approved by society and whose name elicited smiles from even the most difficult dowagers.

You told yourself you were glad.

You told yourself that it was for the best, that perhaps the silence between you was a mercy—a clean break before your emotions bled too deeply into places they should never reach.

But your heart betrayed you. It ached.

And Lady Whistledown, that ever-watchful specter, had not ceased her musings:

“It seems our midnight mystery continues to haunt the halls of Mayfair. The Bridgerton diamond sparkles at every ball, but perhaps it is only a clever polish hiding the cracks of a broken heart. Meanwhile, her Duke grows colder by the day, seen with his betrothed but never quite of her. How long before something shatters?”

You’d burned that issue.

Still, when in public, you wore your finest silks and your brightest smiles.

You laughed with your cousins and took your turn at the pianoforte. You smiled at Lord Dewhurst’s forgettable jokes and danced the cotillion with Sir Edwin Baines, though his feet resembled a drunken pony.

Your poise did not falter.

Not even when Prince Luke Browning—a distant relative of the royal family with a dazzling uniform and a reputation for wooing women—arrived in London and requested a dance from you.

The ton hummed with speculation, and your mother beamed so widely that the pearl comb in her hair threatened to fall loose.

You agreed to the dance.

And when you turned beneath the flickering chandeliers at Lady Ashcombe’s masquerade, you caught the gaze of him.

Lando.

Standing on the edge of the ballroom in a coat of deep navy, his jaw set tight, his posture stiff, his eyes locked on you with the intensity of a man barely containing himself.

Magui stood by his side, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. She did not notice how still he’d gone, or how his gaze never left you.

You turned your face from him and smiled at the Prince instead.

And yet, your skin prickled. You felt him watching.

The next morning, the tension broke.

It was a grey-skied affair, the weather perfectly matching the storm that brewed within Lando’s chest as he paced his family’s London townhouse.

He had left the ball early, ignoring the questions Magui had begun to ask, ignoring the gnawing of his own conscience.

He could not forget the image of your laughter with Prince Luke Browning. The soft pink of your lips as you smiled at someone else. The curve of your arm in his grasp.

It haunted him, poisoned him.

And suddenly, the life he had agreed to live—duty, name, legacy—all felt like a shackle around his neck.

Magui found him in the drawing room, standing by the fire, hands clenched.

“Lando,” she said gently. “You’ve been… strange. We should speak.”

He turned to her, and for the first time, saw her clearly.

She was beautiful. Graceful. Kind. A woman any man would be fortunate to call his duchess.

But she was not you.

“I owe you the truth,” he said at last, voice hoarse.

She blinked. “What truth?”

“I cannot marry you.”

There was a silence so loud it became a roar in his ears.

“You—what?”

“I have tried to be the man everyone expects me to be. For my estate. For my name. For the House of Lords and the papers and every grandmother in Mayfair,” he said.

“But I can no longer lie to you. Or to myself.”

She stared at him, pale and quiet.

“There is someone else,” she said finally.

His silence was all the answer she needed.

To her credit, Magui did not scream, nor cry. She only nodded once, stiffly, her shoulders drawing upward in practiced dignity.

“I hope she is worth the scandal,” she said.

“She is.”

Magui left the room without another word.

Lando remained by the fire long after she had gone, breathing like a man who had just shattered the glass walls of his own prison.

He had no plan. No speech. Only a certainty that no title, no alliance, no approval was worth living without you.

And somewhere, across the city, you sat in your family’s drawing room, pretending not to be affected, pretending not to care.

But you did not know—not yet—that the Duke of Bristol was already on his way to you.

The morning after the ball, London awoke not to the gentle rustle of society’s carriages or the distant toll of chapel bells, but to chaos — or rather, the sweetest kind of chaos: gossip.

Lady Whistledown’s latest column had arrived at breakfast tables across the city like a cannonball through crystal.

“Dearest readers, if the art of scandal were a season sport, the ton would be on its way to the championship. For it seems our infamous Duke of Bristol has committed a most shocking act: he has ended his betrothal to Lady Magui…without offering a reason. But those with eyes at Lady Ashcombe’s masquerade might suspect his heart beats for a different beauty—one whose name has danced through these pages before.”

Your name.

The moment Emma slammed the paper on the breakfast table, you felt the blood drain from your face.

You skimmed the lines, throat tightening, hands trembling just slightly as you set your teacup down with forced calm.

The room erupted around you — your sisters gasping, your mother going stiff with silent horror, your brothers exchanging sharp looks.

Only Violet Bridgerton, your graceful grandmother, regarded you with quiet strength, her gaze calm but knowing.

It was true, wasn’t it?

The ton’s whispers grew louder by the hour. At Gunter’s, ladies lowered their parasols to whisper behind fans. At Hyde Park, gentlemen on horseback eyed you curiously.

The Bridgerton name carried weight — but not even centuries of honor could shield you entirely.

By the time invitations for the Queen’s charity gala arrived that afternoon, you were exhausted. Your reputation, once spotless, now walked a tightrope.

You knew all it would take was one more misstep — one careless glance, one whisper in the wrong ear — to undo everything.

And so, you dressed for the royal gala in defiance.

In a gown of Bridgerton blue, you entered the ballroom like a goddess descending through the clouds — head held high, lips painted in delicate rouge, a practiced smile in place. But the air was sharp.

Conversations paused when you passed. Glances lingered. The glittering chandeliers above did not shine as brightly as the judgement in every pair of eyes.

Until Lando appeared.

The Duke of Bristol strode into the ballroom like a storm. Dressed in black and gold, hair tousled, his jaw set in unwavering determination, he looked nothing like the polished, pliable man society once praised.

He looked like a man on the edge of something monumental.

And then he walked straight toward you.

The music faded. The chatter dulled. The crowd seemed to part for him, curiosity rippling like the tide.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, voice low but clear.

You met his gaze — eyes dark with something unspoken, heart in your throat.

“Your Grace.”

There was a beat.

And then Lando dropped to one knee.

The ballroom gasped.

Gasps, whispers, even a shriek from the Duchess of Norwich somewhere near the card tables.

“Forgive me,” Lando said, eyes locked on yours.

“For being a coward. For waiting too long. For letting duty drown out what I already knew.”

“Lando—”

“I have loved you since the moment you turned away from me at that first ball. You are impossible, brilliant, and maddening. And you have every right to hate me.” He paused, breath caught.

“But if I let you walk away now, I will be haunted for the rest of my life.”

Tears burned at your lashes.

“Marry me, before every hungry eye in this room. Before Whistledown can write another word. Before anyone else dares cast a shadow over your name. Not to save your reputation—” His voice broke.

“But because I want you. I choose you.”

A hush fell over the room like snowfall.

Your family was frozen across the ballroom — your mother clutching your father’s arm, your siblings slack-jawed. Somewhere, Lady Magui watched from the corner, her expression unreadable.

And you…?

You knelt to meet him, your gloved hands curling into his as the ballroom erupted around you.

“Yes.”

Lando surged to his feet and kissed your hand, then your cheek — his restraint razor-thin, but holding.

The Queen, amused and watching, gave a faint clap. And as violins swelled again, Lando whispered against your ear:

“We leave them speechless, don’t we?”

You smiled through your tears. “We always did.”

From the corner of the room, Lady Whistledown’s latest informant scribbled furiously. But for once, no scandal could taint what had just occurred.

The Duke had chosen his Duchess.

And the ton would never forget the night love defied reputation — and won.

“Though I have chronicled many tales of scandal, deception, and heartbreak this season, it appears there is still room—however begrudgingly—for true affection to bloom amongst the roses of society. And bloom it has, most spectacularly. The Duke of Bristol and Miss Bridgerton shall soon wed, and though tongues will continue to wag and pens continue to scribble, this author dares to admit…they may just deserve their happy ending.” — Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

For once, her tone lacked its usual venom.

There was a pause to her words, an almost reluctant grace — as if even the most infamous gossip in all of London had run out of reasons not to root for you.

The world had shifted since Lando’s public proposal. The ton, in its fickle way, had turned the scandal into celebration.

Seamstresses worked around the clock to replicate your gown from the gala. Poets attempted sonnets inspired by the drama.

The Queen herself had summoned you both for a brief word — and, with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, given her approval.

Now, the sun cast a warm golden hue across the hills as the Bridgerton estate prepared for the wedding of the season.

Beneath it all, however, the house hummed with stillness.

You had asked for a few moments alone before the final fittings, before the guests arrived, before the orchestra began to tune their strings.

You slipped away through the garden, skirts gathered gently in your gloved hands, your heart already aching with the anticipation of the moment to come. And as if by fate’s gentle hand, there he was.

Lando, leaning against the ivy-covered archway, jacket open, waistcoat slightly askew, the breeze tugging at his hair.

His eyes found you instantly.

“No chaperones,” he said, smirking. “How scandalous of you.”

“I believe we’re beyond worrying about scandal now, Your Grace.”

“I believe I told you to stop calling me that.”

“And I believe you enjoy it too much when I do.”

He laughed, that warm, quiet sound that curled into your chest. You walked toward him slowly, aware of every step, every heartbeat.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

You smiled, even as you lowered your gaze. “I’m not even in my wedding gown yet.”

“You could be wrapped in a curtain and I’d still lose my breath.”

He reached for your hands, his fingers brushing your gloves like they were sacred things. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you spoke.

“I never thought it would be this,” he admitted.

“Not with the way I grew up. Not with the way I was taught to keep everything buried — to play the part of the duke, never the man.”

“And now?”

“Now…” He looked at you. Really looked. “Now I know that love doesn’t ruin duty. It gives it meaning.”

Your throat tightened. “And you’re not scared?”

“Terrified,” he said, smiling. “But only of tripping over my vows.”

You laughed, the sound catching on the breeze like music. The garden shimmered in late afternoon light, the flowers in bloom, the roses opening wide as if in blessing.

“I’ll be your wife in less than an hour,” you whispered.

“And I’ll be yours,” he said, pulling you gently into his arms. “Entirely. Eternally.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest.

The world felt still again. No whispers, no papers, no masks. Just the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the heat of his palm against the small of your back.

“I hope Whistledown is fuming,” you said quietly.

“Oh, she’s furious,” Lando teased. “But even she had to admit defeat.”

“And Lady Magui?”

“Left for Paris last week. Sent her best. I believe she intends to marry a count.”

“Good for her.”

“Great for us.”

He kissed your temple, soft and reverent. “Are you ready?”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes — golden-brown, unwavering.

“I’ve never been readier.”

The bells tolled in the distance. The orchestra’s first notes floated faintly through the hedges.

And hand in hand, you walked back toward the manor — not as a secret or a scandal, not as a rumor or a possibility, but as the beginning of something true.

The season ended not with disgrace, nor a duel, nor a tragic parting.

It ended with love. Bold, scandalous, extraordinary love.

And in the next morning’s paper, nestled beneath Lady Whistledown’s formal farewell for the season, was one final line that needed no embellishment:

“Dearest gentle reader, they married for love—and for once, I approve.”

All throughout the evening the waiter had been throwing you flirtatious glances. Maybe it was the dress you were wearing or maybe it was the fact that Sebastian seemed almost invisible to them. 

“If that moron doesn’t stop drecksack (scum bag) doesn’t stop eyeing you up and down I might have to go down there and punch him,” Sebastian muttered to you under his breath. 

This wasn’t new for either of you. Sebastian was much older than you and at times people thought he wasn’t actually your husband but rather someone else- more specifically someone who wasn’t romantically accompanying you. 

“Süße (honey) ignore that,” you said rubbing your ring clad fingers up and down his arms, “You know I’ve got my eyes only on you.”

You knew that it didn’t ease Sebastian and that you had gone over this a million times but the man was jealous & possessive over you rightfully so. 

“Give me a kiss liebling,” he requested and you obliged too excitedly. 

Caressing the side of his cheek and leaning in to lock your lips with his, you felt yourself melting as he took control of the kiss. His hand was sliding up and down your arm and yours were lingering on his cheek and the other over his hand. His fingers clasped yours and the pad of his thumb stroked the top of your hand. 

It wasn’t until the waiter was nearby that your make out session was interrupted. A hue of red painting your cheeks you moved away from Sebastian. The waiter walked closer and placed the food of the table. 

Turning to you and brazenly ignoring Sebastian he asked,

“Mademoiselle, would you like some more wine?”

“I’ll let you know if we need more,” Sebastian replied in a curt manner. 

You watched as the waiter bow and make his way back to the kitchen. 

“Oh is my old man getting all wired up now?” You asked Sebastian teasingly as you let your wandering hands settle on this robust thigh. 

Taking his hand from the table and kissing it, you held it close to your face letting your face rest of his open palm. With both your hands holding onto his hand, you continued,

“Ich werde dich immer lieben und nur dich (I will always love you and only you).”

Sebastian looked back at you lovingly and murmured, “I know. And I love you even more than that liebling.”

After eating and conversing, having time for yourself, you felt like you needed to uplift the mood a little. Plus you were feeling horny with Sebastian looking all worked up. You wouldn’t have minded him taking your right here in front of the waiter that had been eyeing you up all evening. 

Signaling the same waiter to come over to you, who almost too enthusiastically scurried over to you, you placed an order for two tiramisus. 

A walk to the kitchen and back, the waiter came over with a tray of tiramisu and started serving for you and your husband. Sebastian wasn’t pleased at all but since he was sipping on his wine trying really hard to not punch the waiter you took your chance. 

Dipping a finger to the tiramisu you looked back up at the waiter and brought it over to your mouth and licked your finger clean. You watched as the waiters eyes widened as he watched your tongue wrap around your finger licking it squeaky clean. 

“Mmm, this is too sweet for me,” you said as you looked back up at the waiter innocently, “Do you have anything less sweet?”

“W-we have um… cranberry pudding Mademoiselle. The prefect blend… blend of uh… just you know sour and sweet,” the waiter stuttered as you looked back at him with flirtatious eyes. You raised your eyebrow and he continued, “Of course it’s not too sweet. I’ll take this back to the kitchen and bring out a new one immediately.”

Sebastian watched all this unfold right in front of him with a perplexed look on his face. And when the waiter left to return the dessert and bring a new one in, he gave you one stern look and questioned, 

“What the fuck was that liebling?”

You made yourself comfortable on your seat and looked up at him as if you hadn’t just flirted with another in front of your husband.

“What do you mean Seb?”

“Verhalte dich nicht ganz unschuldig (Don’t act all innocent),” he spat back. 

Sighing you replied in a calm tone, “Since you were being a grumpy old man all throughout dinner I thought I needed to find someone else to entertain myself.”

That was all it took for Sebastian to get up from the table, startling you. He grabbed hold of your hand and led you over to the dimly light but spacious washrooms. 

Twisting the lock of the door and making sure no one could come in, he pushed your body over to the counter and kissed you harshly. 

“You think you can act like a schlampe (slut) and get away with it?” Sebastian asked, his mouth leaving a hot trail of kisses down your open neck. 

“I’ll show you what this old man can do.”

Sebastian lifted up your red dress and looked at you with a not so amused look when he realized what you were wearing. 

“Only for you-“

“Oh shut it,” he kissed you with a strong sense of urge, letting his fingers run through your folds and gathering the sweet slick to bring it up to his mouth to taste it. 

“So fucking sweet.”

You felt your face heat up at his dirty comment. Sebastian smirked at the coy look on your face and without any warning plunged his fingers into your hot & wet core. In and out he pulled and pushed his fingers and you lost yourself in the squelch of your pussy. 

“Babe I’m close,” you let your husband know. Sebastian hummed in acknowledgement his lips hovering over your neck and marking small bites all over the expanse of your skin. 

When you came with a sense of relief on his hands, Sebastian wasted no time and pulled out his dick, giving it a few strokes and pushing it into you without warning. You hissed due to the oversensitivity you felt after having cummed a few seconds ago. 

“This feels so good, doesn’t it libeling?” He asked as he slid he steadied himself against you. 

“Hmmm, yes, yes, it feels soo good Sebastian.”

Sebastian railed harder into you, feeling your velvety walls close around him, squeezing him tightly. He grabbed your jaw, making you look at him, your scrunched up eyes now opening up to look back at his bright blue eyes that were now filled with lust. 

“Kiss me,” you whispered. 

The minute the request left your plush lips, his were on yours, making out as he drilled into you. Within a matter of seconds you came undone around him. However, Sebastian was far from close. Pulling out of you, he turned you around. Protests fell from your lips, letting him know that you were oversensitive from having cummed twice, but he simply ignored your pleas knowing you were down bad as much as he was, despite your resistance. 

You held on tight to the edges of the counter top of the fancy washroom the restaurant had. Just then, Seb pushed into you making you drag a sinful moan. Holding tight onto your waist, Sebastian barely showed you any mercy as he drilled into you at a menacing pace. 

“Schau dich an, ganz angezogen, benimmst dich aber gegenüber anderen Männern immer noch wie eine schlampe (Look at you, all dressed up but still acting like a slut for other men),” your husband spat at you. He nibbled onto the shell of your ear as he spat a plethora of profanities into your ear. 

You continuously moaned as Sebastian pushed into you and within the next few seconds you felt yourself letting out a powerful orgasm for the third time that night and your husband’s release coating your insides making you feel giddy like a first time bride. Exhausted as you were, you waited until Seb pulled out of you to turn around and slump onto him. 

He angled your jaw so that you were looking up at him with your tired eyes. Stroking your cheek he teased you, “If only you hadn’t called me an old man and made me jealous in front of that dummer kellner (stupid waiter).”

You smiled and laid your head on his chest, replying back cheekily, “But it was worth it wasn’t me. I haven’t had sex like this for ages Seb. Felt so good.”

“Wait till you get to the hotel then.”

1986

Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.

Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.

Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—

"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"

The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.

The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.

She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.

"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"

I stared at her, eyes unblinking.

I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.

"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.

Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.

"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"

She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.

"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.

The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.

She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."

She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."

Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.

A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.

My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.

Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.

With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.

The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.

"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"

She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."

I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.

My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.

She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."

Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.

"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."

I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.

The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.

The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.

"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there." "Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something." "Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."

The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.

I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.

As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.

I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.

"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.

Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."

Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.

"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."

They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.

I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.

The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.

Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.

I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.

But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.

Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—

"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.

"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.

I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.

It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.

"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."

I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.

He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.

"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.

"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.

"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?

"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.

I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.

"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"

I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."

The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.

"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.

"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.

"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."

His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.

"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."

"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"

I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.

Nearly doomsday, even.

Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…

Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.

"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, no, no.

That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.

I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.

Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.

"Wait—!"

The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.

Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."

I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.

His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"

I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.

Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!

"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.

I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.

I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.

Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.

"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."

My brain short-circuited.

I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.

And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.

Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.

"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."

"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."

Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."

"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.

I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.

"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."

I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"

Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"

I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.

He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."

He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."

I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"

His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"

I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."

Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."

I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"

"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"

"I-," sputtered. He got me.

Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"

I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."

I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.

"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.

"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.

I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.

His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.

"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"

"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.

But before I could take more than three steps—

"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.

"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.

"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.

Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.

Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.

The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.

The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.

But this was home.

I had never known anything else.

Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.

The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.

I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.

No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.

Mum wasn’t home.

Not that she ever really was.

I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.

I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.

This was where I escaped.

My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.

I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.

Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then came the voice.

"MORGANNNN!"

I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.

A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.

The whining began before I could even brace myself.

"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.

I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.

I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."

She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.

"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"

I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."

"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.

"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."

I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.

"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.

"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"

I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."

"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.

I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.

Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.

I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"

She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."

A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.

"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."

Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."

My stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.

But I knew she felt it.

I did too.

Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."

She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.

As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.

Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.

I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.

The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.

As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.

"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."

I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.

I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."

Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."

Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"

I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."

Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"

I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."

Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"

She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."

I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."

Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."

She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."

"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.

Janine shrugged, completely unbothered. "One day, you’ll crack."

"Unlikely," I muttered, heading toward the sink.

The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.

I hadn’t cracked yet.

Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.

"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."

I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.

I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."

She ignored me.

"Janine, no."

"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.

I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."

She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."

I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."

"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."

"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.

"A-ha!"

And there it was.

A single, lukewarm can of beer.

Where had she even found that?

Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"

She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."

I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.

"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"

"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.

She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."

I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."

Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.

And before I could even process what was about to happen—

She lunged.

"Janine,—"

Too late.

With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.

Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.

I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.

She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.

And then.

It hit.

Janine’s entire body convulsed.

She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.

Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."

I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."

She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."

"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."

"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"

"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."

Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"

I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"

"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."

I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"

"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."

I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."

Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."

I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."

"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"

"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."

"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."

And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."

I froze. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."

Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"

"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"

Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.

She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."

And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.

It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.

"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.

She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.

"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.

She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.

And then—silence.

We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.

Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.

Then—"I LIVE."

I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."

She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."

I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."

"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."

I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"

"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"

I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.

I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.

Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.

The house was quiet again.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.

But I didn’t move.

Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.

I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.

I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.

So I worked.

And I worked.

The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.

I ignored it.

I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—

I stopped.

I stared at the page.

I had hit a wall.

My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.

But getting up felt impossible.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.

I told myself I would rest just for a second.

Just long enough for my brain to reset.

Just long enough to push past this problem.

But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.

A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.

Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

Mom.

My stomach clenched.

I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.

I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.

My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.

I moved.

Quick, quiet.

I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.

She’d yell.

She’d berate me.

She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.

I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.

So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.

I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.

My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.

They passed.

She didn’t check.

I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.

The air was thick, the silence stretching.

Then, a door shutting.

I exhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.

I didn’t move.

I wouldn’t move.

Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.

I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.

She wasn’t coming back out.

I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.

The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.

At least something in this house deserved a second chance.

I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall.

Tried to sleep.

Tried to let go.

But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.

My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.

I turned over. Then turned again.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.

Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—

I forced myself to breathe.

Slower.

Calmer.

Even if it didn’t work.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I drifted.

A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.

My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.

I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.

He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.

And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.

It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.

At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.

With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.

Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.

I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.

Half of one thing. Half of another.

But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.

Just missing pieces.

I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.

I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.

In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.

This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.

But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.

Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.

And they notice me.

It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?

I never know.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.

But then, sometimes, I hear it.

Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.

But in passing. Whispered.

"Who’s that girl again?" "Not from ‘round here, is she?" "Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."

I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.

What would I even say? "I’m from here. I always have been." "I know these streets better than you do." "My dad isn’t here. He never was."

But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.

Like now.

The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.

The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.

Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.

So here I was.

My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.

The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.

Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.

A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.

It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.

I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.

A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.

I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.

I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.

Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.

Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.

£4.05 total.

I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.

And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.

"Oh, hell—"

I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.

Him. Oliver.

I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—

"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."

I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."

His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."

I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)

"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."

I gave him a look. "Debatable."

Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.

"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."

Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."

And I should have just left it at that.

I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.

But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.

His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—

Oh my God.

My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Had I just—?

Had I seriously just thought about—?

My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.

Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.

What was wrong with me?

This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).

He was a nuisance.

A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.

So why—

Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—

I swallowed hard.

I needed to leave.

I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.

Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.

"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.

I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.

But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.

"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."

Heads turned.

I panicked.

Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.

Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.

"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.

Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.

Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.

"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”

I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."

He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.

I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.

I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.

Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—

"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.

"I am," he said simply.

I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

Ollie grinned. "Watching you."

My entire body tensed.

Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.

I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.

Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.

I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.

Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"

I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."

"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.

I ignored him.

"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."

Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."

My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.

I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.

Pasta—around 50p.

Total: £5.05.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.

I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.

Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.

Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.

And then—tilapia.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.

But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.

I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.

Apples, tomatoes, eggs, minced beef, bread, canned tomatoes, beans, pasta, chicken, bananas, ham, tilapia.

I swallowed.

£10.25.

Too much.

The realization made my stomach churn.

I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.

Nothing.

No loose coins, no hidden extras.

My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.

I hated this.

I hated this feeling.

Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

"Here."

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.

I froze.

My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.

"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.

His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.

"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.

But my fingers twitched.

The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.

Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.

"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*

My head snapped up.

"I don’t write romance novels."

"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."

I hated how fast my face heated up.

I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like it wasn’t humiliating.

My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.

But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.

I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.

"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.

Ollie’s grin stretched.

"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.

And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.

But I refused to let him see it.

I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.

Ollie, however, did not get over it.

"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"

I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."

"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"

"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.

"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."

I gave him a look. "Information?"

"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"

I blinked.

My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.

"I—what?"

"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."

"Mhm."

"Stop making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."

"Ah, that one." His grin widened.

I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"

Ollie just shrugged.

"Because."

That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.

I stared at him.

"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."

"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.

"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.

"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.

As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.

"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.

"My whole life."

"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."

I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"

"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.

Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.

"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."

I blinked.

"Oh," I said quietly.

I didn’t know what else to say.

I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.

Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.

"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."

"Yep."

"Wait—your aunt?"

"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.

I blinked again.

"Sarah Davies?"

"The very same."

That made way too much sense.

Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.

I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.

"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."

"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"

"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."

"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."

I shook my head, turning back to my basket.

"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"

Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."

That caught me off guard.

"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"

"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."

I blinked at the sudden energy shift.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."

I stared at him.

"I don’t know how to drive."

"That is devastating information."

"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."

Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"

I shot him a look. "I walk."

His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"

"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.

Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."

"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."

I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."

"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."

I blinked. "And?"

His grin stretched. "And we should go."

I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"

"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.

My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."

"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"

"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.

"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"

"Oliver."

"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"

I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"

I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.

"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"

I gave him a look.

He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.

I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."

"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."

I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."

Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."

I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."

"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."

I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."

"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.

I stared at it like it had personally offended me.

"Did you just—"

"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.

I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"

He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."

I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."

"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.

"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.

"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.

"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.

"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.

A boy of hard work.

I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"

"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.

I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.

But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—

I was going.

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