Uniquexus

It wasn’t that she, James, and Lydia saw each other constantly. Their lives were a rhythm of long absences and intense bursts of contact: sometimes weeks would pass without seeing one another, and then days would stretch into moments so full of shared space and unspoken understanding it felt almost dizzying. And normally, that was fine. It had always been fine. She didn’t need him near her all the time, and the pauses between them had never felt heavy.

But this, this silence after the kitchen incident, was different. It wasn’t just distance anymore; it was a chasm. The absence had a shape, a pressure she could feel in her chest, in the hollow of her stomach. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to face him; she wanted it desperately. She wanted to see him, to talk, even if she didn’t know what to say. But she couldn’t bring herself to cross the threshold of that fear, to confront what had been left hanging in the kitchen like smoke.

She tried to distract herself in the ordinary rhythms of her life: homework, school, work, sport, meeting up with friends who laughed too loudly over conversations. There were moments when she succeeded in not thinking of him, moments when the thought of him receded to the background. But they were fleeting.

And then Lydia noticed.

“You know he only breathes when you’re around, huh?” she said one afternoon, catching Y/N at the gate. Her tone was teasing, light, but the sharp edge of insight behind her words made Y/N stiffen.

Y/N waved her off, trying to play it cool. “I… don’t know what you mean. That’s silly.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the effort. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’ve got it all under control,” she said, smirking. But she didn’t press further, letting Y/N go, though the words lingered in her mind long after.

—

“This is Mortimer’s, James’, and Lydia’s. Don’t mix Mortimer and James up,” Y/N’s mother said, pushing the cart of freshly washed and ironed clothes towards her with the familiar authority of someone who had spent a lifetime managing households.

Y/N glanced over the neat stacks of shirts and trousers, already trying to mentally separate whose was whose before she forgot. “Alright, alright,” she mumbled, keeping her voice low.

“And don’t speak to them,” her mother added sharply. There was a weariness in her tone, the kind that came from both experience and caution. She exhaled slowly, as if bracing herself. “Not to Mortimer. He’s… on the edge of exploding. I think he and James are fighting. Again.”

Y/N stilled. Not visibly, she hoped, but enough that her mother’s eyes flicked up, searching her face. She lowered her gaze to the cart.

“I don’t know how James is doing,” her mother said softly now. “But keep your distance.” The words were gentle, yet they landed heavy. She studied her daughter’s expression, waiting… perhaps for a crack, perhaps for an admission. Y/N kept her face neutral, her breathing even.

“Aren’t they always in fight mode?” Y/N replied, striving for casual, even if her voice snagged slightly on James’ name.

Her mother raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And yet that is none of our concern. You knock, deliver, and walk away. No conversations, no lingering.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her mother nodded once, satisfied in theory if not in certainty.

Y/N wrapped her hands around the cart handle and pushed it towards the lift, her heartbeat picking up the closer she got. The wheels clicked softly over the tiles; steady, rhythmic, yet too loud in her ears. She pressed the elevator button and waited, staring at her reflection in the gleaming doors: flushed cheeks, lips pressed tight, eyes betraying more nerves than she wished to admit.

When Y/N reached the top floor, she began with Mr Beaufort’s door. Always start with him, she reminded herself, get the most nerve-wracking one out of the way first. She wasn’t scared of him, not at all, but she could never truly gauge his mood. And perhaps that was what frightened her most: the uncertainty, the need to adjust her approach on the fly. Honestly, that was a skill on its own, and a very good one for her CV.

She knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again, waiting longer this time.

“Mr Beaufort? It’s the laundry.”

Still nothing.

Right. Her mother had said: knock, deliver, leave. She tried the handle. It clicked open.

Mr Beaufort sat in the armchair by the window, a leather-bound folder open in his lap. He didn’t look up immediately; he finished the sentence he was reading, eyes scanning with surgical precision. Only then did he lift his gaze.

“Y/N,” he said, not unkindly, but not warmly either. His voice carried the polite end of exhaustion.

“Sir,” she replied with a professional nod. “The laundry.” That was how she intended to approach it, but it was all she could think of in the moment.

He made a small welcoming gesture.

Y/N took the hangers first and moved towards his walk-in wardrobe. She put the hangers away, taking in the state of the entire closet; neat, almost too neatly for a man. She returned for a pile of clothes, putting them away as quickly and quietly as possible, aware that his presence seemed to fill the room even when he remained still.

She was nearly at the door when his voice halted her.

“How are you doing?”

She froze for half a breath. He rarely asked questions that weren’t necessary. When she turned back, he was watching her with that penetrating, unreadable Beaufort stare; the one that seemed to see through you rather than at you.

“I’m… fine, sir,” she said carefully, for he did not feel like someone she could lie to, yet also not someone she could tell the truth. “Thank you for asking,” she added, smiling warmly, genuinely appreciative.

He held her gaze a moment longer, long enough for her to wonder if he somehow sensed there was more to ask. Then he nodded once. “Good.” A pause. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t distant. It was something gentler, thinner, like a moment of humanity slipping through a crack in the armour.

“Of course.”

And with that, she slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Next door was James’.

And her heartbeat betrayed her by picking up again.

But what if he wasn’t even in his room? All this stress, all this nervous energy twisting in her stomach, and maybe he wasn’t even there to witness it. She stood before his door, staring at the grain of the wood as if it might give her an answer. She knocked once, bit her lip, took a breath that did nothing to calm her, then knocked again and opened the door before she could think herself out of it.

“Laundry,” she announced, voice too quick, feigning a confidence she did not feel. She stepped inside without daring to look up, the hangers balanced precariously around her fingers. But then she saw him. James sat at his desk, posture slouched in that unmistakable way that meant he had been pretending to read for far too long. The moment she entered, his eyes lifted, slow and almost hesitant, and everything in her chest dropped clean out of her.

“Oh… hi,” she breathed, the word barely forming.

James blinked at her, like he needed an extra second to adjust to her sudden presence. A brief, unguarded softness flickered across his face, the kind he never displayed unless he was unaware of it himself. “Hey,” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t sharp, irritated, or guarded. It was gentle, in a way that made her toes curl in her shoes.

“I…” She lifted the hangers like a prop she had suddenly remembered she was holding. “…have these.”

He nodded, the movement small, almost shy.

She crossed the room and hung everything neatly in his wardrobe. It was already mostly organised, not as immaculate as his father’s, but tidy enough that she didn’t need to correct a thing. It gave her something to focus on besides the acute awareness of him breathing behind her. When she returned to the cart for the first folded pile, she felt the silence in the room stretch; heavy, but not uncomfortable, merely charged. She turned to collect the last pile, and he was suddenly standing there, holding it already in his hands.

“Oh. Uh… thanks,” she said, startled by his proximity.

“No problem,” he whispered, gaze lowering as though unsure where to look.

When he handed the clothes to her, their fingers brushed. Just a soft, accidental touch, but it sent a warm, nervous jolt up her arm. She froze for half a second, breath catching. His did too. Her eyes flicked up before she could stop them and collided with his, and the moment stretched unbearably. James looked at her as though he wanted to speak but didn’t know where to begin. She looked away first. She always did.

She finished quickly after that, moving around him with more caution than necessary, as though another touch might make everything ten times worse. Just before leaving, she paused. She didn’t look back immediately; she didn’t trust the expression she might see on his face, or, worse, the one she might be wearing.

“James?” she said softly.

He straightened slightly, as if the sound of his name had pulled him upright. “Yeah?”

She turned towards him fully this time. His eyes found hers with that same quiet, guarded vulnerability she had seen only a handful of times, and never directed at her with such rawness. “You know you can talk to me,” she said, voice gentler than intended, like her honesty had slipped out without permission. “About anything. I won’t judge.”

He swallowed, slow and deliberate, his throat tightening as though the words were difficult to push through. “I… Thanks, I suppose.”

A small, warm smile appeared on her lips; a reflex, soft and encouraging. She began to turn away, but his voice stopped her cold.

“The thing is,” he said, breath unsteady, “I can’t breathe without you.”

Her heart stuttered. Her chest tightened. For a second, she forgot her body even existed.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I can’t stay away from you,” he continued, taking one slow, tentative step towards her. A step so small yet laden with meaning.

Her pulse hammered in her ears. The room felt impossibly quiet, the air too charged, each inch closing between them making it harder to think straight.

James reached for her fingers; not grasping, just brushing, a soft request. She didn’t pull away, but she still couldn’t look up. Her eyes stayed on the floor, on their hands, on anything that wasn’t the terrifying intensity she knew she would find if she dared to meet his gaze.

He understood. He touched her chin, gentle, almost hesitant, and tipped her face towards him.

She finally looked into his eyes. And she was done for.

“James…” she whispered, the name trembling out of her.

His lips hovered over hers; not touching, barely sharing the same breath, a shy question suspended between them. Her head tilted, as if her body made the decision long before her mind caught up. Their lips met in the softest of kisses, almost nothing, almost imaginary. A brush of warmth. A tremor. A confession held in silence.

When they parted just slightly, their foreheads touched, breaths mingling the way their thoughts did.

“I…” she whispered, staring at his mouth, overwhelmed. “Fuck.” She tilted her head back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, every thought tripping over the next. She wanted him; painfully, completely, stupidly. More than she had ever allowed herself to admit.

When she looked back at him, he was searching her face with fragile, terrified hope. The kind that made her chest ache. The kind that made her choice simple.

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in, kissing him again, but this time with certainty. No hesitation. No questioning. Just want. All of it.

He made a quiet, surprised sound against her lips before giving in completely. His hands settled on her waist, warm and careful at first, then tightening, drawing her impossibly close. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him down as though she weren’t planning on letting go.

He pressed her gently against the wall, the subtle thud barely audible over their uneven breathing. He closed the door with his leg, never breaking the kiss, never losing her mouth for more than a fraction of a second. She smiled against his lips, and he did too. Then the kiss deepened, slow at first, then more certain, more hungry. Their mouths opened, tongues meeting in a warm, dizzying slide that made her knees weaken.

It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t rushed. It was that kind of kiss, the one that feels like everything finally clicks into place. The one that tastes like something they shouldn’t want this much… but do.

James kissed her like he had been waiting for this moment longer than he would ever admit.

And she kissed him like she finally understood why breathing without him was so unbearably difficult.

When they finally broke apart, just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against hers again.

“We can’t…” she murmured, voice low, reverent, afraid of the gravity in her words.

“I know,” he said softly.

She let her hand linger on his chest a second longer, feeling the unsteady rhythm beneath her fingertips; the echo of everything they had just done, everything they couldn’t take back. “We have to keep it quiet.”

“Secret,” he agreed, barely above a whisper. It sounded almost like a vow.

Y/N nodded, though her lungs felt too tight to hold the movement. Her whole body was buzzing; with adrenaline, with want, with the terrifying relief of finally touching what she had been trying not to want for weeks. She stayed close for one more breath, committing the warmth of him to memory, the way his forehead brushed hers like he wasn’t ready to let go either.

Finally, she stepped away. “I should finish delivering the rest,” she managed. She cleared her throat, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

He didn’t stop her, but his gaze remained on her; heavy, lingering. It felt like a hand on her spine even after she turned to the door.

She slipped into the hallway and let the door close behind her. Her pulse was still racing. Her lips still tingled. She felt… different. Like she had stepped out of her own skin and into something new, sharp and soft all at once.

She forced herself forward and crossed the hall, knocking on Lydia’s door, then pushing it open without waiting.

“Hello?” Lydia snapped, clearly irritated at the interruption. But as soon as she saw who it was, her expression softened.

Y/N closed the door quickly behind her and leaned against it, breath uneven. “I… uh… Laundry service.”

Lydia blinked. “Okay… where is it?”

Y/N covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. “Lyd…”

“What?” Lydia asked, already suspicious.

Y/N lowered her hands, breath shaking. “Oh my god.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “We kissed. James kissed me. I kissed James.” She stepped away from the door as if the floor had suddenly tilted beneath her feet.

Lydia’s jaw dropped so hard it was almost comical. She shot up from her chair, hands flying into her hair. “No. You did NOT.”

“Yes,” Y/N whispered, then louder, because it was too big to say quietly, “yes, we did.”

Lydia marched toward her, pointing accusingly. “How? Tell me everything.”

Y/N nodded helplessly, feeling the heat rise to her face all over again. “It just… happened. And then it didn’t just happen. And then it, I don’t know, Lydia, I can’t think straight.”

She had no idea where any of this would lead.

Only that she wanted it.

And that wanting him might break them both.

She had spent most of the day at school, drifting through classes that felt longer than usual now that she wasn’t running on pure obligation. By the last period, she and her friends had exchanged the same look, equal parts boredom and rebellion, and slipped out the side door for coffee at their favourite café.

They brought their laptops, spread out notebooks, opened two tabs of Google Docs, and did absolutely nothing except complain about what they should be doing. It was, in her opinion, a wildly successful attempt at productivity.

When she got home, the sky had already started bruising. The rain had been threatening all afternoon, thick clouds rolling in as though someone kept dimming the brightness of the world. By early evening it finally gave in, settling into a soft, steady drizzle that tapped politely against the cottage windows. The air smelled like wet pavement and something fresh, something green.

Her mum was working at the Beaufort’s, which meant it was Y/N’s night to cook. She didn’t mind. The cottage was small, cosy in the way old houses are, crooked floorboards, a finicky radiator, and a kitchen barely big enough for two, but it was home. And on rainy evenings, with no obligations tugging at her, it felt almost perfect. On some goofy days, she imagined it to be one of the cottages in a romcom film people would die to live in.

She stood at the counter chopping tomatoes, the knife slicing quietly through the skin, the cutting board rocking slightly on the uneven surface. Outside, the world was turning soft and grey. She felt wrapped in it, cocooned by the idea of staying inside, warm, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up as she cooked. A simple domesticity. A rare peace.

Then the doorbell rang.

She paused mid-slice, the knife hovering over a half-cut tomato. Nobody rang their doorbell. People who knew them knocked, or shouted through the window if they were especially comfortable with her mum.

Her brows knitted together.

She leaned forward, trying to angle her view toward the frosted side window beside the door, but the rain streaks blurred everything into grayscale shapes. No luck. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and padded toward the front foot.

She pulled open the door.

James stood on the step.

Rain slicked his hair into dark, heavy strands that clung to his forehead. Droplets traced down the sharp line of his jaw. His shoulders were drawn tight as bowstrings beneath his damp school shirt. He looked… wrong, somehow. Like someone who had been walking fast in the rain without caring that he was getting soaked. Like someone who had been breathing too shallowly. Like someone who had been thinking too much and getting nowhere. Perhaps all three at the same time.  He still wore his uniform, though the tie was missing, either stuffed in a pocket or discarded somewhere along the way.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. One syllable. Carefully controlled. Hollow around the edges.

“Hi,” she replied, sounding about a third as confused as she felt.

There was a pause; a strange, suspended moment in which he didn’t move, didn’t blink much, didn’t offer an explanation. Just stared at the ground near her feet as though steadying himself there.

“Can I… come in?” he asked.

But the question was an afterthought; he was already stepping past her into the hallway, propelled by something that looked a lot like desperation disguised as momentum.

“Um, sure,” she murmured, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t wait for direction. He walked into the kitchen like he had been here a dozen times, though barely had. He ran a hand through his rain-damp hair and sat stiffly at the small wooden table. His movement had a heaviness to it, like gravity was doing more work on him than usual.

His eyes landed on the newspaper on the table; her mum’s, abandoned after breakfast. He reached for it like a drowning man grabbing a floating piece of debris. He flipped it open, turned to the back page, found the sudoku.

A pen appeared from his pocket. He clicked it open with a soft but sharp sound and began filling in squares with mechanical precision. Hyper-focus. Avoidance wrapped in logic.

Y/N stood there, watching, an involuntary line forming between her brows.

Okay.

Unexpected visitor.

Unexpected behaviour.

Unexpected tension radiating off him like heat from asphalt.

She accepted it with a small nod to herself. No questions for now. No hovering.

Instead, she returned to the kitchen counter, flipped the kettle on, and resumed cooking. The rhythm steadied her. Chop, stir, listen. Rain tapping the windows. The soft hum of a radio her mum always left on low. James’s quiet, frustrated exhale every few minutes.

When the kettle boiled, she poured tea into a mug and placed it in front of him. He didn’t look up, didn’t thank her, but he wrapped his hands around the cup. That alone felt like progress.

After a while, five minutes, maybe ten, his shoulders loosened. Just slightly. His breathing slowed.

He was calming down. In her kitchen. Without ever saying he needed to.

“Long day?” she asked gently.

He didn’t lift his eyes from the sudoku. “Fine.”

“That didn’t sound fine.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing at his brow like the headache was something he could just push away. “I don’t… I didn’t come here to… talk.”

“Okay.” She nodded, turning back to the stove. “Just checking.”

He filled another two squares. Sometimes, he watched her, just to see what she was doing. She looked cosy; wearing an oversized hoodie, hair in a claw clip, she looked relaxed. Perhaps something he was jealous off; the easy and simple relaxation.

He filled in another two squares before she asked, softer this time, “James? Are you okay?”

His pen stopped mid-stroke. Then he set it down with a small, decisive click. Not slammed, not thrown. Just a sound that meant enough.

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” he muttered, frustration bleeding through his usually composed voice.

Y/N turned slightly, eyebrows lifting. “It was just a question. You look upset. That’s why.”

His shoulders tensed again, like the calm had been peeled away too quickly. “I’m not.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“Y/N.” Sharp, but exhausted. “I came here because it was quiet.”

“And I ruined that by… existing in my own home?”

His jaw flexed. “That’s not…” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I just wanted… space. Something. I don’t know.”

She tried again. “Did something happen with your dad?”

“I said I didn’t come here to talk,” he snapped.

Her eyes narrowed; not scared, not even surprised. Just irritated. “And I’m not interrogating you. I’m checking if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His chair scraped harshly as he shot to his feet. “Stop.”

She spun around to face him fully. “Stop what? Caring?”

“Yes!” The word burst out of him, raw. “I didn’t come here for…for this. For questions. For…” He gestured helplessly. “I came here because I needed to breathe. And you’re… you’re…”

“What am I, James?” she demanded, stepping closer, meeting his fire with steady defiance.

His chest heaved. “You’re making it worse,” he said quietly. Honest. Hurt. “I came here to feel better and you’re making it worse.”

It hit harder than anger.

“How,” she asked, voice firm but not unkind, “am I making this worse?”

“God, you don’t understand it. You’re so perfect.”

“Perfect?” She barked a humourless laugh. “I am everything but perfect, James. I have my own issues I have to deal with.” Her voice wavered between annoyance and bewilderment. “You show up here, soaked and grumpy, and I don’t get to ask why? Sorry, but if you came here to pretend nothing’s wrong, wrong house.”

He stared at her like she had said something he didn’t know how to process. Something about shame flickered through his expression.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to stay,” she replied; not coldly, but firmly.

He flinched like the words were a physical thing. Then he grabbed his coat, movements stiff and uneven, and headed for the door.

“James-”

But he was already leaving. The door clicked shut behind him. Not slammed. Not dramatic. Just final.

Y/N stood in the small kitchen surrounded by half-chopped vegetables, simmering sauce, and the ghost of a boy who came to her door with no explanation and left with even less.

She felt confused. Irritated. Worried in a way she didn’t want to unpack.

James had come to her door for something… something he didn’t have a name for.

And now he had run from it.

Click here to read part 5.

When they spilled onto the pavement in front of the old town theatre, they looked like they had been released from captivity.

“Why are we even here?” Cyril groaned, already loud enough to earn a warning glance from the professor. “Oxford students don’t want to talk to us. I don’t want to listen to them. Mutual respect.”

“Maybe you’ll learn something,” Keshav said dryly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah,” Alistair added, “like how to shut up for an hour.”

Cyril flipped them off without looking.

James walked in the centre of the group, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression unreadably neutral. He wasn’t excited about the event, but he wasn’t dreading it either. This was his natural habitat: grown-up places, formal settings, people who recognised the name Beaufort. He fit in here without trying.

“Do we at least get real food?” Keshav asked as they climbed the steps to the entrance.

“It’s not a gala,” Alistair replied. “It’s a student talk.”

“Oxford students,” Cyril corrected, already annoyed. “Which means they’ll use three-syllable words and pretend they invented them.”

James smirked. “You’re welcome to follow along at your own pace.”

Cyril shoved him lightly. James let the movement roll off him with the ease of someone who rarely lost balance; physically or socially.

Inside, the lobby was warm, lit by soft sconces and gleaming brass. Dark wood panelling, velvet ropes, the faint scent of old theatre dust. Students from other schools hovered in small clusters, sizing one another up with the bored competitiveness of people raised to assess status as naturally as breathing.

A teacher waved them forward. “Programmes at the far desk. Move along, gentlemen.”

They did. Slowly. Disinterestedly.

Cyril groaned. “This already feels like a hostage situation.”

“You say that everywhere,” Alistair replied.

“Because everywhere feels like a hostage situation when I’m forced to be respectable.”

James let out a low laugh. “Try harder then.”

Alistair nudged him. “You in a good mood today?”

“I’m always in a good mood,” James said dryly. “Other people just ruin it.”

They walked deeper into the lobby, weaving through students, teachers, chatter. Nothing special. Exactly as expected. Exactly like every other event like this.

Just noise and uniforms and forced politeness.

And then…

Y/N stood on the side of the lobby, scanning the area. Beside her, a guy watched the crowd the same way, exchanging a few words with her between observations. Then she moved, smoothly, purposefully.

This was not the version James knew: not the girl in jeans and colourful tops and old sneakers, not the girl who made breakfast in the morning, not the girl who couldn’t stop giggling at the smallest things.

This version was different.

The professional one. The one in a fitted hostess blazer, hair perfectly curled, moving with calm authority as she directed visitors. Focused. Collected. Quietly instructing another staff member, smiling, supporting, leading.

He hadn’t seen this side before. James’ stride faltered by a fraction. Barely noticeable.

But Alistair caught it. “What is it?”

Before James even considered answering, something he wasn’t planning to do anyway, Cyril spoke.

“Is that… wait.” Cyril slapped a hand to Alistair’s arm. “Isn’t that the maid’s daughter?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Alistair muttered, voice softening in a way Cyril didn’t catch. They had corrected him too many times to count.

Cyril squinted. “Since when does she look like that?”

James stared openly. “She looks like…” Not many people could make James blush, almost no one, but he felt his cheeks warm. “…very professional.” Pretty. Beautiful. So beautiful.

“Professional?” Cyril barked. “She looks like she’s running the bloody place.”

She did. She absolutely did.

James watched her as she answered questions from professors, stepped aside for students, spoke through her in-ear. Everything about her was different: straighter shoulders, lifted chin, steady hands.

“Gentlemen,” Y/N said, suddenly standing in front of them. Her face was professional, unreadable, polite. No sign of recognition. No sign she had spent the evening before with him and Lydia. “Your school is seated in the stalls, down the stairs and to the left. Ushers will guide you,” she said, voice low and even. Then her eyes softened, just briefly, her normal self breaking through. “Enjoy the listening,” she added with a wink.

Then she stepped aside, heels clicking softly on the polished floor, already shifting her attention to another group.

James kept looking at her, as if his brain needed a moment to catch up with what had happened.

“You alright, mate?” Alistair nudged him gently. He followed James’ gaze, ending on Lydia, who looked very amused. Alistair grinned. “Come on, before everyone sees how you fell for Y/N.”

—

Y/N sat behind her desk and took a sip of her cappuccino, well-deserved energy. She slipped out of her heels and tucked them under the desk, flexing her toes. She scanned the general inbox, moved to the time sheet, and was immediately interrupted by a colleague on the porto phone.

“Have you seen the episode last night?” Simon asked, falling into the chair across from her with his usual dramatic exhaustion. Her colleague. Also a first host.

“Of course I have,” she replied. “The way he started laughing when he said: I am a faithful? Brilliant man. Probably the best traitor there is.”

“Or no one suspects him because he’s giggly and doesn’t take anything seriously. That’s why he gets away with everything,” Simon said.

Y/N leaned back. “Which is exactly why I would suspect him. But hey, just me.” She threw her hands up.

They launched into a rapid-fire analysis; alliances, betrayals, the idiocy of trusting anyone who smiles too much. Their voices were low but animated, the office filling with the comfortable bubble of two people using TV as an excuse to procrastinate.

A hospitality agent stopped by for help, but ended up joining the conversation.

A knock on the door made them all look up. They expected a colleague. It wasn’t.

“Pardon me, I’m afraid I’m lost,” James said, wearing that unmistakable mischievous look in his eyes.

Y/N straightened instinctively, cappuccino halfway to her mouth, heels still under her desk. “Hi,” she said, slipping into her practiced calm. “Can I help you with something?”

James tilted his head, pretending, badly, to read the office signage. “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Easily done,” the hospitality agent chirped, already halfway out of her chair. “I can take you wherever you need to go, sir.”

“No, it’s okay,” Y/N cut in before she could stop herself. She slid her feet back into her heels and stood. “I’ll help him. It’s fine.”

Simon shot her a look that said: since when do you volunteer for extra work? 

She ignored him, smoothing her blouse as she stepped around the desk. “Right this way,” she said.

They stepped into the hallway. The shift from office buzz to corridor quiet created a small pocket of awkward-but-not-unpleasant air between them. Y/N walked briskly. Professional, again.

“So,” she asked without looking at him, “where exactly were you trying to go?”

James shoved his hands into his pockets, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, nowhere in particular. I just wanted to see you.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he added quietly.

“I’ve worked here since I was fourteen,” she said, lips pressing into a line.

“Oh, really?” He nodded. “You look very important…”

“It’s just temporary. My manager is on leave, so I fill in.” She smiled.

James nodded again. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face; mixed with something else. He didn’t like not knowing this. Not because she hid it, but because… he probably forgot she had told him before.

“How is it?”

“Boring,” he mumbled.

They reached the last turn before the foyer, and Y/N finally relaxed; not visibly, but enough. James noticed immediately.

“So this is it,” she said, gesturing ahead. “The hall is right there.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he looked at a random painting like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. “Is it? I don’t know… seems unfamiliar.”

She narrowed her eyes. “James.”

He hummed innocently.

“Stop stalling. You know where the hall is.”

“Do I?” he teased, flashing a half-smile.

She felt a laugh push at her throat; annoyance and amusement tangled together. “Yes. You walked through it to get lost.”

He shrugged. “Could’ve been a different hall.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, covering her face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” he tilted his head, studying her, “you’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

She was. And he was enjoying it far too much.

“James, I have to get back to work,” she said, trying to sound stern. “I have things to do. And you have to listen.”

He groaned dramatically.

“Pfew, tough job, listening,” she said as if narrating an Olympic sport.

A quiet laugh rolled out of him.

She stepped forward to nudge him, but he stepped back again, like a child refusing bedtime. “Why are you like this?” she laughed.

“Because,” he said simply, “you’re fun to annoy.”

She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t moving. Not a centimetre.

“Fine.” She groaned, grabbing his sleeve lightly, guiding, not dragging. “Come on.”

“See?” he said, falling into step beside her. “Teamwork.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed.

They approached the doors leading to the hall. Y/N stopped next to them. James slowed again, subtle, but deliberate.

“You really don’t want to go back, do you?” she asked, amused.

He pretended to think. “Not particularly. But considering you’re about to shove me into the light like some sort of banned creature…”

“James.”

He tilted his head, softening just a fraction. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

“You say that,” she said, “but I don’t think you mean it.” She opened the door for him.

He didn’t deny it. He just nodded, stepped inside at last, and murmured: “Thanks for rescuing me from absolutely nothing.”

She shook her head, smiling as she closed the door and answered a request over the porto while walking back toward the offices.

Click here to go to part 4

It was so typically Lydia; understated, faintly dramatic, phrased like a request but carrying the weight of an expectation. Y/N smiled down at her phone, already hearing Lydia’s smooth, dry voice in the words.

By half seven, she was cycling the familiar path up the Beaufort drive, evening settling over the estate with that blue-grey hush she had always loved. The house looked quieter than usual: no staff hovering, no echo of their mother gliding from room to room. Just warm light spilling softly onto the gravel.

She took the staff entrance out of habit. The corridor lights hummed gently as she walked, warmth inching back into her fingers. Turning a corner, she nearly collided with Lydia.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Lydia said, hand pressed to her chest. She wore joggers and an old cashmere cardigan, hair pinned up with careless precision. “I was two minutes away from talking to the walls.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And they weren’t responding?”

“Not in a satisfying manner,” Lydia replied crisply, already leading her toward the living room.

A quiet laugh escaped Y/N. Lydia’s particular brand of measured dramatics had always been a comfort.

The living room was softly lit, golden and warm, unmistakably Lydia’s touch. A single lamp glowed beside the sofa, casting gentle shapes across the polished floor. James sat there with a book open in his lap, posture relaxed but eyes miles away. The moment Y/N stepped inside, he looked up immediately, quicker than someone truly absorbed in reading should.

“Oh,” he said, voice softening without meaning to. “Hi.”

Y/N shrugged off her coat and gave him a smile. “Hello.”

Lydia clapped her hands once, decisive. “Snacks and board games?”

“Sure,” Y/N said. “If it’ll keep you from getting into a shouting match with the wallpaper.”

Lydia’s lips twitched, her closest approximation of a laugh. “That will do it,” she murmured, already heading to the kitchen.

James closed his book with a quiet thud, eyes lingering on Y/N a beat too long.

“But Y/N,” Lydia called over her shoulder, voice drifting down the hall, “I heard you’ve been making breakfasts now?”

“Yup.” Y/N tied her hair into a loose bun, the motion instinctive. The house felt cavernous tonight, quiet, empty, too large for only three people.

“Don’t you have better things to do? Like… school?” Lydia asked.

“It’s just for a week. Mrs Harrows is paying me double. I can survive anything for a week.”

“How much is double?”

“Fifty quid per meal.”

Lydia paused mid-step, visibly pleased. “You don’t have to come tomorrow. It’s just James and me. We can manage. Don’t tell anyone. Easy money.”

“No,” Y/N said immediately. “I can’t.”

“Fine. Cancel it and I’ll pay you fifty quid.”

Y/N stopped so suddenly James nearly walked into her. “Sorry,” she murmured, stepping aside, then turned to Lydia with narrowed eyes. “Lyd, you’re putting me in an impossible situation. I can’t skip work because you want me to.”

Lydia breezed on as though she hadn’t heard. “Anyway,” she said lightly, glancing back to find Y/N and James now walking side by side, talking in low voices, a familiarity she pretended not to notice.

The private kitchen was the warmest place in the house, always had been. When they were kids, this was where everything real happened: baking, stealing snacks, licking spoons, whispering secrets. Entering it now felt like stepping back into an old memory.

“I’ll sort the snacks,” Lydia declared, already half in the pantry. “Y/N, could you make your cookies?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Ah. So that’s why I’m here.”

“Shit. Caught me,” Lydia said, deadpan.

Y/N laughed under her breath and climbed onto the counter to reach a mixing bowl on the top shelf. She had done it a hundred times, but her foot slipped slightly as she shifted her weight. Her breath caught... and a warm hand steadied her at the base of her spine.

James.

He stood close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him. His hand lingered only a second, just long enough to keep her balanced, but it was enough to steal a breath.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching easily for the bowl she had been stretching toward.

She passed it to him, then accepted his hand as she hopped down. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said, eyes dropping to her for a heartbeat before he stepped back.

She washed her hands and fell into the familiar rhythm of measuring ingredients. James stayed beside her, “helping”, which, realistically, meant standing close, handing her things a split-second before she reached for them, brushing against her with those quiet, accidental touches that didn’t feel accidental.

Lydia perched on the counter with a bowl of crisps, watching them with the faint amusement of someone witnessing a slow-moving play whose ending she already knew.

Conversation flowed easily; school, gossip, ridiculous stories from Y/N’s public school days that Lydia and James absorbed like forbidden literature. In return, the things that happened at Maxton Hall nearly left Y/N speechless. Lydia listened with bright intrigue; James watched Y/N with that quiet, intent look, like someone observing a flame they couldn’t walk away from.

—

The cookies were still warm (they nearly fell apart as Y/N coaxed them from tray to plate) when they carried everything back to the living room. Lydia held two bowls. Y/N carried the plate. James trailed behind, his hand brushing the small of Y/N’s back as she stepped around a stack of books.

Barely there. Light as a thought.

They set the snacks down. Lydia took the floor, cross-legged and purposeful. Y/N settled beside her. James lowered himself onto the sofa, long legs folding easily, posture relaxed as though this; quiet evenings, warm lamplight, the three of them, was something he could slip into like an old jumper.

The cards lay between them, corners frayed from years of handling. Lydia dealt. Y/N drew her knees up, the familiar buzz of anticipation settling into her chest. James leaned forward, forearms resting loosely on his thighs, somehow both relaxed and fully present.

“Thirty seconds,” Lydia said. “Let’s go.”

It was James’s guess round. Lydia and Y/N were giving clues. Simple. In theory.

Until Y/N made it not simple.

Lydia read the card first. “Okay… British actor,” she said, brows tightening. “Dark hair. Very… serious jawline.”

Y/N peeked over her shoulder, saw the name, and lit up. “Oh! Right, yes, I know him.” She snapped her fingers. “He was in that thing. With the hats. And the murder mystery.”

Lydia blinked. “Hats?”

“Yes, hats. Loads of hats. Period costumes. He wore that long coat-”

James blinked. “That narrows it down to absolutely no one.”

“No, trust me,” Y/N insisted, already spiraling. “He played the journalist with the..." she gestured vaguely at her face “...moustache."

Lydia stared blankly. “I don’t know who this is.”

“Yes you do,” Y/N said, baffled by her ignorance.

James tried, valiantly: “That Anthony guy from Bridgerton?”

“No!” Y/N clapped a hand over her heart in offense. “Absolutely not. He doesn’t have that kind of moustache situation.”

Lydia checked the card again. “Y/N… are you sure you’re thinking of the right person?”

“Yes!” Y/N said, doubling down.

James lifted a brow. “Another clue?”

“Fine.” Y/N huffed. “He played opposite that actress, the one with the fringe, he falls in love with her and then leaves dramatically in the rain. You know it. Everyone knows it.”

Lydia slowly shook her head. “I don’t know this man.”

James reached over, plucked the card gently from Lydia’s hand, read it. Then looked at Y/N. Then back at the card. “…Y/N,” he said, voice already betraying a laugh, “are you talking about Aidan Turner?”

“Yes!” she said triumphantly.

“This says Aiden Gillen.”

Y/N froze. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she whispered.

Lydia blinked. “Who is either of them?”

“First of all, they’re both Irish,” James said, which did not help.

Y/N groaned into her hands.

James snorted, that involuntary crack of sound someone makes when they try too hard not to laugh. He tried again. Failed. A second snort escaped, quieter but lethal.

That was all Y/N needed. Warm, ridiculous amusement bubbled up in her chest, an entirely inappropriate giggle she tried (and utterly failed) to swallow.

It slipped out. Tiny. Still fatal.

James met her eyes.

And that was it, they both broke. Quietly, helplessly, that breathy, contagious half-laugh that only lasts seconds and makes sense to absolutely no one.

Lydia looked up, expression unimpressed but mouth twitching. “Are we quite finished?” she asked, placing her next card with military precision.

“Sorry,” Y/N managed.

James didn’t say anything, but the smile stayed, soft and crooked, as though he couldn’t quite put it away.

Click here for part 3

The lights hummed softly as she flicked them on. On the counter, there was a notebook. She washed her hands first, then flipped through the notebook and read the notes that Mrs Harrows left behind carefully:

Kettle on. Oven warming. Bread sliced. Fruit washed. Pan heated.

The early morning silence wrapped around her like a blanket. As she cracked an egg into a bowl, she paused for a moment, listening. Nothing. No footsteps upstairs. No muttered voices. No clatter of anyone else making demands on the day.

Just the gentle sizzle of butter melting in the pan.

She exhaled, shoulders loosening, cracking her neck.

Breakfast at the Beaufort house wasn’t complicated. Toast, eggs, bacon, fruit, yoghurt, pastries on weekends. Tea, coffee, juice. It was almost laughably simple for a kitchen this size.

She glanced at the notes again, though she barely needed them. This family was muscle memory by now. Mr Beaufort had a favourite porcelain mug with a chip. Lydia hated grapefruit but would eat strawberries until she got nauseous. And James pretended he preferred coffee, but always started the day with tea. One spoon of honey on normal mornings. Two when he was exhausted.

She whisked the eggs lazily, added a splash of milk, salt, pepper. The smell of warm bread filled the air. She plated the first batch of toast, glazed lightly with butter, and covered it to keep the heat in. Everything was moving smoothly, predictably. There was comfort in that.

Y/n was cutting some fruit when she heard footsteps. These were soft, uneven, heavy with tiredness. She stopped with what she was doing, trying to figure out who it could be. 

Then the door opened. 

James. 

She wiped her hand on a tea towel and glanced over.

He looked… awful.

Still James Beaufort, still impossibly handsome because genetics were clearly his birthright, but exhausted in a way she rarely saw. His hair was rumpled, dark strands sticking up at odd angles. There were shadows under his eyes like fingerprints from a long, brutal night. His shoulders were hunched, the tension in him almost visible.

His uniform trousers were on, but his shirt was half tucked in and his tie hung around his neck like it had lost the will to live.

He paused in the doorway, blinking against the kitchen light.

“Good morning,” she said gently, offering a small smile.

He didn’t respond at first. He simply walked in and sat down heavily on one of the stools in the corner, meant for staff, rarely used at this hour. He looked like the chair had caught him mid-collapse.

She returned to the counter, filled a mug with hot tea, and added a generous spoonful of honey. Two. He needed two today. Without a word, she set the mug in front of him.

“I’ll serve breakfast in a few minutes in the dining room,” she said quietly.

“I’ll eat here,” he murmured. His voice was rough, shredded at the edges from lack of sleep. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Mrs Harrows is on leave,” she said softly. “She asked me to take over breakfast this week.”

Something like a smile ghosted across his face. Barely there, but unmistakably real.

She plated his breakfast: eggs and toast, exactly how he liked it when he looked like this. A server swept in to grab the other dishes and hesitated when he saw James sitting there. He shot Y/N a questioning look. She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug: don’t ask me. The server nodded stiffly and retreated.

Y/n looked at James; he looked terrible, yes, but he was here. Drinking tea. Breathing. Being alive.

“What time’s school again?” he asked after a moment, voice still thick with tiredness.

She took a deep breath, looking at her watch. “Nine,” she replied. “You’ve got time.” Her lips parted, ready to say more. For a moment she doubted, she wanted to make a comment about his appearance, but she knew he had it all under control - like he always had. 

He nodded, staring into his tea as if it held answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet.

She handed him the plate with the eggs and toast. “You need it,” she said simply, sliding the plate in front of him.

He looked up at her then, really looked. His eyes were tired, yes, but also soft. Grateful. Vulnerable in a way she rarely saw.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, brushing it off casually, though her heart tugged unexpectedly at the gentleness in his tone.

He ate slowly. She washed a few dishes to keep busy, aware of his gaze flicking to her occasionally. She pretended not to notice, though she felt each glance like a warm brush across her skin.

When she finished tidying, she stood opposite him and folded a clean tea towel neatly. “Bad night?” she asked quietly.

She wasn’t prying. He knew that. He nodded once, barely perceptible. His throat bobbed. But he didn’t speak. And she didn’t push. She never did.

She just reached for the fruit bowl, sliced some fruit, and placed a few pieces on his plate without looking at him.

Something softened in the air.

After a long moment, he said quietly, “You always know.”

She shrugged lightly. “You’re easy to read.”

That earned a small huff, something like a laugh.

By the time he finished eating, a faint flush had returned to his cheeks. His shoulders sat a little lower, looser. He looked… not fine, but less frayed.

“You should get ready for school,” he murmured. “You’ll be late.” He scanned her; she was standing there in her every day clothes, like she was making breakfast in a rush before going to school. Like it was normal, like a daily task for her own family.

She checked the clock. He was right.

“Only if you keep sitting there like a ghost,” she teased, trying to lift the heaviness around him.

He rolled his eyes half-heartedly, but there was the slightest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the rare kind she rarely saw but treasured secretly.

She wiped the counters, cleaned the sink, and put everything back where Mrs Harrows would expect to find it in two weeks. James stood slowly, mug in hand, watching her with that unreadable expression he got sometimes; soft, distant, almost longing, though she had never interpret it like that for real.

When she hung up the apron and reached for her coat, he cleared his throat.

“Y/N.”

She turned, hand paused mid-button.

“Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time, more fragile. “Really.”

The softness in his voice tugged at her chest unexpectedly.

“Anytime,” she whispered, although, she didn’t know for what. 

He nodded and stepped aside to let her pass, his shoulder brushing hers lightly, a touch so brief she almost wondered if she imagined it.

As she left through the side door, she hopped on her bicycle and cycled off to school. 

Click here for part 2

“You look like someone who’s seen the end of civilisation,” Lydia remarked, adjusting her scarf.

“I’ve seen worse,” Y/n muttered, yawning. “It’s way too early.” She tucked a strand of freshly blow-dried hair behind her ear, stifling another yawn. “I’m sorry.” 

They walked through the entrance of Maxton Hall together, greeted by the low hum of chatter and the distant clack of shoes on marble floors. Lydia waved to someone across the hall, while Y/n barely lifted her gaze; being present was already enough effort.

The classroom was already half full when they arrived. She slid into her usual seat by the window and frowned at her desk. Her notebook was sitting there. She opened her bag and indeed, her notebook wasn’t inside. She could have sworn she packed her notebook yesterday when she left. 

It was closed neatly, the elastic band stretched across its cover - something she never did. Maybe Lydia had dropped it off? She turned around, Lydia was talking busily to someone else at the door. 

Whatever, she thought. It didn’t matter, she had probably just been scatter brained again. 

The class filled quickly. Lydia sat beside her, still mid-story. James walked in with his unhurried stride, hair perfectly in place, tie knotted like a magazine spread. He didn’t look her way, just muttered something to a friend and leaned back in his chair. Typical.

The professor began talking about market models and values. Y/n only half listened, her thoughts drifting back to yesterday. She’d been too slow at training. She had to figure out how to improve if she wanted to win the upcoming speed skating competition. She started doodling absent-mindedly in the corner of her notebook, drawing loops and scribbled numbers.

When she flipped a page, she stopped.

There, tucked between her notes, was a loose sheet of paper; covered in neat, deliberate handwriting. 

Your structure was better. I adjusted the data to fit. 

It had to be James’ handwriting. He writes that neatly? The note was short. No greeting. No flourish. Just like James. 

She flipped through the rest of the notes for the project - her own notes had notes added, sticky notes with rewritten notes, new models, new notes. Things she hadn’t made. Everything was reorganised, labelled, improved. It was actually… brilliant. 

He had gone through it all. He had fixed it. He worked on it. 

No smug message. No joke. Just work. 

She looked over her shoulder. James sat at the other side of the class, spinning his pen between his fingers, pretending to be disinterested. But she caught the faintest glance, just enough to confirm what she already knew. 

Their eyes met for half a second. No smirk. No wink this time. Just a flicker of aware. 

Y/n gave a small nod, barely more than the tilt of her chin. Acknowledgment. Then she turned back to her notebook and continued writing.

James’ pen stopped spinning. The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smile before it disappeared again.

— 

“What was that?” Lydia asked when they left class, heading toward the canteen.

“What was what?”

“The look?”

“What look?”

Lydia sighed dramatically. “The look that says: maybe you’re not entirely awful.”

Y/n stopped walking, pretending to think deeply. “Show me how that looks.”

Lydia grinned. “Funny.” She clapped her hands together. “Don’t act like I’m imagining things.”

“He fixed something in the project. That’s all.”

“And you didn’t bite him for it?” Lydia nodded, impressed. “We are taking steps, everyone.”

— 

The library was quiet then usual that afternoon. Y/n had picked the same table as yesterday. If James would stop by to work on their project, he knew where to find her. Honestly, she had expected to work alone again. 

Just when she opened her laptop, she saw movement in the corner of her eyes. She turned to it. Her eyebrows raised. 

James. Coffee in hand, expression unreadable, he stopped beside her. 

“Oh, you’re here,” he said, tone carefully casual. 

“Yes,” she slowly replied. “So are you.”

He walked around the table, pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. No further explanation. No smirk. He just opened his laptop as if this wasn’t the most natural thing in the world. 

They worked in silence for a while. 

James reached for her notebook, flipping through it until he found their project notes. Y/n let him. It wasn’t worth the argument, and honestly, he was good at it.

Every now and then, she glanced up to see him scribbling something down, jaw slightly tense in focus. Sometimes he frowned. Sometimes a quiet satisfaction crossed his face, like solving an equation only he understood.

After a while, he leaned back slightly. “You didn’t say anything.”

“About what?”

He raised an eyebrow, a small ghost of a grin forming. “The notebook.”

Y/n met his gaze, calm and unreadable. She had a dozen sarcastic replies ready, but none of them felt right. “Didn’t think it needed saying.”

James studied her for a moment, and something softened around his eyes. “Someone had to make sense of your doodles,” he said lightly.

“Those doodles were labelled diagrams,” she countered.

“Sure they were.” He squinted his eyes. “You are a mystery, Y/n L/n.”

“And you are a distraction, James Beaufort.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Silence again, though lighter now, less sharp around the edges. The rhythm between them shifted slightly, something almost resembling teamwork. 

An hour passed. They actually made progress. 

When they finally packed up, Y/n stood first, slipping her laptop into her bag. 

“You’re not half bad when you’re not trying to wind me up,” James said quietly. 

Winding him up? she thought. “You’re tolerable when you’re actually working and useful.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him; short, genuine, and gone in an instant. 

Y/n glanced at him before leaving; not a smile, not even really an expression, but something softer. Acceptance, maybe. 

She didn’t think him. She didn’t need to. Some things didn’t need saying, not yet. 

“I have a training session. You?” Y/n asked, looking up from her study books. 

Lydia shrugged. “Nothing, really. I might go out and play some golf. I don’t know yet,” she softly replied. “When is the competition again?” 

“This weekend.” 

“If I have time, I will come and look, see you speed skate, you know,” Lydia smiled. 

A smile grew on Y/n lips. “Let me know in time, then I will get you a ticket. You can bring someone too, if you like. Just let me know.” 

“I definitely will.”

Y/n returned to her work, but a thought nudged at her,  she wanted to say something more. She opened her mouth, only for the professor to shush her.

“Ladies,” he mentioned, pausing mid-step, “mind if we join your conversation?” 

Heat rushed to Y/n’s cheeks. Lydia muttered a quick apology as silence fell over the room. Then Lydia snorted, and Y/n bit her lip, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

The professor cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone. May I have your attention please?” While he spoke to the class, he looked at Lydia and Y/n specifically. He raised his eyebrows, unsatisfied. “Yes? Thank you.” He got up from his chair, walked behind his desk, and leaned to it at the front. “As part of this semester’s economics module, you will work on a project in pairs.”

Soft murmurs filled the classroom, pairs were already being made; a pair of friends. 

“And…” the professor raised his voice, “to encourage cross-disciplinary collaboration, I have assigned the pairs myself.” 

Y/n glanced at Lydia. Lydia returned the look. Both of them froze in quiet disappointment. They were best friends, excellent partners. Together, they could secure the highest grades. But of course, this professor loved stirring the pot.

He began reading the pairs aloud, and as expected, it was a chaotic mix, people forced to work with those they would never have chosen themselves.

“Miss Y/l/n and Mr. Beaufort.” 

Y/n’s face straightened and she looked over her shoulder. Across the room, a chair creaked. James leaned back in it, perfectly dishevelled, collar undone, faint smirk playing across his face. Dangerous. Infuriating. Enough to make Y/n consider transferring. He gave her a wink, clearly enjoying the spectacle.Y/n rolled her eyes and turned back. 

“I expect professionalism, not some kind of toddler play, miss Y/l/n and mr. Beaufort,” the professor said without looking up. His plan on doing this on purpose was working, so far, it hit all the check boxes. 

Lydia leaned close. “It might not be that bad.”

Y/n side-eyed her. “I’ve known him for fifteen years, Lyd. It’s definitely that bad.”

Lydia’s mouth twitched. “He’s absolutely to the same as when we were kids.”

“Exactly. He was a menace.”

“He’s grown up now.”

“Into a bigger menace. Now he thinks he’s charming.”

Lydia hid a laugh and shook her head. 

—

By the afternoon, the class convened in the library. Y/n took her usual spot at the long table, ostensibly reading the project file but mostly pretending to. Normally, she was meticulous, willing to do more than her fair share to ensure a top grade. Today, however, she didn’t care. She would do her own work, no less and definitely not more, and analyse her training programme while she waited.

Every time the professor passed by, she subtly flipped pages on her laptop, keeping up appearances.

Precisely, seventeen minutes past the hour, the one and only James Beaufort strolled in. 

He didn’t hurry. Of course not, why wouldn’t he? His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone, his hair slightly messy. He had one cup of coffee in his hand.

“You’re late,” she said, unbothered. 

“You’re early,” he countered, dropping into the seat opposite hers. 

She squeezed her eyebrows together and looked around. “The class started twenty minutes ago, but sure.” She inhaled sharply. “Our project is worth thirty percent of our grade. Try to care.” 

“I do care,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I care about not losing my sanity.”

“Too late for that,” she mumbled. 

His grin widened, just slightly, enough for Y/n to see it was all a game. “You’re funny when you’re angry.”

She nodded impressively. “I’m funny when I’m right.” 

James raised an eyebrow, settling in like he planned to stay just to annoy her. “So. What is the plan, miss Overachiever?” 

“The plan,” she said crisply, “is to divide the workload so we do not have to interact more than necessary.” 

“Tragic.”

“Isn’t it?”

He didn’t bother to open his laptop. Didn’t take out a notebook. Just sipped his coffee and watched her with that infuriatingly calm expression, like he was studying her more than the assignment. 

“You are not writing anything down,” she pointed out. 

“I have a good memory.”

“You also have selective hearing.”

“Only when people nag.”

Her lips twitched. “I will just talk you through it, and you can memorise it if you like.”

“See? You do like being in control.”

“I’m just doing my fucking job, James,” she hissed softly. “If you don’t want to do anything, fucking leave. You will absolutely not lift on my grade.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Don’t get angry, Y/n. Relax.”

“Why do you always have to test the limits?” She sharply looked at him. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I think you underestimate how much I enjoy testing the limits.”

“I can see that.”

“Good,” he muttered, clearly annoyed at her calm acknowledgment.

After two hours, they somehow built an outline. Mostly her work, he had contributed a few annoyingly good points, the kind that made her sigh because he was right. 

Just as he leaned over her notebook to add something, Y/n snapped her laptop shut and started packing.

“Where are you going?” he asked, frowning.

“To leave you,” she said flatly, hoisting her rucksack, more functional than stylish, onto her shoulder.

Just when he was working in her notebook, Y/n closed her laptop and got up. James looked up and frowned in confusion as she put her bag on the table, putting everything in it. It wasn’t her usual school bag, but more like a bag athletes used; ugly, but convenient. “Where are you going?” 

“Leave you,” she coldly said. 

“Seriously, why are you always like this?”

“What? Are you intimidated by competence?”

“By confidence,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small part of her, the part she tried very hard to ignore, was aware that under all that arrogance, he was sharper than people gave him credit for. He noticed things. 

He caught her staring. “What?” 

“Nothing.“

“You were looking at me.”

She gestured vaguely in his direction. “You’re in my line of sight.”

“You could look somewhere else.” 

“Dude, what is your problem?”

He laughed under his breath, he liked seeing how she reacted on him. “You really don’t like me, do you?” 

She put the rucksack on her back. “Have you ever considered that I do not like you?”

He tilted his head, studying her like couldn’t quite believe it. It somehow touched him more than it should have. They had never liked each other, he didn’t know why this made him feel disappointed. “No.”

“Well, consider it,” she said and walked away, leaving him staring after her.

Part 2

The breakup itself had been almost anticlimactic: no shouting, no grand declarations. Just the slow realisation that his cutting remarks and subtle manipulations weren’t love, not really. The call she had ignored moments ago, his slurred “I’m sorry, take me back” plea, had been the final confirmation. She hadn’t even listened past the first few words before tapping the block button. Done. Finished.

The next song pulsed through her headphones: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE. It was bright, reckless, just perfect. She let her head fall back just a little, inhaling the salt-tinged night air. The music filled her chest, spilling into her limbs until her steps became lighter, looser. While she was walking home, she moved together with the music, subtle dancing, twirling around. She put the music louder on her phone, through her earphones. A lock of hair slipped free from her messy bun and brushed her cheek. She grinned at nothing in particular, her boots clicking a syncopated rhythm as she drifted down the street, lip-reading the words without realising it.

Monte Carlo’s lights sparkled against the polished facades of the casinos and boutiques, but Y/n wasn’t looking at them. She was somewhere else entirely, somewhere private, where heartbreak transformed into something almost exhilarating. She removed the elastic from her hair, freeing it, so it could move with her. For the first time in months, she felt like herself.

On the opposite pavement, a small group ambled into view, their laughter easy and unguarded after a mellow night out. Charles Leclerc walked in the middle of them, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, head bent slightly as one of his friends told a half-funny story. He wasn’t drunk, just pleasantly warm from a glass of wine and the kind of company that never demanded too much. Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement caught his attention: a woman dancing alone in the street, her hair swirling under the streetlights.

He almost didn’t believe it at first. Monaco was full of spectacle: supercars, celebrities, fireworks on the harbour, but this was different. There was no performance in her movement. No audience. Just a girl in jeans and boots, her body moving as if the world had finally given her permission to breathe.

His friends noticed too.

“Mate, look, she’s really feeling the music,” one murmured with a small laugh.

“Wonder what she’s listening to,” another said, not unkindly.

“She’s got some guts, I’ll give her that,” a third added, still walking.

They didn’t slow down, and neither did Charles. But his eyes lingered. Something about the way she carried herself, carefree, almost luminous, pressed a soft ache against his chest.

Y/n didn’t see them until the music in her headphones shifted, the world snapping briefly back into focus. She turned her head, and froze. A cluster of people was approaching from the other direction. Even from a few metres away she recognised him, though it took her brain a half-second to catch up: Monaco’s favourite son, dark hair tousled, eyes catching the light just so. And all of them, him and his friends, had seen her.

“Oh, fuuuuck,” she whispered under her breath, the curse a mist in the cool air.

She stopped dead, her heart suddenly hammering. Heat rushed to her cheeks as the weight of her spontaneity crashed in. For a heartbeat, the street felt painfully silent despite the music still humming faintly in her ears. Then she pulled the headphones down around her neck, a shy smile tugging at her lips. It started as a small, nervous chuckle, then grew into a soft giggle that spilled out before she could stop it.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, laughing awkwardly. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears after so long inside her bubble.

The group, almost in unison, replied with warm amusement. “No worries!” “You do you!” “Don’t apologise!”

Their easy, overlapping voices loosened the knot of embarrassment in her chest. She ducked her head, still smiling, hair falling forward to shield her face as she adjusted her jacket. When she dared a glance upward, Charles’s eyes were on her, not with mockery, but with quiet curiosity, a subtle warmth that made her stomach flutter unexpectedly.

She gave a tiny, self-deprecating shake of her head, letting out one last giggle before stepping aside to let them pass. As the friends moved on, their conversation picking up where it had left off, the world seemed to resume its usual pace. But for Y/n, time still felt slowed.

She slid her headphones back into place, the beat returning like an old friend. As she began walking again, her boots striking the pavement in rhythm, a small smile lingered on her lips—one she didn’t bother to hide. Somewhere behind her, Monte Carlo’s streetlights burned bright against the midnight sky, indifferent witnesses to a fleeting, magical moment already etching itself into memory.

But a tug of curiosity pulled at Charles. He slowed, glancing over his shoulder. As if sensing it, Y/n turned just enough for their eyes to meet once more across the quiet street. The world seemed to hush for a heartbeat, the music in her ears, the distant hum of the city, even the chatter of his friends all faded. Their gazes held, just a fraction too long, a silent exchange of wonder and intrigue. Then she let the corner of her mouth lift in a shy, conspiratorial smile before looking away, and he faced forward again, the echo of that glance lingering like a promise he couldn’t yet name.

They had been dating for two months, long enough to fall into a rhythm, not yet long enough for the spark to fade. Dinner had been unhurried, filled with laughter and teasing, glasses of wine clinking gently over the small wooden table. As they stepped onto the cobblestones, she felt light, perhaps from the wine, perhaps from him.

Carlos steered her towards the corner of the street where his bike leaned casually against a lamppost. Its black frame gleamed faintly in the yellow light, tyres scuffed from use. She stopped short, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t tell me we were cycling home,” she said, amused.

He grinned, boyish and unbothered. “Well, I am cycling home. You are coming with me.” He stepped on his bike.

Her eyes flicked over the bicycle, then back at him. “There’s no luggage rack.”

Carlos tapped the top tube of the frame, the bar that stretched between handlebars and seat. “Here,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I saw people do it in Amsterdam. Easy.”

She laughed outright, the sound echoing in the quiet street. “You want me to sit there? Are you insane?”

“Insane? No. Genius? Yes.” His smile widened as he patted the bar again, almost proudly. “Come on, trust me. It’ll be fun.”

“You’re going to make me fall off and break my neck.”

“Not a chance.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice with mock seriousness. “I am a Formula One driver, cariño. Balance, control, speed, it’s all in my hands.” He showed his hands, wiggling his fingers.

She rolled her eyes, though warmth rose to her cheeks at the playful arrogance. “Fine. But if I die, it’s on you.”

Carlos held the bike steady, his hand firm on the handlebars, his other extended to her like a gentleman at a dance. She hesitated only a moment before swinging herself onto the bar, legs at one side, the metal cool beneath her. The awkwardness of perching there dissolved quickly as he, what felt like, took her in his arms. His arms came around either side to grip the handlebars, enclosing her in a cage of heat and strength.

“You good?” he murmured, his breath grazing the shell of her ear.

She nodded, suddenly aware of how close he was, how his warmth seemed to radiate even through the cool night. Her heart thudded, not with fear of falling, but from the nearness of him, the scent of his aftershave, faint but unmistakable.

His thigh brushed against hers as he pushed off, the bike wobbling once before finding its rhythm. Y/n gasped softly, instinctively leaning back against him, her hands holding on the steer. 

He chuckled softly, steady, reassuring. “See? Easy.”

The wheels hummed against the cobblestones, a steady percussion that joined the muted sounds of the city. Lamps flickered golden above them, casting shadows that shifted and swayed as they glided through the streets.

She sat perched on the bar, his body close behind, every movement of his chest and arms echoing through her. The warmth of him pressed against her spine, his jaw brushing lightly against her temple each time he turned his head. She felt enclosed in him, the world shrinking to the space of the bicycle and his presence.

Her scarf fluttered in the cool spring air, and she tilted her head back ever so slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his cheek against her hair. The contact was fleeting, accidental perhaps, but it sent a ripple through her.

He hummed quietly, some tune half-remembered, his voice low and unguarded. She smiled at the sound, tucking it away in the secret part of her memory where she stored all the tiny things about him; the way his brows knit together when he read, how he tapped the steering wheel when stuck at a red light, the way he called her cariño when he was feeling soft.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked after a moment, his tone half-playful.

“Mm,” she answered, turning her head just enough to glance back at him. “Not bad for my first time almost being kidnapped by bike.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back. “Almost kidnapped? That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“I don’t know. It feels suspiciously like you tricked me into this.”

“And yet you trusted me.” His lips curved, close enough that she could feel the shape of his smile against her temple.

Her stomach flipped, and she looked forward quickly, focusing on the blur of the cobblestones beneath them. She didn’t want him to see how much the nearness was affecting her, how every brush of his breath against her hair made her insides twist with something that was no longer just infatuation.

The streets grew quieter as they pedalled away from the centre, voices and music fading behind them. A dog barked in the distance, the sound sharp and then gone. Somewhere above, laundry swayed faintly from a balcony. The rhythm of the bike carried them through it all, a cocoon of motion and warmth.

Y/n let herself relax fully against him, her head tilting back until it rested lightly on his shoulder. His cheek grazed her hair, a whisper of contact, unspoken but heavy with meaning. His arms, steady on the handlebars, felt like an embrace even as they worked to keep balance.

She breathed him in, the mix of soap and his aftershave lingering from earlier. He smelt like comfort and steadiness, like something she hadn’t realised she was missing until now.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the night slipping past them, the city reduced to sensations: the hum of tyres, the rhythm of his breathing, the faint scrape of the chain. Time blurred.

Two months. That was all it had been. Eight weeks of dinners, walks, phone calls that stretched longer than planned. Eight weeks of laughter and teasing and little discoveries. And yet, here, on a bicycle rattling through Madrid’s cobbled streets, she felt something deeper tug at her chest.

She hadn’t expected to feel it this soon, this strongly. But there it was, pressing in with the certainty of his arms around her, the warmth of his body against hers.

What if he was the one?

The thought slipped into her mind uninvited, but once there, it refused to leave. It settled in her chest, not frightening, not overwhelming, just steady, like the rhythm of the bike wheels carrying them home.

She didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she let herself smile into the night, leaning further into him, her hand brushing against his where it curled around the handlebar.

He noticed, because of course he did. Carlos tilted his head, his lips close enough to catch a strand of her hair. “Comfortable?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible over the hum of the road. “More than comfortable.”

For a moment he said nothing, only chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her shoulder. But she felt the way he slowed just slightly, as if he too wanted to stretch the ride, make it last longer.

By the time his street appeared, she was reluctant to climb down, reluctant to leave the circle of his warmth. The bike rolled to a stop outside his building, and he steadied it with a foot on the ground.

She turned her head to look at him, her hair brushing against his jaw, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved. The quiet of the night folded around them, and she realised she wasn’t just falling; she had already fallen.

Carlos leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers in a gesture so simple it felt sacred. “You survived,” he said lightly, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Barely,” she teased, but her voice trembled with something softer.

And though she didn’t say the words forming in her heart, she knew one day she would. For now, it was enough to hold the knowledge quietly to herself, carried in the memory of a spring night, a bicycle, and the man who might be the one.

Then the door opened.

Charles stood in front of you, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy from sleep or stress, barefoot and unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost he hadn’t finished grieving yet.

“Hi,” you said, trying to sound casual. You held up the book in your hand, the one he’d left at your place months ago. A cheap excuse, a borrowed reason to come back. “I- I thought I should return this.”

He blinked, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the softness in his voice, or the fact that he didn’t ask why you were really there.

The apartment hadn’t changed. The same framed photos on the hallway shelf. The faint trace of his cologne in the air. The same sport shoes half-kicked under the bench like he had taken them off in a hurry, distracted.

You placed the book on the kitchen counter like it was fragile. Like it might shatter if you let it fall too hard.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he said eventually.

“I didn’t expect to come,” you replied, quietly.

A pause. He studied you with that same calm intensity, the kind that used to make you feel safe. Now it made you ache.

“I walked here,” you added, because it was easier than saying what you really felt. “Took line seven. Past the bakery.”

He gave a soft laugh, sad and surprised. “You always hated that route.”

“Familiar doesn’t always mean easy,” you said. And God, didn’t that sentence say more than it should’ve.

He gestured toward the couch, and you followed without thinking. The cushions remembered your shape. Your memories clung to them. You tried not to notice.

“How’s the team?” you asked.

He didn’t pretend to believe the question was real. Still, he answered.

“Busy. Always. But good.” A beat. “I went back to Imola last month. Without you there, it felt… weird.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s where we had our worst fight.”

He huffed softly. “And our best night after it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just thick. Like both of you were standing at the edge of something neither wanted to admit was still there.

You looked at him then, at the small smile fading on his lips. At the ghost of something between you that hadn’t fully died.

“Do you remember our last morning?”

His voice was quiet. “I remember everything.”

“I still hear you in songs,” you said. “In traffic lights. In the sound the kettle makes when it’s just starting to boil. You’re everywhere.”

He gave a small, sad laugh. “I thought I was the only one.”

You shifted, legs folding under you, facing him more fully now.

“So why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked back.

You didn’t have an answer. Just silence. And guilt. And a wish you were both a little braver, a little better, a little more in sync.

Then, softly, “Charles.”

He looked up again. There it was. That open-hearted quiet. That patient ache. He still looked at you like you meant everything to him.

You swallowed. “Tell me it meant something. Everything we had. That it wasn’t one-sided. That I didn’t imagine it.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he responded.

“I couldn’t have imagined you if I tried,” he said. “You… were everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Still, you needed more.

“I need you to lie to me.”

His eyes darkened with something you couldn’t name. He didn’t ask what you meant, not this time. Just waited.

“I know it’s over,” you whispered. “I know it can’t work. But I just… I need to hear that it mattered. That I mattered. Even if it’s not true anymore. Just for tonight. Let me believe again.”

The words sat heavy between you.

His hand reached for yours, warm and familiar, like he hadn’t forgotten a single line of your skin. And then he said it.

“I still love you. I never stopped waiting for you. I still fall asleep thinking about you. Every night. You were never too much. I would’ve fought harder, if you asked me to. I never stopped loving you.”

It broke you.

Not loudly. Not with tears. Just that soft kind of heartbreak that seeps in when hope brushes up against memory.

Your forehead rested against his. You breathed him in like a favorite song you didn’t want to forget.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He closed the distance then, a kiss as soft as a secret. Not full of hunger or regret. Just longing. Just the kind of kiss people give each other when they’re saying thank you and I’m sorry and this still hurts, but I’m glad we were real.

You stayed like that for a while, curled into him on the couch, his arms around you like muscle memory. No promises. Just presence. Just peace.

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

The sky had just started to lighten when you stood at his door again. Shoes on. Keys in your hand. Heart bruised, but beating.

Charles leaned in the doorway. Quiet.

“This was the last time,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You lingered, fingers tightening around your coat.

“You lied, didn’t you?”

He smiled, sad, soft. “About which part?”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

You pressed one last kiss to his cheek. Warm. Final.

He lied. And you loved him for it.

And then you left, without looking back.

In the apartment, Charles stood in the silence for a long time after the door clicked shut. Still barefoot. Still in the same hoodie. Still watching a space that no longer held you.

When the sun finally rose over Monaco, it painted golden light across the empty couch where you used to lie.

He didn’t move.

You asked him to lie. So he did. But maybe… he didn’t.

"Alright, we’ve talked about Pogacar’s climbing form," Y/n said brightly, eyes on the camera, the corners of her lips tilted into that unmistakable mix of charm and command that had become her trademark. "Now let’s shift gears to Jonas Vingegaard. Still no signs of weakness from him, Clément."

Clément, in his usual dry tone, launched into a comparison of the Danish champion's pacing strategy versus the Slovenian’s. Y/n nodded thoughtfully, occasionally adding a sharp quip or follow-up question, keeping the energy high as fans lingered within earshot, phones held up, eyes darting between the road and the broadcast tent.

As the camera panned out briefly to capture the atmosphere, Y/n caught something in the monitor. A yellow cap stood out in the sea of team colours and national flags.

"And instead of a yellow shirt," she added smoothly, without missing a beat, pointing with an amused smile, "we have a yellow cap right over there. Looks like a local fan is vibing."

The cap's owner didn’t react. He was busy looking ahead, arms folded, sunglasses on. The camera only lingered for a second before pulling away.

They wrapped the segment with a laugh, and Y/n moved quickly off set to prep for the mid-stage interviews. It wasn’t until much later, during a lull in her backstage duties, her phone buzzing like mad, that she realised what she had done.

Her screen was a chaos of notifications.

A Twitter clip, posted by some savvy fan, had zoomed in on the yellow cap.

Pierre Gasly.

And then came the Instagram post. A photo of him in the crowd, head slightly tilted, sunglasses on, that unmistakable smile just tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Your local fan who is vibing. Tried to blend in, got outed by @/Y/N."

Her hand flew to her mouth. She let out a helpless laugh, eyes wide as she stared at the post.

“Oh, no.”

🇫🇷🚴‍♂️🟡

She didn’t see him again until later, after the riders had taken off and the buzz around the start zone had faded into the sound of crew packing up cables and banners. The July heat hadn’t let up, but the energy had shifted; less frantic now, more sun-dazed and slow.

Y/n stood near one of the metal barricades, sipping lukewarm water from a plastic bottle, trying to ignore the faint sunburn itching at her scalp. Tomorrow she would wear a different side part, just a centimetre to the left. Or something up.

"So,” a voice said beside her. Low. Slightly amused. "Was the yellow cap that obvious?"

She turned, blinking into the sun, and there he was. Pierre Gasly in the flesh, still in the same cap, now worn backwards. No camera crew, no PR team. Just him.

She laughed instantly. “I didn’t even realise it was you at the time. You were just...” she gestured vaguely, “...vibing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Local fan, was it?”

Y/n grinned, suddenly aware of the closeness, the lazy confidence in his stance. "Well, in my defence, you were standing very still. Not exactly screaming 'international motorsport icon'."

He let out a small laugh, brushing a hand over the back of his neck. "Mission accomplished, then."

There was a pause. A beat too long. Their eyes held for a moment, curious, slightly charged. His gaze dropped to her mouth briefly before flicking back up, and Y/n felt her cheeks flush in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

Pierre blinked, then nodded toward the crowd behind the fence. “Think they’ve forgiven you yet?”

“Oh, they love it,” she said dryly, pulling out her phone. "And since you’ve already embarrassed me on the internet, we might as well make it a joint effort."

She angled her phone between them and snapped a selfie, Pierre mid-laugh, Y/n beaming like a cheeky idiot.

She posted it ten seconds later, captioned:

"Spotted the local fan again. Didn’t run this time."

He peeked at the screen. "You’re lucky I have a good side."

“You have a whole Instagram full of them.”

“Guilty.”

Another pause. The crowd noise drifted around them, laughter from a nearby fan zone, the subtle hum of engines preparing to depart.

Pierre’s voice was quieter this time. "You’re good at what you do."

She glanced at him. “Thanks.”

“I watched the build-up, I try to everyday. Even before you outed me.”

Y/n tilted her head. “So you were watching me?”

“Maybe.” His smile grew, slow and warm. "You’ve got presence."

Y/n shrugged, heart doing something annoying in her chest. "I try."

They stood there, on the edge of something playful, something flickering just beneath the surface.

Eventually, she nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Well, if you’re ever bored of F1, cycling fans are very forgiving."

“Oh, I’m converted,” he said. "Might even come back tomorrow."

“You would better wear a disguise this time."

He chuckled. “No promises. But maybe next time, you point at me on purpose."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “We’ll see.”

He lingered a moment longer before finally stepping away.

“See you around, Y/n.”

She watched him go, a little stunned by how easy it had been. The laughter. The rhythm. The glance that had lasted a second too long.

By the time she looked down at her phone again, their photo already had thousands of likes. Fans were buzzing in the comments. Some calling for an interview, others whispering about the chemistry.

Y/n smiled, thumb hovering over the app.

Yeah.

She wouldn’t mind seeing him again.

And next time, she might just point at him on purpose.

Home.

It still felt like a strange word.

Of course, she had a home before. But now she was home, in her own home, in the house she bought on her own, in Denmark. And tonight, this was the first time that she would stay home as a jobless person.

She had been having dinner with friends, to celebrate her return to Denmark and to celebrate her career she had at Ferrari, which was one for the books.

Matilde had been here before: during the move-in between the races, where she would paint the walls with her family and friends, do a touch-up of the floor, have a deep clean, and move in her furniture. Every now and then, she would bring two big full suitcases from her apartment in Italy. The house slowly turned into a home. But being here now, was different. This time, there was no flight back to Maranello the next day, no team meeting waiting in the calendar, no red uniform hanging ready by the door.

This time, she had nowhere else to be.

The house smelled faintly of wood and her favourite candle, it was her scent. Her phone buzzed quietly in her pocket with a message she didn't check immediately. She wandered into the living room instead, letting herself fall on the couch. She unbuttoned her trousers, she ate way tooooo much, but she enjoyed it.

For a moment, she didn't move.

The stillness was unfamiliar. The thought of having no calls, no schedules, no Excel sheets or press releases, was odd. And yes, this was the time everybody had days off. Christmas was coming up. But knowing that after the vacation, she didn't have to work. At least, not yet.

Five years. Five years of noise, of adrenaline, of routine, of fighting for every tenth of a second. And now... this. A house in Denmark. A life she hadn't fully figured out yet. She wasn't sad, not exactly. Just... full. Tired. Lighter than she had expected, and maybe a little off balance.

A soft, dry laugh left her mouth. "Shit," she whispered into the room, not quite sure if she meant it in awe or disbelief.

It would be the first night she would sleep here as someone else. Not as the Team Principal. Not as the woman holding the weight of a Scuderia on her shoulders. Just Matilde. Just... her.

Then her heart dropped. Someone rang the bell. But it was midnight. Who would show up at her home at midnight? She sat up, grabbing her phone, to check if the message from earlier had something to do with this. No, it was a message from her friends that they had arrived home. She quickly sent the same message back. Matilde got up and walked to the window, which gave her a view of the front door. She didn't dare to just open the door. You would never know who that could be. Just as she peeked around the curtain, a familiar man was standing on her doorstep. They made eye contact, and he smiled.

"What the fuck," she mumbled. As she walked to the front door, she buttoned her trousers again and unlocked the door. She opened it, being greeted by the cold air at first. "Charles, what the hell are you doing here?"

There he stood, in the cold, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed from the wind. He watched her carefully, a soft, almost nervous smile playing on his lips. "Hey," he smiled. He raised his arm, looking at his watch. "I wanted to see you."

Her eyes locked on him as he stood in the doorway, breath visible in the cold night air. Her heart thudded, confusion, surprise, something else swirling inside her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, words caught somewhere between her mind and her lips. "It's midnight. And you're in Denmark?"

"Yeah, I was in the neighbourhood. Visiting Finland, you know," he casually said and shrugged.

A smile came to her lips when she recognised the saying. Five years ago, in a bar in Amsterdam, the same words. And according to his smile, he was satisfied with her reaction. "Uh, right, come on, you must be freezing," she finally said, but it came out more like a whisper, and she stepped aside. "How do you know my address?"

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Immediately, Matilde locked the door again. Charles took off his coat and shoes, the warmth of the house wrapping around him. "I may have pressured Galileo into giving it to me?"

"One day, you're not his boss anymore..." She shook her head, but laughed. "No, I don't mind it. Welcome."

"Thank you," he smiled.

Matilde walked to the living room. As she heard him following her, the realisation hit her. Her heart started to beat faster, and a rush of nerves was sent through her veins. She bit her lip and held her breath. Oh, my goodness.

He looked around, as if anchoring himself to this new version of her life. "It's beautiful," he said, taking in the wooden floors, the bookshelves, and the details. "Feels like you."

"Thanks," she smiled. "It still feels like I'm just visiting."

"But you are not."

"No," she said quietly. "I'm not."

He took another step, slow and careful, like he didn't want to startle the air between them. Matilde stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her arms still loosely folded, eyes fixed on him but not meeting his.

Neither of them spoke.

Charles looked around again, letting the silence stretch. "It's quiet here," he said eventually, his voice low.

Matilde nodded. "Yeah."

A pause. Long enough to feel the weight of it. Long enough to remember everything and nothing at once.

"I like it," he added and stepped around.

She looked down at her feet. "It's still strange."

He nodded slowly. "I figured it might be."

Another silence. This one heavier. Not uncomfortable, just suspended, like the whole room was holding its breath.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced up at him. Their eyes met again, briefly, then not. The kind of glance that says everything and nothing and maybe.

She swallowed. "Did you eat?"

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. "I'm okay."

Silence.

She nodded, then shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands, her face, her body. He didn't move, didn't reach for her, didn't say what she thought he might. Or feared he might. Or hoped. She wasn't sure anymore.

Matilde cleared her throat softly. "Do you want tea?"

He hesitated. "Sure."

She turned to the kitchen slowly, footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. He followed at a distance. Not too far. But not close enough.

The kettle clicked on.

Steam began to rise.

Still, nothing was said.

Charles' eyes fell on the oven clock: exactly twelve o'clock. 00:00. The next day. Their first day of unemployment. Their first day of not being tied to each other through a contract. His heart wouldn't stop racing in his chest.

It was happening. It could happen. Now. This was the moment he had sworn to himself he would wait for... the moment neither of them belonged to Ferrari, to F1, to the sport that had both built them and broken them. No matter how many times he had tried to reason it away, or let time dull the ache, the truth had always found its way back: it was her. It had always been her. And it would always be her.

His fingers curled into his palm as he stood there in the soft light of her kitchen, watching the steam rise from the kettle like it might carry away the nerves with it. His mouth felt dry. His hands, cold. He shifted his weight and forced himself to breathe, steady, quiet.

Matilde opened a cupboard and reached for two mugs. Her movements were calm, but there was a slowness to them that betrayed her, too. She knew something was coming. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she was trying not to.

He cleared his throat, softly.

She turned just a little. Not all the way. Just enough to let him know she had heard.

"Matilde," he said. He reached for the pocket in his trousers where the velvet box had been burning a hole all night. His mouth opened, then closed. A breath in, a breath out. Not yet.

She froze for the briefest second, just long enough to send a crack down the centre of her composure, then turned around fully, mug in hand. Her eyes met his. A flicker of recognition passed between them. That conversation. That promise. Four years ago.

"I don't know if this is the right moment," he admitted, voice quiet, eyes searching hers. "It feels... impossible to know. But it's the first time in years that nothing is in the way. Not the team. Not a contract. Not the timing."

Her lips parted like she might say something, but she didn't.

Charles slowly went down on one knee.

The floor was cold. His hands trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box, careful, careful, as if the air might shatter it.

He opened it.

The ring caught the light.

The one he had picked with Max and Galileo, one quiet evening in Monaco, when he couldn't keep the secret to himself anymore. Max had laughed, told him he was insane. Galileo nodded once. Then they helped him choose. No questions. No teasing. Just a quiet, steady presence, maybe the only kind he could bear at the time. And of course, he had asked Matilde's dad.

Now it was just them.

Matilde stood frozen, her hand still loosely around the mug, eyes wide, lips parted. Her chest rose, then fell, like she had to remind herself to breathe.

Charles swallowed. "I..." His voice cracked, and he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "I don't know if I'm doing this right."

Silence.

The seconds stretched thin.

He looked up at her, eyes shining, nerves exposed.

"I just..." He hesitated, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Then, softer, rawer: "Do you... do you want to marry me?"

The words were clumsy. Not cinematic. Not perfect.

But they were real. Unshakably real.

Matilde's lips were parted. Her eyes locked on his, but her brain wasn't keeping up. Her heart had already sprinted halfway down the street. Everything inside her lurched at once: stomach flipping, chest tightening, blood rushing to her ears like a wave she couldn't stop. She blinked, but the image didn't change. Charles. On one knee. A ring in his hand. That look in his eyes.

It was happening.

It was actually happening.

And for a second, just one suspended, breathless second, she thought she might pass out.

Her breath hitched. Her knees felt like they might give way, but she didn't move. Couldn't.

God.

The rush of it all, five years of built-up tension, of what-ifs and never-right-timings and longing looks when no one was watching, hit her like a storm. Her skin buzzed. Her eyes burned. She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. Or maybe all three. In a happy way.

A sound escaped her throat, small, unformed, something between a gasp and a laugh. She tried to say his name, but only air came out. Her mouth worked, then closed again, overwhelmed. And still, Charles didn't move. He just looked up at her like he had never looked at anyone else in his life. Open. Hopeful. A little terrified.

It was the most imperfect, terrifyingly perfect moment she had ever lived through.

She nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice barely there. Once the word left her mouth, the tears came. Silent, stunned tears that slipped down her cheeks before she could even register them. She let out a laugh through the tears, breathless and broken and radiant.

"Yes," she said again. "Absolutely yes."

Charles got up, feeling like a weight had lifted from his shoulders, like he could finally breathe after years of holding it in. A nervous but relieved laugh escaped him, raw and genuine, and his eyes brimmed with something bright and unspeakable as he stepped closer.

Matilde didn't move at first. She stood there, crying and laughing at once, like she couldn't believe any of it was real. Four years ago, they made a deal. But you know how it would go: move on and forget it. But no, they did not. There were four more years filled with glances, tensions, tears and much more. Within these four years, they never met up or crossed the lines. Instead, they maintained their professional relationship perfectly, but it was balancing on the edge quite often. They argued a lot. Because they couldn't be together, and it was tough to work together closely when there was a wall between them. A wall that they both were eager to break down. And let's not forget that they waited for each other. No other relationships, no other flings, no other people in their lives.

When he reached for her, she let herself fold into his arms without a second thought. Her hands gripped the back of his sweater like she was anchoring herself, like if she let go, she might float right out of her body.

"Oh, my god, Charles. You actually waited," she mumbled against his shoulder.

"I told you I would," he said, barely above a breath. His lips pressed against her temple, soft and certain. "I would have waited ten more if I had to."

Matilde pulled back just enough to look at him, her cheeks damp, her eyes impossibly full. "Please don't ever make me wait that long again."

A smile tugged at his lips. "Deal."

Then, finally, he kissed her.

Soft at first. Tentative. Like he was still making sure this wasn't a dream, like one sudden move might make her vanish into smoke. His lips just barely brushed hers, reverent, unsure, weighted with years of waiting, wanting, not daring. And for a second, just a second, she didn't move.

But then she kissed him back.

And everything broke open.

Her hands found his face, trembling slightly, as if she too was checking for reality. And the moment their mouths truly met, truly collided, it was no longer soft. No longer hesitant. It was all of it. Everything they had held in, pressed down, buried beneath professionalism and goodbyes. Everything they had whispered in silences, in lingering looks and stolen moments, poured out now in that kiss.

Charles felt her melt into him and pull him in all at once. Like she needed him closer and closer until there was no space left between them, until the past years folded in on themselves. His hand slid up her back, found the nape of her neck, held her there gently, like he was grounding himself, like if he let go, he would come undone.

She tasted like tears and something new. Something unburdened. Her fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring herself to him, and she let out the softest sound into his mouth; half-sob, half-laugh, and it nearly wrecked him.

This wasn't a kiss of uncertainty. It wasn't a maybe.

It was yes. Yes. Yes.

It was you.

It was finally.

When they eventually pulled apart, breathless and undone, Charles rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, his voice almost lost in the quiet. "I love you."

Matilde gave a tear-soaked laugh, her lips swollen, her voice shaking. "I know," she whispered. "I love you, too."

There was no more Ferrari. No more contracts. No more podiums or press conferences or meetings.

Just her.

Just him.

Y/n took a slow sip of wine to preserve her sanity.

She rolled her eyes and she looked down to her phone, her thumb hovering over her phone’s keyboard.

Everyone was hanging on his every word like he’s some kind of celebrity or something. Newsflash: he’s not

Sent to her friend who unfortunately couldn't be there.

She tucked her phone away like it was a grenade and leaned back on the couch, feigning interest in a conversation about summer travel plans. Someone across the room snorted with laughter; Lando’s laugh followed a second later, louder, more chaotic.

Y/N didn’t look.

She never looked.

Because whenever she did — he somehow knew. And then he’d smirk. Or wink. Or lean in with some smug, perfectly timed line that made her want to throw her drink at his face and kiss him at the same time, which was deeply unfair.

So she didn’t look. She rolled her eyes. She smiled politely. She ignored him.

That was the rule.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

I can be worse, if you would like

Her blood froze.

No.

No.

She yanked her phone back up, heart thudding. She checked the chat. Her soul left her body.

She hadn’t sent the message to her best friend.

She had sent it to Lando.

She read the message again.

Everyone was hanging on his every word like he’s some kind of celebrity or something. Newsflash: he’s not

And underneath it, his reply. Casual. Teasing.

I can be worse, if you’d like

Her stomach dropped. She slowly, slowly looked up.

Lando wasn’t laughing anymore. He was watching her. From across the room, beer bottle dangling lazily from his fingers, head tilted.

And he was smirking.

🌸🎀🦩💕🌷

He didn’t mean to check his phone. Really.

But it buzzed, and he glanced down, and there it was, a message from Y/n.

Y/n, who barely looked at him. Y/n, who rolled her eyes like it was her job. Y/n, who always sat just far enough away to pretend he didn’t exist, but always close enough to hear him speak.

He tapped the message. Read it twice.

Grinned.

Everyone was hanging on his every word like he’s some kind of celebrity or something. Newsflash: he’s not

Lando bit back a laugh. She was so bad at hiding it.

He typed without thinking:

I can be worse, if you’d like

Then looked up, just in time to catch the moment her brain registered the disaster.

Beautiful.

Her lips parted. Eyes wide. She looked like she might crawl out of her skin and dissolve into the couch cushion.

Lando leaned back in his chair, amused.

That was the thing with Y/n. She acted like he annoyed her, and yeah, maybe he did, but she gave too much away. The way she stiffened when he sat next to her. The way she never laughed at his jokes, but her mouth twitched like she wanted to.

He was like a glitch in her carefully managed indifference.

And he loved it.

🌸🎀🦩💕🌷

Y/n typed furiously.

You read that? I wasn’t Don’t answer that

She hit send. Regretted it instantly. She needed to go outside. Or fake a call. Or set the house on fire.

Instead, her phone buzzed again.

You think about me that much?

She nearly let out a sound. A sound. A noise of frustration and embarrassment that had no name. Instead, she lifted her glass and took a much-too-large gulp of wine.

He was still watching her. Not even trying to hide it now.

She didn’t know what was worse: the fact that she had texted him, or the fact that he was clearly enjoying this.

🌸🎀🦩💕🌷

He didn’t approach her right away. That would’ve been too easy. He let her sit in it for a while. Watched her pick at the label on her second beer bottle like it was a lifeline, engage in small talk like she wasn’t dying inside. Cute.

Eventually, he moved. Walked up beside her just as she stood to go to the kitchen. She startled slightly, eyes flashing.

“Story time?” he asked, casually.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start.”

Lando shrugged. “Just saying, I think I deserve context. I’m apparently not a celebrity.”

“You’re not.”

“But I am hot?”

Y/n inhaled sharply.

“Excuse me?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear. “You didn’t say it. But it was implied.”

She glared. “You are the most infuriating person I have ever met.”

“You need better friends.”

Y/n exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t think about you.”

“Liar.”

She scoffed. “You’re obsessed with yourself.”

“And yet…” He grinned. “Here we are. You texting me compliments by accident.”

Y/n opened her mouth, then shut it again. Because there was no good comeback. Nothing that wouldn’t confirm exactly what he already knew.

So she rolled her eyes. “Get a grip, mate.”

“Maybe later.”

Y/n tried to pretend the rest of the night didn’t exist.

Which was hard, when Lando kept looking at her. Not constantly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But whenever someone said something funny, or a toast was made, or a song came on in the background, she could feel him glance over like he was waiting for her reaction.

It was infuriating.

It was… something else, too.

When she finally slipped on her coat and said her goodbyes, she was halfway down the front steps when she heard the door open behind her.

“Leaving without saying goodnight?” Lando asked, following her down the path.

She gave him a side-eye. “Didn’t realise I was required to.”

“You’re not.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “But it’s kind of rude. Especially after the love letter you sent me earlier.”

Y/n stopped walking. “It wasn’t a love letter.”

“Oh, right.” He nodded solemnly. “My bad.”

She stared at him. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious. You’re just flustered.”

She stepped closer, toe-to-toe with him now, defiant. “You know, for someone who thinks he’s so clever, you really don’t shut up.”

Lando tilted his head. Smirked. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

She blinked.

And for a split second, the space between them shifted.

The air changed.

Lando’s eyes flicked to her mouth and then back to her eyes, the teasing gone still, quiet but full of something she wasn’t ready to name.

She stepped back.

“I should go.”

“You should,” he agreed. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just smiled.

And that was worse.

🌸🎀🦩💕🌷

Her phone buzzed that night.

Still thinking about me?

Y/n stared at it.

She typed back, paused, then deleted the whole thing.

Instead, she turned off her phone, set it facedown on her pillow, and whispered into the dark:

“…yes.”