Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

James

The water is cold, too cold. My skin hums with it, or maybe it’s the pill Elaine pressed into my hand twenty minutes ago, or the whiskey I poured down my throat to chase it. Doesn’t matter. The night’s soft around the edges now. Too soft.

Everything flickers. Pool lights, party lights, phone cameras. Someone’s music spills from the house, distorted bass and bad decisions.

There’s a girl—one of Cyril’s friends—laughing as she climbs onto a guy’s shoulders, her bikini top slung around her wrist like a trophy. Someone else cannonballs into the deep end, screaming. The splash hits me, cold for a second, then gone.

Elaine floats closer. Her hair slicked back, mouth glossy and smirking. She touches my wrist, her nails painted gold. I can’t remember when she got in the pool. Or when I did.

“You okay?” she says, but it’s low, performative. Not real.
No one here wants real.

I shrug.
She gives a soft laugh, half pity, half invitation, and leans in just enough—like maybe this could be something.

And maybe it could.

Because I’m wrecked. I’m hollow. My mother’s dead, and my father didn’t tell me, and I don’t know how to hold all that grief without falling apart completely.

Elaine’s close enough now that I can smell her perfume—jasmine, I think. Her hand lifts from the water, trails across my shoulder.

And then—

“James.”

My name.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.

Not a question. Not a greeting.
A warning.

I turn.

Lydia stands at the edge of the pool, dressed like she’s ready to drag someone out by the ear. Her mouth is tight, arms folded, and her eyes are locked on mine.

Next to her—
Ruby.

Ruby, standing small and silent, her arms wrapped around herself, jacket too thin, her expression frozen in something between disbelief and heartbreak.

Her eyes scan the scene—Elaine too close, the half-naked laughter, the drugs, me—and I swear I can feel her recoil from it all.

From me.

Everything slows.
My body, my mind, the water, the lights.

Ruby’s eyes land on my face. Just for a second.

And I know she knows.

Knows I didn’t call.
Knows I didn’t text.
Knows I disappeared, then reappeared here, in this.

“Ruby,” I whisper, the word cracking.

She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t move.

She just stands there, looking like the last good thing I had—
and I can feel it breaking.

Lydia’s already tugging her back, protective and fierce.

Ruby resists for half a second.
Just half.

Then she turns.
Lets Lydia lead her away.

And I just stand there, waist-deep in the pool, my heart pounding in my throat, surrounded by people I don’t care about and choices I regret.

The light flickers again.

Elaine says something behind me.
I don’t hear it.

Because Ruby is gone.
And I think—
I think I just lost her.

Lydia

I shouldn’t have brought her.

I knew I shouldn’t have brought her.

The second we stepped through Cyril’s gate and I heard the music, saw the flashing lights, smelled the booze and chlorine and desperation in the air—I knew this was going to be bad.

But I didn’t think it’d be this.

Ruby beside me, stiff as stone, her hands clenched in her coat sleeves. And in the pool—of course it’s him. My idiot, reckless, grieving twin.

Half-naked girls everywhere. Giggles, grinding, tops off. Elaine circling around him like she’s been waiting a lifetime.

And James, soaked, high, glassy-eyed—just standing there like none of this matters.

Like he didn’t just lose our mother.
Like he didn’t just crawl into Ruby’s heart less than twenty-four hours ago and swear it was real.

I say his name.
He turns.
And it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Ruby doesn’t scream.
Doesn’t cry.
Doesn’t run.

She just looks at him.
And that’s worse.

Then—he’s moving.
Staggering out of the pool like some tragic wet dog of a boy, soaked through, shivering, pathetic—calling her name.

He chases.
Of course he does.

He always chases when it’s already too late.

I stop. I pivot on my heel and plant myself between him and Ruby.
He’s rambling. He looks wrecked.
He says her name like it’s the last thing he has.

And then—he says it.

That he didn’t know.
That she died.

That our mother—our mother—has been dead for two whole fucking days and no one told him.

Because our father said not to. Because it would “distract” him. Because everything, always, has to be about Oxford and control and performance.

I see it on James’s face now.
The numbness.
The panic.
The hole where the grief has been swallowed whole and replaced with nothing.

But that’s not what makes me move.
That’s not what makes me slap him.

It’s Ruby.
Standing behind me. Still trembling. Still there. Still hurting.

And this goddamn idiot of a twin—he knew what she meant. He knew.

And he still did this.

I slap him.

Hard.

His head snaps sideways, hair dripping, jaw clenched.

And then I do it again.

“You selfish, broken, beautiful idiot,” I hiss, my voice shaking with fury. “It’s not just Mum who died. It’s the version of you she believed in.”

He flinches.

Good.
Let it sting.

“Do you have any idea what you just did? What she saw? What you looked like in that pool?” I jab a finger at him. “God, James—Goddamn it.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to beg again, maybe to explain, maybe just to fall apart.

But I don’t want to hear it.

Because I loved our mother.
And she deserved better.
And so does Ruby.

And James Beaufort—
Tonight, he gave both of them nothing.

Ruby

It hurts.
It hurts so much I think I might be sick.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Or where I am. I just hear my heartbeat in my ears and Lydia breathing hard beside me like she might go back and slap him a third time.

I should leave.
I should turn around, walk away, pretend I never saw it—
James in that pool, with girls clinging and laughing and clothes floating like confetti, with that vacant look on his face like none of it mattered.

Like I never mattered.

But I don’t move.

And then—he says something.

Low. Wrecked. Real.

“Ruby,” he croaks, “I did come to your house.”

I blink.

What?

“I walked there.” His voice is hoarse. “I didn’t know where else to go. I just… I needed you. I needed you to be the one to know. I didn’t want to tell anyone else. Just—you.”

The wind stings my cheeks.
Or maybe that’s the tears I didn’t realize were there.

He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
He looks at the ground like it’s the only thing that won’t judge him.

“I stood in your garden,” he whispers. “Outside your kitchen window.”

I feel myself sway. Lydia steadies me without a word.

“I saw you. With your family. Your mum, your sister. There was music playing. You were cooking something. Dancing around. Laughing. And I—”
He swallows. Hard.
“I had a dead mother, a father who didn’t even think I deserved to know, and grief clawing at my ribs, and you—God, Ruby—you looked happy. You looked safe. And I—”

He stops. Runs a trembling hand over his face.

“I couldn’t bring that to your door. Couldn’t take your warmth and dump my darkness on it. So I watched you.”
His voice cracks.
“Like some pathetic fucking stalker getting high on a Hallmark movie. And then I left. I left and went to Cyril’s and got high because I couldn’t feel anything.”

Silence.

I look at him.

James Beaufort.
Soaked. Hollowed out.
High, probably. But no longer floating.
Not now.

His eyes find mine. And in them, there’s no seduction, no charm, no swagger.

Just devastation.

“And nothing happened,” he says. “With Elaine. Or anyone. Nothing. Just noise. Just numb. Just me being so goddamn stupid.”

And that—
That’s what breaks me.

Not the drugs.
Not the party.
Not even the pool.

But the image of him standing outside my house.
In the dark.
With all that pain.
Watching me.
And walking away because he thought I shouldn’t have to carry it.

Because he thought I deserved something easier.
Something cleaner.
Something less broken.

He came to me.
And then he left.
Alone.

God.
Goddamn him.

I press my hands to my face.
And I sob.

Alistair

I’m late.

Cyril’s text said something vague about “bring rum and maybe firewood,” which tells me this party is already spiraling into one of those nights. And I was fine with that—figured I’d swing by for an hour, make sure no one drowns, stop James from doing something idiotic, maybe flirt with that hottie from LitSoc who likes quoting Woolf when he’s drunk.

Except when I turn onto Cyril’s street, I know immediately that something’s wrong.

The house is blaring music, lights pulsing from every window, but it’s the quiet outside that hits me.

There’s someone on the ground.
No—two someones.

Ruby, collapsed on the front steps.
Sobbing.

Lydia crouched beside her, frozen like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

And then—James.

Soaked.
Standing in the middle of the drive, his clothes clinging to him like he just walked through a hurricane, or a flood, or maybe just his own goddamn ruin.

He looks like he’s been hit by a car.
Or maybe he is the car wreck.

“Jesus Christ,” I say before I even reach them. “What the hell happened?”

No one answers.

James doesn’t even look up. He’s staring at Ruby like she’s the last lighthouse in a storm he made himself.

“Okay, nope,” I mutter, dropping the rum. I crouch beside Lydia. “What happened?”

Still nothing.

“Lyds?” I try again. I touch her arm gently.

She flinches. Then swallows. Then says, so quiet I almost miss it—

“Mum’s dead.”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

James moves then. Just barely. His lips part, eyes still blank.

“She died two days ago,” Lydia whispers.

I don’t even feel the cold anymore.

I look at James.

Two days.

And he didn’t tell anyone? Not even me?

I walk toward him, slowly, as Ruby crumples deeper into herself, Lydia wrapping her arms around her, holding her tight.

James doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there.

Wet.
Destroyed.
Haunted.

And I realize—he came here to drown.
Not in the pool.
In everything.

I swallow hard.
Walk up.
Place a hand on his shoulder.

“Mate,” I say, gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He blinks.
Like he forgot I existed.

And then he says, voice hoarse and cracked,

“Because I didn’t even know.”

And my heart caves in.

The night has gone completely mad.

James is dripping wet and dead behind the eyes, Ruby’s sobbing like she’s trying not to, Lydia’s frozen in place, and I’m still standing here trying to process that Cordelia Beaufort—Cordelia, the one who always had those lemon biscuits at Christmas and once fixed my tie before a debate—
is dead.

And James didn’t tell anyone.
Because their father—that man—never called.

I can barely take that in when I hear it.

“Oh my God, Jamie-baby! There you are!”

I turn so fast I almost dislocate something.

Elaine.
In a bikini that doesn’t even qualify as fabric.
In November.

Running barefoot down the drive like we’re on a Malibu beach, not standing in the middle of a grief hurricane with soaked gravel and emotional wreckage in all directions.

“Elaine,” I bark, louder than intended. “No.”

She freezes mid-step. Pouts. “What?”

“Absolutely not.” I step between her and whatever plan she’s about to hatch. “Inside. Now. Get dressed.”

“But I was just—”

“I don’t care what you were just. Put on clothes before someone calls child services.”

She scoffs, tosses her wet hair over her shoulder like some mermaid queen of poor timing, and finally turns back toward the house, muttering about how no one ever lets her have fun.

Right.
Because this has been a joy ride.

I turn back to James.

He hasn’t moved.
Still standing there like a ruined cathedral.

“Come on,” I say gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Guest room. Second floor. I’ll send someone with dry clothes. Don’t argue.”

He doesn’t.
Which scares me more than if he had.

He just lets me guide him inside, dripping all over Cyril’s marble like a ghost on autopilot.

Once he’s out of sight, I exhale.

Step two: the girls.

I go back out, find Lydia still sitting on the steps, Ruby beside her, both of them wrapped in a silence that feels like glass.

“I’ve got James upstairs,” I say quietly. “There’s another guest room free. Come in. Please.”

Lydia nods slowly. Doesn’t speak.

Ruby follows her lead, eyes red but not looking at me.
She’s holding Lydia’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering her to the world.

Inside, I steer them toward the room across from James’s. Separate. Safe.
I call the kitchen. Tell them three mugs of hot chocolate. No, four. No, make it five.

Marshmallows. Cinnamon. Anything vaguely comforting.

When I come back, Lydia’s sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.

Ruby is beside her, silent, tears still slipping down her cheeks.

“Lyds,” I say, sitting across from her. “What happened?”

She takes a long time to speak.
Then, finally—

“Stroke,” she says, voice like paper. “Mum. Two days ago. Dad didn’t call us. Said it would distract James.”

I feel physically sick.

“They only told us tonight,” she continues. “One of the maids. And Mortimer. After the body was already taken.”

Ruby lets out the tiniest sound—almost like a breath—but I see her fingers tighten around Lydia’s.

And Lydia—
My Lydia, the one who once screamed at our headmaster for calling her “hysterical”—
just stares at the floor and whispers,

“I think I’m still in shock.”

Yeah.
Yeah, I think we all are.

This was supposed to be a night of drinks and regret.

Not this.
Not this.

Lydia

I don’t even remember how I got here.

One moment I was sitting on Cyril’s front steps with Ruby’s hand in mine, staring into the nothingness that came after hearing it out loud.

Stroke.
Mum’s dead.
Two days ago.
And we didn’t know.

Next thing I knew, I was upstairs, in one of Cyril’s ridiculous guestrooms that still smells like new furniture and his cologne.

Now I’m in bed, under a thick duvet that feels like it’s trying to hold me together, even as everything inside me keeps splintering.

Ruby’s here.

Ruby didn’t leave.

She’s curled beside me, still in her jacket, holding me like I’m the fragile one for once, my face buried in her shoulder as the tears come in slow, shaking waves. I’ve been holding everything together since I was fourteen. And now—

Now I’m just sobbing.

And she lets me.
Doesn’t say a word.

Her hand strokes my hair slowly, rhythmically, like she knows what that kind of grief feels like. Like she’s done this for someone before.

Across the room, someone shifts.

I look up, bleary-eyed, and see Cyril sitting stiffly at the edge of the bed like someone’s awkward cousin at a wake.

His legs are too long for the bedframe. His hands are clasped like he’s trying not to fidget. He looks deeply uncomfortable.

But he’s here.
Which is saying something.

“I sent everyone home,” he says softly, not meeting my eyes. “Alistair told me to.”

Of course he did.
Al always knows what to do.

He’s with James now.
Thank God.

Because if I saw my twin again tonight, I don’t know if I’d cry harder or hit him harder.
Maybe both.

“Mum’s dead,” I whisper.

It’s not for Cyril’s benefit.
It’s for me.
To hear it again.
To make it real.

He nods. Quietly. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck like this grief is catching, and he doesn’t know how to wear it.

I don’t blame him.

Ruby tightens her arm around me.

And I let myself lean into her again.

Because for once—
Just once—
I don’t want to be the one holding everyone else together.

I want to be held.

And somehow, Ruby’s shoulder is the safest place in the world right now.

James

The clothes Alistair brought don’t fit.

They’re too tight in the shoulders, sleeves slightly too short, and the jumper smells like some overpriced detergent Cyril probably thinks is masculine because it’s got “volcanic ash” in the name. I don’t care. I’m just… grateful to be dry.

Grateful to be somewhere the walls aren’t echoing with laughter and pool water and girls pressing against me like they wanted to save me from something I never told them about.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet, when Alistair finally walks in.

He shuts the door behind him, quiet. No lectures. No clever opening line. Just crosses the room, drags a chair close, and sits across from me. Elbows on knees. Watching me like I’m a puzzle he knows he can’t solve—but he’ll bloody well try anyway.

“What happened?” he asks. Voice low. Steady.

And I don’t know what breaks first.

Me, or the silence.

“Two days ago,” I say. “My mum died.”

Al doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t speak.

“She had a stroke,” I go on, numb. “Middle of the night. He—he didn’t tell us. Not until tonight.”

Al’s jaw tightens.

“He told the staff. The lawyer. Not us. Not his children. Because he didn’t want to ‘derail our momentum.’”

I want to laugh.
But it’d come out as a scream.

“He sent the body away before we even got home.”

Now Alistair flinches. Just a little.

“I walked in and found flowers on the step and and silence. Because he was on the phone. Damage control for the shareholder value.“

I pause.

Then:
“I couldn’t breathe, Al. I couldn’t even think. I just… walked. For hours.”

Al waits.

“I ended up in Gormsey. At Ruby’s. I don’t even know how I got there. Just knew I needed—her. That if there was one person who should hear it, it was her.”

My throat tightens. I force the words through it.

“I got to her house. Stood in the garden. Could see her through the window, with her family—cooking, laughing, just… living. Like the world wasn’t breaking.”

I drag a hand through my hair, biting the inside of my cheek to stop the sting in my eyes.

“She looked safe. She looked happy. And I was standing there with a dead mother, an abusive father, and a heart that felt like it’d stopped working. And I—”
I exhale shakily.
“I couldn’t throw that at her. Couldn’t bring all that darkness into that kitchen.”

“So you left.”

I nod.

“I left. Came here. Found the loudest place I could. Got high. Got in the pool. Let Elaine press her hand against my chest like she knew something I didn’t. Because for ten fucking minutes I didn’t want to feel anything.”

Al doesn’t say anything.
Just sits there, watching me drown in my own story.

“But I didn’t touch anyone. Not really. Not like that. Not even Elaine.” I look at him. “And then I saw her. Ruby. At the edge of the pool. And I—”

The air leaves my lungs.

“I’ve done a lot of stupid things,” I whisper. “But that was the moment I knew I’d really, properly broken something.”

Al nods slowly.
And when he speaks, it’s not a lecture. Not sarcasm.

Just:
“You need to fix it.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You will,” he says. “Or you’ll never come back from it.”

And he’s right.
God help me, he’s right.

Alistair

I should’ve been here.
Half an hour earlier. Ten minutes, even.

Just—sooner.

I was supposed to keep an eye on him. That’s what I always do. That’s what we’ve done since we were thirteen—since I found him half-passed-out behind the chapel with blood on his sleeve and a smile he wore like a shield.

And tonight?
Tonight I was twenty-nine minutes too late and an entire tragedy behind.

He looks wrecked.

Not party-wrecked. Not “oops, I drank too much, let me flirt my way out of it” wrecked.
No.

This is funeral-wrecked.
This is mother-died-and-no-one-told-him wrecked.

And I can’t fix that.
But Jesus, I want to try.

“You have to talk to her,” I say, rubbing my hand over my jaw, trying to steady the fury boiling under my ribs—not at him, not really, but at all of it. At him for letting himself get this lost. At their father. At myself.

James blinks, slow and tired, like the words barely register.

“Ruby?” he asks, like he might not be sure she still exists in his world after what he did.

“Yes, Ruby, you emotionally constipated moron,” I snap, softer than it sounds. “You have to talk to her. Tonight, tomorrow—doesn’t matter. But soon. Before this gets past the point where even you can charm your way back.”

He winces. Not at the words—at the truth behind them.

I sigh, drag a hand through my hair, and push back from the chair.

“I’ll deal with Elaine,” I mutter. “She’s still hiding somewhere in this damn house, probably hoping no one brings up her bikini or her timing or the fact that she called you Jamie-baby in front of the actual love of your miserable life.”

That gets a flicker.
The ghost of a glare.

“Don’t look at me like that. You earned every second of this disaster. Now I get to go pry my sister out of some linen closet and explain why she can’t seduce grief out of a man who’s falling apart.”

He closes his eyes. Breathing slow.

“You okay?” I ask.

It’s a stupid question.

“No,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “But I will be. Maybe. If she still… if I haven’t ruined it.”

I pause in the doorway.

“You haven’t,” I say. “Not yet. But don’t make me drag your sorry ass to her and script the apology myself.”

Then I leave him there.

Because I’ve got a half-naked sister to find,
and a best friend to glue back together.

James

I stand outside the door for a full minute before I knock.
Long enough to count the seams in the wood. Long enough to consider turning back.

But I don’t.
I can’t.

I knock once. Lightly.

The door creaks open a moment later—just enough for me to see inside.

Ruby’s on the bed, still fully dressed, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed. She’s sitting upright, but Lydia’s curled into her side, buried against her like she’s holding her up just by being there.

And Cyril, of all people, is standing a little too close to the window, clearly pretending to be invisible, which would be more effective if his legs weren’t so long and awkwardly folded and if he hadn’t turned toward the sound of the knock like a startled deer in designer cologne.

Ruby lifts her head.

Our eyes meet.

And everything I thought I could say to make this right goes up in smoke.

“Can I—” I clear my throat. Try again. “Can I have a moment?”

Ruby doesn’t move right away.
But Cyril does.

Jesus.

He crosses to the bed in three steps and drops to his knees beside Lydia like someone’s just handed him a real job for the first time in his life.

“Hey, hey,” I hear him murmur. “I’m here, yeah?”

It’s awkward and sincere in equal measure. And she leans into it without even looking.

Ruby looks at my sister. Then at me.

Then she stands.

Thank God.

She follows me into the hallway, quiet as a shadow.

No words. Just the door clicking shut behind us.

She’s here.
That’s already more than I deserve.

And now—I have to find the words that might still matter.

She stands there.
Arms crossed.
Eyes puffy.
Back straight.

Ruby Bell—devastated, furious, unshakably composed.

I’ve never wanted to fall to my knees more in my entire life.

But I don’t.
Because she doesn’t need a spectacle.
She needs honesty.

So I speak.

“I came to your house,” I say, quietly. “That part—I wasn’t lying. I walked there. I don’t even remember how I got there, just that I needed you. That if there was one person I wanted to tell—needed to tell—it was you.”

She doesn’t speak.
Just watches me.

“And then I saw you,” I go on. “Through the window. With your mum, Ember… the music. The food. Laughter. You were dancing.”

I let out a breath that’s more ache than air.

“And I—I just couldn’t bring it in with me. The grief. The rot. My father. My dead mother.”
I swallow. Hard.
“I couldn’t drop it at your feet like a bomb and ruin what you had in that moment.”

She shifts.
Not toward me. Not away.
Just… grounding herself.

“I didn’t call. I should’ve.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t think you’d want me like that. Broken. Drenched in everything I swore I’d never become again. So I went to Cyril’s. I got high. I tried to feel nothing.”

I pause.

“And then you were there.”
I meet her eyes.
“And I remembered what it felt like to feel everything at once.”

Silence stretches between us.
Taut. Quiet.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” I say, softer now. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I just needed you to know that the worst thing I’ve done this year wasn’t that pool.”

She tilts her head.

I breathe in. Say it:
“The worst thing was standing in your garden… and walking away.”

Her lips part like she might speak.
But no sound comes out.

Still, she takes a step closer.

And it’s not forgiveness.
But it’s not retreat, either.

Then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—she says,
“You broke my heart.”

I nod.
“I know.”

“I trusted you,” she whispers, voice catching. “Again.”

“I know,” I say again. “And I didn’t deserve it.”

She studies me for a long, heavy beat.

Then, barely audible:
“Do you… still need someone tonight?”

I don’t move. Don’t even breathe.
“Only if you want to be that someone.”

She hesitates.
Then:
“I can sit with you.”

It’s not a second chance.
It’s not forgiveness.
But it’s her.

And tonight, that’s everything.

We sit together on the floor in the hallway.
Not touching.
Not speaking.

Just—
Side by side.

Breathing in the grief.
Letting it live between us.
And not walking away.

Ruby

He’s crying.

Not loud, not messy, not performative.
Just… broken. Quietly. Like he’s trying not to make a sound because he still thinks he has to protect me from it.

I don’t move.
I don’t speak.

I just sit beside him, knees pulled up to my chest, fingers tangled in the edge of my sleeve. The carpet itches the back of my legs, but I don’t shift.

Because he’s crying.
And I’m still angry.
Still hurt.

But I’m here.
And so is he.

We don’t touch.

We just sit.
Side by side.
The silence wrapping around us like the pause between lightning and thunder.

I glance at him.
His shoulders rise and fall too fast, uneven, his face turned slightly away like he doesn’t want me to see.

And maybe I shouldn’t care.
Maybe I should stand up. Walk away.
Remind him that I already gave him another chance. That I already let him back in.

But instead—

I move.
Just a little.

Shift closer.
Barely.

So our knees are almost brushing.
Not touching. Just near.
Close enough that if either of us breathed wrong, we might.

He notices.

Of course he does.
I feel his breath hitch.

But he doesn’t reach for me.
Doesn’t dare.
Doesn’t even turn.

Good.

Because I’m not here to make it okay.
I’m not here to be a balm for his grief.

I’m just here.
Because I can be.
Because somewhere under all the pain, there’s still a part of me that wants to believe he can be better than this.

That maybe he already is, in moments like this.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says, hoarse.

“But I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

He nods. A sharp inhale.
Still crying.

I close my eyes. Let my shoulder just barely lean toward him.
Not touching.

But close enough that he knows:

You’re not forgiven.
But you’re not abandoned either.

And somehow, that’s the most honest thing I can give him.

Alistair

Elaine was in the wine cellar.
Of course she was.

Wrapped in a towel she’d “borrowed” from the guest bath, clutching a half-finished bottle of champagne, legs crossed on a crate of Malbec like some postmodern Greco-Roman statue of indulgence and poor impulse control.

“Don’t start,” she said the second she saw me.

“I’m not starting,” I replied calmly. “I’m finishing.”

I took the bottle, wrapped her in a blanket like a sulky burrito, and handed her over to Rupert—the long-suffering family driver who deserves a knighthood for services to the deranged.

“Straight home,” I said. “No detours. Not even for chips.”

Rupert nodded once, like a man who’s seen war.
Elaine pouted like a five-year-old banned from the bouncy castle.

Handled.

Next stop: upstairs.

I cracked open the door to Lydia’s room—just to check.

She was asleep.
Sprawled sideways across the bed in that unconscious way she used to nap after exams, one arm curled under her cheek.
And holding her—very much awake—was Cyril.

Back against the headboard.
Eyes wide.
Not blinking.
Looking like someone just handed him a newborn baby and a winning lottery ticket in the same breath.

I raised a brow.
He nodded—tiny, reverent.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.

All right then.

I closed the door quietly.

Then I made my way toward the hallway, the last place I’d seen James.

And there they were.

One James Beaufort: soaked-through shirt swapped for the dry one I gave him, hair damp, eyes red. Not high anymore. Not angry. Not arrogant.

Just quiet.
And crying.

And beside him—Ruby Bell.

Knees pulled up. Elbows on them.
Shellshocked.
Still.

But not gone.
Not stormed out.
Not shaking his hand off her arm or telling him to leave her the hell alone.

She looked like someone trying to figure out if the earth beneath her feet was still stable.

And he looked like he’d give anything to make it so.

Neither of them noticed me.

I didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t make a joke.
Didn’t offer tea or therapy or my world-class commentary on the fact that they were sitting on Cyril’s extremely expensive hallway carpet like it was the floor of a train station.

I just watched them for a moment.
Two disasters pressed side by side.

Not fixed.
Not okay.

But… not entirely lost either.

And for tonight?
That might just be enough.

James

“I lost my phone,” I say after what feels like an hour of silence. My voice is hoarse, stripped bare. “And Percy’s not here. I can’t—”
I swallow.
“I can’t go home. Not yet.”

Ruby doesn’t say anything right away.
She just blinks slowly, like everything’s processing at half-speed now.

“I can find someone to take you home, if you want,” I add, glancing at her, heart twisting. “Or call your parents?”

She shakes her head.

“They think I’m spending the night at the Beaufort house,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on some point down the hall. “With Lydia. Not you.”
A pause.
“Definitely not you.”

It hurts.
But I nod.

She rubs her hands over her face, slow and tired.
“I need to sleep,” she says, more to herself than me. “I can’t keep—thinking. I’m too tired.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, already pushing myself to my feet. My limbs ache from the cold, the pool, the night. But none of that matters.
“Come on.”

I offer her my hand.

She hesitates. Just for a second.
Then slips hers into mine.

Small.
Warm.
Steady, even if I’m not.

I lead her down the hall, past the doors and shadows and mistakes. To the guestroom I always use when we crash here. Third door on the left.

It smells faintly like cedar and something expensive. The duvet is crisp and the light from the hallway pools across the carpet in strips.

Ruby steps in without a word.
Her arms are still crossed, like she’s bracing for something.

I move quietly.
Pull the duvet back.
Fluff the pillow.
Then, gently, quietly, I say, “Here. You don’t have to talk. Just… lie down.”

She doesn’t look at me.
Just nods.

Slips off her shoes.
Crawls into the bed, jeans and jumper and all.

I pull the duvet over her carefully.
Not too close.
Not too familiar.

Just enough.

Then I turn away.

Cross to the couch against the opposite wall—Cyril’s idea of furniture is all angles and unnecessary leather, but it’ll do.

I lie down.
Stare at the ceiling.

The silence stretches again, but it’s not empty this time.

She’s here.
Not with me.
But not gone.

And maybe that’s the beginning of something I don’t deserve,
but won’t take for granted again.

Ruby

I’m so tired I don’t feel the pillow.

The weight of the duvet is soft and heavy, like something protective. My limbs are numb with exhaustion, my head thick with grief and confusion.

Everything is too full.
Too loud.
Too much.

But sleep comes anyway.
Heavy and fast.

And I’m somewhere else.

A pool.
Water glowing blue beneath flickering lights.
Laughter echoes—sharp and wrong.

Girls.

Too many of them.
Legs bare. Hair wet. Floating around him. Around James.

And he’s in the middle, watching them with that glazed-over, empty face.
That face I saw hours ago.
Or maybe just seconds.
Or maybe forever.

He doesn’t see me.

I’m standing at the edge, barefoot. My clothes feel heavy.

And then—
The ground gives out.

I’m falling.
Into the water.
Into the cold.

The sound disappears.
Just silence and pressure and panic.

I open my mouth to scream, but water rushes in.
My lungs seize.
My arms flail.

No. Not again. Not again.

My chest burns. My eyes sting.
I can’t find the surface.

And I’m eight years old again.
In the lake.
And Dad is screaming—until he isn’t.

I thrash harder.
Trying to claw my way up.
Trying to find air.

But there’s none.
There’s nothing but cold and guilt and drowning.

And then—

Arms.

Strong. Sure.

Wrapping around me.

A chest against my back.
A hand gripping my wrist.
A voice—his voice—suddenly so clear.

“Ruby—hey—hey, I’ve got you.”

I gasp.
The water doesn’t rush in.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” he says again, arms locking around me. “You’re safe. You’re with me. Just breathe, alright? I’ve got you.”

My whole body trembles.

Still underwater, still dreaming—but something shifts.
His arms feel real.

And his voice—
God, his voice sounds like everything I needed all night.

I stop thrashing.

Let myself be held.
Let the panic slow.

My fingers clutch his shirt.
He holds tighter.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I promise. I’ve got you, Ruby. You’re safe.”

And for the first time in what feels like hours—
Maybe days—
Maybe years—

I believe him.

James

I hear her before I see her.

A sound—sharp, broken. A gasp that’s not quite a scream.

I sit bolt upright on the couch.

She’s trembling.

Not shifting in sleep, not dreaming lightly—shaking. Her body curled beneath the duvet like she’s fighting something I can’t see, her breath stuttering, chest heaving.

“Ruby?” I whisper, already crossing the room.

No answer.

Just a choked sound, raw from her throat.

I kneel beside the bed.
She’s clutching the sheets now, knuckles white, her eyes still closed, lips parted in panic.

Oh God.
I know this.

I know what this is.

“Ruby,” I say, louder now, trying to pull her from it. “It’s me. You’re okay. You’re not there.”

Still nothing.
Her whole body spasms like she’s underwater.

I reach out—gently—touch her shoulder.

She flinches. But her eyes fly open.

Wide, unfocused—until they land on me.
And something in them shatters.

“James,” she chokes out, barely a whisper.

And then she grabs for me.

Arms around my neck.
Fingers digging into my shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself to the earth.

She can’t speak.
Just gasps and shudders, trembling so hard I feel it in my bones.

Oh, fuck it.

I’m not leaving her like this.
Not sitting on the floor while she comes apart in silence.

I climb into the bed. No hesitation.

Duvet shoved aside, arms around her before I can think twice.

I pull her to my chest, fold her in tight, press my cheek against her hair, one hand rubbing her back in slow, firm circles.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

Her breath catches like she’s been holding it for years.

She sobs once.

Then again.

And then she breaks.

Crying so hard it shakes her whole body.

And I just hold her.

No apologies.
No explanations.
Just presence.

Just us.

“I swear to you,” I whisper, “this isn’t anything you don’t want it to be.”

I swallow hard, tears prickling hot behind my eyes.

“But it’s everything to me.”

And then—

I’m crying too.

Silently at first. Then not.
The grief finally slipping through the cracks.

We cry like no one’s watching.
Because no one is.

Just her and me.
Folded into each other.

Everything we’ve ruined.
Everything we’re still trying to save.

And somehow—
Even in the middle of all this grief and wreckage—
She doesn’t let go.

And neither do I.

Ruby

I wake slowly.

Everything is soft and warm and… wrong.

Not wrong like bad.
Wrong like different.
Like I fell asleep in chaos and woke up in the eye of a storm.

There’s weight behind me. A body. An arm around my waist, heavy and protective.
Breath on the back of my neck.

James.

It all comes back in a rush.
The hallway.
The dream.
The panic.
The way I couldn’t breathe—until he held me.
Until I cried into his chest like I’d broken open.

And now—this.
His chest against my back. His palm resting flat on my stomach like he doesn’t want me to slip away.

I don’t move.
Not yet.

I just lie there, eyes open, heart slow but steady.

He shifts behind me a moment later.
Breathes in, then stills.
Wakes.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice gravel-thick.

“Hey.”

We don’t move.

His hand flexes a little—then withdraws.
I feel the loss instantly.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.”
And it is.
I don’t know why, but it is.

Another beat of silence.

“I know I don’t have any right to ask you for anything,” he says, his voice low, steady now, but full of weight. “But I need you to know—for me, nothing’s changed. Not about how I feel about you. Not one thing.”

I turn, finally, to face him.

His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. But open.
Clear.

“I would do anything,” he says. “Literally anything. To make you trust me again.”

I study him.
Not the boy from the pool.
Not the one who broke my heart.
Just… James.
Grief written into the lines of his face.

“I need time,” I whisper.

He nods. Immediately. No protest.
“Of course.”

“You probably do too,” I add. “You need to… bury her. Your mum. You need to grieve.”

His jaw tightens, and something in his throat moves like he’s swallowing glass.
“Yeah.”

I stare down at my hands.
“I have to face school on Monday,” I say. “Everyone gossiping. Talking about how I fell for you and you ended up in the pool with Elaine in a bikini.”

His eyes close for a second.

“And I know it’s stupid,” I say quickly, ashamed of my voice cracking. “I know you’re going through something enormous, and I feel ridiculous for even thinking about how I feel about any of it—”

“You’re allowed to be hurt, Ruby.”

I blink.

“You are hurt. And I caused it.”

Silence.

He takes a shaky breath.
“I should’ve reached for you. Last night. In Gormsey. I should’ve trusted that you could hold me through it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“I want to,” I say finally. “I just… can’t yet. Not fully.”

He nods.

And we lie there.
Not together. Not apart.

Two people in a quiet space between what was and what might be.

Still holding on.
But letting go, just enough.

James

She hasn’t moved from the bed.
Neither have I.

We’re not curled into each other the way we were a few hours ago, when the world felt like it was ending and all we had was breath and instinct and holding on.

But she’s still here.
That feels like a miracle.

And maybe I should let her go now.
Let her sleep, or walk away, or have whatever space she needs.
But I don’t want to leave things dangling.

So I speak.
Carefully.

“I’m not coming back to school yet,” I say, watching the way her eyes flicker toward the window. “Not for two… maybe three weeks. Until after the funeral.”

She nods, slow. Quiet.

I sit up, careful not to crowd her.
“But… would it be okay if I still saw you?”

Her brow furrows slightly.

“Not like—” I stop, run a hand through my hair. “Not as a thing I expect. Just… to see you. To come over. Maybe we could do homework. Or take a walk. Or just talk.”

She doesn’t answer right away.
And I don’t rush her.

“I miss you already,” I admit softly. “Even though you’re right here.”

That gets a look. A tired one. But not cold.
Just… guarded.

“Is there anything I can do to make Monday better?” I ask, my voice low. “Anything at all?”

She blinks, slowly.

“I could be there. I could walk you to school. Or have Alistair and the others with you. Or—fuck it—I’ll show up and carry your backpack if that helps.”

At that, a tiny smile ghosts across her lips.
Brief. Almost invisible.

But it was there.

“Or I can stay far away if that’s what makes it easier. I just… I want to help, Ruby.”

She exhales, then lies back again, staring at the ceiling.
“I’ll be the one they talk about either way,” she says after a long pause.

I go still.

She turns her head, eyes meeting mine.
“They’ll say I fell for you and you dumped me. Or I fell for you, you messed around, and I still took you back.”

Her voice isn’t bitter. Just tired.

“Choose your poison.”

God.
God, I hate this.

I want to take every rumor, every whisper, every smug look she’s going to get and eat them whole.

I reach out slowly.

Just enough to let my fingers graze hers.

“I don’t care what they say,” I murmur. “But I care how it makes you feel. And if there’s a way to carry even a little of that weight for you—just a sliver—I will.”

Her fingers twitch.

She doesn’t pull away.

And right now, that’s everything.

Her fingers stay beneath mine. Not clasped, not interlocked—just there.

And then it hits me.

Not the guilt. That’s been here.
Not the regret. That’s been screaming at me since the pool.

No—this is something else.

Realization.

Sudden. Ugly. Sharp.

She’s vulnerable.

Ruby—so sharp, so composed, so unflinchingly steady in a way that always made me think she was untouchable—
is exposed.

Because of me.

Because I pulled her into my orbit, made her visible, then vanished.

I didn’t just hurt her.
I made her look like a fool.

In front of the entire school.
In front of people who already think they know what girls like her are for.

Scholarship cases.
Earnest and disposable.

I dragged her into my story and then gave them the ending they all expect—rich boy gets bored, gets high, goes back to his world.

And she—
She gets the whispers.
The side-eyes.
The pity.

God.

I feel sick.

I pull my hand away, but not out of distance—more like instinct, like recoil from my own thoughts. I sit back, knees to my chest, heart suddenly hammering.

“I didn’t see it,” I say, voice rough. “I didn’t see what I was doing to you.”

Ruby watches me, eyes wary but open.

“I thought—I thought I was just hurting us. I didn’t realize I was making you the spectacle.”

She doesn’t respond.
Not yet.

“I exposed you,” I say. “And then I pulled the rug out from under your feet and left you there—on your own.”

I rake a hand through my hair.
“God, Ruby. I thought I was the one unraveling. But you—”
I look at her. Really look.

“You’re the one who’s going to walk back into that place tomorrow. Alone. With your head up. While they all pick you apart like you’re a cautionary tale.”

My throat closes.

“I did that to you.”

She closes her eyes for a second.

Then says softly, “Yeah. You did.”

And it hurts.
More than anything I’ve felt in days.

But I deserve it.
Every word.

“So now what?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

She looks at me.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

But she doesn’t leave the bed.

Doesn’t get up and walk away.

And I realize—that is the only answer I get today.

And maybe the only one I deserve.

We’re lying there, not quite facing each other, not quite apart.

The silence between us isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Fragile.
Like the kind of quiet that follows a storm you’re not sure you survived.

Her voice cuts through it.
Quiet, but sure.

“We can meet,” she says, eyes on the ceiling. “For homework.”

I nod, heart stuttering.
“Okay.”

“I can’t answer anything else yet,” she adds. “Not what this is. Or if it can be anything again.”

“I know.”
And I mean it.
I’ve never known anything more clearly.

She turns her head, meets my eyes.

“But I want to go home now.”

I sit up immediately. “Of course. I’ll take you.”

Her hand brushes mine, just briefly.
“And… you can call me,” she says. “Anytime. I’ll always answer.”

The way she says it—simple, honest—
It undoes me.

“Always,” she repeats.

I nod. Swallow hard.
“Thank you.”

Then her voice drops, steady and low, the closest thing to a line drawn in the sand.

“But you can never hurt me like this again.”

I look at her, and I know she’s not asking.
She’s telling me.
This is the price of her staying.

And it’s fair.
More than fair.

“I won’t,” I say.
My voice cracks a little.
“But if I do… you walk away. And I won’t ask you to come back.”

She nods once.

Then we rise together.
Not a couple.
Not yet.
No anymore
I don’t know.

Just two people who survived the fire,
and are choosing—for now—
to walk out of it side by side.

Lydia

Cyril is fast asleep behind me.

His arm slung across my waist, breathing slow and warm and tangled in dreams he probably doesn’t want to wake from.
And for once, I don’t mind it.
His presence is solid. Steady. No performance.

But I’m not sleeping. I‘m getting up.

I’m at the window.
Wrapped in one of Cyril’s ridiculous oversized sweaters now, knees tucked up on the armchair, watching the driveway below.

James and Ruby are walking toward Percy’s car.

Side by side.
Not touching.

Not like last night, when they clung to each other like shipwreck survivors.
Now they walk like two people trying to remember what solid ground feels like.

He opens the car door for her.

Of course he does.
Even when he’s broken, even when he’s grieving, some part of him remembers how to behave. Just last night—.

She turns to face him.

He takes both her hands, gently, and leans in.

Kisses her cheek.
Soft. Careful. Not possessive.

Not his.

Not anymore.

Not yet.

She says something—quiet, short, a murmur I can’t hear from this far up.

Then she gets in.

The door closes.

The engine starts.
And Ruby’s gone.

James just stands there.

Still.
Completely still.

Like he hasn’t figured out how to move again.
Like letting her go, even for a few hours, costs more than he was ready to give.

He doesn’t cry.
Not from here.

But I know that posture.
The hollow behind the shoulders.
The way grief stiffens you when it has nowhere to go.

My brother.

Just standing there.

Alone again.
But trying.

God, he’s trying.

And I press my forehead to the window, close my eyes, and will him not to give up this time.

Chapter Text

Alistair

James isn’t coming in today.
Obviously.
His mother just died.

And yet somehow, he still managed to bark at me before sunrise to “be there when her bus pulls in, Al, or so help me God—”

Which, to be fair, I was already planning to.
Because I saw Ruby’s face last night.

And that wasn’t just heartbreak.
That was humiliation.

Now it’s Monday.
The weather is miserable in that classic Pemwick way—grey, drizzling, the kind of wet that clings to your soul—and Ruby steps off the bus in a v neck two sizes too big and a backpack over one shoulder like she doesn’t care if it rips open.

She sees me.
Pauses.

A flicker of wariness.

“Good morning,” I say lightly, stepping into pace beside her. “It’s an absolutely shit day, but at least I look great.”

That gets a faint breath through the nose.
Not a smile.
But I’ll take it.

She doesn’t speak until we’re almost at the gate.

“Did he send you?”

I glance over at her.
“Would it matter if he did?”

She thinks for a second.
“No.”
Beat.
“But yes.”

“Thought so.”

We keep walking.

And that’s when it starts.

The first pair of girls slow their pace. Not whispering yet—just that deliberate kind of silence that’s somehow louder.

Then a boy from our econ class glances over his shoulder twice in ten seconds.

Then the whispers.
Low. Hissing.
“That’s her.”
“Can you believe—”
“She still came in?”

And Ruby’s jaw goes tighter with every step.
Shoulders up.

Head high, but not in the proud way—
in the armour up way.

I slow down, just slightly.
Let her walk half a pace ahead.

Make it clear.
I’m here with her.
But she’s walking in on her own terms.

Nobody touches her.
Nobody dares.
I make damn sure of it.

⸻

History Class — Midmorning

She slips into her usual seat by the window, early as always.

Cyril walks in two minutes before the bell.
Wordless. Casual.
Slides into the chair beside her like it’s just another Monday.

She looks up—surprised, maybe.

He doesn’t look at her.
Just drops his bag and mutters,
“Didn’t trust the rest of these idiots not to be dicks.”

That’s Cyril-speak for you’re not alone.

⸻

Lunch

We find her before she finds us.
Me, Cyril, and Lin, who’s armed with a thermos and an expression that could melt steel.

We sit down at her table without asking.

There are people watching.
They absolutely do not matter.

I lean across the table at one point and say, “You want me to start loudly listing all the ways James is an emotionally stunted mess who doesn’t deserve eye contact, let alone a second chance?”

She doesn’t laugh.
But she almost does.

Progress.

⸻

Afternoon — Bus Stop

She insisted on taking the bus home.
Didn’t want a lift.
Didn’t want to owe anyone a favour.

Fine.
I get it.

But I walk her there anyway.
Because I said I would.
Because James would kill me if I didn’t.
And because I want to.

She doesn’t speak much.
She’s tired.
You can see it in the way her hands clench the strap of her bag.
In the way her eyes don’t quite focus.

The bus pulls up.

She turns to me.

“Thanks,” she says. Quiet. Like the word costs something.

I shrug, hands in pockets. “Anytime. You want someone to walk behind you pretending to be your bodyguard tomorrow? I’ll wear sunglasses. Carry an earpiece.”

She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t make me laugh.”

But there’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll tell him you got through the day,” I say.

She steps onto the bus.
Turns back.
Hesitates.

“Tell him…” She trails off.
Then: “No. Never mind.”

She finds a seat.
The bus rumbles off.

And I stand there for a long moment, the cold settling in.

Because I know what she was going to say.
And I know she’s not ready.

Not yet.
But maybe—
Eventually.

And in the meantime?

We’ll keep showing up.

James
Monday evening

⸻

It’s barely five.
Feels like midnight.

I’ve read the same paragraph five times.
Still can’t tell you what it said.

The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
Ophelia came by earlier to bring food. I thanked her. Don’t remember what I ate.
Percy’s still stuck in Geneva.
The estate smells like lilies.

And I haven’t heard from Ruby.

I haven’t earned hearing from Ruby.

But I still miss her like an idiot boy who doesn’t learn.
So I call Alistair.

He picks up on the third ring.
“Hey.”

I don’t even say hello.
“Was she okay?”

Al sighs. “Define ‘okay.’”

“Is she breathing? Did she cry? Did someone say something? Was she alone?”
I’m already pacing. Barefoot. Cold floor. My whole chest is one tight knot.
“Did anyone look at her funny?”

“Mate—”

“Did someone say her name like it tasted like dirt?” I ask, sharper now. “Did she—Christ, did she look like I ruined her?”

There’s a pause on the other end.
Then:
“She looked tired. Guarded. But no. Not ruined. She held her ground.”

I sit down hard on the edge of my bed.

Al adds, “She didn’t let anyone touch her. Cyril and I made sure they didn’t even try.”

That gets a breath out of me. Not quite relief. Just… slightly less drowning.

“She didn’t want a lift?” I ask.
“No. Bus. Said she needed to move through the day on her own.”
A pause.
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“I never doubted that,” I say softly.
“I think you did,” Al says, without venom. Just truth.
And it lands like a blade.

“Did she say anything?” I ask.
“Not to me.”
“Nothing?”

He hesitates.
“She almost asked me to tell you something.”
“Almost?”
“She changed her mind.”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, grip my own damn hair in my hands.
“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” Al says. “But at least you’re finally saying it.”

I breathe through my nose, tight.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“For her?”
“For us.”

“You can wait,” Al says. “And when you see her—really see her—you don’t make it about how bad you feel. You don’t beg. You don’t push. You show her you’re worth a second second chance.”

I don’t say anything.

“I miss her,” I admit, finally. Quiet. Raw.
“I know,” Al says. “Just don’t make missing her her problem, yeah?”

I nod, even though he can’t see it.
My throat feels tight.

“Thanks,” I mutter.
Al just hums.
Then, gentler:
“Go to bed, James. You’re grieving. You’re exhausted. You’re not going to fix this tonight.”

“I know.”
But I wish I could.

I hang up.
Stare at the dark window.

And I hope, wherever she is,
she knows I’d do anything to take it back.

Ruby

I stare at the ceiling like it’s got answers.
It doesn’t.

My room is dark except for the streetlight sneaking through the curtain. I’ve got my duvet pulled to my chin and my phone resting on my stomach. I’ve typed his name into the call bar three times. Deleted it twice.

But the third time… I don’t delete it.
Because I can’t sleep.

Because this whole day felt like walking through wet concrete.

Because I miss him.
So fucking much.

And because—God help me—
I’m worried about him.

So I press call.
And it rings once.

Just once.

“Ruby?”
His voice is hoarse. Like he hasn’t spoken in hours. Or like he was waiting.

I press the phone to my ear and close my eyes.
“Hi.”

A pause.
It stretches between us like a held breath.
Then he says, “You okay?”

I almost laugh.
“No,” I whisper. “Not really.”

“I’ll come over,” he says too quickly. “If you need—”
“No.”
I cut him off softly.
“No, I just… I wanted to talk. That’s all.”

He exhales like I’ve just thrown him a rope and he’s clinging to it with both hands.
“Okay. Talk to me.”

I turn on my side, curl into myself.
“I hated today,” I say.
“I know.”

“Everyone was staring. Whispering. Like I’m the girl who fell for the golden boy and got slapped in the face for it.”
He doesn’t answer.
I think that’s wise.

“And I am hurt,” I admit, my voice wobbling. “I know that sounds ridiculous with everything you’re going through. I know you lost your mum and your father is—God, he’s a nightmare. But I still feel like someone cracked something open inside me and now I’m leaking pain everywhere.”

“Ruby,” he says, so quietly. Like my name is the most fragile thing in the world.

“I’m angry at you,” I whisper. “And I miss you. And I hate that those things can live side by side like that.”

There’s a rustle. Maybe he’s sitting up.
“I’m angry at me too,” he says. “And I miss you more than I know how to handle.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I worry about you,” I say, like a confession. “All day, all night. And I hate that too.”

He breathes in like he’s about to break.
“I’m not okay,” he says. “I pretend I am. For Lydia. For Ophelia. But I’m not.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m calling. I didn’t want you to be alone with it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.
Then:
“Will you call again tomorrow?”

My eyes sting.
“I might,” I say.
Then, softer: “Probably.”

Another pause.
Then he says, “I’ll always answer.”

I nod.
Even though he can’t see me.
And we just breathe together for a bit.

Not fixing anything.
Not putting labels on this.me

Just being.knll
Side by side in the dark, through the static of the line.

And for tonight…
That’s enough.

James

The call ends.
I don’t move.

I just lie there, staring at the ceiling like it’s supposed to collapse on me and finish the job.

My phone is still warm against my cheek. Like the ghost of her voice hasn’t quite left yet.
Like maybe—if I don’t move—she’ll still be here.

God, her voice.
That first “Hi.”
It nearly broke me.

Because I know I don’t deserve it.
I know she shouldn’t have called.
And I know I would’ve died a little more tonight if she hadn’t.

So I lie here.
Like a coward.
Like a fuck-up.
Like the boy who got a second chance—
and still lit the match.

She said she missed me.
Said she hated that she did.

And maybe it makes me the worst kind of selfish, but I held onto that like oxygen.

But the part that really wrecks me—
is that she’s hurting.
That I did that.

And all I can do is lie here.

Her words spinning around in my head.
“I’m angry at you.”
“I miss you.”
“I worry about you.”

She called me.
After everything.
She still called.

And now I’m crying.
Fuck.
Not the angry kind. Not the kind you wipe away fast.
The other kind.

The quiet kind.
The gutted kind.

Because I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance.
Not really.
Not after what I did.

But she called.
She called.

So I press the phone to my chest, like an idiot.
Like it can hold her heartbeat if I just hold it tight enough.

And I whisper into the dark:
“I’ll make it right.”
Even if I have no idea how.

And then I let myself cry.
Really cry.

For my mum.
For Ruby.
For whatever the hell I’ve turned into.

For the boy I was 3 days ago—
And the man I’m trying to be now.

Ruby

Two weeks later, late at night, phone pressed to my cheek

⸻

I don’t know why I keep doing it.
Calling him.

Maybe because it’s the only thing that feels honest anymore.
Maybe because even after everything… he’s still the only one I want to talk to when the world feels too sharp.

It’s been two weeks.
Fourteen nights.
Fourteen short, quiet conversations.

Always past midnight.
Always in the dark.
Never long.
Never enough.

I never agree to see him.
He never pushes.
We don’t talk about what we are.

We just are.
Whatever this is.

Tonight, he’s quiet.
Quieter than usual.
I wait, thinking maybe he’s fallen asleep on the line—he did that once, last week, and woke up whispering my name like he’d dreamt it.

But tonight… it’s different.
He’s here, just… silent.

So I speak. Just to fill the space.
Just to keep him breathing.

“I have to go to Helston tomorrow,” I say, watching the shadows on my ceiling. “Doctor’s appointment. My mum needs the car so I’ll probably have to take the bus.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:
“What time?”

I blink. “What?”

“What time’s your appointment?”

I frown slightly.
“Um. Eleven. Why?”

“I’ll drive you,” he says.
Just like that.

Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Like we’re still us.
Like there isn’t an ocean of heartbreak and grief between us.

I don’t respond right away.

He adds, softer now, “Just say when and where. I’ll be there.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.
“You’ve got the funeral in two days.”

“I know.”
Still soft. Still steady.

“You don’t have to…”
“I want to,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Let me do this, Ruby.”

I close my eyes.
Swallow.
And say, “Okay. Ten-fifteen. The corner of Market and Ash.”

He exhales like I’ve just said something that matters.
Something big.

“Okay,” he says.
And nothing else.

We stay on the line a few more minutes.
No more words.
Just breathing.

But this time, it’s not the same.

Because tomorrow,
I’ll see him.
And I don’t know what that means.

But I want to find out.
God help me, I do.

Chapter Text

Ruby
Outside. Cool morning. Ten-fifteen. Market and Ash.

⸻

I’m early.
Of course I am.
I’ve been here for six minutes already, pacing a little, pretending to scroll through my phone.

And then I see him.

The black car turns the corner, slow and careful.
He pulls up and parks with the same precision I remember—always absurdly smooth, like the car knows who’s driving it.

And then the door opens, and there he is.

James.

He looks—
Awful.

Not messy.
No, he’s still James Beaufort:
Neat dark jumper layered under a coat.
Black jeans. Clean lines. A fresh shave.
Everything where it should be.

Except…
He’s thinner.
Noticeably.
And his eyes—God.
Dark circles.
Haunted.

Not just tired.
Grief lives there now.
I see it before he even speaks.

He closes the door behind him and walks around to my side.
Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.

Just reaches out—
And touches my shoulder.

Barely.
A brush of his hand through my coat.
Like he’s asking,
“Are you real?”
“Are you still here?”

Then he opens the passenger door.

And that’s it.
No words.
No dramatic moments.
Just that touch.

I get in.
He closes the door gently behind me.

And for the first time in two weeks—
We are in the same space.
Breathing the same air.

And it’s quiet.
But not empty.

Just full of everything
we still don’t know how to say.

James
Parked. Rain streaking the windshield. Her coffee warming my hands instead of hers. For now.

⸻

I don’t know what kind of doctor.
Didn’t ask.

It’s not my place anymore.

She didn’t say—
and I didn’t press.

She just said she’d be twenty minutes,
and walked inside with her coat pulled tight like armour.

So I waited.
Went to the little café around the corner,
got her a cappuccino.

Because I remembered—
she always rolls her eyes at the sugary ones I drink,
but she likes real coffee. Proper coffee.
Frothy milk, no syrup. One sugar.

It’s still warm when she comes back.
The hood of her coat is damp. Her hair curls at the ends.

“There’s drizzle again,” she says, climbing in.
Then, eyeing the cup in the holder,
“Is that mine?”

I nod.
“Thought you might want it after.”

She doesn’t smile.
But her fingers curl around the cup like it’s more than just coffee.

“Let’s drink it here,” she says.
“Don’t feel like moving yet.”

So we sit.
Two paper cups steaming between us.
Rain trailing down the windows in soft, silent streaks.
The world feels quieter in here.

She sips first.
I wait.

Then she asks, gently,
“How’s the funeral planning?”

I take a breath.
Stare at the dashboard.
Then answer,
“Strange. Too clean. Like—like organising a wedding you’ll never attend.”

She nods like she understands.
And I think she does.

“I had to pick a reading,” I say.
“My dad didn’t care. Lydia’s still too shaken.
So… I chose something I thought Mum might’ve liked.”

“What did you pick?”

“Something about the sea,” I say.
Then I laugh, but there’s no humour in it.
“She hated the sea.”

Ruby blinks.
“…then why that?”

“Because she used to say it scared her. That it was too deep. Too full of things you can’t see.”
I pause.
“It made her honest. I thought that mattered.”

She doesn’t say anything.
Just sips her coffee.

And for a moment—
we’re just two people in a parked car,
not ex-anythings,
not walking tragedies,
not broken teenagers trying to navigate a mess of pain and memory.

Just us.
In the rain.
With coffee.
And silence.

And somehow,
that feels more real than anything I’ve had in weeks.

Ruby
In the car. Drizzle outside. Cappuccino cooling too fast.

⸻

I’m not angry anymore.
I thought I would be.
I thought I’d sit here, see him, and feel it all surge back—
the pool, the pills, Elaine in her bikini-smirk.
But I don’t.

I’m just… sad.

Because we aren’t what we were.
And I’m grieving that.
And I don’t know if that makes me selfish.
Or shallow.

I didn’t ask for any of this.

I didn’t ask to fall for someone whose life is stitched with grief and legacy and expectation and a father who terrifies him.

And he didn’t ask for his mum to die.

But here we are.
He’s grieving his mother.
And I—
I’m grieving us.

And I don’t even know if that’s allowed.
Is it allowed to mourn something that isn’t technically dead?

He’s right next to me.
Close enough to touch.
I could just—reach out.
Brush my hand over his.

But I don’t.
I can’t.

Because if I do, I don’t know what I’m saying.
I don’t know what we are.
And if I touch him now, it’ll mean more than I can carry.

So I stare out the window.
The drizzle makes patterns in the glass.
My coffee’s gone cold.

And then—
a tear.
Betrays me.
Slips down my cheek, silent and stupid and uninvited.

No.
Not here.
Not now.

I blink hard. Turn my face a little.
He doesn’t need to see this.

He has enough to carry.
He doesn’t need mine, too.

And yet—
there’s this ache in my chest that won’t go.
A dull weight, right under my collarbone.

We were something.
And now we’re not.

And I miss what we were so much,
it almost feels like another kind of death.

James
Passenger seat. Her coffee barely touched. One tear. That’s all it takes.

⸻

I wasn’t looking at her.
Not directly.
I’ve gotten good at the peripheral thing—watching without watching.

But I see it.

That one tear.
Cutting down her cheek like it has every right.

Fuck.

My whole body stills.
My throat tightens.
And I want to pretend I didn’t notice,
but that would be cruel.
Cowardly.

So I shift, slowly, gently.

“Ruby.”

She flinches just slightly,
like she forgot I was here.
Like maybe she was somewhere else entirely.

I don’t touch her.
I don’t get to.
Not now.
Not yet.

“I saw it,” I say softly. “You don’t have to hide it.”

She swallows. Still facing the window.
I don’t push.
I just let the silence sit with us a second.

Then:

“I know I don’t get to say this,” I murmur.
“But I’m sorry. For all of it. For making you grieve something I should’ve protected with everything I had.”

Still nothing.

And then—quietly—
“I miss us too.”

She turns her face just slightly.
Eyes red.
But God, still so beautiful it hurts to look at her.

“I’d take it all back if I could,” I whisper.
“The pool. The pills. Every fucking mistake. If it meant I didn’t have to see you cry like that.”

Another tear slides down her cheek.
She wipes it away before I can reach.

“I know I don’t deserve your hand in mine,” I say, voice thick now.
“But I’m here. However you need me.
Friend, ghost, chauffeur, coffee supplier…
Whatever you can stand.”

And then I fall quiet.
Let her decide.
Because this isn’t mine to fix anymore.
Not with words.
Not with anything but time.

And maybe,
if I’m lucky,
with patience.

Ruby
Drizzle. A cappuccino I barely touched. The kind of ache that doesn’t go away just because he says the right things.

⸻

He says he misses us.

And God, that nearly undoes me.
Because I do too.
So much that I feel hollow with it.

But I can’t say that.
Not now.
Not when I’m still learning how to stand up without using him as a crutch.

I hear him swallow.
Feel his words settling in the air between us.

“I know I don’t deserve your hand in mine.”

And maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe he won’t for a while.

But he also didn’t run.
Not when things got hard—not now, anyway.
Not today.
Today he drove me. Waited.
Got me coffee.
Let me cry without asking why.
Didn’t press. Didn’t pull.
Just… was here.

And maybe that’s all I can stand right now.

Not promises.
Not apologies.
Not hands in mine.
Just—him.

Quiet and solid beside me.

I finally turn my face toward him.
Really look.

He looks like hell.
Like grief has taken root under his skin.
He’s thinner. Eyes darker. Jaw tighter.
But there’s still that softness in him—the one he tries so hard to bury.

I inhale slowly.

“You don’t have to go,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
“But you don’t have to say anything else, either.”

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that.

I look down at the cappuccino in my hands.
“It’s enough that you’re here.”

That’s what I can stand.
That’s what I want, even if I shouldn’t.

Just him.
Next to me.
In this quiet car with the windows fogged and the rain whispering above us.

And if the silence stretches for an hour—
if we don’t say anything more than that—
maybe that’s okay.

Because today, I can’t carry the whole weight of us.
But I can carry this moment.
Just this.

Ruby
The night before the funeral

———————

Al told me how big it’s going to be.

Half the town, probably. Most of our class. Some of the teachers too. James’s mother was one of those names that people murmured with respect. Cordelia Beaufort. Not just for the money or the name—but for something quieter. Quieter, and maybe rarer.

I won’t be going.

Not because I don’t care. But because I do.

Because I know that if I stood there, in a sea of people all pretending to know what he’s feeling, I’d just want to reach for him. And I’m not sure I’d stop myself.

And I can’t be the girl who breaks again. Not at his mother’s funeral.

So I stay home.

Not really home, though. Mum said I could stay in, maybe rest, but I already know I won’t. There’s too much swirling in my chest. Too much I won’t say out loud.

So I plan the library. Headphones. A booth at the back. Work I won’t get through, but I’ll pretend.

We don’t talk much that night. Just a few messages. A few seconds of his voice.

“Thanks for the message earlier.”
“You doing okay?”
“As okay as one can be, I guess.”

That kind of talk. The kind you use to fill the silence when the real words are too heavy to carry across a phone line.

When I go to bed, I don’t sleep.

And when morning comes, and the sky’s still soft and blue-grey, I sit on the edge of my bed with my phone in hand. Typing. Deleting. Typing again.

Finally, I just keep it simple. Clean. Because anything else feels like too much.

Group chat: James & Lydia
Thinking of you both today. I’m so sorry. I hope it goes as gently as it can.

And that’s it.

I leave my phone on silent, grab my backpack, and walk to the library.
No one will whisper here.
No one will stare.

And maybe, if I sit still enough, my heart will stop echoing his name.

James

Lydia’s curled up in my bed like she’s twelve again. She cried herself into exhaustion at the wake, and I couldn’t send her back to her wing of the house. Couldn’t be alone either. So now she’s here, face pressed into my pillow, fast asleep.

The room smells like lilies and stale perfume—leftovers from the chapel and whatever aunt someone wore too much of. There were so many people. So many words. Most of them meaningless.

I don’t even change.

My tie’s still loose around my neck, shirt half untucked. My blazer’s somewhere—I think I left it on the floor of the dressing room when Lydia started sobbing again. I don’t even care. My feet hurt. My eyes feel like I rubbed gravel into them.

The house is too quiet now.

The staff left hours ago. Percy vanished after the reception, probably off dealing with whatever diplomatic mess Father left behind. Or maybe he just couldn’t bear to stay.

And Ruby—God, I thought about her all day.

I looked for her face in the crowd even though I knew she wouldn’t come. And when it hit me she really wasn’t there, my chest folded in a bit. Not because I needed her to mourn my mother. But because I just needed her.

I check my phone again.

Her message is still there from this morning.

Thinking of you both today. I’m so sorry. I hope it goes as gently as it can.

It didn’t. But she tried. And that means more than anything anyone said to me all day.

I open the chat. Type.
James:

Good night, Ruby. I’ll call tomorrow.

I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to. Then lock it.

The light’s still on, but I don’t care. I lie down on the floor beside the bed. Not even a pillow. Just the carpet.

And for the first time in days, I sleep.

Not well. But enough.

Rubd

I close the door to my room and lean against it for a second, letting the quiet swallow me. My shoes are still on, my satchel still over my shoulder, but the day’s already slipping off my back like a too-heavy coat.

The house is warm. Smells like laundry detergent and something simmering in the kitchen—Mum must be batch cooking again. I hear Ember laughing with her headphones on in the living room.

And then my phone rings.

James.

I sit on the edge of my bed, pulse flickering. We haven’t really spoken since the funeral—not properly. Just little things. A message here. A reply there. Carefully measured words on both ends. But now he’s calling.

I answer.

“Hi,” I say, a little breathless, like I ran here. Maybe I did.

There’s a pause. Then his voice, quieter than usual. Rough.

“Hi.”

He waits. I wait. It’s ridiculous how we’ve both been waiting so much lately.

Then he says it.

“Only if you really meant it—it’s okay if not—but… could I come over? Just for a bit? I just… I need to see something that isn’t connected to her. Just… for tea, maybe? And you could tell me what’s on the reading list for this month?”

God.

There’s a tightness behind my ribs that hurts in the best and worst way.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice is quiet but firm. “Yeah, of course. I meant it.”

I pause. “Come over. I’ll make tea.”

Another breath. I soften. “And yes, I’ll tell you what you’ve been missing in class. But I might quiz you on it later.”

I can almost hear the smile behind his exhale.

“That’s fair.”

And just like that, the ache eases a little.

He’s coming over.

Not for grand declarations. Not for answers. Just for tea. Just for this.

And that’s something.

Chapter Text

James
Monday, her house

I don’t even know how I got here. One moment I’m standing in the kitchen at home, staring at the half-drunk cup of tea Percy left behind before outside. The next, I’m in the car, turning into her street. Hands tight around the wheel.

It’s not like I expected anything. Not comfort. Not forgiveness. Not… warmth.

But she opens the door, and—God.

She’s barefoot, in leggings and a too-big jumper, and for a second it hits me: this is the same Ruby who once made me feel like I had a chance to be something else. Someone else. Before I drowned it all.

“Hi,” she says. Just that. Simple.

And I could collapse right there.

I manage a quiet “Hi” back, and she steps aside to let me in.

The warmth of the house wraps around me. There’s a kettle boiling. The lights are soft. Somewhere down the hallway, someone’s playing music low enough that I can’t make out the song.

She brings me into the little kitchen and pours the tea without asking how I take it. She just knows. Of course she does.

We sit. Elbows not touching. A full mug between us.

She starts talking about the reading list—Locke, Bentham, some miserable 18th-century drudgery—and I nod, listening but not really. Her voice is steady, soft. She’s trying.

And I feel it again—this weird pull in my chest like something’s about to break.

So I say it.

“I don’t know how to do any of this.”

She blinks. Her fingers tighten around her mug. I swallow.

“I don’t know how to grieve like… like a normal person. Or be okay in front of people. Or even say the right thing. But I do know this…” I pause, struggling for words that don’t sound pathetic. “Being here—it’s the first time in days I don’t feel like I’m drowning in it.”

Her eyes flicker up to mine. She doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t look away either.

I lower my voice. “I know I hurt you. And I’m not asking you to fix me. Or forget it. I just… I wanted to see you. That’s all.”

She nods slowly. Doesn’t speak. But she shifts her hand, just slightly, fingers moving closer to mine. Not touching. Just… near.

And somehow that’s enough.

We sit like that. Letting the quiet hold us. Letting the tea go cold.

Letting the moment be what it is—no more, no less.

God, I missed her.

Ruby
Tuesday night, in her room, phone to her ear

He’s still quiet. Still that strange, soft version of James that started showing up somewhere between the funeral and yesterday’s tea. The one who listens more than he speaks. Who doesn’t try to fill the silence with charm or sarcasm. Who just… stays.

And I find myself wanting to say something to fill the space—not because it’s awkward. Just because I miss how things used to be.

So I say, “I’m working the next few weekends.”

A pause. I hear the quiet rustle of sheets on his end. He’s lying down.

“Usually it’s the café in Gormsey,” I add, “but they’re doing a stall at the Pemwick castle’s Christmas fair. Near the ice rink. I’ll be there Saturdays and Sundays. Mostly evenings. Hot chocolate, coffee, mulled cider, muffins… the whole thing.”

There’s another pause. Then, “That sounds nice.” His voice is soft. Tired. But genuine.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “It is. Cold as hell, but kind of magical too. The lights in the park are beautiful this time of year.”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes.

So I push, just a little. “Maybe…” I hesitate, “Maybe if you feel up to it, you could come by one evening? After my shift. We could go for a walk.”

Now there’s a pause, but a different kind. Like he’s turning the idea over in his head and holding it like something fragile.

I’m quick to add, “No pressure. Just… if you want to.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that means more than words. Then:
“I’d like that.”

And even though it’s just four quiet words, I feel them settle somewhere deep inside me.

So I say, “Okay.” And this time, I smile into the phone. Small. But real.

James
Tuesday night. Alone in his room. Phone pressed to his ear. Ruby’s voice in his ear.

She says she’s working weekends. Just chatting, casual, like it’s nothing. Like we didn’t nearly burn to ash a few weeks ago. Like we’re just two people talking again. And for some reason that—God, that means everything right now.

Then she says it’s at the castle. Christmas fair. Ice rink. Muffins. I can picture it. Her with cold-reddened cheeks, steam curling up from paper cups, fairy lights overhead. Her in that oversized wool jumper she sometimes wears when she’s tutoring, hair tucked into her coat.

And just the thought of it makes my chest ache.

Because I don’t live there, not in that version of life. Not with lights and warmth and cider and her.

But then—
“Maybe if you feel up to it,” she says, careful, too careful, “you could come by one evening? After my shift. We could go for a walk.”

My breath catches.
Not because I’m shocked.
But because I realize how much I needed that.

Not an invitation to fix everything.
Not a sweeping moment of forgiveness.
Just… a walk. With her. After work.
Just a maybe.

And I can’t speak for a second. The lump in my throat is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

But I find the words.
“I’d like that.”

And I do. More than anything.
Because even if I don’t deserve her, even if I broke something I can’t unbreak—she’s still here. Not running. Not shutting the door.

I close my eyes.
And I swear I can feel something unfurl, just a little, in the dark.
Not hope. Not quite.
But maybe the start of it.

Alistair
Wednesday afternoon. James is pacing. Again. Which would be annoying if it weren’t also deeply hilarious.

“I mean, it’s not a date,” he says for the fourth time in ten minutes, “she just said—after work—we could go for a walk. That’s all.”

I lean back in the armchair, biting into an apple like I’m watching a West End performance. Which, in a way, I am.

“You do realize,” I say around a mouthful, “that Ruby Bell has never once invited me for an enchanted winter walk through the Christmas-lit castle grounds, right?”

He glares at me. “She wouldn’t. You’re—”

“Gay?”

“—you know what I mean.”

“I do. It’s just fun watching you try to logic your way out of the fact that this is so clearly a date.”

“It’s not.”

“Mate,” I say, holding up a finger, “you’re spiraling. Over what jacket to wear. You asked me if you should bring a second scarf in case she’s cold. That is peak boyfriend behavior.”

“I just don’t want her to be cold,” James mutters.

“Exactly. And do you know what non-date-walks look like? They look like ‘Hey, do you want to catch the last bus together?’ not ‘meet me in a fairy-lit park so we can drink warm drinks and possibly hold hands like a Hallmark movie.’”

He runs a hand through his hair. “She’s still not… She hasn’t said anything.”

“She doesn’t have to. She asked you.”

“I don’t want to push her.”

“You’re not. You’re showing up. You’re being gentle. You’re keeping your hands to yourself unless invited otherwise—which, by the way, is new and admirable for you.”

“Funny.”

“Only because it’s true.”

James lets out a sigh that sounds like the weight of the world just landed on his chest.

“I’m just scared I’ll mess it up again.”

I toss the apple core into the bin and stand, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“You might. But you’re not the guy who jumped into that pool anymore. You’re the guy who pulled her into your arms when she was drowning. So—maybe don’t fight what this is. Just go. Be with her. Drink the hot chocolate. See the lights. And for God’s sake—wear the nice coat.”

He stares at me.

Then: “The navy one?”

I grin. “Obviously the navy one.”

And just like that, he nods, the tiniest flicker of something nervous and hopeful passing through him.

Poor bastard’s head over heels.

But then again—so is she.

Ruby

It’s been almost four weeks, and I still haven’t had to face a single hallway or lunch table alone. Not once.

Cyril walks me to history like it’s a military operation. Alistair waits outside my double periods like he’s on security detail. When I go to the library, one of them always finds a reason to be there too.

My personal army. Stylish, sarcastic, completely unsubtle—and relentless.

At first, I thought it would fade. That after the whispers died down and people found something new to obsess over, they’d stop hovering. But no. They’re still here.

Today, though, they’re acting… weird.

It starts during lunch. Alistair’s poking at his pasta like it wronged him, and Cyril is stirring his coffee with way too much intensity. They keep glancing at each other. Then at me. Then back at each other. Like something’s about to explode.

I take a slow bite of my sandwich, narrow my eyes. “Alright. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” they say in sync, both way too fast.

“Uh-huh.” I raise an eyebrow. “Do I need to be worried?”

Alistair clears his throat. “We were just talking about the Christmas fair. The one at the castle. It’s supposed to be very romantic this year. You know—ice rink, mulled cider, twinkly lights…”

Cyril nods. “Exactly. The park looks like Narnia. If you liked someone, it’d be… the place to go.”

I blink. “Right. So… are you two going together then?”

Alistair chokes on his water. Cyril’s eyes widen so far I’m worried they’ll fall out of his head.

“What?” they both gasp.

“Well, you’re being very intense about the lighting situation.” I shrug, deadpan. “And you’ve clearly thought this through. Fairy lights, cider, romantic ambience. I just figured maybe you were a thing now.”

Alistair opens his mouth, then closes it. Cyril looks like he’s about to combust.

“We’re not—” Cyril starts.

“Then maybe you should be,” I say sweetly, and take another bite of my sandwich. “Since you’re both so keen on Christmas miracles.”

Alistair snorts. “Touché.”

“Ruthless,” Cyril mutters, shaking his head, but he’s smiling now.

And for a second, everything feels light. Like I can breathe again. Like I’m more than the girl who got her heart broken on the worst night of someone else’s life.

They don’t say anything more about James. They never do unless I bring him up first. But I see the look they exchange when they think I’m not watching.

And I know what they’re not saying.

They’re waiting too. For something to change. For something to begin again.

⸻

Saturday Night – Christmas Fair near the Castle

I’m still wearing my work apron when I find him leaning against the stall’s side panel, hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely too good for a man who’s only here to “walk a friend home.”

Neat coat. Wool scarf. Clean-shaven jaw, cheeks pink from the wind. And eyes—those eyes—that soften the second they find me.

“You’re early,” I say, not able to stop the way I smile.

“You’re late,” he replies, and smiles back like he hasn’t done that in weeks.

I hand off the last crate of muffin tins to Maya, who mouths go, before I even finish saying thank you. I unwrap my apron, shove it into my backpack, and try not to feel like I’m seventeen again and this might be the most important walk of my life.

“So,” I say, brushing my hair back from my wind-numb cheeks. “This is the famous enchanted park?”

James glances up at the trees wrapped in fairy lights, the lanterns hanging from wrought-iron arches, and the pop-up choir in Dickensian costumes singing carols in the distance.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” he says, a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Exactly your style then.”

He huffs a laugh. “And here I thought this was your domain. Cinnamon, folklore, and emotional damage.”

“I’m not the one who brought hot chocolate,” I say, pointing at the paper cups he’s just now pulling from a paper bag.

“One of these is yours. Extra cinnamon. No whipped cream. I remember.”

He remembers.

He hands it to me, and our fingers brush. For the briefest moment, it’s like the breath catches in both of us.

We start walking, slowly.

Kids run past us, laughing. Somewhere, sleigh bells jingle over a speaker.

We don’t talk much. It’s enough to walk side by side, each step a word neither of us is quite ready to say aloud.

I take a sip. “Okay. That’s really good.”

“I know.”

I glance up at him. “You always this smug on not-a-dates?”

“Only when I’m not trying to impress someone,” he says lightly. Then looks away, like he’s worried he said too much.

We walk a little farther before I stop near a low wall where the light hits the frost-dusted hedges just right.

“James,” I say quietly.

He turns toward me. He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

“I don’t know what this is.” I gesture between us. “But it’s something. And it’s not gone.”

He steps forward, not touching me, not pushing. Just closer.

“I know,” he says. “I feel it too.”

The air between us crackles. I think if he reached out, I’d let him. But he doesn’t. Maybe he knows I still need that to be my choice.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming.”

“Thank you,” he echoes, and there’s this soft ache in his voice, “for letting me.”

We don’t kiss. Not yet. But when we part—when I hug him, arms around his middle, cheek pressed against his coat—it feels like something begins again. Not all at once. But gently.

Like a first snow.

James
The hug. The moment. The everything.

She steps forward first. Just a little.

And then—arms around my waist, head against my chest like it belongs there. Like she remembers, too.

I freeze. Just for a second. Because this—
God. This is all I’ve wanted and everything I don’t deserve.

I breathe in. Her hair smells like cinnamon and cold air and a hint of coffee grounds from that stall she’s been working all day. And I can feel it—her. Right there. Solid and real and warm.

Carefully, slowly, I wrap my arms around her. Not tight. Not desperate. Just enough.

Enough to say, I’m here.
Enough to say, I miss you so much it physically hurts.
Enough to say, I would give anything to be someone you could trust again.

She lets me hold her. Just for a moment. No words. Just the soft hush of December around us and the weight of this fragile, borrowed peace.

If she’d look up, I think I might break.

But she doesn’t.

So I close my eyes, and let myself feel it—her heartbeat against my coat, the way she sighs like maybe this, too, is something she needed.

And then she pulls back. Gently.

And I let go.

Because the only way to ever earn this again…
Is not to take more than she’s willing to give.

Not this time.

“Good night, James,” she says softly.

And I manage—barely—to say, “Good night, Ruby.”

Then I stand there, in the cold, long after she’s gone.
Because my arms still remember.
And for the first time in weeks…
Hope feels like something I can almost hold.

——-

I can’t sleep that night. So I get up. And write that letter I probably should have written weeks ago.

Ruby,

I don’t know if I should be writing this. I don’t even know if I’ll send it. But tonight—after everything, after that walk, after you hugged me like it didn’t break you—I just needed to find the words I never managed to say aloud.

I’ve thought a lot about the night before it all fell apart. About us—before there was a before and after.

It wasn’t casual for me. I know how that must sound now. But it wasn’t. Not a mistake. Not a high, not a heat-of-the-moment thing. Not even close. You were everything I wanted. Are. I didn’t take you to bed—I let myself be there with you. Fully. Completely. Stupidly in love with you, even if I didn’t dare name it at the time.

And then I ruined it.

I don’t know what kind of apology even fits the scale of it—what I did after. What I didn’t say. What I let you walk into. I betrayed your trust, your courage, your firsts. I still can’t believe you let me be that person with you, and I became something else entirely when you needed the opposite.

You’ve never asked about it. Never said the words. But I know what you’re not saying. I know the timeline. I know I broke something sacred. You didn’t just give me your trust, Ruby. You gave me you. And I handed it all back in the worst way possible—wordless and messy and wrong.

There’s no excuse. There’s only this: it meant everything to me. Still does. I think I could spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it, and still fall short. But I’d try. I’d keep trying, if there’s even the faintest chance you’d let me.

But this letter isn’t to ask for that. I promised I wouldn’t beg.

This is just to say—I remember it all. Not the way people remember mistakes. But the way you remember something holy. Like light through stained glass. Fragile, warm, unrepeatable. I carry it with me every day. Along with the guilt of having ruined it.

Tonight, you let me hug you. And maybe that was nothing. Or maybe it was a thread of something. But I’ll hold it like it matters—because to me, it does.

If nothing else, I hope you know I never stopped seeing you as the person who changed me. Not into something perfect. But into someone who wants to try harder. Be better. Be worth something real.

Thank you for tonight. And for every kindness I didn’t earn.

Yours,
James

Chapter Text

Ruby

The envelope is pale, cream-coloured, thicker than anything else in the mail. My name and adress on it—in his handwriting. Slanted. Slower than usual. Like he wasn’t sure if he should write it at all.

There’s a second where I just stare. I know it’s from him. Who else would send me a letter?

I don’t open it right away. I don’t want to. I don’t not want to. I’m just… scared. Of what it might say. Of what it might do to me. I’m tired of crying over him. Tired of missing him. Tired of pretending I haven’t wanted to reach for his hand every time I saw him.

But I break the seal.

And unfold it.

And read.

And—

Oh.

Oh.

It’s quiet when it hits. Not a crash. Not a sob. Just a soft breaking, like breath fogging a mirror. My chest tightens. My throat closes. It’s like someone unlocked a door I hadn’t realised I’d bricked shut.

He knows.

He knows what I never asked. What I couldn’t bear to say. What I didn’t want to admit mattered so much.

I sit on the edge of my bed, the letter trembling in my hands. And all of it—that night, and the next day, and the silence and the ache and the way I’ve been holding myself together with schoolbooks and café shifts and fairy lights—it all comes surging up.

He knew what it meant to me. And he still wrote this.

It doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t erase the betrayal. But for the first time… I believe he sees it. Me. All of it.

And somehow, that’s worse. And better. And unbearable. And the tiniest bit healing, too.

I fold the letter back along the creases he made. Set it down beside me.

I don’t cry. Not yet.

But I press my fingers over my heart, where it hurts in a quiet, breaking way. And whisper—

James.

I don’t know if I’m whispering his name in pain or in prayer.

Maybe both.

⸻

I don’t hear the knock. Just the creak of the door and the familiar weight of my mum’s gaze before I even look up.

“Sweetheart?”

She’s holding a basket of laundry. Still in her apron. And she must see something on my face because she doesn’t step in, not yet—just watches.

I blink too fast. My throat’s already too tight.

“I’m fine,” I say. Which, of course, means I’m not.

Mum walks in. Quietly. Places the basket on the chair, then sits on the edge of my bed like she’s done a thousand times before. Like when I was little and had nightmares. Like when Dad’s chair first came into our house and my world fell apart.

Her hand touches my knee, warm and steady.

“Is it your dad?” she asks gently. “Or… something else?”

I shake my head. And then nod. And then shrug, because it’s everything and I don’t know where to begin. I look down at the letter. She sees it too.

She doesn’t ask to read it. Just smooths her hand over my blanket.

“It’s James,” I whisper. And once I say it, I can’t stop it: “He wrote me. A letter. And I don’t know what to do with it, Mum. I don’t know what it means. It’s not fair, how much it means.”

She waits a moment before saying anything. That’s how she is. She lets you speak, lets it breathe. And maybe she knows I’m not finished, because the rest tumbles out, shaky and uneven:

“He was horrible to me. And kind. And then horrible again. And I don’t know how to feel about him now. Because I still do, feel something. I’m just so angry. And sad. And—God, I’m so tired of pretending I’m not.”

And then the tears come.

Not the soft ones this time. The real ones. My whole chest caves. My mum moves closer and pulls me into a hug, my face pressed to her shoulder, her arms around me the way they used to be when scraped knees and forgotten lunches were the worst parts of my day.

She lets me cry. Doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t fix it.

When I finally pull back, blotchy and puffy and sniffing like an idiot, she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and says, “You’re allowed to miss someone, even if they hurt you.”

I nod, biting my lip.

“And you’re allowed to say no to someone, even if they’re sorry. Even if part of you still loves them.”

Another nod. But it breaks in the middle.

“But Ruby,” she says softly, “love isn’t just the aching kind. It’s not just the feeling of it. You have to be friends, too. Real friends. People who care about each other’s worst days. Because attraction fades, and hurt gets heavy. And even love—love alone—isn’t enough if you can’t trust the person holding it.”

I exhale. Long and shaky.

She squeezes my hand. “Maybe he’s trying now. Maybe… after what happened with his mum, after everything he lost, maybe he’s trying to be someone who cares better.”

“I think he is,” I say, my voice barely there.

And then, so quietly it’s almost lost in the space between us: “But I don’t know if I can let him back in. I don’t know if I should.”

She nods. “Then don’t. Not yet. Not until you’re sure. Take your time. If he’s worth it, he’ll wait. And if he’s really changed, you’ll know—not by what he says, but by what he does.”

I nod again, into the quiet.

Then she kisses my temple. Leaves me to think.

And I sit on the bed, alone again, the letter beside me, and wonder if people like James Beaufort—people who burn too fast and break too loud—can learn how to care gently.

I don’t know.

But I want to find out.

James

I didn’t call.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t even open our last thread, though I must’ve stared at her name on my screen half a dozen times before the sun came up.

The letter’s out there now. Nothing I can take back. Nothing I can soften.

And she didn’t call.

So I spend the night listening to the stupid ticking of the clock in my room and watching the patterns stretched across the ceiling.

I tell myself it’s fine. She doesn’t owe me anything.

But the next day, Alistair texts at noon.

“She’s not at school.”

Just that. Nothing else. But it feels like the floor drops beneath me.

I’m in the car before I’ve really thought it through. Not even sure what I think I’m doing. I don’t want to be the guy who shows up uninvited. She didn’t answer my letter, and maybe that’s all the answer I’ll get.

Still, I drive.

The roads blur. Trees look like shadows. I pass the old NHS clinic where I once saw her with her dad, and I remember how quiet she looked that day. Small. Tired. Unreachable.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing now—just seeing if she’s okay. If she’s there. If the lights are on. I don’t plan to ring the bell. I tell myself I’ll just drive past, maybe turn around at the end of the street.

But then—

She’s there. Her mum.

Standing at the garden gate in that familiar navy jumper with flour dust on the sleeves. Waving.

Shit.

I can’t just drive off now. So I roll the window down.

She smiles. “Nice of you to come, James.”

And that—that hits hard. Because I don’t deserve that smile. I don’t deserve any kindness from this family.

“She’s upstairs,” she adds, stepping closer. “Maybe you’d like some tea?”

I blink.

I shouldn’t. I should say no. I should leave.

But I nod.

I park. My hands are tight on the wheel for a second too long before I force them to let go.

Inside, the house is warm. There’s something in the oven. Apple-something, maybe. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and safety. I swallow hard.

“She’s… she’s okay?” I ask as her mum pours water into two mugs, not sure I want the answer.

She turns toward me. Places one hand on the counter and the other—gently, too gently—on mine.

“No,” she says. “She isn’t. But she just needed a day to catch her breath.”

I don’t know what to say. I nod again.

“She got your letter,” her mum adds. “It broke something open, I think. She didn’t say much. Just that she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.”

My throat is dry. The mug in my hands is too hot, and still I hold it like it’s a life raft.

Then she says, “Why don’t you take the tea up to her? See if she wants to talk?”

And for a second, I don’t move. Just stand there like an idiot, heart in my throat, stomach twisted.

“Are you sure?”

She squeezes my hand, just once. “She’ll let you know if she’s not.”

So I nod.

And I climb the stairs.
Carefully.
Like every step might shatter something if I’m not careful enough.

Ruby

I don’t hear him at first. The knock’s so gentle I barely register it over the static in my head. I’m just sitting there, curled up on my bed, legs under me, half a tea left on the nightstand. Cold by now. Useless.

Then again—softly.

“Ruby?”

I know the voice.

James.

Of course he came.

I don’t answer, not right away. Just stare at the crease in my bedsheet. My chest feels like it’s been packed full of sawdust. Heavy. Dry. Scratchy. Useless.

But I don’t tell him to go.

I say, “It’s open.”

The door creaks, and he steps in like he’s afraid he’ll break something. Or maybe I will. He’s holding two mugs, one of them clearly for me. Peppermint. My favourite. I can smell it from here.

His eyes find me and he hesitates.

I think I must look like a ghost. I feel like one.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, like the answer isn’t obvious.

I don’t nod. Don’t shake my head either. Just say, “Not really.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

He moves to the desk, sets the mugs down. Then looks around, like he’s waiting for permission to stay.

I gesture—barely—to the edge of the bed.

He sits. Not close. Just there.

And the silence hangs between us like fog.

Then I say it.

“I read your letter.”

His breath catches.

“You said you didn’t mean to hurt me,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. “But you did. You hurt me while saying you cared.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to defend himself. Good.

“You had me. All of me. And you made me feel like I meant something. And then the next day—”

I stop.

I can’t finish that sentence.

His voice is barely a whisper. “I know.”

“You don’t. Not really.”

I finally look at him. Really look.

He’s pale. Hollow. Like someone took a sponge and wrung him out. The shirt he’s wearing is neat, and he’s clean-shaven, but it’s all camouflage. He looks exhausted. Like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Maybe he hasn’t.

“You broke something I didn’t know I had,” I whisper. “And I don’t know how to put it back together. Or if I even can.”

He swallows hard.

“I don’t expect you to,” he says. “I just—I needed you to know that I’m trying. That I see it now. All of it. What I did. What it cost.”

My throat tightens. Something raw surges up, and I press my lips together, trying to breathe past it. My hands are trembling and I don’t know why this hurts more now that he’s being kind. Maybe because I know how much worse it felt when he wasn’t.

He’s quiet. Watching.

And then the first tear slips down my cheek.

I turn away, fast—angry at myself—but he’s already moving.

He doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t speak.

He just reaches out—gently, carefully—and pulls me in.

Not possessive. Not desperate. Just… steady.

And I let him.

My arms curl around his waist. My face finds the space between his collarbone and shoulder, and I crumble. I can’t stop it. I don’t even try. I cry quietly—shaking but silent—and he holds me like he never wants to let go.

One arm around my back. The other on the back of my head.

Not moving.

Not saying a word.

Just there.

And I don’t care if it’s complicated or stupid or dangerous or temporary.

Right now, it’s what I need.

Right now, it’s real.

James

God.
She’s crying.

She turns her face away like she doesn’t want me to see, but I do. Of course I do. One tear, then another. Quiet. Controlled. But her whole body trembles like something inside is finally giving way. Like something broke loose that’s been trying not to for weeks.

And I don’t even think.

I just move.

Slow. Careful. Like if I do this wrong, the whole room will collapse.

I reach for her—not to fix it, not to take anything back, just… to be here. To hold.
Because I can.
Because she lets me.

She lets me.

Her arms slide around me and my heart shatters in a way that feels almost clean.
Like maybe I deserve to feel this.

Her face is buried against my chest now, right where it belongs and yet… not at all.
This isn’t mine anymore.
Not really.
Not after what I did.
But she’s letting me hold her.
Like maybe this is a kind of mercy.

She’s so small in my arms. And I forgot what it’s like—what we were like—before everything cracked open. Before I lied by omission and acted like an entitled bastard and let everything inside me bleed out onto her.

I press my cheek to the top of her head.
Breathe her in.
Lavender shampoo and salt and a little of the peppermint from the tea.
Jesus.

I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
I just hold her.

And it’s the first time in weeks I feel steady.
Not okay.
Not forgiven.
But still.

Still enough to know this is the part I’ll remember forever—
Her shaking in my arms.
And letting me be the one to catch her.
Even after everything.

I close my eyes.
And all I can think is: Please, let this mean something.
Let this be the beginning of something I haven’t already destroyed.

Ruby

It takes a while.
Not forever, but longer than I meant to let it.
The tears slow, finally. My breathing evens out. My face feels raw, like I’ve been scraping it against the inside of my own chest.

And still—he’s just holding me.
Not trying to talk.
Not doing anything but being here. Warm. Solid. Steady.

And for a second, I forget everything.

Then I feel the smallest shift in his posture. His arms loosen. He’s pulling back.

He looks at me like I’m made of glass. The kind that already cracked once and might not survive another drop.
His voice is quiet when he speaks.
“I should go.”

I nod, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my jumper. I hate that he’s seen me like this. Hate it more that he was the one who made me cry in the first place.
And yet, somehow, I don’t regret that he came.

Then he hesitates. Lingers by the door like there’s more he wants to say.

“Would you…” he starts, then rubs the back of his neck like it physically hurts to get the words out. “Would you want to go for a walk tomorrow? Just an hour. Nothing complicated. I can pick you up after school.”

A walk.
Outside.
Just an hour.
Simple.
Small.

Still, it feels like something delicate and tentative settling between us.

I nod. “Okay.”

His eyes flicker—something almost like relief behind them. Then he leans in, slow, careful.

And kisses my forehead.

It’s not romantic.
Not exactly.
But it is kind. Gentle. Familiar.
Like he’s saying thank you without the words.

Then he’s gone.

And I sit there on the bed, eyes burning, forehead tingling, and heart too full of things I still don’t know how to name.

James

I spot her before she sees me.

She’s coming down the steps outside the school building, wrapped in her grey coat, hair pulled back, cheeks pink from the cold. The light catches in her dark hair like it always does—soft gold weaving through shadow.

Second week of December. The sky is blue, crisp and cold, the kind of winter sun that doesn’t actually warm you, but makes everything look better. Cleaner. Less heavy.

I step out of the car just as she looks up and spots me.

There’s a flicker of something across her face—surprise, maybe. Then a half-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. But it’s still something. It’s more than I deserve.

“Hey,” I say, voice low, careful.
“Hi.”

I open the passenger door so she can drop her bag. She murmurs thanks. And then we’re off—just two people walking toward the park, not saying anything at first.

But it’s not awkward. Not anymore. There’s a kind of quiet between us now that I don’t hate. Like we’ve both been through too much to pretend anymore.

She breaks the silence first. “We started final prep for the gala this week.”

“Gala?” I ask, glancing at her.

“Christmas gala,” she says. “It’s a school event—everyone goes, unless they’ve already ditched the term or gone skiing or something.”

“Right. I forgot that was a thing.”

She huffs. “That’s because you never paid attention to any event not involving bribery, fireworks or questionable dancing.”

“I’m a reformed man now,” I say, hands in my coat pockets. “Pure and scholarly.”

She shoots me a look. “You haven’t been at school in a month.”

I grin faintly. “Details.”

We walk a little farther, gravel crunching under our boots, the sun cutting long shadows through the trees.

“I’ll be back in January,” I say eventually, my voice quieter. “I think I need that. Structure. Something to do.”

She nods, thoughtful. “That’s good.”

I glance at her sideways. “You’ve been doing most of your classes with Al and Cyril?”

“Yeah. It kind of happened naturally. Same track, same classes. They’ve been…” She pauses. “Really good to me.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I told them to be.”

She smiles—just a little—but it’s warmer than before. Then she goes quiet again. I think she’s waiting.

So I tell her.

“I’m not sleeping well,” I admit. “The house feels empty and loud at the same time. My father’s in London most days—he says he’s working, but I think he just can’t stand being home. Not with all of it.”

Her gaze is soft now, and I look away from it.

“I barely see Lydia,” I add. “She’s mostly at Cyril’s, which I get. She doesn’t want to be there either.”

A pause.

“She doesn’t really talk to me much. Not about my mum. Not about what happened.”

I kick at a patch of ice, watching it crack.

“She’s still pissed at me,” I say, voice low. “About that night. The pool. The aftermath.”

Ruby’s steps slow beside me.

I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look up.

“She told me she wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t fix it,” I say. “With you.”

There’s a long silence.

And then Ruby says quietly, “Maybe she’s not as pissed as you think.”

I glance at her.

She shrugs. “She’s letting you see me, isn’t she?”

I huff a breath. “She’s not in charge of you.”

She snorts. “She thinks she is.”

And for a second, it feels easy again. Familiar.

We keep walking. Side by side. Not touching, not rushing. Just existing in the same space again.

Maybe that’s all this is right now.

And maybe—for now—it’s enough.

Ruby

He’s so open today.

Not in the dramatic, spilling-his-guts, demanding-the-world way he used to be when things spun out of control. No. This is different. He’s quieter now. Not performing. Not hiding either.

Just honest.

He tells me about the house, how it’s loud and empty at the same time. How his father’s never around. How Lydia is, but isn’t. How sleep doesn’t come easy. How grief doesn’t come at all sometimes, and then all at once.

And he’s not trying to make me fix any of it.

We’re just walking. His hands buried in his coat pockets. Mine wrapped around a hot chocolate I picked up from the stall near the gates. The wind is sharp on our cheeks but the sun is still out, weak but golden.

And this? This feels like breathing again.

When we turn the corner and the school parking lot comes into view again, I don’t want it to end yet. Not really. But it has to. Life doesn’t pause just because something finally feels okay.

I stop walking.

He turns back toward me, brows raising a little like he’s unsure—like maybe I’ve changed my mind about something.

And before I can overthink it, I take one step closer and wrap my arms around him.

Not tight. Not desperate. Just enough.

His chest rises, surprised, and then I feel him exhale, long and warm against my hair. One hand lifts and rests on my back, careful, steady. He doesn’t pull me in. Doesn’t need to. I’m here. That’s the point.

“I really needed this afternoon,” I say quietly, my cheek against the fabric of his coat. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just stands there with me.

“I like it,” I add, softer. “When we talk.”

His hand presses a little more firmly against my back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

And for a moment, I let myself believe we could have more of this. Not everything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But this? This closeness, without weight or fear or demand?

This I can hold.

Just a little while longer.

James

That kiss on her forehead.
It’s becoming her thing.
Or—no. Not hers. Mine.

It’s the only thing I’m allowed to have.

She lets me walk her to the door. Lets me stand there, close enough to see how the winter sun catches in the ends of her hair. Lets me say something soft, something not too much. And then she stands still, like she’s offering it to me—this tiny gesture, this fragile thread—and I press my lips to her forehead.

Careful. Reverent.
Like it’s sacred.
Because it is.

God, how I wish I could do more.

Hold her hand during our walks.
Tuck her hair behind her ear when the wind blows it into her eyes.
Wrap my arm around her shoulders when she shivers.
Kiss her goodnight—not on her forehead, not like this—but properly. Real.

But I know better.
Even if she ever lets me back in, I’m months away from anything like that.

That’s what I ruined.
After Oxford.
After her first time.

She gave me everything. Freely. Trusting.
She believed I had changed.
Believed I’d be worth it.
And I—

I betrayed her trust within twenty-four goddamn hours.

No excuses.
Not my grief.
Not my guilt.
Not my past.

Nothing makes it less cruel.

She didn’t deserve any of it.
And now she’s letting me walk beside her again—tentatively, carefully—and I’d cut my own heart open before I’d risk losing that again.

So I go home.
Lie in bed.
And cry.

Not the loud kind. Just quiet. Hot tears sliding down my cheeks, into the pillow.

It’s the first night in a long time it happens.
And I let it.
Because maybe I’m finally starting to feel the full weight of everything I broke.

I don’t know when I fall asleep. But I know what I dream.

It’s summer.
We’re in a park.

She’s lying beside me on a picnic blanket, tucked into my arm like she’s always belonged there. Bare legs, faded denim skirt, hair braided loosely down her back. Her head rests on my chest, and she’s reading to me from some book I can’t quite catch the title of.

Her voice is soft. Familiar.

And then—she stops.
Turns her head.

And kisses me.
Gently.
Sweetly.
Like there was never a question.

Like she loves me.

And in that dream, I don’t pull away.
I don’t ruin it.
I don’t break her heart.

I just kiss her back.

And everything is whole.

Chapter Text

Alistair

It’s a Monday. Cold. Grey. Damp. I’m standing in front of the Beaufort gates, glaring up at the mansion like it personally insulted me. Which, to be fair, it probably has. The whole place looks like grief wrapped in limestone.

I texted James this morning.
Got a one-word answer. Again.
“Okay.”

Last week it was “thanks.”
The week before that, “not bad.”

He never picks up the offer to meet. Never suggests we grab a coffee or walk or… hell, breathe the same air.
And yeah, I know he talks to Ruby every night. I’m not jealous. Honestly, I could kiss her for being the person he lets in. For showing up for him in a way that counts.

But today, I’m not letting him off the hook.

So I drive over.
Ring the bell.
Wait.

The butler—God, they still have a fucking butler—leads me through a series of cold hallways to James’s wing. He knocks. Opens the door. And I step inside.

James is on the couch. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Barefoot.

And I swear—
I freeze.

Because he looks awful.

Pale, like he hasn’t seen the sun in weeks.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Cheekbones sharp again in a way they haven’t been since that one term when things got really bad.

He tries to stand up, casual. Shrugs.
“Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah, figured if I waited for an invitation, I’d be dead before it arrived.”

A ghost of a smile. That’s all.

I sit in the armchair across from him.
He collapses back onto the couch. Doesn’t even pretend to be fine.
Just runs a hand over his face and sighs.

“I don’t know what to do with any of it, Al.”

He doesn’t mean me. Doesn’t mean this visit.
He means everything.

Grief.
Life.
Ruby.
All of it.

I wait. Let the silence stretch. Because James only talks if you let the silence get uncomfortable enough.

And then—
“I miss Ruby more than I miss my mum,” he says. Voice raw.

My stomach drops.

He looks up at me, something brittle and defiant in his expression. “I know that makes me a piece of shit.”

“No,” I say carefully. “It makes you honest.”

“She wasn’t even here, Al,” he says. “Like… she didn’t live here. Not really. She was always in London. Always doing something. There’s no coat in the hallway that was hers. No mug she used. No shampoo bottle in the upstairs bathroom. Nothing.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might have answers.

“I don’t miss her being here. Because she wasn’t. But I miss the idea of her. I miss thinking she’s somewhere.”

That does me in.
Because that—
Yeah.
That’s the kind of grief no one prepares you for.

“And Ruby…” he trails off. Rubs his thumb against the inside of his palm. “I ruined everything. And she’s still showing up. Talking to me. Meeting me. Drinking coffee in my car like we’re…” he shakes his head. “She doesn’t owe me that. But it’s what’s keeping me together right now. Her. Just her.”

I nod. Let him breathe through that.

“You should’ve said something,” I tell him eventually. “You’re not alone. I know Ruby’s there, but so am I. You don’t have to go full recluse.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to talk. Still don’t, most days.”

“Tough. I’m here.”

He snorts. “Dickhead.”

“Love you too.”

And for the first time since I walked in, there’s a flicker of something real in his eyes. Not hope. Not yet.
But something close.

Maybe we’ll get there.

Ruby

It’s Tuesday. We’re walking the long path behind the chapel, the one that winds through the frosty trees and leads down toward the meadows. The grass is still damp from yesterday’s rain, but the sky is clear today. Pale blue, winter-bright. It’s almost peaceful.

James is quieter than usual—at least for the first ten minutes. Not withdrawn, just… thoughtful. We talk about school, exams, the Christmas fair. He asks what music we’re planning for the gala, and I tell him there’s an embarrassingly long debate happening over whether or not All I Want for Christmas Is You is too cliché to end the night.

(We’re keeping it, obviously.)

Then—after a beat of silence—he says, “Would it be okay if I came to the gala?”

I stop, just slightly. Not visibly, but enough that I feel my breath shift.

He goes on, slow and careful. “Lydia asked if we could go. And I’d… like to do her that favour. But I don’t want to ruin the evening for you.”

He’s looking at me then, really looking. Like the answer matters. And something flutters in my chest, not panic, not sadness—just that flicker of something I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.

Excitement.

But it’s immediately followed by a tightening in my throat. Because people will talk. They’ll watch. If we interact. Or if we don’t.
And Elaine will be there. Of course she will.

He sees it on my face. Of course he does. James always sees too much.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be that evening,” he says gently. “Far away from you or close. Coming with you, or just… being there. I will not be with Elaine. And if it helps, I can drive you home. So your parents don’t need to come pick you up.”

I nod, then hesitate.

“She’s kind of bitchy with me, you know. Elaine.” My voice comes out smaller than I expect. “Not openly. Just… sharp smiles. Comments.”

He exhales, jaw tightening. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for her. And for me. I didn’t just make you sad. I made everything harder. For you. At school. With your friends. With—everything.”

And maybe that should make me sad again. But I feel strangely calm.

Because he knows.

“It’s not just that,” I say. Quiet. Testing. “You also gave me something to look forward to.”

He looks confused for a second, and I clarify—still shy. “These walks. Our calls. Just hearing your voice some days.”

His eyes widen slightly. A stunned softness blooming there.

I feel it before it happens—his hand, brushing gently against mine, like a question. A hope.

So I answer it. I slip my fingers between his.

Warm.

Steady.

Right.

We don’t say anything for a while after that. Just walk. Holding hands. The sun low in the sky, the air cold, the world quiet except for the gravel under our boots and the hum of something new—something tentative and beautiful—between us.

James

She slips her hand into mine.

Just like that.

No drama. No fanfare. No warning. Just the quiet weight of her fingers weaving through mine like it’s always been this simple.

And for a moment—God—I forget how to breathe.

It’s like everything inside me goes still, the way snow settles after a storm. No more questions. No more rehearsed apologies or careful silences. Just this. Her. Choosing to hold my hand.

I don’t even dare look at her right away. I don’t want to startle the moment. I just tighten my grip, gently, like I’m trying to say thank you without ruining it with words.

Because this is more than touch. More than fingers brushing in the cold.
This is trust. Again. After everything.

She said I gave her something to look forward to.
She has no idea.
She has no idea what she’s been to me—these walks, these talks, that small light on the other end of the line each night when everything else went dark.

And now this.

I think if I speak, I’ll choke.
So I don’t.

But I feel it rise in my chest—the ache, the hope, the want. Not just for her body, though God knows that too. But for this. For us. For the chance to do this right, slowly, gently, and finally deserve it.

I could cry, if I let myself.
But I won’t. Not now. Not while she’s still walking beside me, hand in mine.

I look down at our joined hands, her smaller fingers tucked between mine, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe—
Maybe I haven’t lost everything.
Maybe not forever.
Maybe some things are still worth hoping for.

Ruby

We’re sitting on a bench, the one near the field where the trees are thin and the wind always gets in under your coat. But I don’t feel cold.

I feel his hand trembling.

At first, I pretend not to notice. Give him space to breathe, to blink, to steel himself again. But when I glance sideways, his other hand is covering his face, his shoulders pulled in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The way you do when you’re falling apart and don’t want anyone to see.

And my heart just… breaks.

He sniffles. Fails to hide it. Wipes at his face too fast. And then—

“This isn’t— it’s not you. I’m sorry, it’s not you—”

His voice is rough and quiet and cracking all at once.

“You’ve been so… gracious. And generous. You’re so kind to me and I—I didn’t even say a word to anyone today. You’re the first. And now I’m just—fuck—just crying and ruining this and—”

“You’re not ruining anything,” I say, cutting him off, soft but firm.
I turn toward him, keeping our hands joined.
“You’re allowed to grieve, James.”

He shakes his head, like that’s the one thing he isn’t allowed.

“It’s painful,” I say again.
“And I’m your friend. First and foremost. That’s not in question.”

He draws in a sharp breath. Doesn’t speak.
Eyes wet. Raw.

“And I’m assuming it’s not my hand that’s making you cry,” I add, trying—trying—to break the tension with a nudge of humor.

He lets out a sound. A broken kind of huff. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
But it works.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, voice still shaking.

“And you’re crying in a park,” I reply, shifting closer.

And then I pull him in. Arms around him. Tight. Not careful.
Because sometimes you don’t need to be delicate with grief.
Sometimes you need to be held like you won’t break.

His head tucks into the crook of my neck, his breath warm and shaky against my collar. His body stiff at first, like he doesn’t believe this is okay. But then—slowly—he melts into me. Lets go. Breathes.

I stroke the back of his neck with my fingertips and say,

“A good cry does help, you know.”

He doesn’t answer, not with words.
But he stays. And that’s enough.

James

I’m falling apart.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly crumbling from the inside out.

I didn’t want this. Didn’t want her to see this.
Didn’t want her—of all people—to have to hold me together when I can’t stop shaking.

But I can’t stop shaking.

I don’t even know why today is so bad. It’s not the date. Nothing happened.
No anniversary. No reminder.
Just the weight of it. Heavy in my chest. Pressing on my ribs all day like I forgot how to breathe.
And now here I am, trying to keep it together while Ruby is sitting beside me like some impossibly steady lighthouse in this sea of mess.

I try to explain. That it’s not her. That I’m sorry. That I’m ruining this.
But even my apologies sound pathetic. Like I’m begging her not to flinch.

And she doesn’t.

She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t get awkward or anxious or fill the silence with empty noise.

“You’re allowed to grieve,” she says.

And I think—how is it that simple?
How can she say it like it’s a given?

Then she pulls me in. And that’s it.
No hesitation. No arms-length politeness.

Just Ruby. Wrapping herself around me like she means it.

I freeze. For a second. Maybe two.
Because I don’t know what to do with softness anymore.
I don’t trust it. Don’t trust myself.

But then I breathe her in.

Warm coat. Shampoo. Her.
And my whole body just lets go.

The kind of letting go that comes with a price.
Tears slipping out before I can stop them. A choked breath. My fingers gripping the edge of her coat like I’ll fall through the earth if I don’t hold on to something.

So I hold on to her.

She’s quiet.
No lecture. No performance.
Just her palm on the back of my neck, stroking gently. The way no one’s done since—
God, maybe since Mum. Not even Lydia. Not since we were kids.

And it’s so fucking embarrassing.
But also… not.

Because this is Ruby.
And she’s not holding me because she pities me or because she wants something.
She’s holding me because she sees me.
Not the mess I’ve made. Not Beaufort.
Just… James.

And somehow, that makes it worse. And better. At the same time.

I don’t know how long we stay like that.

But by the time I lift my head, my breathing’s steadier. My hands have unclenched. The sharp edge of panic dulled into something survivable.

I still feel cracked open. Raw and hollow.

But not alone.

Not anymore.

Ruby

He doesn’t say it like a big ask.
Just slips it in, almost like he’s still thinking it through as he’s saying it.

“I found two tickets on my mum’s desk this morning. For a concert. Royal Albert Hall. This Friday. Christmas jazz.”

I glance over, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are ahead, fixed on the path.

“I went into her study. First time since—yeah. Just sat there. Thought I should maybe… do something with the space. Make it less haunted.”

I stay quiet. Let him get there on his own.

“I guess she planned to go with Lydia.”

“I’m going either way,” he adds, his voice softer now. “Figured I’d go. Because it’s the kind of thing she loved. And because I think… I think it might feel good. Or horrible. Not sure yet.”

I swallow, watching the way his breath clouds in the cold.

“I asked Lydia, but she doesn’t want to. Said it’d just make her cry. So I thought maybe—maybe you’d want to come? With me.”

I stop walking. Just for a second.

He notices. Finally looks at me.

His eyes are cautious. Not desperate. Just hopeful enough that it knocks something loose in me.

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “If it’s not your thing or it’s too short notice or your parents don’t want you out that late—”

“James.”

He shuts up.

“I’d like that.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he didn’t expect me to say yes that easily.

“I mean,” I continue, “jazz at the Royal Albert Hall? That sounds pretty tame and cultured. I think my parents can live with that.”

A flicker of relief runs through him, though he tries to hide it behind a small smile.

“And… your mum had good taste. So I trust her.”

He laughs. Quietly.

And for a moment, something shifts. Like the tension between us—always there, always careful—sits down for a breath.

“Thanks,” he says.

Just that.

But his voice is warmer now.

I glance away before he can see how much that thank-you does to me.
How it lands somewhere deep in my chest.

He asked me. Not as a test. Not as a grand gesture.
Just because he found something, and it hurt, and he thought maybe I could make it hurt a little less.

And I think—maybe I can.
Not by fixing anything.

Just by being there.

James
Tuesday night. Lights off. Eyes open. Staring at the ceiling that has nothing to say back.

I didn’t ask her on a date.
Not really. Not intentionally.

I asked Lydia first. Because that would’ve made sense, wouldn’t it? She’s my sister. Our mum’s daughter. It was her name on the desk calendar next to the tickets, written in that delicate, looping cursive that made everything look lighter than it was.

But Lydia said no.
Said she’d cry the whole time and ruin it for both of us. And I believed her. Because she probably would’ve.

And then—Ruby.

It just came to me.
That maybe this was something she’d actually enjoy. The kind of evening that doesn’t demand too much talking, doesn’t press too close. Just music. Warm lighting. Something seasonal. Civilized. The kind of thing that might let both of us breathe a little.

So I asked her.
Not because I thought she’d say yes.
But because I hoped she might want to.

And she did.

She said yes, and now I’m lying here like a complete idiot, overthinking what that means.
Not in a grand, dramatic way.
Just in that soft, dangerous way that lets the hope crawl in through the cracks.

Because now I’m thinking:
Percy could drive us.
We could leave early enough for dinner at the Elgar Room—something lowkey but nice.
Intermission desserts.
The ride home, maybe late-night radio and quiet conversation in the backseat. Her hand, maybe, just maybe, still in mine.

It sounds like a date.
Even if it wasn’t meant to be.

I didn’t ask in a dating sense.
But maybe—maybe part of me hoped it could become one.
Not now. Not yet.
But something gentle. A beginning. In the smallest possible way.

Something festive, in a year that’s been anything but.

Even if most of her unhappiness was caused by me.

God.

I turn onto my side, clutching the pillow tighter, pressing my forehead into it like that might make the thoughts stop spinning.

I just want to get it right this time.
No expectations.
No missteps.
Just one good, quiet night where I don’t fuck it all up.

Please, let me not fuck this up.

Chapter Text

Ruby
Thursday. Lunch break. Overcooked pasta, a pile of notes I haven’t touched, and Alistair scrolling through his phone with one hand and drinking a Coke with the other like he’s got nothing better to do. Which, to be fair, maybe he doesn’t.

I wait until Cyril’s gone to get a muffin.
Wait until the noise around us dips just slightly—people pushing trays, chairs scraping. It’s not exactly a private moment, but it’s close enough.

I glance at Al, my voice low.
“Hey… what would you wear to a Christmas jazz concert at the Royal Albert Hall?”

His head doesn’t snap up, but he still stills.
Phone mid-scroll. Eyes narrowing the tiniest bit.

And in that exact second I know: he knows.
Exactly what I’m asking.
Exactly who I’m going with.

But to his credit, he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk or raise an eyebrow or ask Oh, and who’s taking you to that?
He just puts his phone down and nods, like this is any other normal question I might ask.

“Evening concert?”

I nod.

“Dress,” he says. “Something wintery. Velvet works. Or satin, if it’s dark. Midi-length or longer. Heels if you’re comfortable, boots if you’re not. Wool coat, gloves maybe. It gets cold by the river.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “That’s very specific.”

He shrugs. “You asked.”

“Not too formal?”

“Not a ball. But… it’s the Albert Hall, Ruby. It’s not casual either.” He pauses. “You’ll want to feel like you belong there. Because you do.”

I nod again, slower this time.
He could’ve made a joke. A dozen. He didn’t.

I sip my water.

And he, very quietly, picks up his phone again and starts scrolling like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just ask for outfit advice because James Beaufort asked me to something that might be—might be—a date.

He doesn’t say anything else.
Doesn’t need to.

And I love him a little bit for that.

James

Percy’s waiting in the car, heater running, jazz already humming low through the speakers like he’s trying to set the tone. God, I love that man.

I knock twice and step into the Bells’ house the way I always do now—awkward, careful, like I’m still waiting for the day they tell me I’ve overstayed whatever fragile goodwill I’ve been given.

Her mum greets me with that same calm warmth she always does. It still floors me sometimes—how kind she is. How easy she makes it to forget, for just a second, all the ways I’ve wrecked things.

“Good evening, James.”

“Hi,” I say. “We’ll be back after the concert. Midnight, maybe a bit later. Percy’s driving us.”

She smiles at that. Nods. “I’m glad you and Ruby get to have a night in the city. What a beautiful way to remember your mum.”

And just like that, I feel it—that sting, sharp and sudden, deep in the chest. I swallow against it.

“Yeah,” I say, voice thin. “Yeah, I… I hope so.”

And then she’s there.

She steps into the room like a sigh, quiet and soft, and for a moment the only thing I can do is stand still and look.

Dark blue velvet. Midi-length. Long sleeves. Her hair curled just enough to look like it happened by accident, even though I know it didn’t. There’s a line of silver at her wrist—maybe a bracelet, maybe just a trick of the light. But mostly it’s her. Her, in that dress, and I forget how to breathe.

Actually, no. I don’t forget. I just don’t remember fast enough.

My lungs stutter, like they’re waiting for permission.

“Hi,” she says, a little shy, her hand curling around the strap of her bag.

Jesus Christ.

“Hi,” I manage.

She blushes. I think I might too. Or maybe my blood is just surging too fast to track.

“You look…” I start. Stop. Try again. “You look really lovely.”

It’s not enough. Not remotely. But it’s all I can get out without sounding like an idiot.

Her smile—small, private—does something to my ribcage.

I offer my arm. She takes it. And then we’re walking toward the car, her coat swishing gently against her dress, and my pulse a mess of noise in my ears.

It’s not a date, I tell myself.

Except it is.

Not by plan.

But maybe by hope.

Ruby

I’ve never been here before.

The Royal Albert Hall feels like something out of a storybook, all gold and red and velvet and history. It’s beautiful. And I don’t just mean aesthetically. I mean the feeling. That hush that falls when the lights dim. That quiet anticipation, that unspoken agreement between everyone present—we’re here to listen, to feel, to be moved.

Dinner beforehand is already magic. The Elgar Room is all soft light and deep colours, the sort of place that makes you sit up straighter just by walking in. The waiter brings our drinks in wide glasses, garnished with little edible flowers, delicate and surreal. I almost laugh when James raises an eyebrow at his—some kind of citrusy thing with a floating violet—and then drinks it without complaint.

We share a meal like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Easy conversation. Quiet jokes. A soft buzz in my chest that I can’t quite name. He’s different like this—calm, present, steady. And maybe I’m different too.

He tells me about his mum. About how she liked these kinds of concerts. He doesn’t say much, just enough for me to know this matters.

When we move toward the hall, I feel it again—that sense of stepping into something bigger than me. The venue is… breathtaking. Everything glows. Everything hums.

Our seats are in a box—a box—like something from a period drama. There’s a little table between us with a card listing the drink menu and dessert options. I can hardly believe it.

The other seats in our box are taken by what looks like a family. Grandparents. Two teenage kids. Maybe 13, 14? Their parents. All of them smile politely when we walk in and then promptly ignore us, which is perfect. I don’t want to be seen tonight. I just want to be.

And then the music begins.

At first, it’s jazzy and playful, a kind of reimagined sleigh ride that makes the teenagers in the row behind us laugh under their breath. Then slower. Deeper. A piano solo that dips into minor chords, holds them there. And then climbs out again. James leans forward slightly when the strings come in. He’s listening the way some people pray. I glance at his hand, resting loosely on his knee. My heart is louder than it should be.

At intermission, they bring us our dessert. Mine is something chocolatey with gold dust, his is warm pear with vanilla cream. We share both. He doesn’t blink twice when I steal his spoon. He smiles at me like it’s normal.

And then comes Silent Night.

Something about it hits different. Maybe it’s the arrangement—low and slow, the brass softer than usual, the vocalist singing with that kind of ache in her voice that feels too close to truth. Maybe it’s this year. Everything this year. The losses. The wreckage. The rebuilding.

Maybe it’s him.

He hasn’t said much since the second half began. Just that small smile when I handed him his coffee. But I can feel it. He’s not fine. Not really. And neither am I.

But he’s here. And I’m here. And this music is wrapping around us like the warmest, saddest blanket.

My fingers are cold.

I look at his hand again. Open. Still. Waiting, maybe.

So I slip mine into his.

And he squeezes it.

Just once.

And it’s enough to make me close my eyes and breathe like I haven’t all week.

James

I made myself a promise before this night began.

Don’t ask for anything.
Don’t reach for something she’s not offering.
Don’t label it.
Don’t lean in.
Don’t hope.

Just… be with her. If she lets you.

And she did.

Dinner was—God, she looked like something I dreamed once. That blue velvet dress. Her hair down. Her voice soft and warm and full of curiosity. I could’ve sat there for hours, listening to her describe the music program, or the weird Christmas facts Alistair told her during lunch. I didn’t even care that I barely touched the main course. I was full from the sound of her laughter.

And then the concert.

It’s everything my mum used to love. Playful at first. Nostalgic. Almost unbearably sweet. But then it shifts—somewhere around the halfway point, when the cellos begin to hum and the room breathes in sync.

I think about my mum.
About the last Christmas we had with her.
About the box of decorations she never opened last year.
About how this year, I was the one to light the candles.

And then—Silent Night.

It’s soft and aching.
A lullaby for the broken-hearted.
I’ve always hated it, actually.
But tonight… it’s different.

And then her hand—warm and uncertain—slips into mine.

I freeze.

Not enough for her to notice.
Just… enough to feel the moment catch.

And then I exhale.

Because this—
Her fingers lacing through mine, her thumb brushing over my knuckles like it’s the most natural thing in the world—
This is the moment I know.

She’s trying.

After everything I shattered, she’s still here, beside me.
Letting me be close again.
No promises. No guarantees.
But something is rebuilding in the quiet.

And I’m not letting go of her hand.

Not now.
Not after.
Not when we walk outside into the crisp London night, the lights twinkling above us like the world is trying to offer one good thing.
Not when we talk about the music in the car, debating whether the trumpet solo in “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” was a bit too sentimental or exactly right.

She’s warm beside me. Soft.

And when she leans her head against my shoulder, just before we turn off the motorway—barely a whisper—she says,
“Thank you for today.”

I close my eyes for a second, breathing her in.

Don’t ask for more.
Just hold her hand.
Be someone who deserves it.
Wait.

As long as it takes.

Chapter Text

Alistair
Three days before the gala

The moment I hear Lydia say it, I freeze mid-text.

“Oh, by the way, James said he’ll come to the gala.”

My thumbs hover over the screen.

He’s coming.

He’s actually coming.

And don’t get me wrong—I’m glad. Really.
But also—

Oh, bloody hell.

I don’t even reply to Lydia. I just send one text to James:

“Come over. Tonight.”

He doesn’t ask why. Just sends back:

“Okay.”

Which is both impressive and deeply suspicious. If he’s not arguing, something’s off. He’s probably already spiralling.

When he arrives—hair still damp from a shower, sweatshirt a size too big, looking slightly more like a student than a ghost—I just hand him a cup of tea. He frowns.

“Since when are you the housewife?”

“Since you started looking like a Brontë heroine who’s wandered into a thunderstorm,” I say, sitting down. “Now. We need to talk about the gala.”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

So I continue. “You can’t just show up after six bloody weeks away from school and expect people not to stare. Especially not when you’ve been radio silent and then turn up at the social event of the season.”

“I’m not doing it for them,” he mutters.

“I know you’re not.” I sip my tea. “But they’ll still be there. Watching. Whispering. Coming up with their own little stories.”

He flinches.

“So,” I say, gentler now, “you and Ruby need to decide what you are, for that evening. Doesn’t have to be labeled, doesn’t have to be dramatic—but people will notice every single thing. Where you sit. Who you stand with. Whether you walk in together. Whether you talk at all.”

James is silent, staring into his mug like he’s reading tea leaves.

“You’ve been seeing her,” I add. “Walking with her. Driving her home. Everyone who matters knows. You’re not exactly discreet.”

“She deserves better than secrecy.”

“Then don’t give her secrecy,” I say, simple as that. “But don’t throw her into the spotlight either. Decide. Together. You show up with me and Lydia? You give her cover if she needs it. Or—if she wants you there—stand beside her.”

He finally looks up.

“And if she doesn’t know what she wants yet?”

“Then follow her lead,” I say. “You don’t get to steer this, James. You had the wheel once. You crashed the bloody car.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh—or a groan. Can’t tell.

I lean back, less confrontational now. “Look. I want you there. She probably does too. But don’t pretend this is just a normal school event. It’s not. Everyone’s going to be watching for the tension.”

He nods slowly. “So… damage control?”

“No,” I say. “Clarity. You can survive anything if you’re both on the same page. Just make sure you’re not making her navigate it alone.”

He nods again. Quieter this time. “Yeah. Okay.”

And for the first time all evening, I believe him.

James
Two days before the gala

I hate that I have to bring it up.
That this even needs to be a conversation. That something as simple as being around her in public has to be handled like diplomacy between warring states.

But Alistair was right. Of course he bloody was.

So now we’re sitting in her garden, winter afternoon light slanting through the branches, and I’m picking at the label on my bottle of water because if I look at her while I say this, I’ll lose my nerve.

“So,” I start, and immediately regret it.
Ruby glances at me, wary.

“So?”

“About the gala,” I say. “I just—Alistair said people will… talk. Stare. Wonder. About you. About me. About us.”

She nods, slow and quiet. “Yeah. They will.”

I swallow. “I didn’t want to bring it up like this, but I need to know what you want. How you want it to look. I’ll do whatever makes it easiest for you.”

She pauses. Looks away, toward the hedge. Then back at me.

“I don’t want a production,” she says. “No holding hands. No whispers. No scenes.”

“Of course,” I say quickly.

“But I also don’t want to be the girl you ignore all night,” she adds. “Like we’re strangers. Or worse—like you’re ashamed.”

That hits me in the chest.

“I’m not,” I say. “Not even a bit.”

She gives a small, tired smile. “I know. But I’ll be working most of the night anyway. Announcements. Coordinating backstage stuff. Wrangling teachers and parents and students and god knows what else.”

“I figured,” I say.

“But when I’m not… maybe I could sit with you?” she asks. “You, Alistair, Lydia, Kesh, Cyril? That table?”

“Yes,” I say. Too fast. “Of course. Always.”

She adds, cautiously, “Elaine won’t be at that table, right?”

My jaw tightens. “No.”

She nods, and I can feel the air between us getting heavier. She’s choosing her words now. Testing them before speaking.

“I don’t want to dance,” she says finally. “Can you please not ask?”

My chest aches. But I nod. “Okay.”

“Too many memories,” she adds. “It’s… too much.”

“Of course.” My voice is soft now. “If you do dance… maybe with Alistair?”

She nods. “And you with Lydia?”

“Deal.”

We sit there for a moment. Quiet. And then she looks over, a flicker of something warm in her eyes.

“But I’m not hiding that we’re leaving together,” she says. “If your offer still stands.”

I look at her. Really look.

It’s not a full yes. It’s not a restart. It’s not a second chance.

But it’s trust. The tiniest thread of it.

And that’s more than I deserve.

“It does,” I say quietly. “Of course it does.”

Ruby
The evening before the gala

I’ve never cared what people think about me. Not really.

It was easy not to, when you’re invisible to most of them anyway. I moved through school like air—quiet, focused, always somewhere between the library and the next obligation. No one whispered about me in the hallways. No one watched when I walked into a room.

Until James happened.

Until I let that happen.

You can’t be with James Beaufort and be invisible. He pulls attention like gravity, and the second you’re in his orbit, you’re seen. Noticed. And not always kindly.

So when things fell apart—when he shattered whatever we had—it wasn’t a private grief. My heartbreak became a public performance. Everyone had theories. Everyone had something to say.

And then it happened again. Different stage. Same audience. Maybe worse the second time because I knew better, didn’t I? And still I let him in.

So now the gala is a knot in my stomach. Tight and hard and inevitable.

The rumors had finally slowed down. They didn’t disappear—but they faded. Became background noise. A trickle, not a storm. People see me with Alistair and Cyril and Lin now, always the same little group. Steady. Predictable. Comfortable.

And I know no one would dare to mess with me while Alistair is around. And that Cyril, dramatic and loyal, told the entire lacrosse team that if anyone so much as whispers about me, they’ll get a fist in the face.

Still.

Now James is coming back.

Just for the gala, maybe. But still. He’ll be there. In the same space. And even if we don’t talk or look at each other, people will notice.

And I hate that part of me cares.

It’s the last night of term. I won’t have to deal with the fallout until after Christmas. When he’ll be back at school anyway. When whatever this is between us will either settle or… break again.

We’re walking through the quad in the cold, crisp evening air. My hands are stuffed in my coat pockets, but I’m not cold. Not really.

There’s something I’ve been turning over in my mind for days. Something I haven’t dared to say.

But I do now.

“What will you say,” I ask him, softly, “when people ask what I am to you?”

He slows his steps.

I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t look up.

Because—what am I?

A friend? A maybe? An apology?

A girl with her heart stitched together by late-night phone calls and cautious walks through winter streets?

I glance at him, finally. Waiting.

And I don’t know if I want the answer.

But I ask anyway.

James

I’m not prepared for this.

Not for the question. Not for her, looking at me the way she is—eyes sharp and cautious, like I might explode or break something. Like I’m dangerous.

Maybe I am.

God, careful now, Beaufort. This isn’t about you. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

But the thing is—I do know what she is to me. That’s never been the question. I’ve known it since the first Oxford prep session when she called me out on my bullshit, and maybe even before that. I just never thought I’d have to say it.

Not like this.

Not in a half-empty parking lot the week before Christmas, with frost on the pavement and silence in the air and a whole metre of space between us like a goddamn chasm.

So I take a breath. I look at her—really look. Her shoulders squared, chin lifted. But I can see the strain underneath. The fear. The need to be braced for disappointment. Again.

And I hate that I’m the reason for that.

“I think about you a lot,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expected. “Not just… now. Always.”

Her expression doesn’t shift.

I keep going. “And I really, really hope that over the last couple of weeks… we became good friends. That it’s not just me thinking that. Because you were there for me. In this weird, painful… phase. When grief is sort of—building roots in me. And you showed up. Over and over.”

Still no reaction. But she’s listening. And that’s something.

“I guess I just hope that maybe… you didn’t only spend time with me because I was needy and pathetic. That maybe you liked it a little too?”

She nods. Just once. Barely there. But it lands like a punch in my chest.

So I breathe out. And say it.

“I know I have no right to ask for anything. I know that. But I’m still hoping.”

She’s watching me, still.

“I’m hoping that maybe one day you’ll trust me again. Not now. Not soon. Maybe not ever. But I’ll be waiting. For as long as you’ll let me. Until you say stop.”

My throat tightens.

“And if you do—if you say stop—I’ll stop. I’ll be your friend. Just your friend. I’ll mean it. I swear.”

There’s a long pause. My breath fogs in the cold. She hasn’t moved. And neither have I.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, quieter now. “That things are like this. That I made them like this.”

And that’s the part that hurts most.

Because I did.

And I’d give anything to undo it.

But for now, I just stand there. Waiting.

For whatever she’ll give me.

Even if it’s just a quiet okay.

Ruby

I want to say something.

I really do.

But all I can do is look at him. Standing there like he’s bracing for impact—shoulders tense, eyes too open, too raw, like he’s ready for me to shatter him.

And I don’t want to shatter him.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because he’s right. About all of it.

We did become friends. Real ones. Not just by accident. Not because I felt sorry for him. But because I like him. I like who he is now. Who he’s trying to be. And I never stopped loving him—God, that part is so painfully true. But it hurts. Still.

Because I did love him before. Trusted him. Let him in.

And he—

But that’s not who he is right now. That’s not the boy who takes me on walks just to clear his head. Who talks to me about grief and guilt and jazz concerts. Who cries into my shoulder and doesn’t hide. Who calls to say goodnight. Who listens when I talk. Really listens.

It’s been seven weeks.

And not once—not even on the hardest days—did he lash out. Or push. Or lie. Or make me feel like I was anything less than safe with him.

So I breathe. Swallow the knot in my throat. Feel my eyes sting.

“I think,” I say, slowly, carefully, “if you want to wait… you can. I won’t ask you to stop.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“But right now,” I add, voice wobbling, “could you maybe just hug me and stop making me cry?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then he lets out a laugh—soft, broken, beautiful.

And he steps forward.

I fall into him.

Just like that.

His arms around me, warm and careful, the kind of hug that says I’d wait a lifetime if you asked me to. And for a moment, that’s all I need.

I press my face into his chest. He smells like winter and something clean and a little bit like fresh laundry and the forest on a snowy day.

And I say, muffled against him, “Then maybe you can take me to get hot chocolate before you drive me home?”

He nods against my hair.

And we don’t say anything else for a little while. Because we don’t have to.

Some things are just understood.

James

I don’t breathe while she’s quiet.

Can’t.

Every muscle in my body’s bracing for the moment she tells me it’s done. That I’ve hoped too much. Asked for too much. That this little corner of peace we carved out these past weeks—her voice on the phone at night, her hand in mine during Silent Night, her laughter during walks, her arms around me when I lost it in the park—was nothing more than a fragile truce, and it ends here.

But she doesn’t say any of that.

She just looks at me. And something shifts in her expression—like the clouds move just enough to let a bit of sun through.

“I think,” she says, soft and clear, “if you want to wait… you can. I won’t ask you to stop.”

I exhale, long and hard, and only then do I realize how tightly I’ve been holding everything in. It nearly knocks me over, that breath. The relief of it. The grace in her even considering letting me try.

And just when my brain starts short-circuiting over what to say—how to thank her, how to be worthy of that patience she’s giving me—she adds, voice trembling with some half-laugh, half-tear,

“But right now, could you maybe just hug me and stop making me cry?”

God.

God, Ruby.

If she knew what that does to me.

I don’t even answer—I just move. Wrap my arms around her and pull her in, close. Not tight, not needy. Just… solid. Present. Like I can hold the edges of this moment still and protect it from every stupid thing I’ve done before.

She tucks her head against my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I rest my chin on her hair. Close my eyes. Try to anchor myself in this—her—so I don’t fall apart again.

This is the part that undoes me.

Not the big declarations or long explanations. Not even the apology she already knows I mean, a hundred times over. Just this. Her, letting me hold her. Her asking me to.

She murmurs something then—soft, barely audible:
“Then maybe you can take me to get hot chocolate before you drive me home?”

And I nod, already kissing the top of her head. Already holding on a little tighter. Already knowing—

Yeah.

I’d wait a lifetime for her.

But for tonight, I get hot chocolate and the sound of her voice beside me in the car. And that’s enough.

James

I see her before she sees me.

Of course I do. You could spot her in a stadium full of strangers.

Dark green dress, silky and elegant, catching the lights like moss after rain. Hair pinned half up, her neckline bare, cheeks flushed from running around, clipboard in hand, calling orders like some no-nonsense winter goddess overseeing her domain. The Queen of the Bloody Forest. And I am just some fool who wandered into her woods and lost everything but the memory of her voice.

Alistair elbows me lightly. “Close your mouth, Beaufort.”

I snap it shut.

Elaine’s across the room. Gave me a look when I walked in. Raised brow, little snort. I nodded. That was it. Not that I expected anything more. Al kicked her shin—just enough to say don’t—and she rolled her eyes and walked off.

Lydia’s next to me, radiant and calm. I know she doesn’t like crowds like this anymore, but she came for Cyril and Al tonight. God knows she saw the dread in my eyes. I owe her more than I can say. So I‘m here.

She disappears once—goes to speak with Sutton.

I tense. I fucking tense. That man has no business even—

But Cyril’s already floating that way, all careless charm and quiet precision. Within seconds, Lydia’s leaning against the bar beside him, laughing into her drink. I breathe again.

And then.

She comes over.

Ruby.

It’s her break—clipboard gone, hair a little looser, eyes scanning the table as if pretending this is normal. As if this isn’t the first time we’ve stood side by side in public since we shattered into pieces.

She placed herself at our table. Between Al and Cyril. Of course she did. Not next to me. But not across the room either. That’s something. That’s everything.

Al, Kesh, and I stand as she approaches.

She gives us all the once-over, like a queen assessing her knights. Then she kisses Al’s cheek.

Kesh leans in with that soft “Merry Christmas, Ruby,” and brushes a ghost of a kiss to hers.

And then—me.

She stops. Stands in front of me. Looks up.

And I—

God, I want to kiss her. Properly. Gently. Not because I deserve it. But because she’s right here, and I feel it. This hum between us. This breathless thing we’re both pretending isn’t there.

But I don’t.

Of course I don’t.

I kiss her cheek, brief, careful. Whisper against her skin, “I won’t say Merry Christmas yet… because I’m hoping I’ll see you a few more times before.”

She doesn’t pull away.

She just… lets it be.

Then we sit.

And she tells a story about the caterer delivering too few pigs in blankets, and how she threatened to withhold payment unless someone delivered another tray in under twenty minutes. There’s fire in her eyes when she tells it. Mischief. Precision.

I laugh.

And then I almost cry.

Because God, this. Her. Here. Laughing. Alive. Glorious. Holding the attention of a table full of people without even trying.

And somehow, after everything, she’s still letting me be here. Letting me see this.

I could drown in my love for her.

And maybe I already did.

Ruby

The car is quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just… settled. Warm. Safe. The low hum of the engine and the soft rustle of James shifting gears as we pull into the street are the only sounds between us. He parks a little ways down from the house, like always. It’s nearly midnight, and the stars are out, faint behind a soft haze of winter cloud.

My feet hurt, and my voice is scratchy from talking to too many people, laughing too much with Alistair and Cyril, stealing glances at James across the table whenever I dared to.

He never once overstepped. Not at dinner. Not when I walked past him carrying trays of champagne. Not when I came to the table on my break. Not even when I kissed his cheek.

It’s been seven weeks since everything broke apart. And somehow, also seven weeks of everything slowly — carefully — stitching back together.

Tonight was… good. I didn’t think it could be. But it was.

His hand is resting near the gearstick. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to want to.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. I should go. But I don’t.

He’s looking at me, soft-eyed in the low light. His bow tie is a little loose now. His hair messy in a way that suits him unfairly well. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out at first.

Then finally:

“Thank you for tonight. You looked…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just smiles. A little helplessly.

I lean forward before I can talk myself out of it.

James

She leans in, and for half a second, I think she’s going to kiss me.

Really kiss me.

My heart practically jerks up into my throat. But no—
Her lips land softly at the corner of my mouth. Not quite my cheek. Not quite my lips. A halfway kiss.

A promise.

Her hair smells like pine and something floral. Her dress rustles softly as she moves. And she lingers there — just long enough to undo me.

“Good night, James,” she whispers. „I‘ll see you tomorrow.“

And then she’s gone.

Door open. Cold air rushing in. Her heels tapping against the pavement. The quiet click as she shuts the door behind her.

I sit there.
Still.
Completely still.

My hands on the wheel. My pulse everywhere.

She didn’t kiss me. Not properly.
But I’ve never felt anything more intimate in my entire life.

Chapter Text

Ruby

I slept till nine-thirty. That never happens.

By the time I check my phone, James has already sent a text. Just:
“If you’re not up yet, I’m calling the council. Missing persons alert. Bell never sleeps in.”

I laugh into my pillow, still half-dreaming.

By eleven-fifteen, I’m in his car, cheeks flushed from the cold and embarrassment and maybe just a little from how he looks at me when I slide into the passenger seat.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he teases. “What kept you? Out with someone else last night?”

“Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Some guy picked me up at midnight, gave me a ride home and said I looked like a winter queen.”

His smile stretches, but he doesn’t answer.

We drive to Helston. Return the dress. Pick up the books I ordered. Walk past the bakery and somehow end up inside with a table for two, sharing a mushroom tart and a gingerbread hot chocolate with extra cream.

We talk about everything and nothing.

The town starts glowing as the afternoon deepens — lanterns strung across the streets, golden shop windows, people wrapped in scarves, carrying parcels. Children pointing at trees. Couples holding hands. He doesn’t reach for mine, and I don’t reach for his.

Not yet.

We drop the bags in the boot. He locks the car, looks at me, and I nod — yes. Let’s walk.

The park is already filling. You can hear the buzz of low music, the smell of roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. Light sculptures glow along the paths — reindeer, stars, ice flowers, and that one enormous Christmas tree with branches covered in soft, warm bulbs.

And that’s where we stop.

Just stand.

There’s something about the way his face looks in the amber light — the way his coat collar is turned up, and his breath is clouding in the air, and his hands are deep in his pockets like he’s trying not to want too much.

I watch him.

And something shifts in me.

I step closer.
One hand leaves my pocket.
Finds his face.

“Hey you.”

His eyes search mine. A beat. Two.

And I kiss him.

Just like that.

No overthinking. No planning.

His lips are soft and still — and then not. Then he’s kissing me back. Slow. Careful. So painfully gentle it almost breaks something open in me.

The lights sparkle behind my closed eyelids. Somewhere, a child is laughing. And in the distance, a choir is singing Carol of the Bells.

But here — it’s quiet.
Just my hand on his cheek.
His breath stuttering out.

And the world tipping slightly, like it’s remembering how to be kind again.

James

I don’t see it coming.

One second, we’re just standing there — hands in pockets, boots crunching over gravel, park glowing like some enchanted postcard version of December.

And then — her hand’s on my cheek.

“Hey you,” she says.

That’s all. Two words. A quiet hello that slams through me like thunder.

And she kisses me.

She kisses me.

No permission. No warning. Just Ruby — leaning in, brushing her lips over mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Because I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life.

I kiss her back. Softly. Carefully. Like I’m scared to get it wrong. Like I don’t want to risk too much.
But then she doesn’t pull away. She stays. Lingers. And I do the only thing I can — I break just far enough to look at her.

Really look at her.

Her face in the light, that velvet-green scarf, her eyes searching mine — soft and shy, sure and vulnerable at the same time.

Oh, Ruby.

I lift both hands and frame her face. My thumbs skim along the curve of her jaw.

And then I kiss her again.

Longer, this time. Deeper. Her lips open to me — and when our tongues meet, just briefly, I forget how to breathe for a second. It’s a jolt. Like something switches on under my skin, heat blooming in my chest, my stomach, the base of my spine.

But we don’t go further.
Not yet.
Not here.

Just that one moment of more — and then we settle.

She exhales against my mouth. I rest my forehead against hers. Our noses bump, and we both laugh a little — the kind of breathless, disbelieving laugh that belongs only to this kind of kiss.

And then I tuck her in under my arm. Like she belongs there.
Because she does.

We keep walking.

The lights shimmer along the path. The air smells like cinnamon and pine.

And I don’t even need a tree or a bow or a goddamn carol to know this is the best Christmas gift I’ve ever had.

Ruby

We’re walking back to the car, the cold biting a little sharper now that the magic of the lights is behind us. His arm is still around me, his body warm, the weight of his hand steady on my shoulder like it belongs there.

It’s nice. It’s… really nice. Too nice, maybe.

Because there’s a question circling in my head, and it’s been there since this morning. Since Mum knocked lightly on my door, her voice calm and soft — “If you ever want him to stay for dinner, Ruby, just say. Anytime. No pressure. I like him. I do.”

And I nodded. Said “maybe”. Thought, yes.

I meant to ask him today. Thought maybe after lunch, or after the lights.

But now we’re here — approaching the car, headlights glowing faintly, his boots slowing beside mine — and I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s still a good idea.

Because dinner is dinner.
But it’s also James. In my house.
Maybe even in my room if the evening stretches long and the world feels quiet enough.

And we just kissed.

Not a light kiss, either. The kind that shifts something. That says yes, I remember us. I feel this too.
The kind of kiss I’d definitely like to do again.

But not more.

Not yet. Not even close.
The thought alone makes my ribs tighten.

And now my head’s spinning, and my feet have stopped moving, and he’s looking at me with that quiet, patient curiosity that somehow still throws me off balance.

“Where’d you go just now?” he asks, low and easy.

Oh, shit.

He noticed.

I swallow, force a breath out, glance up at him. “Um. My mum… said something this morning.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

“She said… if you ever wanted to stay for dinner, you’re welcome. Anytime. No pressure. She said she likes you.”

His mouth softens — that not-quite-a-smile he does when he doesn’t want to seem like he’s feeling something too big.

And I keep going, because otherwise I’ll choke on it.

“I meant to ask. Earlier. Thought I’d invite you tonight, actually, but now—” I glance down, fidget with the edge of my glove. “Now it feels like… if I do that after this”—I gesture vaguely between us—“it might feel like I want more than I do.”

His eyes don’t change. He just listens.

“And I don’t. Not like that. Not now,” I say quietly. “But I do like kissing you. Really like kissing you. And I really like being with you. And maybe I want you in my space, but not in a way that becomes something I’m not ready for.”

I’m rambling.

But he’s still just watching me, so I finish with, “So I guess I’m just… trying to figure out if dinner means something it doesn’t have to mean.”

The air’s quiet. The street’s almost empty. Just us and the glow of a streetlamp.

And him — still here. Still kind.
Still making me feel safe enough to say all of this.

James

God.

Of course it’s this.
Of course it’s her — soft-voiced and so careful, like she’s breaking something just by speaking it aloud.

And I hate that she feels like this. That I made her feel like this.

That being close to me, inviting me into her house, comes with a warning label now. Like she has to brace herself, preemptively explain where the boundary is — just in case I misread it.
Just in case I assume. Or take.

And that’s on me.

All of it.

Because there was a time when I knew — knew — she felt safe with me. Trusted me. Wanted things with me without needing to protect herself first.

I broke that.

So now here she is, asking if dinner means too much. If letting me through the front door might feel like permission for something she’s not ready for.

And it’s so Ruby.

So thoughtful and honest and utterly brave.

And it’s also heartbreaking.

Because it should never have to be this hard for her to trust someone she loves. But it is. Because of me.

I clear my throat, and my voice is low. Careful.

“Hey,” I say gently, and her eyes flick up. “Ruby. I’ll never—ever—push you for anything. You know that, right?”

She nods, the tiniest bit. But I don’t stop there.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything beyond what you want it to mean. Not tonight. Not ever.”

I take a breath. Feel the cold in my lungs. “You’re allowed to draw whatever lines you need. I respect all of them. Every time. No argument. No games.”

Her face doesn’t shift much, but something about her posture changes. Like a coil loosening in her spine.

“And I know why you’re saying this. I know that’s on me. I’m so fucking sorry for that, Ruby.”

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out.

I go on, quietly. “But… today felt good, didn’t it?”

There’s a second where I’m not sure if I’ve ruined it. If even that small bit of hope is too much.

And then she nods. Once. Firmly.

Oh thank god.

A breath I didn’t know I was holding rushes out of me.

“If you want more of this,” I say softly, “just this… anytime, I’m there.”

I smile a little, nervous. “If dinner means I get to be around you — then yes. I’d like that. If I’m allowed in your room… yes. That too.”

I glance down, then back at her. “We can just talk. Or kiss. I’d like that. Absolutely.”

And I mean it.

All of it.

If this is all she wants — walks and hot chocolate and her hand in mine — then I’m already the luckiest bastard alive.

Because she still wants me here.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Helen

Dinner is always a bit of a circus at our house. Not the chaotic kind — not loud or unkind — just… alive.

How could it not be, with Ember and Angus sharing a table?

Ruby and I are the quieter half of the equation. Observers, mostly. We speak when we need to, or when something matters. Ember and Angus, though — they’re the orchestra. The jokes, the rhythm, the witty digs and the full-body laughter. They keep the conversation afloat, always with affection, always with fire.

And now there’s James.

James Beaufort.

Sitting quietly at our kitchen table like he’s not sure if he belongs here.

I’ve seen pictures of his father. I’ve heard things. Ruby told me a bit — said the man’s mostly in London these days. Said Lydia, his sister, is staying elsewhere. That James has been on his own a lot lately. That he says it’s what he wants.

But I’ve lived too long, seen too much, to trust a grieving person who says they want to be alone.

So I was relieved, in a quiet way, when Ruby didn’t let him disappear. Even after everything — the heartbreak I could sense, the silence, the anger — she didn’t turn her back on him.

They’ve found a rhythm again, those two. Walks. The concert in London. Him waiting outside the café for her shifts to end. The gentle sort of presence you don’t find in most teenage boys.

And now he’s here. At our table.

He’s polite. Thoughtful. Doesn’t reach for food until it’s passed to him. Speaks when spoken to, answers with care. He’s got wit, too — I see that when Ember sets him up for a good line and he lobs it back with perfect timing.

But there’s a sadness in his eyes. Not the showy kind. Something still and low and lodged behind his ribs. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach that far.

And Ruby — my Ruby — she’s watching him. Not constantly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I’m her mother.

I see it.

And then after dinner, when the plates are pushed back and the tea’s been poured, she reaches across and takes his hand. Just like that.

I see the flicker of surprise in him — the way his eyes dart to Angus first, then to me, as if to check if this is allowed. If we’re okay with this.

As if we didn’t already know.

I nod, and I smile — not wide, not for show. Just enough to say: yes, we see you. Yes, it’s okay.

His fingers tighten gently around hers.

And Ruby says, softly, “We’ll go upstairs.”

It’s not a question.

They leave their tea half-drunk on the table, and the two of them vanish down the hall.

Angus leans over, nudges my elbow with his.

“Thoughts?” he murmurs, sotto voce, with a look that’s all mischief and meaning.

I take a sip of my tea.

“He’s not there yet,” I say. “But he’s trying. And I think that matters more than anything else.”

Because I see the way he looks at her.

And if he earns the right — really earns it — I won’t stand in their way.

James

Her room is small. Warm. It smells like her — vanilla and peppermint tea and something else I can never name but know instantly.

There’s still barely anywhere to sit. Just her desk chair, which looks too academic and too formal, and her bed, which looks… soft. So we sit there. Side by side. Legs brushing.

It should feel awkward.

It doesn’t.

She shifts slightly, her knee bumping mine, and then—
She leans in. A little. Not all at once. Not certain.
Like she’s still deciding if I deserve this.

It tucks something right in my chest. Folds me up around it. Something warm. And something unbearably sad.

Because this could have been so different.

If I hadn’t—
If I’d just—

No.

We’re here now.

And she’s looking at me. Really looking. With that little crease between her brows that says she’s both sure and afraid. Her lips are parted, and her breath’s just slightly too fast. Like mine.

I lift a hand, slow, so she can see what I’m doing. Tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers brush her jaw, and I can’t help it—I keep them there. Just for a second longer than I should.

She leans the rest of the way.

And kisses me.

It’s soft. Careful.

Like we’re standing at the edge of something and neither of us knows how deep it goes.

I kiss her back.

And then she tilts her head just a bit, and my other hand finds her waist — over her jumper, respectful. Gentle. She makes a quiet sound, almost like a sigh, and my heart breaks in the best and worst way.

She shifts closer. I let her guide it. Let her climb halfway into my lap until we’re pressed side to side, shoulder to chest. My hands stay where they are. Her face. Her waist. The back of her neck, just under her hairline.

When the kiss deepens, it does so slowly.

Her mouth opens to mine like we’ve done this a hundred times. My tongue meets hers — tentative at first, then braver when she doesn’t pull back.

The taste of her.

The heat.

The care.

It steals the air from my lungs in the gentlest way.

At some point we lie back, almost without noticing. Her hand in my hair, my arm curled under her shoulders, drawing her in like I could fold the world around us.

But I don’t touch her anywhere I wouldn’t touch her in daylight.

Not under her jumper. Not beneath her clothes. Not until she says so.

That’s the promise I made.

I want her to feel good. And safe. And wanted in all the ways she deserves.

So my hands stay. Her waist. Her ribs. Her cheek.

She hums something soft into my mouth, and I kiss her again like it’s the only thing I’m good at. Like it’s the only thing I want.

And maybe it is.

Because she let me back in.

Not just as a friend.

And that’s…
That’s everything.

Ruby

It starts slow. Soft. A kiss like breath, like memory.

I forgot what this feels like.

Not kissing — this.
Kissing him.

And not the desperate, half-broken versions from the past.
This is quiet. Certain. The kind of kiss you give when you’re not asking for anything except the kiss itself.

My heart’s pounding like it did the first time.
But not out of fear.

He kisses me like he’s afraid to break me.
And I… I want to be kissed like that.
No rushing. No urgency. Just… this.

When I shift closer, he lets me. Doesn’t grip or pull or press. Just opens his arm a little and lets me tuck into it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The kiss deepens — slow and careful, and then… not.
His mouth opens, tongue brushing against mine.
I gasp softly — more surprise than anything — and feel it everywhere. My skin wakes up. My fingertips tingle. There’s a flicker deep in my belly, a memory of heat, a want I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.

It rushes in like a tide.

And he still doesn’t move.

One hand stays at my waist, over my jumper. The other at my face. His thumb strokes gently just below my cheekbone. That’s all.

No pushing. No grabbing.

But the kiss—
God. The kiss is everything.

He tilts his head, kisses me again, deeper this time. My lips part for him before I think. My body answers before I can ask the question.

A quiet, electric ache builds inside me.
My thighs tighten.
My breath catches.
My skin flushes with the awareness that this… this could become more, if I wanted it to.

But he won’t let it.

Not unless I say so.

And that’s what undoes me.
Not the kiss itself — the safety inside it.

The knowledge that I can just feel this —
This rush.
This tingle.
This warmth curling under my skin and settling low in my belly —
And still be safe.

His tongue moves against mine again, and I exhale softly into him. His hand curves around my back, pulls me closer, and I let him, sliding my hand over his chest. He’s warm. Solid. Smells faintly of laundry detergent and something darker beneath it — something I can’t name but want to bury my face in.

I think I whisper his name.

And I think he hears it, because he stills for just a second.

Then kisses me again.

And I forget everything except the way it feels to be wanted like this.

To be kissed like I’m precious.

And not broken.
Not anymore.

James

It’s just after ten when I glance at her clock and say, quietly, “I should probably head off soon.”

I don’t want to.

I’d stay here all night if I thought it wouldn’t complicate everything — if I thought I deserved it. But I don’t. Not yet. And I made a promise, to myself and to her: slow. Safe. Her pace.

She’s still sitting close, legs tucked beneath her, sweater slipping slightly at the collar. Hair a little messy from… well, from kissing me senseless. I want to reach out and tuck that strand back behind her ear, but I don’t.

Instead, I start to shift—then her voice stops me.

“Will we see each other during winter break?”

Oh.

I freeze.

Then I look at her. Really look at her.

Because the way she says it — it’s not casual. Not flirty or sweet. It’s careful. Cautious. The way you ask something you’re not sure you’re allowed to ask.

God, she thought I’d just disappear again.

My heart pulls tight in my chest. Of course she did.

Of course she did.

She’s not trusting me. Not fully. Not yet. She’s not trusting this. The idea that we could kiss like that, and still wake up tomorrow on the same page. Because we’ve been here before — and I wrecked it. Twice.

And I don’t get to be angry about that.

So I don’t say Of course you’ll see me, even though it’s what I feel. I keep it soft. Gentle.
“I’d love to,” I say. “If… if you want to.”

She nods, eyes flicking away for a second like she’s embarrassed by even having to ask.

So I lean forward a little.

“What would feel good for you tomorrow?”

She looks at me again.

“I just… I’d like to see you,” she says. “I’m working until noon.”

And that — fuck, that — fills me with something fierce and warm. That she’s asking. That she wants that.

“Then I’ll pick you up,” I say. No hesitation. “Whatever time you’re done.”

She smiles, but it’s still a little hesitant. “You’re not going to the Ellingtons until—?”

“The 24th,” I say quickly. “Evening. Lydia and my father and everyone else aren’t doing anything before then. I’ve got time. Plenty of time.”

I pause.

“You could come too for that dinner, if you want,” I offer, careful again. “I mean… it’s a circus. Uncles and aunts and cousins. Like, twenty people, easily. But—if you wanted.”

She laughs softly. Shakes her head. “No, my grandparents will be here by then.”

“Of course.” I nod. “But tomorrow, after your shift?”

“Tomorrow, yes.” She meets my eyes. “I’d like that.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. That ridiculous ache in my chest loosens, just slightly.

Tomorrow.

We have tomorrow.

And for now, that’s everything.

And then, I get to kiss her goodnight.

I’ve said it already—*“I should go, it’s late”—but I haven’t moved.

She’s sitting on her bed now, arms folded loosely across her chest, like she doesn’t want She looks warm and sleepy and like everything I want to stay near.

I lean in close and cup her cheek. She leans into it instinctively.

I kiss her.

Not a rushed goodbye, not a brush on the lips.
She kisses me back just as slowly. Her hand finds the hem of my hoodie, fingers curling in, just to anchor herself. Her lips part under mine, and my whole body tightens at the first soft, open-mouthed slide.

We keep kissing like that. Not frantic. Not needy.

Just… us.

Like this is the part we’ve both needed all day. Not touching for the sake of more, just touching to be close. Close enough to hear her breath catch when I tilt my head slightly, close enough to feel the sigh she lets out against my mouth.

Eventually, we slow.

Our lips linger. One last press. Another.

I rest my forehead against hers. Her eyes flutter open.

“Good night,” I whisper.

Her thumb brushes my jaw.

“Good night,” she whispers back.

And I make myself step away before I change my mind.

Chapter Text

Ruby
December 23rd

I’m already behind schedule when I finally clock out of my shift, my hair smells like espresso, and my shoulders ache from lifting trays of cakes and balancing twelve coffees on two hands. The Christmas playlist on loop has driven me halfway to madness. And yet—
James is there.

Leaning against his car, takeaway cups in hand, scarf wrapped carelessly around his neck. He looks like something out of a film. But it’s not the aesthetic that gets me. It’s the smile that forms the second he sees me. It’s soft. Unassuming. Patient.

He holds out a cup. “Vanilla oat latte. And a bag of unnecessary mince pies.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Unnecessary?”

“I don’t like them,” he says. “But you do.”

I blink. And maybe it’s exhaustion or the way the wind whips around my ankles, but something inside me stirs. Something warm.

“You’re ridiculous,” I murmur as I take the cup.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But I’m your ridiculous now, aren’t I?”

I don’t answer that.

I just get in the car.

—

He drives us to this tiny clearing just outside town. Tells me it’s one of his “runaway places”—back when he needed to breathe, and the mansion wasn’t offering him much air.

There’s a blanket in the boot. And yes, I tease him for planning, but it’s nice, curling up beside him in the quiet cold. The sky is bright blue, the kind that tricks you into thinking it’s warm. It isn’t.

He lets me lean into his chest. And I do. Because I want to.

We talk about nonsense. Christmas movies. Santa trauma. Who makes the best hot chocolate. Nothing serious. And for the first time in a long time, I feel still. Like I’m allowed to just be.

“This is nice,” I say.

He exhales. His voice barely above the wind.
“Yeah. It really is.”

—

Later, at the Christmas market, he holds my hand.

Openly.

Fingers intertwined as if it’s something we’ve done for years. I catch people looking. Of course they do. It’s us. But I don’t care. Not today.

We eat gingerbread cookies shaped like foxes and argue over whether or not Love Actually is a red flag movie. (It is. Sorry.)

And he loses a glove and looks genuinely distressed about it until I find it near the churro stand. I make him promise to be less of a mess. He says he’ll try.

—

Evening. He comes inside again.

It’s warm, and Ember’s wrapping presents while my Dad snores in the chair. Mom is baking something that smells like love. It feels like Christmas in all the best ways.

We go upstairs. Sit on my bed. There’s nowhere else to sit, really.

He looks a little uncertain, like he’s trying to guess the rules of this new space. But I’m tired of rules. I just lean into him.

And he catches me.

Every time.

James

Her room is small and quiet and smells faintly of her shampoo and old books. We’re sitting side by side on her bed, knees touching. There’s only one chair at her desk, and I’m not offended I didn’t get that spot.

Because this?

This is better.

She leans into me. Slowly. Like she’s not sure if it’s allowed. It is. It always is.

Her head tucks under my jaw, and my arm wraps around her almost instinctively. And for a few seconds, we just breathe.

Then she tilts her head back and looks at me.

“Hey you,” she says, soft and teasing.

And she kisses me.

It’s not the first kiss. But it feels like the one that settles something between us. A confirmation. A question asked and answered at once.

I kiss her back, slow and deep and grateful.

My hand cradles the side of her face, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. Her lips part. So do mine. Our mouths find a rhythm that’s both gentle and heady—like we’re rediscovering how this works. Her fingers curl in the front of my jumper. I feel her warmth press into me.

God.

I want her.

But this isn’t about want. Not now.

This is about her.

So I keep my hands where they are—her jaw, her cheek, then down to her waist, over her jumper. I don’t push. I don’t try. I just hold her. Let her climb into this space between us, let her choose the pace.

And she kisses me like she’s ready for this—this, not more.

When we break away, her forehead rests against mine, breath shaky. She’s smiling.

“I’d like to do that again,” she whispers.

I smile too. “Whenever you want.”

Then I lie back, and she comes with me, half on top of me now. Fully clothed. Nothing heated except the way our bodies seem to hum with something just under the surface.

I keep my hand at her back.
Safe. Grounded. No rush.

If this is all we ever do—
God, I could still be happy.

But I think we both know it won’t be.

Eventually.

When she’s ready.

⸻

This day — December 23 — feels like something that’s ours now.
Not a milestone.
Not a checkpoint.
Just a thread in something we’re weaving together again.
Slow. Strong.
Ours.

Ruby

I hand him the package.
It’s not big, just a bit heavy. Wrapped in matte navy paper, because it felt like him.
Neat corners. Gold twine. No tag — he’ll know it’s from me.

“You’re not allowed to open it before the 25th,” I say. “Not even a peek.”

He raises a brow.
“Can I shake it?”

“No. Also no sniffing, prodding, or holding it up to the light.”

His lips twitch. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Of course I have.
He takes the gift — gently, carefully, like he knows there’s more in it than paper and cardboard.
Which there is.

Then he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a bundle that’s unmistakably not wrapped by me. The paper’s crinkled at the corners. The tape is a little uneven.

It’s perfect.

“This is yours. Same rule — no opening until Christmas.”

I take it. Softer than mine. Fabric, maybe.

“Fabric?” I ask, smiling.

“Ruby.”

“Just a guess.”

He groans, but he’s smiling too.

Then I look at him — really look at him — and something in my chest loosens.

“Does midnight count?”

He nods. Eyes warm.
“Midnight counts.”

“Call me then?”

There’s a beat.

“Okay,” I say. “I will.”

He leans in, slow and deliberate, and I let my eyes close just as our mouths meet.
Soft. Warm. Familiar now. And still dizzying.

Just a kiss. Just a moment.

But also more.

James

She closes the door softly behind me.

I stand on the porch for a second longer than I need to, like maybe the air tastes different here. Like maybe I just got given the most precious thing in the world in a hallway with too many coats and a weak porch light.

She said she’ll call.

She wants to call.

And yeah, I know I gave her a stupidly wrapped scarf — took me three tries, and the dog from the Ellington estate staff looked better in it when I was testing the stitch.

But still. I hope she likes it.
I hope it makes her feel held, even when I’m not there.

The package she gave me is heavier than I expected. I don’t need to open it to know it’ll stay in my drawer for a long time. Or my bookshelf. Or my heart.

She asked “midnight?”
God. Of course.

She could’ve said 3AM. I’d still be awake.

I start the car, and I can still feel her kiss.
The way her hand lingered on the front of my coat.
The way her voice softened when she said, “I will.”

Midnight, then.

I can wait.

I’ve done worse.

Ruby
her Christmas letter to James

James,

I wasn’t sure if I should write this. I’ve written versions of it before — in my head, in my journal, once even typed out and deleted before I could hit send.

But tonight, I want you to have the version I mean. The one that’s real. The one you can keep.

I know we’re still… finding our way.
But I also know this:

I don’t feel invisible with you. Even when I tried to be. Even when I was sure I’d ruined everything, or you had, or we both had. You still saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen.

These last few weeks have been strange and good and quietly healing in a way I didn’t expect. And not because everything’s fixed — it isn’t. But because you’ve been honest, kind, patient. And I know you didn’t do that for me. You did it because it’s who you are when no one’s telling you to be something else.

I’ve seen the version of you who tries too hard to be fine. I’ve seen the one who breaks down. I’ve seen the one who can’t sleep, the one who listens, the one who holds my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I like that version. I think I might love that version.

(Actually, I know I do.)

But I also like this — now.
The slowness. The softness.
The way you’ve made space for me to find you again.

So this is your Christmas letter. The real version.

And all it says is:

I believe in you.
I like who we are right now.
And if you still want to keep choosing me — I’m here.

Merry Christmas, James.
You’re still the one I want to talk to at midnight.

— Ruby

P.S. Yes, I saw you eyeing the present already.
P.P.S. No, you still have to wait five more minutes.

Chapter Text

James — December 24, just before midnight. Holding Ruby’s letter like it might break if he breathes too hard.

⸻

I tell myself I’m not cheating.
It’s five minutes to midnight. The present is still sealed. Her voice still a phone call away.

But the letter—
The letter is already in my hand.
Untied. Unfolded. Unforgiving.

I sit on the edge of my bed like I’m fifteen again and just got my heart kicked in for the first time. Except I’ve done this to myself. To her. Twice.

So maybe it’s fair that my hands are shaking.
Maybe it’s fair that my chest already aches before I’ve read a word.

And then I do.

Her handwriting is neat, exact. Like everything Ruby does, it’s deliberate. Thoughtful. Contained, until it isn’t.

And when I read it—

„I don’t feel invisible with you.“

God.

That’s the first blow.
Because I remember her telling me once, in a voice so small it barely made it out of her throat, that she used to be the girl no one noticed.
And then I noticed her.
And I hurt her.

And now she’s saying she still sees me.
That she still wants this — whatever we are, whatever we might be becoming. That she likes me, not just as a ghost of who I was to her. But now.
Broken edges and all.

“Actually, I know I do.”

I have to blink hard.

I press the heel of my palm to my eye and tell myself to hold it together because the second she hears my voice at midnight, she’ll know.

She’ll know I read it early.
She’ll know I’m crying.

And she’ll know she’s got me — all over again.

Worse:
I think she always had me.
Even when she shouldn’t have.

I fold the letter slowly, like it deserves more care than anything I’ve ever owned.
Put it on my nightstand.
Look at the clock.

11:59 PM.

I clear my throat, swipe the back of my hand under my nose like a fucking idiot, and grab my phone.

Because if I don’t hear her voice in the next thirty seconds, I might actually fall apart.
And I have no intention of doing that tonight.
Not when she just told me she believes in me.
Not when she still wants us.

God, Merry Christmas to me.

Ruby

The second it hits 00:00, my phone buzzes.
James.

Of course it’s James.
Of course he didn’t wait even a second longer.

I’m already smiling when I answer. Already sitting cross-legged on my bed, the wrapped parcel beside me, his gift still unopened. My letter is gone from my desk. I imagine it in his hands. I imagine him reading it.

He doesn’t say hello.
Just breathes out, “Hey.”

And it’s such a soft little sound, it lodges somewhere deep in my chest.

“Hi,” I whisper back.

He’s quiet for a second, and then he says, “I read the letter.”

Of course he did.
“Five minutes before midnight doesn’t count as cheating,” I murmur, teasingly.

He lets out this breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Good. Because I couldn’t have waited any longer.”
Then, quieter:
“Thank you, Ruby.”

I nod. He can’t see it, but I know he feels it.

“Can I open mine now?” I ask, my voice suddenly shy. “The present?”

“Yes,” he says. “Please. Yours is wrapped like a five-year-old did it. I didn’t trust myself to do more than a bow.”

I laugh and slide my fingers under the taped edge of the paper. It peels open with that lovely soft rustling sound. Inside—

Oh.

It’s a small notebook, clothbound, with my initials stamped in gold.
I open it and nearly cry.

The first page says, For every thought you don’t say out loud.
And beneath it, his handwriting:
I’d love to read them one day. But only if you want me to.

“James,” I whisper.

“You like it?”

“I love it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:
“Okay. Open the next one.”

There’s a second package. Smaller. Wrapped terribly, just like he promised. I grin and tear it open.

A green scarf, hand-knitted, a golden thread woven into it, warm and thick and soft like cloud-fleece. I pull it out slowly.

He says, gently, “It’s for when I’m not around. I saw it that day in Helston. To keep you warm.”

I press the scarf to my face, inhale the faint scent of cedar and something James-like.

“James…” My voice catches.

“There’s more,” he says. “The tag.”

I find it — a small piece of card, tied with twine.
His handwriting:
To keep you warm. Because I’m not always there. But I want you to know I’m trying. And I’m yours, even when I’m not near.

My throat tightens.
“I love it,” I whisper. “I love it so much.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Then:

“Can I open mine now?”

“Yes.”

There’s the sound of paper rustling on his end. Then:

“Great Expectations,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

I smile.
“I annotated it. And there’s something on the last page.”

He’s quiet for a long time. So long that I almost ask if he’s still there.

When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “You shouldn’t have written that if you didn’t want me to cry.”

“I meant every word.”

“I know you did.”

I’m quiet then, the scarf still in my hands, the weight of it comforting.

And I say the thing I’ve been holding since the moment I saw his name on my phone:

“I want to see you.”

A pause.

“Now?” he asks.

“Just for a little bit.”

“My car’s already warming up.”

“My parents are still up,” I say, “but I’ll tell them. It’s okay.”

And I mean it.
I want this.
I want him.

James

Best Christmas ever.

And I hadn’t thought it would be.

All day I’d felt… off. Like I was watching the holiday through a foggy window I couldn’t wipe clear. The first Christmas without Mum. The first not at home. Lydia and Dad and I at the Ellingtons’, surrounded by twenty-something relatives, a thousand different kinds of pie, and enough noise to drown out any grief. Al and his parents tried. They really did. And I love them for it. But it was still there. That ache. That sense of something — someone — missing.

But then Ruby said she wanted to see me.

Now I’m standing in the Bells’ hallway, smelling cinnamon and pine, watching her mother offer me a gentle smile while Ember’s giggling in the kitchen with Angus about the card game they just lost.

“Merry Christmas, James,” Helen says as she passes me a hot chocolate. “You can take that up with you. But don’t stay too long.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

Ruby kisses her mum’s cheek and says, “We’ll be quiet.”

I’m introduced to the grandparents. They eye me the way all grandparents eye unfamiliar boys at half past midnight — assessing quality, character, intent. Her grandfather nods once. Her grandmother squints at me like I might be too tall but ultimately says, “Well, he’s handsome.”

Ruby turns crimson. I try not to laugh.

Upstairs. Her room is warm, fairy lights on, bed inviting. She closes the door, turns to me — and smiles.

“You really came,” she says softly.

“Wasn’t going to miss it.”

I set the hot chocolate down, toe off my shoes, and sit beside her on the bed. Close. But not too close.

“You know,” I murmur, bumping my shoulder into hers, “we could’ve just agreed to unwrap presents at midnight together. Made this official.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not the same.”

“You’re right.”

I pull her into a hug — not to start anything. Just to hold her. Just to feel her.

God, she’s warm.

We talk. About Christmas. About Mum. About what it was like today. Lydia trying not to cry and failing. And that’s okay. About Dad disappearing into the conservatory for half an hour and coming out with red eyes and too much whiskey in his glass. About Al’s Dad pretending not to notice and just quietly replacing it with water.

She listens. Always listens. Her fingers find mine and squeeze.

Then, gently, “Did you talk to Elaine?”

There’s no jealousy in her voice. No accusation. Just the need to know.

“I didn’t,” I say. “Didn’t even stand on the same side of the room. She said hi to Lydia. That was it.”

Ruby nods. That’s all she needed.

And then — we lie down.

We snuggle.

And kiss.

God, do we kiss.

Slow at first. Unrushed. Like we’ve got all the time in the world, even if it’s just half an hour.

Her fingers in my hair. Mine at her waist, under the hem of her shirt, but not moving higher. Not lower. Just resting against her soft skin, warm and reverent.

She’s in leggings and a t-shirt. No bra. I can feel that when my hand brushes her back, feel the curve of her body as it presses against me.

It’s heat and restraint in perfect tension.

She kisses like she trusts me again. Like this is hers as much as mine.

I let her guide the pace. Always.

When she sighs into my mouth, it’s everything.

When she curls tighter into me, it’s everything.

I don’t want more.

I want this.

Her.

Now.

Just this.

My hands don’t move except to cradle her cheek or stroke her back. My breath hitches every time she kisses harder, every time her body shifts just enough to make me dizzy.

But I don’t ask for more.

Never.

I made that promise.

So I hold her. I kiss her. I feel her melt into me, just a little.

And that’s the best fucking gift I could ever receive.

Christmas is weird now.

But this — this makes sense.

Ruby

God.

My body wants.

That’s the first thing I register when we lie down. Not just the warmth of James’s chest or the soft light on the ceiling or even how right this feels—
It’s heat. It’s tension. It’s him.

My shirt is soft, too soft, and there’s nothing beneath it. I hadn’t exactly planned for him to be here tonight, not like this. Not pressed this close, with my braless breasts beneath my shirt against the front of his shirt and his palm resting so gently at my waist I could cry.

Every time we shift, I feel it.
The light friction of fabric, the pressure of him, the way my nipples tighten and my breath stutters.
Every brush of his thumb against my side sends a tiny jolt through me. And every kiss—we’re slow, so slow—but there’s something building. Warming.

And yet—

I can’t.

Or maybe I just don’t want to yet.

My mind’s still catching up. Still guarded.

Still somewhere between last time and this time.
Still sorting through what it means to let him all the way back in.

I freeze, just slightly. Not enough to pull away, but enough that I know he notices. Because James stills too. Then pulls back just enough to look at me.

His voice is a whisper against my skin.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay.”

And it is.
Because I believe him.

He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need. I’m not… I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod, swallowing hard. His hand stays steady on my back. Not pushing. Never pushing.

“Also,” he murmurs, “I’m not entirely sure your grandparents would appreciate you jumping me while they’re one floor down playing Rommee.”

I snort, which breaks the tension like sunlight through fog.

“Oh God,” I mumble, burying my face in his shoulder, “thank you for saying that.”

He chuckles. “Anytime.”

We lie there a moment longer. His fingers draw gentle circles at the hem of my shirt. My chest still brushes his with every breath. My body still wants, but now it feels… easier. Not something I need to solve tonight.

Not something I have to choose or explain.

Just… a feeling. One that can wait.

He kisses me once more. Tender. Warm. Still him.
Then we both sigh. And shift.

“I should go,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

I walk him downstairs, quiet on the creaky steps. My heart’s still beating too fast and too light, all at once.

He kisses my cheek in the hallway and squeezes my hand.

“Text me tomorrow?” he whispers.

“I will.”

And I mean it.

Because this—
Whatever we’re building now—
Feels like ours.
And I want more.

——-

My room is quiet again.

The kind of quiet that rings a little in your ears after someone you love has just left. I sit on the edge of my bed for a long time after walking him out, socks curled under my feet, my shirt still faintly warm where his hands had rested.

I could still feel the shape of him when I lay back, blanket pulled up, the ceiling barely visible through the shadows. His scent lingers on my pillow. I don’t move for a while. Just… breathe.

And think.

About how his hand had skimmed the small of my back.
About how my shirt had done absolutely nothing to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
And how he noticed—of course he did—but didn’t let it change a thing.

That might be what undoes me most.

Because my body wanted.

God, wants.

Even now, with the covers bunched at my waist and the memory of him still heavy on my lips. I shift, slowly. Let my hand slip beneath the hem of my shirt. Just skin. No rush. No goal.

My fingers brush lightly over my breast.

And I can feel him.
The memory of his hand.
The way I had gasped into his mouth, heat blooming low and deep in my belly.

The way it had been that morning in Oxford.

The second time.

When I thought—genuinely thought—that I could never be happier than I was in that moment.

His lips on my throat. His breath in my ear. His body so careful, so present.
That quiet sound I made as I came, trembling and soft.
And the look on his face—like I was something holy.

I let my fingers rest there, gently cupping my breast. Thumb brushing once. Again. A whisper of pressure.
I’m not touching myself for anything. I’m not chasing release.
I’m just letting myself feel.

Letting my body miss him.

Because it does.

And that’s okay.

I close my eyes.
Breathe deep.
Feel the ache in my chest and in my thighs and in the quiet between them.
I’m not ready yet. Not for more.

But one day…

One day, I will be.

And he’ll still be here.

James

My body didn’t get the memo.

It’s like—
I walked out of her house, told myself to behave, to respect the moment, to lock it all down again.
But my body didn’t sign off on that.

Because I can still feel her.
That soft “mm” when I kissed just below her jaw.
The press of her chest against mine, and the unmistakable absence of anything between her and that T-shirt.
The way she curled into me when we lay down, her hands gentle, warm, stroking the line of my ribs like I was something worth memorizing.

I undress in the dark. Slowly.

Like maybe dragging this out will settle something in me.

It doesn’t.

The bathroom tiles are cool under my feet. I turn on the shower and step under the spray, letting it heat my skin. Eyes closed. Head bowed.

Not thinking about Oxford.

Not thinking about Oxford.

Right.

Because of course the second I tell myself that, it’s all I can think about.
Her face. Her voice. The sound she made that night. The way she kissed me like she meant it.

But then—
tonight comes flooding in.

Not Oxford.
Here.

Her room.
The slope of her shoulder when she leaned over to kiss me.
The fabric of her shirt lifting slightly.
My hand on the small of her back. The shiver it caused.

My hand is around me before I really even register it.
Just a low ache. A want that needs somewhere to go.

But I don’t feel bad.
Not this time.

Because this—
this isn’t just lust.
It’s memory. Intimacy. Love, even.

I imagine touching her again. Properly. Slowly.
Imagine slipping that T-shirt over her head, her hands lifting to help.
Imagine running my thumb along the underside of her breast, kissing down her sternum, feeling her arch into me, trusting me.

It’s that image—
not the act, not the fantasy of anything more—
but that.
Her body soft and warm and open beneath mine.
Letting me see her.
Letting me love her.

It undoes me.

My breath catches. My hips tense.
Release surges through me with a quiet gasp, my forehead resting against the tile wall.

I stay there for a while.

Breathing.
Letting the water carry it all away.
The wanting.
The not-yet.

And then I whisper it—
just under my breath, for no one but me to hear:

“I’ll wait. However long it takes. I’ll wait.”

Ruby

It’s still dark when I stir. Christmas morning.

That soft, blue-grey darkness that doesn’t belong to night or morning—
just that weightless in-between.

And in it,
I’m not alone.

He’s here.

Not Oxford James. Not the one from before.
Now James.
The one who holds my face when he kisses me.
The one who whispers that he’ll wait.
That I’m safe.

And in the dream,
we’re in my room.
Lights off. Moonlight slanting through the curtains.
I’m on my back. He’s above me, looking down like I’m something sacred.

It’s not frantic. It’s not a blur.

It’s slow. Real. Present.
His hands moving over me.
The weight of him. The warmth.
His mouth at my collarbone, my shoulder.
Fingers interlacing with mine as he eases into me.

And my body—
my body knows him.
Knows the rhythm. The trust. The way to open, to meet him, to move with him.

It builds like a tide.

And just as it crests—
just as I feel that soft gasp tear from my throat—
I wake.

My hand is already there, tucked between my legs under the duvet.

Breath short.
Heart racing.
The remnants of the dream still alive in my skin.
In my thighs. In my chest.

And the wave comes anyway.

Slow and beautiful.

A rush of warmth and heat that pulses through me, leaving me breathless and blinking up at the ceiling in the silence of my bedroom.

Not guilt.
Not shame.
Just this soft, aching yes.

Not yet.
But soon.
Maybe soon.

I smile into the quiet.
Pull the blanket tighter.
Let my fingers rest over my stomach,
as if holding the feeling there just a little longer.

Happy Christmas, James.

James

Evening, December 25 – The Ellingtons’ library

The library’s the only place in the house where I can hear myself think.
No screaming toddlers. No half-unwrapped toys. No twenty conversations overlapping in various decibels and languages.

Just me, curled into an armchair by the fire, a half-full glass of wine balanced on my knee, the soft hum of distant Christmas music, and a vague scent of pine and old leather.

And then—

The door opens.

Footsteps.
Light, deliberate.

I don’t even have to look.

Elaine.

I wait.
The shuffle of surprise. The sharp inhale. The pause.

Then:
“Of course. You’d be hiding in here.”

I glance up. She’s in red. Lipstick to match.
Hair pinned up the way she always does when she wants to look older. Meaner.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” I mutter, raising my glass.

She doesn’t smile. Just steps further in and closes the door.
Leaning against it like it’s some fucking stage.

We haven’t spoken since—
God. Since the night of the party. Since she followed me into the pool and pretended we still meant something.

And I let her. Because I was high. Because I was a coward.

“You avoiding me now?” she says lightly. But it’s not light.

I set my glass down.

“No,” I say, and then correct myself. “Yes. Maybe. Doesn’t matter.”

Silence.

She walks over to the window and stares out into the night. Christmas lights from the garden reflect in the glass—tiny stars blinking across her face.

“You were an ass,” she says.

“I know.”

Another beat.

“And I wasn’t even surprised.”

I sigh.

She turns to face me. Arms crossed. Chin tilted. “You knew I liked you.”

“I did,” I admit. Quietly.

“And you still—”

“Elaine.” I cut her off. Not harsh, but firm. “Yes. I did sleep with you. And then that night at the pool— I shouldn’t have, not the way I did. Not when I had nothing to give you.”

Her eyes narrow. “You always had something to give, James. You just didn’t want to give it to me.”

That lands.
Because it’s probably true.
I was never cruel. But I was never kind enough.

“I’m sorry,” I say.
And I mean it. “For what I did. For using you like that. For being thoughtless. You deserved better.”

She watches me.
Sharp edges everywhere.
But something behind her eyes—something softer. Wounded pride.

“And what about her?” she asks. “Your little scholar.”

Ruby.

“I heard what people said. I know what they think happened.”

“She didn’t deserve any of it.”

Elaine lifts a brow. “You sure you didn’t lead her on too?”

My jaw tightens. “No.”

“Because I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

“I’m not here to talk about Ruby,” I say. “Not with you.”

Her smirk returns, that familiar twist of cruelty. “Touchy subject?”

“No. Protected subject,” I say, standing.

Elaine doesn’t move. Just watches me close the distance.

“You can hate me all you want,” I say quietly. “You can roll your eyes and tell your friends what a selfish bastard I am. I’ve earned that.”

Pause.

“But if I hear you make another comment about Ruby—if you so much as look at her the wrong way—I’ll make damn sure you regret it.”

Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “Didn’t peg you for the noble type.”

“Neither did I.”

I walk past her, hand on the doorknob.

“James.”

I pause.

She doesn’t turn. But her voice is smaller now. “It still hurt.”

I nod, though she can’t see it.

“I know,” I say. “I really am sorry.”

And then I’m gone.

Out of the library.
Out of the past.

And walking straight back to the future I want.

———

It’s nearly midnight, and the house is still humming.

Not quiet, not asleep—just winding down. Somewhere in the west wing, someone’s laughing. A door opens, closes. A baby cries once and is soothed back into silence. The scent of mulled wine and roast goose still hangs in the air. There are empty wine glasses on nearly every surface. Crumpled wrapping paper peeks from under armchairs and the edge of the tree skirt.

And I’m sitting in a quiet corner of the Ellingtons’ front drawing room, watching the fire spit low embers into the grate.

It’s been…
Different.

A different kind of Christmas.
Not better. Not worse. Just—different.

There’s sadness in the corners of it, moments when it hits me all over again: she’s gone. Mum.
Not here to laugh at how fast the kids tore into their gifts. Not here to nudge me toward the living room when I hang back. Not here to fix the sharp look Dad gives Lydia when she doesn’t offer him a second whisky, or to fill the silence when we all sit a little too stiffly at the table.

And we’re not at home.
We’ll never have Christmas there again. Not really. That place hasn’t felt like a home since she died.

But here?

There are people.
So many people.

More than twenty.
Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, toddlers with sticky hands and new scooters, babies that smell like talcum powder and sugar.
Little girls asked me to help build some absurdly complicated boardgame structure I barely understood. Another one handed me a doll and told me I had to “make her talk properly.”
I tried. I even gave her a voice.

My father hasn’t said a word to me since breakfast, but he’s had four whiskies and three separate conversations about fly-fishing and offshore trusts, so that’s a win. He’s… manageable, when he’s not focused on me.

And Lydia’s laughing.

With Flora, of all people.
Alistair’s cousin.
They were thick as thieves when they were younger, always sneaking drinks and skipping formal dinners together. Flora used to braid Lydia’s hair while whispering gossip like it was government secrets. They’ve been giggling for half the afternoon over something they won’t tell me. I don’t care. Lydia’s smiling. That’s enough.

And me?
I have Al.

My best friend, my brother in everything but blood.
He made sure I was barely alone today. Kept a chair open for me. Handed me champagne when I hesitated.

We had snowball fights with the cousins in the garden. I got tackled by two six-year-olds and pretended it was a tragedy. Someone got it on video. I’m going to regret that.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Food passed over heads, jokes tossed between generations. Half the table was vegan, the other half deeply offended by that fact. Someone started singing carols. Someone else tried to shut them up.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it wasn’t horrible.

And I wasn’t alone.

That matters.
More than I expected.

I miss Mum.
God, I miss her.
I’d give anything to have her back. Just for an hour. Just to let her see that I’m trying. That I’m different. That I’ve found someone.

Someone.

Ruby.

Who whispered Merry Christmas against my mouth at twenty past midnight.
Who let me into her room, into her space. Let me hold her. Touch her. Love her, gently, without expectation or pressure.

And who I’ll see again soon.

Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe the day after.

It doesn’t matter.
We’re finding our way back.

This is a different kind of Christmas.
But maybe that’s what I need.

Not perfect.
But real.

And filled with people who stayed.

Ruby

My phone lights up with his name.

I’m already in bed, lights off, hair still damp from the late-night shower. I wasn’t expecting a call—he texted earlier, a quick “goodnight x” after the last cousin went to bed, but this? This is a surprise. A good one.

I swipe before it rings twice.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey,” James replies, and he sounds warm. A little tired. But warm.

There’s a pause—one of those easy, unhurried ones that don’t feel awkward anymore. I pull the duvet closer under my chin and let it stretch out.

“Wanted to check in,” he says. “See how your Christmas went.”

I smile in the dark. “Chaotic. In the best way. Gran brought that awful trifle again—still insists on using canned mandarins. Ember nearly started a fight over Monopoly. Dad cheated at Rommee and pretended he didn’t. Classic Bell family Christmas.”

He chuckles. “Sounds… honestly better than mine.”

“Was it awful?”

“No,” he says, and then after a second, “Just different. Sad sometimes. But there were twenty-three people at the Ellingtons. Cousins, toddlers, babies everywhere. At some point I was helping a four-year-old build a dollhouse and got hit in the face with a Barbie.”

I laugh. “That’s what you get for fraternising with the enemy.”

“I know. I deserved it.”

He’s quiet again for a beat. “Did you… have a good day?”

“I did,” I say honestly. “I thought about you.”

“I thought about you too,” he says. “Especially when Lydia kept passing me bowls of food like I was going to disappear if she looked away.”

“She probably thinks you might,” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Do you have time tomorrow?”

I blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Or the day after. Whatever’s better.” There’s a shift in his voice, something softer now. “There’s supposed to be more snow. I was thinking… have you ever been to the coast when it’s snowing?”

The coast?

“No,” I say slowly. “Never thought to go. Isn’t it just—freezing and grey?”

“It is. And beautiful.” A small pause. “Is the sea… okay for you?”

That lands somewhere in my chest.

I take a breath. “As long as you’re not asking me to go in.”

“I’d never.”

I smile. “Then yes. The sea’s okay.”

Another pause, this one tentative. Hopeful. “Would you want to go?”

“With you?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“The 27th? We could take the car. Wrap up. Bring tea in flasks and pretend we’re more outdoorsy than we actually are.”

I laugh into the darkness. “So you’re proposing a fake-hiker aesthetic with hot drinks and ocean wind.”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes. “That sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Pick me up in the morning?”

“I will,” he says.

And I know he means it.

Chapter Text

Ember

Thank God she’s smiling again.

It’s subtle—has been, over the last few weeks—but I notice. Of course I notice. The way Ruby’s shoulders aren’t as tight when she moves around the kitchen, how she hums sometimes when she doesn’t realise it, how she lets herself sit still without needing to do something.

And now? She’s standing in the middle of her room, trying to decide if thermal leggings count as fashion when layered under jeans.

“Five layers,” I say, raising an eyebrow from my spot on the bed. “You know this can’t be romantic when you have to wrestle with a fleece-lined coat and two scarves just to reach for a hand-hold.”

She throws a pillow at me.

I dodge expertly, because I’m the younger sibling and trained for this. “You’re literally layering like you’re going to the Arctic.”

“It’s the coast,” she says, cheeks slightly pink. “It’s cold.”

“Uh-huh,” I grin. “And James just happens to be picking you up to go there.”

Ruby tries not to smile, but it breaks through anyway. It’s soft and shy and so completely her, and I want to bottle it.

Downstairs, Gran’s voice drifts through the floorboards—she’s been in storyteller mode since breakfast.

“…and of course, back in 1964, your grandfather took me all the way to the seaside on our third date. In his father’s Ford Cortina. I wore red lipstick. We shared a thermos of cocoa.”

A pause. Then:
“Is Ruby’s young man from a respectable background?”

Dad’s snort is immediate and inelegant.

Mum answers before Ruby can react—thank God. “James is a very nice young man.”

Respectable. Sure. That’s one word for it. Just as I’m about to say something cheeky like he might be posh, but at least he’s handsome, the doorbell rings.

Speak of the devil.

I watch Ruby pause—fix the sleeves of her coat, breathe in, press her lips together like she’s trying not to look too excited.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Of course he’s wearing a Barbour jacket. Waxed. Probably vintage. Probably his father’s or someone’s grandfather’s before that. Because of course James Beaufort owns the world’s most quintessentially British jacket for coastal strolls. He steps inside with the wind at his back and a paper-wrapped bouquet of Christmas roses in his hand.

“For you,” he says with that polite, almost-too-charming tone of his as he holds them out to Mum.

I swear to God, Gran sighs audibly.

Ruby’s cheeks go fully pink now. Not just a little. Fully.

And I have to bite my tongue not to say He’s respectable enough for you now, Gran? but I let it go, just this once.

Because Ruby’s smiling.

And honestly? That’s all that matters.

Ruby

There’s no way in hell I’m kissing him hello with an audience of five.

Gran’s at the kitchen table, stirring her tea like it’s a dramatic ritual. Dad’s pretending to read the newspaper but hasn’t flipped a page in minutes. Ember is practically vibrating beside the fruit bowl, biting her lip like she’s holding back commentary. Mum’s smiling like she knows things, and Grandpa’s been muttering about young love since James rang the bell.

So when he steps in—tall and composed and stupidly gorgeous in that Barbour jacket—I take exactly two seconds to say thank you to Mum for the snacks before I grab James’s hand and say, “Let’s go.”

“Nice to see you all! Thanks, Mum!” I call out, already pulling the front door shut behind us.

But Mum follows us anyway, still holding a second thermos and another tin of shortbread, like maybe the turkey sandwiches she packed earlier weren’t enough.

“Just in case,” she says cheerfully, pressing them into James’s hands.

And that’s when James, bless him, smiles and says, very gently, “I promise I’ll be able to take care of feeding Ruby—or myself—should an emergency arise.”

Mum laughs. Like really laughs. Then—unexpectedly—hugs him. Full arms around him, soft and warm.

He hesitates for half a second. Then hugs her back.

I don’t know what surprises me more: the fact that she did it or the way he melts into it, even if just for a second.

And then—finally—we’re on the doorstep, free, and I’m practically shoving him toward the car because I can feel the four faces watching from the kitchen window.

James opens the passenger door for me like the gentleman he keeps pretending not to be, then leans down just a little and says under his breath, with that crooked half-smile that gets me every time,
“I’ll kiss you hello after we drive around the corner. Okay?”

My face is burning. But I nod. Because yes.
Yes. Please.

James

Okay, that was…
Hilarious.
And sweet, in a kind of slightly-chaotic-family-love-bombing sort of way.
And terrifying, if I’m honest—her gran was eyeing me like she was evaluating my credit score through the kitchen window, and her dad hasn’t blinked in ten minutes. Pretty sure Ember was about to take photos.

But now—

Now we’re in the Coop parking lot, engine idling, gear shifted into park. No one watching. Just us. Finally.

I turn toward her.

She’s looking out the window, cheeks pink, still clutching the shortbread tin like it’s a talisman. And when she turns her head, meets my eyes—yeah. There it is.

That pull.
That something.
The us that’s here again. New. Tender. Raw around the edges but real.

I lean in and kiss her.

Just—kiss her.

Not because I can. But because I need to.
Because I want to feel her again.
Want to feel this.
Want to feel us.

It’s soft. Warm. Her lips against mine, the smell of her hair, the heat of her in my hands even through the layers of wool and cotton and winter.

She kisses me back, and for a second everything else blurs out—family, expectations, snow forecasts, the awkward thermos balanced on the backseat.

Just her.
Me.
That flicker between us that never really went out.

When we part, we don’t say anything. Just breathe. Just look.

And then I shift into drive, flick the indicator, and we head east—toward the coast.
Where the sea waits, cold and vast.
Where maybe everything will feel a little clearer.

Ruby

It’s so quiet here.

Not in a nothing’s happening way, but in that particular way the world gets when snow hushes everything. Like the volume’s been turned down and the light diffused into something soft and silver.

The beach is white, but not in the way I know beaches. No sun, no sandals, no ice cream melting down someone’s wrist. Just this powdery snow over the sand, giving the whole shore a surreal look—like a dreamscape. The tide rolls in, slow and heavy, dull grey against the stark white. Every now and then, snowflakes swirl between us.

We’ve been walking for a while. Side by side. Every so often our hands bump. Sometimes I take his. Sometimes he doesn’t let go.

It’s a cold day, but it’s the kind of cold that sharpens your senses instead of biting at them. My cheeks are pink. My fingers are warm inside the gloves I forgot I liked so much. And James—he looks better out here. Calmer. Still serious, still carrying things he doesn’t name, but there’s something softer in the set of his shoulders.

We talk a bit. About how pretty it is. How weird it feels, seeing a beach like this in the snow. About how, if you squint, the waves look like moving glass.

And then, after a long stretch of silence that felt like a shared breath instead of a void, he says quietly—

“Do you think it’s easier when someone leaves, than when someone dies?”

I look over. He’s watching the horizon like it might offer answers.

I don’t know if I’m surprised by the question. Probably not.
He lost his mum. This is his first Christmas without her. And he hasn’t said much, but I can feel it—like an ache that hums under the skin.

“I think…” I begin, slowly, “someone being absent is… open-ended. There’s still the idea that maybe they’ll come back. Or call. Or show up on your birthday. Even if you know they won’t. It’s not final.”

He nods, brow tight.

“But death is… it’s a full stop.”

“No,” I say, after thinking a second. “It’s not. That’s the problem. It’s not a full stop. It should be. But your mind keeps putting in commas, like the sentence’s going to keep going. You keep thinking—oh, I’ll tell them this later. Or—I wonder what they’d think of this. And then you remember. And it hits you all over again.”

He’s quiet. Just nods, slowly.

Then he says,

“Sometimes I still expect her to walk into the room. I think—I need to ask Mum about—whatever. And then I remember she’s never going to answer. Not ever.”

His voice breaks a little on the ever. I don’t reach for him, not yet. Just walk next to him. Let the silence catch us both again.

After a while, I murmur,

“I think the mind isn’t built for that kind of finality. We can’t really understand it. We can know it, but we don’t feel it. Not all at once. Not ever fully.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s like it hits in waves. Some days are just a ripple, and others knock you flat.”

We stop walking for a moment. Just stand there, boots in the snow, facing the vast, grey ocean. The waves roll in and pull back again. Over and over.

“Do you think it ever goes away?” I ask. “The missing?”

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I think… maybe it changes shape. But it never really leaves.”

I nod. Because I think he’s right. I think it just becomes part of the furniture of your life—something you stub your toe on now and then.

He reaches for my hand then. No gloves now. Just skin against skin, cold but real.

And I hold on.

Because this, right now—this quiet, solemn, strange little day by the sea—is one of the most honest things I’ve ever lived.

And I think he feels it too.

James

Somehow, she always gets it.

Not just the words I say—but the ones I don’t. The mess behind them.
It’s like, when I’m talking to her, my brain can finally sort the wreckage into something that makes sense. She listens and I hear myself more clearly. Thoughts that are usually just chaos and noise and memory—too loud, too fast—slow down. I can name things with her. Feel them. Without drowning in them.

And Christ, I’m lucky for that.

I glance sideways at her, the sea wind tugging at her hair as she walks beside me. Her cheeks are pink, the tip of her nose red, and when I shift her hand in mine, it’s colder than I want it to be.

She’s cold.

Not complaining—of course not—but I feel it.
There’s this instinct in me, rising hard and fast: Do something. Fix it. Keep her warm.
Which is ridiculous because it’s not like I control the bloody North Sea breeze. But still.

We slow our steps, and I look at the stretch of dunes ahead—sand rising in soft, frozen curves, speckled with snow and the same hush that covered the shore.

“Do you want to get out of the wind?” I ask. “Maybe we find a pub inland. Get a fire, a drink, thaw out?”

She looks at the dunes for a second, then back at me.

“The dunes are fine,” she says softly. “I want to stay outside.”

Of course she does.

I nod, squeeze her hand.

“Alright. Then I’ll be back in twenty. There’s two blankets in the boot, plus the entire mobile pantry your mum sent along.”
I give her a grin. “You settle in—I’ll bring the feast.”

She laughs, a real one, and starts toward the dunes with that easy, thoughtful gait of hers. Hands in pockets, hair loose, boots crunching over the crusted snow. I watch her for just a second longer than I should. Then I turn and jog.

Not just walk—jog. Because I want to get back to her quickly. Because she’s out here in the cold and I know she won’t say it, but I can see it in the way she huddles a little deeper into her coat.

And also because… I want to bring her something warm. Something that feels like care.

The wind hits harder on the way back, and the sky is so pale it’s almost blue. I half-slip on the icy patch near the dunes and laugh under my breath. God, I’m ridiculous. But it feels good, this ridiculousness. This wanting. This trying.

She makes me want to try.

Twenty minutes. I’ll be there.
With blankets, thermos, shortbread, and—
Her.

That’s more than enough for me.

Ruby

Tucked away from the wind, it’s okay.
Not warm exactly—my nose is still cold and my toes have gone a little numb—but it’s not that biting cold anymore. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you clench your jaw just to bear it.

Here in the dunes, it’s quieter. The wind skips overhead, muffled by the curves of frozen sand. The sea is still visible, vast and grey-blue, but distant enough that it doesn’t roar the way it did when we walked along the beach.

We sit on one blanket, the other pulled over our legs like a makeshift sleeping bag. He poured tea with half-frozen fingers, and I passed him turkey sandwiches with stuffing crammed between thick slices of bread. All already devoured. The tin of shortbread is half-empty now, the corners dusted with crumbs.

I close it. Set it aside with a little sigh.
Then the thermos.
Then the mugs.

His eyes are on me—quiet and steady and warm.
When I glance back at him, he lifts one arm. Opens it wide.

An invitation. Silent.
No words needed.

And I go.
Of course I go.

I shift over and slide into his side, his arm wrapping around me, the thick wool of his jumper rough and comforting beneath my cheek. He pulls the blanket higher. I curl my legs. Our knees knock under the fabric, but neither of us moves away.

There’s nothing rushed in it. Nothing dramatic.
Just… closeness.

I close my eyes for a second.
Let the weight of him, the heat of him, settle into my skin.
It’s cold out here. But not in this.
Not like this.

His thumb strokes gently along the seam of my coat. A small, absent motion. Soothing.
And for the first time in a long time, my heart feels exactly where it should be.

Here.
In this moment.
With him.

James

The sky is grey above us, but the cold’s softer now, hushed by the dunes that shield us from the worst of the wind. We’re lying down—her side pressed to mine, one blanket beneath us, the other pulled high over our legs and hips. Makeshift warmth, stitched together with wool and the way she fits against me.

She’s curled in close, her head resting just under my chin. My arm is around her shoulders, holding her there—not tightly, just enough. Just so she knows she’s safe. Wanted.

My other hand rests on her side, fingers brushing the thick fabric of her coat, finding her waist beneath. She’s warm. So warm. Or maybe that’s me. Or us. Or whatever this is between us again.

Her hand is cradling my cheek. Her thumb moves slowly, like she’s memorising the shape of me. Or reminding herself I’m here.

And then she lifts her face. Just slightly.

Our eyes meet.
And I know.

There’s no asking, no awkward shift of breath.
Just that look. That soft, steady look that makes the rest of the world fall away.

And then her lips.

They meet mine like she’s been waiting. Like she’s missed this—not just the kiss, but the way it feels to melt into someone and know it’s okay to stay.

I kiss her back. Slow. Anchored. And then—deeper.

It builds with each breath, each brush of her mouth, each press and pull and hum between us. My hand moves a little, finding the curve of her back through her coat. Hers slides into my hair, fingertips tracing warmth along my scalp.

And we just keep going.

Not fast. Not rushed.
But real.

We get lost in it.
In the way her body shifts closer, tucking against mine like she was made for this space.
In the way her lips part just enough, inviting me in.
In the quiet sounds—barely-there sighs, the inhale of breath shared between kisses.

There’s no thinking beyond it.
No past mistakes. No what-ifs. No what’s-next.

Just now.
This.
Her.

The heat builds slowly—under our skin, between layers, in the cradle of a kiss that could last forever. It’s not hunger. Not yet. Not quite.

But it’s something.
Something new.

Something that flickers warm in my chest and sets every nerve alight where she touches me.

We won’t undress. It’s far too cold for that. And that’s not what this is anyway.
Not tonight.

Tonight, it’s her mouth on mine,
her fingers tangled in my hair,
her body pressed close,
and my heart thudding in time with every kiss like it’s the only rhythm I’ve ever known.

And in this cocoon of quiet and snow-dusted silence,
with the sea out of sight and her lips still on mine,
I know I’d stay here forever if she asked.

Ruby

His arms are around me, and it’s not just for warmth—though God, it is warm. One blanket beneath us, another pulled up over our legs, and him—his body curved around mine like he’s meant to be there. Holding me. Settling me.

My cheek rests against the soft knit of his jumper, my hand on his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart. Every now and then, his thumb moves against my shoulder or my spine, slow and aimless like he’s not even aware of doing it. But I am. I feel every touch. Every breath. Every part of him that leans in, surrounds me, shelters me.

The blanket cocoon traps the heat, sure—but it’s his body that keeps me here. His kiss that keeps grounding me. His voice, when he murmured my name just before leaning in again, soft and steady like a promise.

And I believe him.

I don’t even know when I started to.

Maybe sometime during the drive here, when he held my hand at a red light and just smiled at me.
Or when he kissed me in the Coop parking lot like it was a tradition we’d always had.
Or maybe now—right now—with his mouth moving gently against mine, and his arms pulling me closer in the middle of nowhere.

Because this doesn’t feel like the beginning of something fragile anymore.
It feels like something we’re already in. Something we found again.
And it’s not breaking.

I can feel how careful he is. How much he wants me—but how he won’t rush me. Not ever.
He’s just here.
Kissing me like he means it.
Holding me like I matter.
Letting me be in this with him, fully, without having to say anything more than I want this.

And I do.
God, I do.

I kiss him again, and this one’s softer, lingering, my hand brushing the side of his jaw. His skin’s a little rough beneath my fingers, a bit of stubble catching there—but he leans into my touch like it’s the first thing that’s made sense in a while.

My whole body is wrapped in warmth and this ache that’s not pain at all. It’s want, yes, but also something quieter. Something that hums deep inside me, saying this is safe now.

I don’t have to brace for disappointment.
Or prepare for the version of him that pushes me away in the morning.

Because this time… I don’t think he will.

And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can actually let go.
Let myself melt into this—into him.

I dare to believe we’ll still be this tomorrow.
And the day after.
And the one after that.

Maybe not perfect. Maybe not simple.
But real.

And I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

James

She’s so close I can feel every slow inhale against my chest. Her fingers are curled near my collarbone, her nose tucked against the hollow beneath it. We’ve stopped kissing now, for a moment at least, but it still hums in the air between us—that feeling. That heat. That… rightness.

And she’s trying to say something. I can tell by the way her breath shifts, the way her hand brushes against my shirt like she’s drawing strength from the fabric, or maybe from me.

She’s not looking up, not yet.

But I can feel it.
The way her body tenses for half a second before relaxing again.
The way she’s sorting through thoughts, trying to find the words that won’t give too much away—but won’t lie either.

God.

I close my eyes.
And my heart—fuck—it does this thing, this stuttering leap in my chest, like it’s forgotten how to beat properly.
Not painful. Not dangerous.
Just… sharp. Good.

Like being struck by something you want to be hit by.
Like every part of me is opening to let her in, and my heart—stupid, fragile thing that it is—is leading the charge.

I don’t know what she’s going to say.
But I know it’s not a warning or a goodbye or some perfectly wrapped Hallmark version of we should take it slow.

It’s quieter than that.
Truer.
Like she’s trying to name the thing we’re already inside of.

And I want to make it easier for her.
Say me too or I know, or maybe just I’ve got you.
But I don’t want to interrupt the moment she’s building.

Because I’ve seen Ruby Bell fight for control of her world.
I’ve seen her hold it all together when it’s barely holding her.
And right now, she’s choosing to let herself soften into this.
Into me.

My thumb brushes the curve of her shoulder through her coat, slow, like a pulse.
I’m not rushing her.
I’m just… here.

God, I hope she feels that.
That I’m not going anywhere.
Not now. Not ever, if she’ll let me stay.

She shifts just a little, looking up.
Eyes darker in the grey light, searching mine.
Still quiet.
Still hers.

And I don’t care if my heart’s breaking every rule in the cardiology textbook right now.

Because this?
This is the best I’ve ever felt.

Ruby

It’s so quiet between us I can hear the snow when it shifts softly on the dunes. The distant rhythm of the waves. The pull of his breath, steady against my back and ribs, cradling me.

I’ve never been held like this.

Not just arms around me. Not just warmth. But this.

This kind of stillness, this kind of safety—like the rest of the world can go cold and grey and silent, and I’ll still be here, breathing him in.

My heart’s loud in my chest, but not panicked. Just… full.
And I want to say it.
Not the big thing. Not that thing—not yet.
But this.
This truth I can finally reach without trembling.

So I tip my head up, my cheek grazing the soft wool of his jumper, and I look at him.
His eyes are already on me. God, he’s always watching me like I’m something worth waiting for.

“I feel safe with you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
His hand is still resting at my side, gentle and warm.
Encouraging.

“I trust you.”

His brows draw together just a little. Not confused. Just… moved.
And I go on, my voice steady now.

“I trust us,” I say, watching his face carefully. “This here—now—is what we are. And I like it. I… need it. I know we’re not rushing. I’m not ready to. But this…”
My hand slides across his chest, presses over his heart.
“This is real. And if that’s okay—if this can be enough for now…”

“Of course, Ruby,” he breathes, like it costs him something to even get the words out.
His hand lifts to my face, thumb brushing my cheek.
“That’s more than enough.”

And when he kisses me, it’s like all the cold disappears.
Everything disappears.
Except this.

His mouth on mine.
His arms around me.
His breath tangled with mine like a promise.

We’re okay, I think as I melt into him, as the blanket shifts and the sand holds us steady.
We’re real. We’re here. We’re enough.

James

She looks up at me like she’s handing me something delicate.
No—not handing.
Offering.

Like she’s been holding it close, curled up around it for weeks, maybe longer, and now she’s finally ready to let me see.

“I feel safe with you,” she says.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Not because it’s dramatic or overwhelming or grand.
But because it’s her. Saying this.
To me.
After everything.

Her voice is low but sure.
Not hesitant. Not fearful.
Just honest.

“I trust you,” she adds.
And my whole fucking body stills.

I’m not even sure what my face is doing, but I feel the ache in my throat. The burn behind my eyes. The weight of it.

She’s not just saying she wants this.
She’s saying she believes in it again.
In me.

“This here—now—is what we are. And I like it. I… need it. I know we’re not rushing. I’m not ready to. But this… this is real. And if that’s okay—if this can be enough for now…”

“Of course, Ruby,” I say, and the words feel like my heart cracking open.

God, I want to touch her everywhere.
But not like that.
Not now.
Not when she’s giving me this.

Her trust.
Again.

For the third time.

And I know what that means.
It’s not casual. It’s not a maybe.
It’s her saying: I’m letting you in again.
It’s her risking herself again.
For me.

And I don’t think I’ve ever been trusted with something more sacred in my life.

So I kiss her.

Slow, reverent.

Not because I don’t want more—I do, Christ, I do—but because this is already everything.
How could it not be enough, when it’s her?
When she’s here in my arms, choosing me again.

I don’t care how long it takes.
I’ll wait.
I’ll earn every inch she gives.

Because I’ve seen what it’s like when she walks away.
I’ve felt what it means to lose her.

And now—
Now she’s here.
Warm and quiet and real in my arms.

And I swear to whatever’s listening, I won’t break her trust again.
Not ever.

I’ll hold it like it’s breakable.
Because it is.
Because she is.

And because this—
This is the most important thing I’ve ever been given.

Ruby

We stay tucked into each other for a long time. Long enough that the sky begins to shift—cloudy grey to something duskier, darker. The kind of deepening afternoon that feels like a curtain being drawn slowly, steadily, over the day.

I don’t want to move.

His arm is still around me. My cheek pressed to his chest. The blanket cocooned around us. His thumb making lazy, slow circles over my shoulder like he’s not even thinking about it—just wants to keep touching me.

And I want that, too.

But eventually, the cold starts to bite again. In our toes. Our fingers. The kind of creeping cold that makes you start dreaming of hot food and fireplaces and tea in chipped mugs. So we kiss once more—soft, quiet—and he helps me up, brushing snowflakes out of my hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The walk back to the car is slow. Not just because the beach is slick in places, or because the wind has picked up.
But because we’re still wrapped in it—that quiet, glowing us we found in the dunes.

We don’t need to talk.
We just… are.
Side by side.

When we reach the car, he starts it up and I slide into the passenger seat, rubbing my hands together while the heater kicks in. He glances over, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Alright?”

I nod. “You?”

He reaches across the console, laces our fingers together. “More than.”

We drive for maybe forty minutes before we pass a sign for a village I’ve never heard of and James says, “We could try our luck here?”

It’s pitch dark now. The streets are sleepy, the kind of place where Christmas lights still blink in windows and every pub looks like a postcard. We find one with a crooked little sign and a red door, the windows glowing gold from the inside.

The Hare & Piper.

There’s a fireplace just to the left when we walk in, and a golden retriever sprawled out in front of it like something out of a storybook. A real pine tree near the bar is decked with red and gold baubles and one of those strings of mismatched lights that blink out of sync. I can smell woodsmoke and gravy and something rich and meaty.

We find a table near the fire and hang our coats over the chairs.

James looks so at home here—like the cold, polished boy from Pemwick and the sharp edges of his name don’t mean anything in a place like this. His hair’s a bit messy from the wind. His cheeks still pink from the walk.

When the waitress comes over, the daily special is shepherd’s pie and green beans, and we both try to keep a straight face until she’s gone.

He leans in, voice low. “Daily special, my arse. That’s probably the only thing they serve here.”

I grin. “The trick is pretending we believe them.”

“We’ll let them have the illusion,” he says solemnly. “Just for tonight.”

It’s so good.
Like the kind of good that makes you close your eyes after the first bite and sigh.

Warm. Filling. Simple.
Exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.

The pub hums gently with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. The dog stretches in front of the fire and lets out a deep, satisfied groan. The lights on the tree flicker softly.

And James—across from me, spooning mashed potato and gravy onto his fork—just looks so content.

It’s the most peaceful dinner I’ve had in a long time.

We don’t say much on the drive home.
The radio’s on low. One of those soft, jazzy Christmas playlists.
But mostly it’s just us.

The warmth of the food still in my stomach. The ache of cold finally easing out of my bones. My hand resting on the console, and his fingers curling over mine.

The sky’s pitch black by the time we roll back into town. The world hushed again. Like the day we just had exists in its own little snow globe, separate from the rest of the world.

I’m full.
Warm.
Happy.

And I’m his.
And he’s mine.
At least—right now.
And for the first time in weeks, I believe that’s enough.

James

By the time we pull into her driveway, the sky is so black it’s almost blue. The snow crunches under the tyres and the porch light is on, a warm yellow glow spilling onto the steps. I kill the engine, the heater sighs off, and for a second we just sit there, the quiet between us heavier now. Not heavy in a bad way. Just… full. Of everything the day was.

“I’ll walk you up,” I say, even though she doesn’t need me to.

But I need to. I want to see her to the door. I want the extra thirty seconds.

She smiles. “Okay.”

I follow her up the front path, boots crunching the thin snow, my hand at the small of her back like muscle memory, and she’s just reaching for the doorknob when—

“Bring the boy inside too!”
Angus.
Booming through the door like a damn foghorn.

“There’s a pot of tea ready!”

Ruby looks at me, laughing under her breath. “You’ve been summoned.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

“Nope.”

So I’m in.

Warmth hits like a wave the second we step through the door. That same lived-in, chaotic kind of love this house always radiates. There’s a tartan blanket over the back of the sofa, the faint smell of woodsmoke and sugar in the air, and her granddad snoring quietly in the armchair by the fire like someone pressed pause on him.

Granny eyes us the moment we enter. “Where did you two disappear off to then?”

Ruby answers smoothly, stepping out of her boots. “Coast. Walk. Pub dinner. Very innocent.”

“Hmm,” Granny says, then points at me. “Did you keep her warm?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, because what else do you say to a woman with that kind of authority?

She nods like she’s filing it away. For what, I don’t know.

Ruby’s mum appears with a tray and the aforementioned pot of tea, shortbread again, and three mugs. She leans into Ruby, whispering something, and Ruby nods, glancing up at me.

Angus, meanwhile, is already shuffling in his chair, motioning at me.

“James. Be a saint, will you? There’s more logs out back and this damn chair isn’t made for snow and ice. I’ve done enough fighting with the bastard today.”

“Of course,” I say, already moving. “Where are they?”

“Big basket by the shed. Mind your step.”

I pull on my coat again and head out, the cold punching into me sharp and clean. The basket’s right where he said. I grab as many logs as I can carry and bring them in, boots leaving wet prints in the hallway. Granny nods in approval like I passed a test I didn’t even know I was taking.

“Good lad,” he says. “I’d adopt you if you hadn’t already stolen my granddaughter.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just duck my head and grin.

After tea and a chaotic game of rummy that ends with Granny declaring herself the undefeated champion (despite having clearly cheated), Ruby’s mum glances at the clock.

“Half an hour,” she tells Ruby. “Dad and I have work in the morning.”

“Got it,” Ruby says, rising from the floor where we’ve all been sitting around the coffee table. She tilts her head toward the stairs, eyes on me. “Come on?”

I follow her.
Of course I follow her.

It’s instinct now. Like gravity.

Ruby

Upstairs, I finally feel warm. Like truly warm, all the way through. The kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you slow, soft. The kind that makes your body sigh.

I peel off my jeans and the thick wool jumper—Ember’s handiwork, bulky and perfect for beach wind but too much now. It’s just thermal leggings and a long-sleeve top left, and even that feels like too much after a day wrapped in scarves and blankets and him.

James tugs his jumper over his head too, hair messed up, static making strands stand out at odd angles.

“I was starting to feel like one of those slow-roasted stews,” he mutters, tossing the jumper over the back of my desk chair. “Tender, falling apart, seasoned with sea salt and regret.”

I laugh, padding to the window to crack it open. The air that rushes in is sharp and freezing, biting at my cheeks. I love it.

We curl up on the bed, side by side, the duvet pulled over us like a second cocoon after the dune-blanket earlier. He’s on his side, one arm beneath his head, the other draped across my waist. I rest my hand on his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart underneath.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then—

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmurs, “about safety. Trust.”

I shift just a little, so I can see his face better.

He’s not looking at me. Just the ceiling.

“I’m grateful, Ruby. I need you to know that. I’m really fucking grateful.”

I open my mouth to say something, but he keeps going—soft, steady, the way he talks when it costs him something.

“You held me these past eight weeks. There were days I didn’t know how to get out of bed. Or how to keep going through the day without… falling apart.”

I breathe in, slow and quiet.

“I’ve been told a thousand times to call if you need anything, let us know what you need. But when you’re in it—when you’re sitting in that pit of grief and everything’s dark and thick and heavy—you can’t say what you need. You can’t reach out. So you don’t.”

His voice tightens, but doesn’t break.

“And people—they wait. They mean well. But they wait. Because you didn’t say. And nothing happens. And it gets worse.”

He finally looks at me.

“But you didn’t wait. You showed up. Every day.”

I blink hard.

“You had every reason not to. Every reason to say fuck you, to let me rot in it. But you didn’t. You kept showing up. You gave me pieces of light when I couldn’t even ask for them.”

He lifts his hand to my face, thumb brushing under my eye where a tear slipped free. I didn’t even notice it coming.

“Whatever this is. Whatever we are, whatever we’ll be—I’ll always be grateful for that. For you.”

My chest aches with how much I feel for him.

And all I can do is pull him closer, bury my face in the warm curve of his neck, and let myself believe him. Believe in us. For tonight. For tomorrow.

For as long as it takes.

James

Okay, so I’ll never admit this out loud—ever—but yeah. I asked ChatGPT about the stages of grief.

Just… typed it in, one night, like a complete idiot: “what are the stages of grief and how do I know if the worst is behind me?”

Because the thing is, everyone keeps saying you’re doing well or you’re holding up, like I passed some kind of invisible test for being human after your mother dies. And I keep wondering—am I? Is this the worst part, or is there more coming, like an aftershock I didn’t plan for?

Anyway. Apparently there’s no real order to it. The stages aren’t some neat, tidy ladder you climb. It’s not like denial → anger → bargaining → depression → acceptance and then boom—congrats, you’re healed, here’s your certificate.

No. It’s more like a fucked-up washing machine that just keeps spinning you around. Sometimes you think you’re past something, and then it slams into you again like it never left.

That made sense to me in a way I didn’t expect. Because I thought maybe I was broken. That I was doing this wrong.

But maybe I’m just… grieving.

Eight weeks. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.
Time has never moved so slowly and so fast at the same time.

I still reach for my phone to text her sometimes.
Still hear her voice when I walk into Lydia’s kitchen and she’s making tea.
Still expect her to walk into a room.
Still wake up some mornings thinking—I should call Mum—and then remember.

But also, I’m not drowning every day now.
And that scares me too.

Because what does that say about me? That I can laugh again? That I can go to the coast with Ruby and hold her and kiss her and feel something that isn’t sorrow?

ChatGPT said that’s normal, too. That part of grief is letting life in again.

Not because you’re moving on, but because you’re moving with it.

That helped. More than I wanted it to.

And then there’s Ruby.
She didn’t try to fix anything. Didn’t say dumb, hollow things like she’s in a better place.
She just… showed up. Stayed.
And I think that’s what allowed me to start letting life in again.

Because if grief is this washing machine I’m stuck in, then Ruby’s the warm towel waiting on the side.
Something soft.
Something that says—you’ll dry off eventually.

And I guess what I realized is—
Maybe the worst isn’t behind me.
But I’m not alone in it anymore.

And that changes everything.

I don’t know how to say it all, not really. I’m not great with… this kind of thing. Feelings, truth, mess. But she’s here, on her bed, tucked into my side like she belongs there—and suddenly it feels worse not to say it.

So I try.

“You know how people talk about the stages of grief like it’s a staircase?” I say, my voice low, more for me than for her. “Like if you just get through denial and anger and whatever, you’ll magically reach some golden step called acceptance?”

She nods, her face open, listening. She always listens.

“It’s not like that,” I say. “It’s more like a washing machine. Just spinning. And maybe you’re not drowning anymore, but everything still feels… soaked. Heavy.”

That earns me a soft smile. “A grief-spin cycle?”

“Exactly,” I say. “I’ll put that on a T-shirt.”

She laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that reaches her eyes, and suddenly I’m okay not saying the rest. I don’t tell her I got that metaphor from reading way too much late at night, trying to figure out if the worst is behind me. I don’t tell her that I asked a chatbot because I didn’t know how to ask people.

But she smiles again—tugs the blanket around us a little tighter like she gets it anyway.

And I think, this is the closest I’ve ever been to peace.

But then the clock shifts and her mum knocks once on the door with a gentle “Half an hour’s up soon, love.” And I know it’s time.

I sit up. Stretch. I don’t want to leave.

She pulls her knees to her chest and gives me this little side glance. “I’m working tomorrow,” she says. “Late shift. I’ll call you after?”

I nod. “Yeah. Please do.”

“But—” she adds, turning fully toward me, her voice a little lighter, “—if you’re free the day after, I’ll be in Pemwick. Bringing my grandparents to the station. Eleven-ish.”

I raise a brow. “And?”

She grins. “We could go ice skating?”

I laugh, already picturing myself falling on my ass in front of small children and pensioners. “Are you trying to murder me?”

“No,” she says sweetly, “just trying to see if you still bounce.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Lydia could come. Or Al. Maybe even Cyril.”

I smirk. “Now I know it’s a trap.”

She shrugs like she’s innocent. She’s absolutely not.

But I say, “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Because the truth is, I’d follow her anywhere—even if it’s straight onto ice with zero survival skills.

She walks me downstairs, barefoot, her hand in mine.

And I think—if this is the grief-washing-machine, then maybe this part right here is the rinse. Or the softener. Or whatever the hell comes before the spinning starts again.

Either way…
She’s still here.
And I’m still trying.
And for tonight, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Alistair - Dec 27

James shows up at mine just after ten, looking like he got back from a spa retreat or was finally prescribed the right kind of drugs—or maybe just spent an entire day in the wind and salt air with the one person on earth who actually makes him breathe like a normal human.

Which, apparently, he has.

“I was with Ruby,” he says, dropping onto my couch, stretching out with that smug, floaty look he gets only when Lydia’s baking or Ruby’s smiling at him.

“All day?”

He raises a brow, mimicking my tone. “Yes, Dad. All day.”

I grab the whisky from the sideboard and pour him a glass without asking. “So?”

He blinks at me, deadpan. “No so. We walked on the beach. Got dinner at some random pub. Played cards with her family. Her granddad fell asleep by the fire. Angus sent me to get firewood. You know—casual domestic bliss.”

I chuckle. “Christ. You’re domesticated.”

He sips the whisky, shrugs, but he’s smiling. Not a sarcastic grin, not a defensive twitch of the lips—just a quiet, yeah, maybe I am sort of smile. And I think—I could kiss Ruby Bell for whatever witchcraft she did. Not that she’d let me.

“And we’re going ice skating on the 29th,” he adds. “Group date. You’re invited. I think Lydia and Cyril are in. You’ll… rally the troops?”

I place a hand dramatically over my heart. “It would be my honour.”

“Book the Italian place after?”

“I’m already making the reservation in my mind.”

He looks pleased for exactly three seconds—then frowns, eyes flicking down to his glass.

“But—”
Ah.
Here comes the James part of things.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know how to ask about New Year’s.”

I wait.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what she usually does. I don’t want to… I don’t want to make her feel like she has to spend it with me. Just because I can’t do your party. Which—I’m sorry, mate. I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” I say quickly. “You’re allowed to not be okay.”

He nods, but his jaw’s tight.

“And Ruby…” he continues, voice lower now, “she’s done so much. I don’t want her to feel like she’s responsible for me. Like it’s some sort of charity date.”

“Mate,” I say, setting my own glass down. “If she thought that, she wouldn’t have kissed you by the sea and let you play cards with her grandparents.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares into the fire.

So I lean forward a bit, elbows on knees. “Look. I know you’re scared of asking her for more than she’s ready to give. But maybe—just maybe—it would be weirder not to ask.”

He glances up.

I press on. “Maybe she’s waiting for that sign. The little things. Like… you thinking of New Year’s with her. Like she’s your plan. Not your plus one.”

He swallows.

And I know him. I know what this costs. Vulnerability isn’t exactly his hobby.

“She is your plan, isn’t she?” I ask gently.

He nods once.

“Well then,” I say, grinning, “start acting like it.”

He throws a pillow at me.

Which is fair.
But I catch it.
Because someone has to be the grownup here.

James - Dec 28

Ruby calls just after ten. Her voice is soft, a bit hoarse at the edges, and I can hear how tired she is—even before she says, “Sorry I’m late—double shift today.”

Eight hours waitressing. I try to imagine it. Can’t. Not really. I’ve never worked a job like that in my life. Never worn a name tag or balanced plates or smiled through sore feet and entitled customers. It’s a whole world I’ve never touched.

But she has. And somehow, she still called. Still found me at the end of a day that probably wrung her dry.

“I can let you go,” I offer. “You sound knackered.”

“I am knackered,” she says with a small laugh, “but I wanted to hear your voice.”

Fuck. That one goes straight to the chest.

She talks about some nightmare family who split the bill seven ways and left two quid in change as a tip. I laugh, but I hate that that happened. She tells it like it’s normal—like it’s fine. But it’s not.

And as I listen, I wonder—not for the first time—what she’s doing with the money she makes. She’s not spending it on clothes or shoes. Doesn’t wear jewellery, aside from her little earrings. Her books are covered by her scholarship. She doesn’t talk about needing anything.

Their house—the Bells’ house—isn’t flashy, but it’s clean, and warm, and smells like actual food. Like people cook and eat together there. Solid middle class, I’d say. No designer wallpaper. But there’s something more important: stability.

Still. I wonder.
And I’ll ask her one day.
Just… not today.

Because today, I’m trying to find a way to ask about New Year’s Eve. Without making it about me. Without making it sound like I need her to rescue me from being alone.

“So,” I say casually, or at least I hope it sounds casual, “do you have plans for New Year’s?”

A pause.
Then, lightly, “Not yet.”

Not yet. That’s… promising.

I’m not even sure what I’m expecting her to say next, but I brace anyway. In case she says she’s going to Al’s party. Or that her friends from Oxford are doing something. Or that she’ll be with her family.

But she just says, gently, “Did you have something in mind?”

And I laugh before I can stop myself, relief crashing through me. “Well, I was hoping you might.”

She hums. “Does your palace have a kitchen?”

I blink. “Uh. Yes. Of course. Why?”

“Maybe we could cook together?” she says. “If you’re up for it.”

I smile. I grin, actually, stupid and warm and full of this thing I’m not ready to name but can’t pretend I don’t feel.

“I’d really like that,” I say. “Come over. I’ll even pretend to be helpful.”

She laughs. “I’m holding you to that.”

And maybe Alistair set me up for this. Maybe he knew she was waiting for me to ask.
But I can’t even be mad about it.

Because she said yes.
And we have New Year’s now.
Not as a favour.
Not as a responsibility.
Just… us.

Cooking. Together.
And maybe kissing at midnight.

God.
I think I’m going to love that.

Alistair - Dec 29

So. Ice skating.

Somewhere between a brilliant idea and a mild death wish, but here we are. Ruby, Ember, Lin, Cyril, Lydia, Kesh, James, and me—herding ourselves like overgrown ducklings into the town rink, all bundled in hats and scarves and gloves like we’re about to summit a mountain. Ember’s cracking jokes before we even get on the ice, Ruby rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and James—James is nervous.

Which is fair. The boy moves like a golden retriever who just discovered he has four paws. Skating isn’t his thing. Never was. But he showed up.

He showed up.

And for the first time in two months, so did Lydia. Not just physically, not just doing what needs to be done—but actually here. Laughing when Cyril goes full Bambi on ice and nearly takes Kesh out with him. Laughing harder when James—who’d been concentrating so hard, tongue caught between his teeth—lands flat on his arse.

“Is your tailbone insured?” I ask, gliding past him, and he flips me off from the ground.

Ruby tries to help him up. He pulls her down with him. They end up tangled in the middle of the rink, laughing.

And Ember? Ember’s a menace. Like Ruby, only louder. And deadlier on skates. She challenges Lin to a race, wins it, then pirouettes for no good reason except she can. She keeps calling James twinkletoes. He doesn’t even argue.

God, I missed this.

This ridiculous chaos.
This noise.
This living.

Because it’s not just that they’re out—it’s that they’re enjoying it. Both James and Lydia. Not pretending. Not forcing it. But actually smiling. Like they forgot, for a little while, that things had been so utterly dark.

Cyril, meanwhile, is still staggering around with one of those little plastic penguins meant for toddlers. He’s muttering something about structural inequality in skate design. Kesh tries to steal the penguin. Cyril screams like he’s being mugged. Kids stare. Ruby nearly cries laughing.

After two hours of frostbite and pride injuries, we finally thaw out and head to the Italian restaurant I booked. Cozy place, smells like garlic and comfort. We’re packed around a long table, still red-cheeked and half-frozen, everyone hungry and loud.

James sits next to Ruby.
Not touching. Not making a scene.

Just close.

Their shoulders brush when they lean in to share the breadbasket. He says something low in her ear and she smiles, cheeks going pink.

She’s a little shy about it. I can tell. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she keeps her hands to herself, like she’s not sure what’s allowed now that they’re something again. But James—James sits there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t show her off. Doesn’t make it a performance.

But the way he looks at her?
Yeah. That’s not subtle.

Anyone with eyes can see it.
The luck.
The gravity of her.
The fact that he knows what it means that she let him back in.

And I want to raise a glass.
To her.
To them.
To this day that didn’t have to be anything special but somehow was.

Instead, I just steal the last breadstick while James is too distracted watching her smile.

Small victories.

Ruby – Dec 30

I’m looking forward to it.
New Year’s Eve with James.
Just us, cooking something together, maybe playing music, maybe watching something—maybe just being.

And that’s… lovely.
More than lovely, actually.
It’s something I didn’t think we’d have again. A quiet night that’s ours.

But I’m not entirely sure what he’s expecting.

Not in a bad way. Not because I think he’s pushing for anything—I know he wouldn’t.
It’s just… I’m not sure what I’m comfortable with. What I want. What this evening is meant to be.

And that means I should probably talk to him.
Sooner rather than later.

I’m pulling a sweater over my head when Mum knocks on my door and pokes her head in.
“You need the car for New Year’s? Or want me to pick you up after?” she asks casually, though I can tell it’s not casual at all.

I pause, chewing my lip.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say. Which is true.

She nods and steps further in, soft eyes, soft voice.
“You’re eighteen, love. You can make your own decisions. I just want you to think about them. Beforehand. That’s all.”
She’s quiet for a second. “If you think you might stay the night, it’s okay. I’m not saying no. Just… think about it. And talk to James.”

My stomach twists a little. Not in shame.
But in that weird way it does when someone sees more than you wanted them to.
She doesn’t know I already slept with him.
She doesn’t ask.
And I don’t tell her.

I just nod. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him.”
Because she is. She really is.

As soon as she leaves, I sit down on the edge of my bed and call him.

“Hey,” I say when he picks up. “Can you come by? I… I need to talk to you.”
Something shifts in his voice immediately. “Of course. I’ll be there in twenty.”
No questions. No hesitation.

And somehow, that makes this easier.

James

She sounded tense.

Not annoyed. Not cold.
Just… tense. Like something had settled heavy on her chest and she didn’t know how to say it.

Can you come by? I need to talk to you.

Not a good sign.
Not necessarily bad, either—but definitely not good.

And now I’m in the car, headlights cutting through the winter dark, heart going at a pace I hate. The kind that makes you feel like your ribs are too small and your lungs too shallow.

I should be looking forward to seeing her.
Normally I would be. I always do.

But now… now there’s this hole in my stomach that’s getting wider with every turn of the road.

Maybe she’s changed her mind.
Maybe she’s had time to think, to breathe, and realized this—me, us—is too much again.
Too heavy. Too complicated.
Maybe she wants to end the year as friends. Nothing more.

And what then?

I don’t think I could do that.
I’d say I could. I’d try.
But the truth is—I can’t lose her again.

Not now. Not after everything.

I pull into her street and park, hands too tight on the steering wheel. For a second, I just sit there, breathing through it, before I force myself out of the car.

Her front door opens before I even knock.

She’s standing there in her socks and a hoodie that probably belongs to her dad, arms wrapped around herself.
Quiet.

“Hey,” I say softly.

She nods, steps aside, and lets me in.
Doesn’t say much—just leads the way upstairs.
And in her room, she hesitates for a second, like she’s gathering the words.

Here it comes.

Whatever this is—whatever she needs to say—I brace myself for it.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, looking at her hands.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Just sits beside me, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them like she’s bracing herself.
And I don’t know what to do with the silence. I want to fill it. Smooth it over. Fix whatever this is before it starts to hurt.
But I don’t know what I’d be fixing.

So I wait.
And it’s agonizing.

She keeps glancing at me like she’s trying to decide if this is worth saying. If I’m worth saying it to.

I’m terrified she’ll decide I’m not.

“Ruby,” I finally say, and my voice already sounds unsure. “You said you wanted to talk. I’m here. You can say anything. You know that.”

She nods slowly. Her thumb runs over the seam of her sleeve. “It’s not that I don’t want to come,” she says quietly. “Tomorrow. To your place. I do.”

“Okay,” I say carefully. “Then…?”

She takes a breath. Let’s it out. Doesn’t speak.

And that hole in my stomach opens up again.

God, just say it.

Say it’s too much. Say it’s not working. Say she can’t trust me the way she used to.
Say it’s over, and just get it over with.

She rubs her hand across her forehead, like even trying to form the words is exhausting. “It’s just—I don’t know what you’re expecting.”

Oh.

I blink. “Expecting?”

“For New Year’s. For tomorrow. For… us.”

And I swear to God I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny.
Because I’ve never been so relieved in my life.

Because that’s what this is?

That’s what’s been tying her up in knots?

My breath shakes as it leaves me. I stare at the floor for a second, hands clenched between my knees.
“I thought you were going to say you couldn’t do this,” I say, voice hoarse. “That you’d thought about it, and—”
I stop. Swallow. Try again.

“I was so fucking afraid, Ruby.”

She looks at me.

“I thought I was walking into a goodbye.”

And it hits her. I see it in her face—the way she softens. Like the truth of my fear startles her.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she whispers.

“I didn’t mean to assume the worst,” I say, shaking my head. “I just—I care about you so much. And I know I messed up, and you let me back in, and I’m still not sure why you did, but—God, Ruby, I’m just grateful you did.”

Her eyes are wet now, but she’s nodding.

“I don’t expect anything,” I tell her. “I mean it. Not tomorrow, not ever. I’m not bringing you over because I think we’ll sleep together or because I want to show off or—I just want to be with you.”

“You’re not asking too much,” she says softly.

“Neither are you,” I say back. “You just want to know what kind of evening it is. And the answer is—it’s ours. However we want it. If you want to go home at midnight, I’ll drive you. If you want to stay, the guest room’s yours. Or my bed. Only if you want to be so close. But nothing has to happen. Just time, Ruby. That’s all I want.”

She nods again. “I just needed to know.”

“I get that,” I say, and I really, really do. “You’re not responsible for me. And I’ll never ask you to do something you’re not ready for.”

She shifts closer, nudges my shoulder with hers. “You know, you could’ve just asked me how I feel.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I was too busy panicking.”

Her head leans on my shoulder.

We sit there for a minute.

“I think I forgot that it’s okay to ask,” she murmurs.

“Well, I forgot that it’s okay not to expect answers to things I never said out loud,” I admit.

Another silence. A warmer one.

“I want to stay,” she says.

I turn my head slightly, heart picking up again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She looks up at me. “And I’d like to be close. But not… not to rush. Just—close.”

My throat tightens again, but for different reasons now.

“God, Ruby,” I whisper. “Yes. Of course. Whatever feels right to you. I just—I’m so glad it’s with me.”

Her eyes soften. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine.

And we just sit there.
No pressure. No assumptions.
Just that.

Just us.

Ruby

It hits me after the quiet settles.
After I’ve said what I needed to say and he’s said what he didn’t think he’d be allowed to.
After we just sit there, forehead to forehead, the storm inside me finally quiet.

He came right away.
No questions.
No hesitation.

He thought I was going to break up with him. He braced for that. For the worst. And he didn’t try to talk me out of it or defend himself before I even opened my mouth. He didn’t launch into a pitch to keep me. He just listened.

He let me say all of it—awkward and slow as it was, all twisted around itself.
Only after that, did he tell me what it felt like for him.

And I’m suddenly—so sorry.

I can see it now. Still, in the way his shoulders are half-tense, like he hasn’t completely let go.
In the way his eyes keep flicking over me, like he’s trying to be sure it’s okay to look at me this way.
Like he’s still not sure I won’t pull away.

He’s been carrying so much. And still—he came.
Came and stood there in the hallway like he was walking into a sentencing.

And all I did was ask him to listen.
God.
And he did.
All of it. Without flinching.

And what he said? Just time. That’s all he wants.

It was exactly what I needed to hear.
Because that’s what this is about. That’s what I want, too.

I want time with him.
I want an evening without having to watch the clock.
I want us both to be able to have a glass of something sparkly at midnight and not worry about who’s driving where.
I want to kiss him when the new year begins.
I want to fall asleep beside him.

And more than anything, I didn’t want to scare him.

So I slide closer and wrap my arms around him, hold him tight, my face against his shoulder.
He lets out a breath, soft and warm against my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His arms come around me like he’s been waiting for that.

“I just—needed to say it out loud first. Not because I didn’t trust you. But because I didn’t know how to say I want this, without sounding like I wasn’t sure. And I am sure.”

He nods against my temple, doesn’t say anything yet.

“I want time with you, James,” I murmur. “That’s all.”

And I feel him smile. A small one. But real.

James

The thing is—she’s the braver person. Always has been.

I’m the fucking coward.
When it comes to saying hard things, I either lash out or clam up. Mostly the second one these days. Progress, I guess.

And this?
This whole… logistics-of-the-evening thing? It required a conversation. A grown-up, clear, mutually respectful talk. Which I dreaded so much I buried myself in cooking blogs like they held the secrets of the universe.

I messaged Mrs Brent to ask whether I needed to know anything about the stove, which is laughable because I’ve seen her operate it one-handed while reading Agatha Christie.
I looked up what semolina flour actually is. Ordered the right one—Italian, Ruby said, otherwise the dough doesn’t behave.
I prepped everything I could possibly prep for a night of food and maybe a movie. Pretended I wasn’t holding my breath the whole time.

But I didn’t say a damn word about staying over.

Because no matter how you phrase that question, it’s loaded.

Suggest the guestroom?
Could come across like I’m walking on eggshells.
Like I think she’s fragile. Like I’m trying to say look, see how patient and decent I am, which she doesn’t need.

Suggest she stay with me?
Well.
That’s a grenade, isn’t it?
Could be the wrong impression—or the right one too soon.
Could feel like pressure. Like I expect something.

Offer to drive her home at midnight?
Might feel like I don’t want her there at all.

It’s a minefield. And the worst part is—I set it.
Two months ago, she came to my bed without hesitation.
Now, we’re tap-dancing around the question of how close is too close.

And it’s my fault.

Because I broke the version of us that didn’t require conversations like this.
Because I hurt her, and she still stayed.

So now we talk.
Now we walk carefully.
Now we relearn what it means to choose each other.
Not just want each other, but choose it—with care.

And somehow, she still manages to do that with grace. With honesty.
She called me.
Asked me to come.
Told me what she needed to say.

I was standing in her hallway tonight, convinced she was going to end it.
That she’d decided it was better to leave the year clean. Untangled.

And she didn’t.

She told me she wanted time.
That she wanted to stay.
That she wanted to fall asleep next to me.

She was brave.
And all I did was sit there, silent and afraid, making plans about pasta flour.

God.
I’ll never deserve her.

But I can hold this right.
I can protect it.
I can be patient and steady and better.

Because she still wants this.
Wants us.
And that’s the only thing I need to walk into this next year.

Ruby

We didn’t switch on the lights.
Didn’t need to.
The room is dipped in that pale winter dusk—blues and greys and soft outlines.
There’s something safe in the quiet of it. In the way the world slows down just outside the window.

I’m lying on my bed, head on his chest. His arm around my shoulders.
He smells like cold air and wool. And him.
His heart beats steadily under my ear.

I could fall asleep like this.

But there’s something I haven’t said.
Something I maybe should say before tomorrow night. So it’s not hanging in the air like some invisible thread between us.
So we don’t stumble into it when everything’s supposed to feel…easy.

I don’t even know how to start.
It’s not about now. Not really.
It’s about then.

The words come slow, uncertain.

“There’s something I never told you. And I’m not saying it to hurt you, or punish you, or anything like that. I just… need you to know.”

He goes still. Doesn’t speak.
But I feel his fingers twitch slightly against my shoulder.
He’s listening.

“That night… at the pool,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be, “after—after we were together, and then you did what you did the next day…”

He tenses. I feel it. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“It hurt. Obviously. But it did something else, too. Something I didn’t really understand until later.”

I pause. Swallow. It’s hard to say this without sounding like I’m blaming him.
I’m not. I know he was hurting too.
But that doesn’t change what it did to me.

“It made me think I wasn’t enough,” I whisper. “Not good enough. Not attractive enough. Or maybe not experienced enough. Or bold enough. Like—maybe you regretted it. Or didn’t want to be with someone like me.”

I feel him inhale sharply.

“I know it’s stupid,” I say quickly, before he can speak. “I know it’s not true. But it’s like… there’s this little voice sometimes. Still. Telling me that if I’d been more… something, you wouldn’t have acted like that. You wouldn’t have pushed me away.”

There’s a silence between us that feels endless.
The room is dark now. Properly dark.
No more dusk. Just night.

I press my forehead gently into his chest, like I want to hide there.
Maybe I do.

“And it’s not that I don’t trust you now. I do. I really do. But sometimes I catch myself thinking about what to wear when you’re around. Or how I’m going to get changed into my nightshirt. Or—how I’ll ever dare to be naked again, with you.”

My cheeks burn even though he can’t see me.

“And I’m not saying I want that. Not now. Not tonight. I’m not ready. I just— I wanted to be honest. Because it’s there. In my head. And it’s hard to ignore it.”

The words feel raw.
Too much. Too vulnerable.
I don’t usually say things like this.
Don’t let people see this version of me.

But I trust him.
And I need him to know.

Please let him understand.
Please.

I don’t expect him to say anything right away.

But when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. Almost broken.

“Ruby…” he says. Just my name. Like it’s the most painful thing he’s ever had to say.

And I realize—he had no idea.
He knew he hurt me. But he didn’t understand how deeply it cut.
How far that echo reached.

Of course he didn’t.

But now he does.

James

I hold her tighter when she finishes, even though I don’t really know what to do with my hands.
I think I forget how to breathe.

It takes me a second. Maybe more than that.
Because everything she just said—it knocks the air out of me.
Like I knew I’d hurt her, but not like this.
Not this deep.
Not this cruel.

I want to speak but I don’t trust myself yet. I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might anchor me.

Because God—
What I did…
That was the worst thing I’ve ever done to anyone.
And I didn’t even realize it until now.

I let silence fester between us after the most beautiful night of my life.
I let shame, guilt, fear—whatever the fuck it was—make her question herself.
Make her think she wasn’t enough.

That’s the most brutal part.
That’s the part I’ll never forgive myself for.

And I finally say it.

“Ruby…” My voice breaks around her name. I try again. “Ruby. I’m so sorry.”

Not enough.
Not even close.
So I keep going.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t realize—not like this.”

My throat is tight and raw. I blink up at the ceiling, but I can’t see it anymore. Just a haze.

“You said something a few weeks ago. About betrayal not being a scream, but a quiet thing. A slow thing. Like poison.”
“And I get it now. I really do. I did that to you. And I’m so fucking sorry.”

She’s quiet. Still curled against me.

“That night…” I say, softly now, “that night with you—it was everything. You were everything. It was the first time I felt… really held. Seen. And I know I should’ve said something the next day. I should’ve done anything but what I did. I should’ve come to you. I should’ve asked you to help me. I should’ve told you.”

I take a shaky breath.

“But instead I left. I shut down. I destroyed it. I destroyed the memory for you.”

I sit up slightly, shifting so I can look down at her.

“You let me be your first,” I say. My voice is shaking. “That meant everything to me. It still does. And I know I ruined it.”

She doesn’t speak. But she doesn’t move away, either.

“I still dream about it, you know?” I admit, gently. “Not in a dirty way. Just… in a beautiful way. When I miss you. When I think about you.”

She finally lifts her head a little. Just enough to meet my eyes.
God, she’s beautiful.
Even in the dark, even with all the pain—especially with all the pain.

“You were so… you that night. Brave and soft and warm and—God, Ruby. I’ve never felt so loved in my whole life.”

I touch her cheek, just the edge of it. Not too much. Not pushing.

“What I did had nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You weren’t not enough. I was a fucking mess. Still am, probably. And I didn’t know how to deal with any of it.”

She’s quiet again. But she doesn’t look away.

“I would love,” I say slowly, carefully, “to ever be allowed to see you like that again. Naked, I mean. If you ever want that. And only then. But not because of sex. Just—because I love seeing you. All of you. You’re so beautiful, Ruby.”

Her eyes are wide now. I’m not sure she’s breathing either.

“Inside and out,” I say, because I need her to hear it. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

A silence stretches between us.

And then I smile—sheepish and a little stunned.

“I’ve got a whole sketchbook of drawings of you,” I confess. “Your hands. Your face. The way you stand with your weight on one leg when you’re reading. Your hair. Your eyes. The shape of your mouth when you’re mad at me. All of it.”

Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but can’t quite manage it.

“I just—I love looking at you,” I whisper. “That’s all.”

And then I fall quiet.
Let her decide what to do with all of that.

Because it’s hers.
Always was.

Ruby

He says it so gently.

Not to explain it away. Not to defend himself. Not to argue.
Just… to tell me. Soft and real and raw. Like he’s laying every piece of himself in front of me and saying take it or leave it.

And it’s—

God.

It’s everything I needed. And more than I expected.

I can barely breathe.

I don’t think he understands what it means to hear him say that night meant something. That it was beautiful for him too. That I was beautiful. That he still dreams of it—not with want, not with lust, but with love. With gratefulness.

And that he knows he ruined it.
That he owns that.
No excuses. No shifting blame. No pretending he didn’t know better.

Just honesty.

And that sketchbook.

My throat goes tight when he says it. A whole sketchbook. Of me.
I don’t even know what to do with that information.

He’s looking at me now like I’m made of glass, like he’ll take it all back if I flinch.

But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because something in my chest is cracking open.

I don’t feel angry.
I feel—

Seen.
Loved.
And somehow… safe.

“You draw me?” I whisper.

He nods. Doesn’t even try to make it sound casual.

And I laugh—soft and stunned and almost watery.

“That’s the most ridiculous, sappy, stupidly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

His eyes flicker. I can see the question in them. Too much?

So I lean in and kiss him. Light. Grateful. A kiss that says you’re not too much. Not for me.

I rest my forehead against his after.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For saying all of that.”

I take a breath. I want to tell him something else too.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to talk about that night again. But I’m really glad I did. Because what you said… that’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

And it’s true.
It quieted the voice in my head. The one that told me I wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t wanted. That I wasn’t enough for him to stay.

Because he did stay.
He’s here now. Holding me like I’m precious. Like I matter. Like he sees me. Really sees me.

I curl back into him, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
It’s slow. Steady. Familiar now.

And I think—maybe we’ll be okay.
Maybe this time, we’re building something real.
Something we can trust.

I close my eyes, and whisper,

“I can’t wait to see those drawings someday.”

He lets out a soft sound—somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

And then we just lie there.
In the quiet.
In the almost-dark.
In the space where something broken is slowly, gently healing.

James

She’s curled against me, her head on my chest, and I swear I can still feel the echo of her words in the room. Not enough. Not bold enough. Not good enough. Not enough for me.

Jesus Christ.

It’s a miracle I’m not sobbing all over her duvet.

Because I did that.
I put those thoughts in her head.
With one cruel, selfish night of cowardice. Less than a day after the most honest, vulnerable thing either of us had ever done.

And I thought I knew. Thought I’d already punished myself enough over it, thought I’d carried the guilt. But I didn’t know this part.

I didn’t know it reached that deep.

And now I can’t stop thinking—what else hasn’t she told me? What other awful little lies about herself has she been quietly believing because of something I broke?

And I’m lying here like a fucking idiot. Holding her. Listening to her breathe. Knowing I could fix some of that. Knowing exactly the words she needs to hear.

And still not saying them.

Because I’ve been waiting for a better moment. A safer moment. A more appropriate moment.

But maybe there isn’t one.
Maybe this is what love looks like—telling the truth even when it’s not grand or perfect or planned.

I’ve wanted to say it so many times. So badly. There were moments I had to bite my tongue to stop the words from tumbling out. Afraid they’d fall into the silence like glass and shatter everything we’d only just started to rebuild.

But now I think… maybe not saying them has been the real mistake.

Because she thinks she’s not enough.

When she’s everything.

And if I don’t say it now—before I ever touch her again, before I ever undress her with my eyes or with my hands—then what am I even doing?

She needs to know.

That this isn’t a transaction.
That this isn’t want.
That this isn’t lust, or missing her, or the memory of that night.

It’s love.

I love her.

I love her.

I close my eyes, press my lips into her hair, and whisper—barely audible.

“Ruby.”

She hums a soft hmm? against my chest.

My mouth is dry.

But I say it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

Not a performance. Not a declaration shouted across a lake or painted on a billboard.

Just honesty.

The soft kind. The kind that stays.

She goes still. Doesn’t breathe for a second.

And I hold her tighter—not to trap her. Just so she knows she’s safe. No matter what she says. No matter how she feels. I don’t need anything back. I don’t expect anything back.

I just needed her to know.

Because if she ever doubts her worth again—
If that voice in her head comes back and tells her she’s not enough—

She can remember this moment.

And remember that she is.
So much more than enough.
She’s everything.

Ruby

He says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Like it doesn’t rearrange the shape of everything inside me.

“I love you.”

And I forget how to breathe for a second.

My chest rises—but nothing comes. And then the tears start. Just slipping down, warm against my temples, pooling in my ears. No sobs, no sharp breaths, just the kind of crying that happens when your body gives up holding everything in.

Because I wasn’t expecting it.
Not tonight.
Not ever, maybe.

And not from him.

Not from the boy I met in a dusty Maxton Hall hallway who thought he was too clever and too charming for consequences.
Not from the boy who let me down in the most personal, private way.
Not from the boy who’s slowly, painfully, beautifully become this.

This version of him, the one lying next to me in the half-dark, telling me something I didn’t even dare to want.

“I love you.”

I can’t stop crying.

And I hate crying.

I shift slightly, trying to sit up, to respond, to do something with all this emotion, but he stops me with the gentlest touch—guides me back against the pillow like I’m made of something delicate. Then he leans over and kisses my cheek, right where the first tear fell.

Then the second. Slowly. Carefully.

“I should have told you sooner,” he whispers. “That day at the beach, it was all I could think about. I kept almost saying it. Every time you laughed, or pushed your hair behind your ear, or made that face when the seagull stole your shortbread.”

A soft, wet laugh bubbles out of me.

“But now you know,” he finishes, voice catching. “Now you know.”

And I do.

I do.

And I reach up, both hands finding his face in the dark. I don’t even try to wipe my tears. He’s already seen them. Already kissed them.

“I love you too,” I whisper. “I think I have for a while now. I just—was scared.”

He makes a sound. Like something exhaling inside him. Like relief.

And then he finally kisses me.

And it’s so gentle.

No rush. No pressure. No heat pushing us forward. Just warmth. Real warmth. Like the kiss is a kind of promise. Like he’s telling me again, with his lips this time, what he just told me with his words.

And I kiss him back.

And somewhere, deep in the centre of my chest, the ache I’ve been carrying all year begins to quiet. Not disappear—just soften. Like it’s being held now. Like I’m being held.

By him.

By James Beaufort.

Who loves me.

Chapter Text

James

She said making pasta from scratch takes time.

So I picked her up at four sharp.

No snarky comments, no teasing her about being bossy with the timeline. Just nodded, helped her into the car, and drove us here like I wasn’t quietly losing my mind the entire way.

Because she’s never been to the house before. Not this house. Not Beaufort.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I don’t get nervous. Not usually. But today I spent twenty minutes staring at the damn napkins because I didn’t know whether to go for the white linen or the embroidered ones with the pine trees. (I picked the plain ones. Pine trees felt too… decorative. Too smug.)

I triple checked my father wouldn’t be here. Made sure Lydia had plans—she does. With Cyril, of all people. She’s been spending a lot of time with him lately. It’s still weird, seeing those two in the same room and not hearing bickering, but I’m staying out of it. For once.

I sent the staff home early. Told Mrs Brent and the others to enjoy the new year somewhere that didn’t reek of old portraits and taxidermy. They deserved it. All I asked was that the house was clean, the fridge was full, and the dining room fire was lit.

No—not the real fire. That would’ve meant restocking logs every half hour and possibly setting something on fire by accident. So we’re in the drawing room at the back of the house, where there’s a gaslit fireplace pretending to be the real deal. It even crackles a bit. Sounds like effort. Must’ve been expensive.

I walk her through the entrance hall like I don’t hate every inch of it. The polished floors, the echoing silence, the oil paintings of relatives who would’ve hated Ruby just for existing.

She’s looking around, polite but quiet.

“I know,” I say. “It’s a bit much.”

She glances at me, lips curving slightly. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“Maybe.”

I grin.

We take the long way—down the east corridor past the glass conservatory, where the plants are probably all dead by now, and then through the side passage that leads toward the kitchen wing.

I pause by the small drawing room—the one that doesn’t look like it was stolen from a museum.

“This is where we’ll eat,” I tell her. “Mrs. Brent set it up before she left.”

I open the door and let her see it. The table’s by the window, facing the garden. There are candles. White napkins, clean plates, wine glasses that don’t have the family crest etched into them. The fireplace is already on, humming quietly. There’s a bottle of prosecco chilling in a bucket by the wall.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just walks in a little. Takes it in.

I say, a little too fast, “I didn’t want it to be… cold. You know.”

She turns to me. Smiles. And for the first time today, the knot in my chest loosens.

“It’s lovely,” she says softly. “Really lovely.”

And suddenly I can breathe again.

I nod toward the kitchen.

“Come on, chef. I bought everything on the list. Even the semolina flour. Imported. I googled what that is and everything.”

She laughs. That laugh—God. I could bottle it.

We head to the kitchen.

There’s flour, eggs, a pasta roller I panicked-bought two days ago, and even two aprons hanging on the oven handle.

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But if this is how we start the year, I want to get it right.

And if we eat by eight?

Well, that’ll be a New Year’s miracle.

Ruby

I grew up in a house where food matters.

My dad’s a chef. Not a TV-chef or some Michelin-star guy. Just… proper. Knows how to feed people, and how to make it feel like something. And my mum’s the kind of woman who still makes her own salad dressing, who taught me how to knead dough properly before I could ride a bike. Weekends were for new recipes and old favorites, testing spice balances, peeling mountains of garlic, laughing, bickering, chopping.

So yes. I know how to cook.

But I’m also used to cooking with people who know how to cook.

James? Does not.

Not even close.

And I realise this exactly three minutes into our prep when I ask him to separate six egg yolks, and he stares at me like I just told him to amputate a finger.

“Yolks,” I say again, holding out the bowl like it’s obvious.

He picks up the first egg very slowly. “Right. So… where exactly do you think the yolk lives?”

I blink. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” he says, and cracks it too hard against the counter. Half the shell crumbles and the yolk splats halfway onto the marble.

I stare. He grins, sheepish.

Okay.
So this is going to be Cooking 101: James Beaufort Edition.

We start over. I show him how to crack an egg without pulverizing it. How to gently pass the yolk back and forth between the shell halves until the white drops away. He watches like he’s trying to memorise choreography.

By the third egg, he’s getting it. By the fifth, he’s smirking. “Chef Bell,” he says, holding up the sixth yolk like it’s a trophy. “That’s six, yeah? Do I get a sticker?”

“No, but you get to grate the parmesan,” I say, handing him the block. “Don’t eat it all.”

He absolutely eats it all.

⸻

The pasta dough is easy—eggs, semolina flour, a pinch of salt. I let him try kneading it. Which mostly results in him mushing it into a weird ball and swearing under his breath.

“It’s sticking to my hands,” he complains.

“Because you’re not working fast enough,” I say, laughing.

“I’m wearing a watch, not a goddamn sand timer—”

“You’re wearing an apron, Beaufort.”

“It’s a dignified look,” he says, adjusting the too-small waist tie like he’s on a catwalk.

We leave the dough to rest and move on to the starter: vitello tonnato. The veal is already poached (thank God for prep work, unknown Mrs Brent). The sauce is a blend of tuna, anchovies, capers, olive oil, lemon juice, and egg yolk. James makes a noise when I explain what’s in it.

“You’re telling me the sauce is fish on cow?”

“Yes.”

“Is that legal?”

“It’s Italian.”

“That explains nothing.”

But he helps anyway. Whisks the emulsion like a good little sous-chef, even when his arm gets tired.

Focaccia goes in the oven. Pasta dough gets cut by hand—well, mostly by me—because letting him near the giant kitchen knife feels… dangerous.

“What’s next, boss?” he asks, flour on his cheek, a smudge on his nose.

“Tagliatelle. Sauce. Dessert.”

“Wait. More? I thought we were almost done.”

“You thought making dinner was like… what? Magic?”

“No, I just thought it was less cardio.”

⸻

The tomato sauce simmers while I grill the vegetables—aubergines, courgettes, peppers. He watches, entranced by the colour changes.

“It’s like watching paint dry. But in a sexy way.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You trying to get out of dicing the ricotta?”

“Desperately.”

He gets no reprieve.

By the time we mix the grilled veg into the tomato sauce and finish the ricotta prep, it’s almost seven. Pasta’s rolled and drying in little nests. The focaccia smells divine.

He slumps against the counter. “Three hours. I feel like I ran a marathon.”

I slide a glass of water toward him.

“And for what?” he says dramatically. “I could’ve ordered from that place in Pemwick.”

I smack his shoulder. “But you didn’t. You cooked. Well. Assisted.”

He straightens up. Grins. “Does this mean I get a kiss?”

“Hmm,” I say, turning back toward the tiramisu station. “Only if you promise not to mess up the mascarpone.”

That’s a lie. He gets the kiss anyway.

Because it’s New Year’s Eve.
Because he’s trying—like, really trying.
Because he hasn’t once acted like this was beneath him. He’s taken every instruction, every correction, every laugh, and run with it.

Because he looks at me like I’m a miracle, even with flour on my face.

So I kiss him.

Just a little.

And then again.

“Okay,” I say, when we both stop smiling. “Now whip the cream before I change my mind.”

“Do I get another kiss if I don’t ruin it?”

“We’ll see.”

He whips that cream like his life depends on it.

James

My feet hurt.
My arm hurts too—from the parmesan grating, or maybe from whipping the mascarpone until it held stiff peaks, because Ruby takes dairy structure very seriously. I think I’ve chopped more vegetables today than in my entire life combined. And yet—

This is the best evening I’ve had in… God, I don’t even know how long.

Because she’s here. Because she’s laughing, and bossing me around, and smiling without hesitation. Because the kitchen smells like garlic and rosemary and warm bread and everything that’s good. Because for once, finally, things don’t feel fragile or heavy or lined with barbed wire.

Because she’s doing something she loves—and I get to be in the orbit of that. Just her and me. No staff. No shadows. No ticking clock in the back of my head telling me I’m running out of time with her.

She’s moving through the kitchen like she owns it.
And maybe she does.

She tells me to “wash your hands again, Beaufort,” after I taste the tuna sauce with my finger. She mutters something about food hygiene under her breath but she’s smiling when she says it. She smacks my arse with the spatula when I stand in the way of the oven. Then she kisses me on the cheek when I remember to turn off the focaccia heat without being told.

It’s ridiculous how proud I feel about that.

We’re standing side by side at the counter while she drizzles coffee over the sponge fingers like it’s some kind of sacred ritual. She’s got that look—concentration, reverence, tiny crease between her brows. I’m not even sure she notices that she’s humming.

And I’m just… standing there. Watching her. Thinking, God, I love you.

Which I said, finally.
Which she said back, which still feels like a dream I might accidentally wake up from.

“Done,” she announces, brushing her hands off on the apron I let her borrow—technically my apron, but it’s hers now in every way that matters. She wipes a dot of ricotta from her finger and looks at me.

“It’s 7:57,” she adds. “Dinner by eight. Told you.”

“Show-off,” I say.

She grins.

And then I lift her—just pick her up by the waist, easy as breathing—and set her down on the kitchen counter.

“Oh?” she says, one eyebrow raised, legs swinging a little.

I step between her knees.

“You earned this,” I murmur. My hands on her hips. Her palms flat against my chest. Her eyes soft and sure and shimmering a little in the golden light.

Then I kiss her.

Really kiss her.

Slow and steady. Deep. Like I’ve been waiting for this all day—which I have. Like I’ve been aching for it—which I have. Like nothing else exists outside the sweep of her mouth and the warmth of her skin and the way her knees bend just slightly inward, locking me closer.

It’s not about sex. It’s not about reward or rhythm or anything I could ever explain.

It’s just her.

And it’s so good. So right.
I get lost in it. I let myself.
Because for once, I don’t have to fight for the moment. I can just have it. Have her.

And for a second, I let myself believe that maybe this—this warmth, this joy, this girl I love—is mine to keep.

Ruby

I knew it would be good.
Because I am a good cook.
And I chose dishes I could prepare in my sleep.
But still. It’s different. It’s so different. Cooking it together. With him. Watching him lift that first forkful to his mouth, exaggeratedly cautious like he’s unsure if the fork is the right tool to use.
And then—

“That’s actually good,” he says, nodding solemnly, like he’s just made a complex culinary discovery.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. You saw me make it.”

“I saw you yell at me while you made it. Different thing.”

He’s grinning, stretching out in the chair like he’s earned this, and I can’t help but laugh. Because yes, okay, I might have called him a liability at least three times during the pasta-making phase, and he might have nearly burned the garlic for the sauce, but—he really tried. He really wanted to do it right. That counts.

We eat in the small drawing room near the kitchen, a fake fire flickering behind us, the kind that still gives off enough warmth to feel cozy. The tiramisu is in the fridge. The focaccia was devoured before we even sat down. And now it’s just us, and the food, and the easy comfort that’s started settling in like second skin.

“Honestly,” he says, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin Mrs Brent put out, “I think I’ve peaked. Nothing I do next year will top successfully separating egg yolks without rupturing the space-time continuum.”

I raise a brow. “You only cracked three wrong before you got one right.”

“That’s called progress, Bell.”

“And a 25% success rate.”

He leans back in his chair, mock-offended. “That’s a generous estimate.”

“True,” I say, grinning. “One of them you just kind of… looked at until it cracked under the pressure.”

He bursts out laughing, and I can’t help it—I do too. Because it’s fun. Because I’ve never cooked dinner with someone who didn’t know what he was doing and still had fun messing up. He didn’t get sulky or defensive. He took the spatula swats like a champ. Wore the apron like it was battle armor. Did as he was told—mostly.

“I’m willing to learn,” he says now, like he means it. “I mean, worst case scenario, I teach you how to hunt game.”

I blink at him. “Game as in… pheasants?”

He shrugs like it’s normal. “Deer, ducks. The usual. I could also teach you how to fake your way through a charity polo event. Very transferable life skills, if your father’s aiming for a peerage.”

“Is he?”

James pauses. “Let’s just say he’d love to see ‘Lord Beaufort’ on a golf trophy.”

“Ah yes. Golf.” I stab another bite of grilled vegetables with my fork. “The ultimate survival skill.”

“Can’t believe it’s not in school curriculums.”

“I can feed an army during a pandemic,” I say with mock pride, “and you can swing a club while someone in tweed claps politely.”

“We all have our talents,” he says, lifting his wine glass—sparkling apple juice, technically—and I clink mine against his.

And we just smile at each other for a moment. No need to fill the silence. No pressure. Just… full.

I didn’t expect it to feel this good. Not just the food. The whole thing.
Making something together. Sharing a table. Laughing like we’ve been doing this forever.
Like this isn’t new, or fragile, or borrowed.
Like it’s just us.

James

I didn’t have a real plan for the night.
I just hoped—hoped like hell—that time together would feel good. Natural. Less like tiptoeing and more like just… being.

And it does.

It really does.

Dinner was amazing. Mostly thanks to her, obviously, although I’ve earned my title as “Best Kitchen Assistant Who Didn’t Start a Fire” (self-awarded). We laughed, we ate, we stole kisses, and she didn’t seem to mind when I got flour all over her jumper or when I dropped a spoon directly into the sauce.

It was good. All of it.
And now—

Now, we’re standing in the kitchen, just finished drying the last dish. Because of course she wouldn’t let me leave things to the staff in the morning. She’s Ruby. A force of nature in an apron. Insists we do it properly, like grown-ups.
And I wanted to say, You already make me feel like one.

Instead, I handed her the towel.

She’s quiet for a moment, glancing at the hallway, then back at me.
“So…” she starts, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “is your room upstairs? Or down here?”

There’s a blush creeping up her cheeks.
And my heart immediately does that lurch thing, like it’s falling off a cliff but enjoying the view.

“Upstairs,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Come on.”

I lead her up the side staircase—one of the smaller ones, not the grand sweeping one at the front. Somehow it feels less dramatic this way. More human.

I didn’t want to assume anything, so I had one of the guest rooms made up for her. Just in case. Fresh sheets. Warmed through. Extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Because if she wanted space, she’d have it—without either of us fumbling with linen or radiator settings at midnight. But she didn’t ask about it. Didn’t mention it.

She’s following me. To my room.

I open the door, step aside to let her in first.

She pauses in the doorway, looking around.

I cleaned it. Not just a surface-level tidy-up.
New sheets. Pillows fluffed. I put away the stash of socks under the bed, vacuumed, even sprayed the room with some posh linen spray Lydia once gave me.

On the coffee table—drinks of all kinds. Sparkling water. Cola. Juice. A mini bottle of Champagne I nicked from Lydia’s fridge because I thought—maybe.
Bowls of snacks. Cheddar popcorn because she mentioned it once. Chocolate. Some red grapes.

Books strategically placed on the bedside table. Enough variety to look smart. One political biography. One poetry collection I haven’t read past page 12.
One art history tome with a page dog-eared where I once saw a drawing that reminded me of her.

She walks in slowly, taking it all in.

Her fingers trail along the edge of the dresser.
Stops at the framed photos. Me and Lydia. One of me and Alistair in our sixth-form uniforms, looking like idiots.
She smiles at it.

And then—her eyes land on the shelf. Where the sketchbooks are.

“Is that where you keep them?” she asks, voice soft. “The drawings?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

“Can I see?”

God.
Yeah, she’s always been the braver one.

I nod. Walk over. Take the top sketchbook—the one I filled in the first half of term. With her.
And hand it over.

She sits down on the couch. Cross-legged. Turns the first page.
And I feel everything in me go quiet. Nervous and full at once. Like she’s not just looking at a sketchbook. Like she’s looking at me.

Because she kind of is.

Ruby

It’s a lot.

I knew he sketched. He told me. I’ve seen the notepad in his bag, the pencil smudges on his fingers, the one or two casual doodles he’s done in the margins of his notes. But I didn’t know this.

He started drawing me back in September.

There, at the bottom right corner of each page, are the dates—small, neat, consistent.
Like this mattered. Like I mattered.

The first one is of me reading in the library. My hair’s tucked behind my ear, head bent, completely unaware he was watching. It’s rough, a little uncertain around the eyes, but he’s caught the way I lean on my elbow when I read, the way I mouth the words sometimes without noticing.

Then one of me with my backpack slung across my shoulder, waiting outside the Radcliffe Camera. A profile sketch. My hair’s in a braid. I remember that day—of course I do..,

There are a few from October—me writing something down, standing in front of a chalkboard. One where I’m laughing, head thrown back slightly.
I don’t even know what I was la ughing at. But the Ruby on the page looks happy. Free.

There’s nothing dated in the first week of November.

My stomach dips a little.

But then—more pages. A lot more.
Sometimes two or three per day.

Me at the Christmas market, handing over a cup of coffee to an old woman in a red coat.
The steam from the mug is curling gently in the air, and James managed to capture that. With pencil.

Then one of me and Maya, a tray of muffins between us, both of us laughing. My face is scrunched, my hand halfway to my mouth like I’m trying to hide something—probably snorted. She looks like she’s mid-joke. I had no idea he was there that afternoon.

Me with Ember, side by side at the Bells’ dinner table, sharing a smile. There’s a candle in the middle. It’s reflected in our eyes. It’s warm. It feels like home.

A dozen more—me bundled up at the beach, holding my coat collar against the wind. My hands reaching for something. Just my face, caught in some silent moment I can’t even place.

And then—
There’s one of me with a tear rolling down my cheek.

The shading is so delicate, I have to hold the page still. The tear isn’t the focal point. I am. The set of my mouth. The slope of my brow. The weight of that moment in my shoulders.
He didn’t just see me.
He understood me.

There’s a study of me ice skating—three or four tries on one page. My hair is loose in one, up in another. One of me mid-glide, the next me landing with both arms out for balance. I can tell he was trying to get it right, like it mattered.
Like I mattered.

And then one of me and Alistair, sitting at the Italian place, both of us laughing at something off-page. My hand is resting on the table. His is hovering above a slice of pizza. It’s just a moment. One he noticed and kept.

And here’s the thing that undoes me:
I’m beautiful in every single one of them.

But not because he’s made me into something else.
Not because he’s turned me into some fantasy version of myself.

It’s me.
Absolutely.
Undeniably.
Me.

Messy hair. Wrinkled coat. Shy smiles. Half-lidded eyes when I’m tired.
He drew that.
And made it beautiful.

I press my hand to the page, careful not to smudge it.
It’s hard to breathe for a second.

He didn’t just see me.
He chose me.
Over and over again.

And I never even knew.

James

I’ve never shown anyone my drawings. Not properly. Not like this.

Except the one I gave her for her birthday—the portrait I spent nights obsessing over, erasing the lines around her eyes five times, adjusting the angle of her lips so it looked like she was about to smile. The one she gave back with a “Fuck you” scribbled on a sticky note.

I deserved that.
Hell, I probably deserved worse.

And now she’s sitting on my bed, cross-legged, hair loose over her shoulders, flipping through a whole sketchbook full of her.
All the ways I couldn’t say what I felt.
All the ways I tried to tell her anyway.
Each one of those pages was a moment I spent missing her.

Wanting her.
Wishing I were brave enough to do something about it.

And she’s quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes every second feel like a knife balancing on its edge.

She turns another page.
Her hands are careful.

And then—
She looks up.

Says, “Thank you.”

Two words. That’s all.
But it rips through me.

The way she’s looking at me—
like she sees everything I am and everything I’m not,
everything I tried to say with a pencil because I didn’t know how else to do it.

The air between us shifts.
Grows tight. Heavy.
Like something’s about to snap, or spark, or combust.

And I think—
This is it.
This is the moment she’ll reach for me or I’ll reach for her and maybe we won’t stop until we’re breathing the same breath, her back against my sheets, the world narrowing to the sound of her voice whispering my name.

I lean forward, just a little.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth.
My heart lurches, claws at my ribs.

But then—
She clears her throat.
Breaks eye contact.
Closes the sketchbook.

“I brought a game,” she says.

A game.
Right.

Okay.
Okay.

Let’s play a game.

My pulse is still trying to claw its way out of my chest,
but I smile.
Because that’s what she needs right now.

Not a kiss.
Not a spark.
Not fire.

Just time.
And something silly.
And me, being patient.

“Alright,” I say, voice a little rough, but steady. “What kind of game are we talking about? Trivia? Cards? Or something truly horrifying, like Pictionary?”

She laughs.
And I swear it settles something in me.

Okay.
Let’s play.

Ruby

I know I’m chickening out. I saw the look in his eyes when I said game. He would’ve kissed me. I would’ve kissed him back. And then what? My heart stumbles at the thought, and I’m not ready. Not yet. So I pull the little card game from my bag, like a coward waving a white flag, and say we should play.

He takes it without protest. Just raises one brow, smirks, and says, “I hope it’s not Monopoly. I can’t handle property disputes tonight.”

And it works. The tension breaks.

It’s a simple game, really. Cards with questions. Some silly. Some impossible. Some real. We spread them across the low table, and he insists on shuffling them “like a pro,” which ends in a disaster of flying cards and me nearly choking on laughter.

The silly ones get us going first:
If you could be an animal for a day?
He says panther. I say fox.
What’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had?
He swears it was something Lydia did with kitchen scissors when they were kids. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

But then the questions dig deeper.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?
His voice softens when he talks about speaking at his mom’s funeral and how helpless he felt. My throat tightens when I say watching Dad lose more and more of what he loved. We don’t need to fill every silence after. The weight just sits there between us. Safe.

At some point, I’m not even sure how, we end up stretched out on the couch, me curled into his side, his arm around me, both of us holding the cards. He reads them out now, low and steady, like he’s telling me a story.

What do you believe in?
We talk about love, but not the perfect kind—the messy, stubborn kind that survives storms. About grief, and how it doesn’t leave, just changes its shape.

When did you last feel joy?
We look at each other and laugh, because it’s the same answer: these past few days.

The beach.
The midnight gifts.
The ice rink with Al and Ember and the rest.
This night here, flour still on the counter in the kitchen, laughter still in our bellies, warmth here now.

And it’s true. Grief hasn’t left either of us. It hovers, a constant companion. But joy has crept back in too, slow and careful, like a shy guest at a party.

Hope, too.

Hope that maybe this year doesn’t end in ruin.
That maybe we’ve still got something worth holding onto.

I lie against his chest, feel his steady breathing, the rhythm of his heart under my ear, and whisper without thinking, “This feels good. All of it. Us.”

And he just squeezes me closer.

It’s quiet now. We’ve run out of cards. Or maybe we just stopped picking them up. The last one he read is still in his hand, resting on my thigh. Neither of us said anything for a while.

I’m lying half on him, head tucked against his chest, his sweater soft under my cheek. He’s playing with a strand of my hair, absently looping it around his finger and letting it fall again.

It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be broken. That says everything just by existing.

And then—maybe because of the quiet, or the warmth, or the way I can feel his breath move under my cheek—I tilt my head up.

He looks down at me like he’s not sure I meant to. Like he’s giving me a hundred years to change my mind.

I don’t.

So he kisses me.

Slow. Careful. Warm.

One of his hands finds the side of my neck, thumb brushing under my jaw, the other still curled around my waist. And I melt into it like I’ve been waiting all night—maybe all month—for this.

There’s no urgency. No pressure. Just the kind of kiss you fall into. The kind that unfurls slowly, like honey spilling warm and thick.

When we finally part, barely an inch between us, I’m breathless.

He whispers, “We could… move to the bed. If you want. Just for space.”

His hand brushes my back, fingers light and careful. “I swear I won’t try anything. Not unless you want it too. Not ever.”

I smile, heart thudding with relief and something deeper.

“I know.”

And I do.

Because he’s been careful with me every step of the way lately. Listening. Waiting. Letting me lead even when he clearly wants more.

So I nod.

And he helps me up like I’m made of glass, like I might break if he’s not gentle enough.

But I’m not going to break.

Not with him.

We move from the couch without a word. Her hand brushes mine on the way over, and I don’t let go.

It’s not far—just across the room. But it feels like a threshold. Like one of those moments you don’t notice while they’re happening, only afterward, when everything’s shifted.

She sits on the edge of the bed first, kicks off her socks, then leans back against the headboard. Fully dressed. So am I. But somehow it feels like skin.

I hesitate for a beat, then sit beside her. Close, but not too close. Careful. Always careful.

Then she says, voice soft and a little crooked, “I wouldn’t mind if we missed midnight.”

I turn to her.

She shrugs. “You can’t kiss properly when there’s a countdown. Everyone’s tense and aiming. It’s awkward. You always end up clashing noses.”

I laugh—actually laugh—and the sound surprises both of us.

Of course she’d say that.

Of course she’d find the pressure point in something that’s supposed to be romantic and call it what it is—stupid.

It breaks the tension. Just enough.

Enough for me to remember something crucial.

Not trying anything doesn’t mean I can’t kiss her like I mean it.

And I do. God, I do.

So I shift closer, cup her cheek with one hand, and press my lips to hers—slow, sure, no countdown ticking behind us, no crowd, no performance. Just this.

Her breath catches.

Then she kisses me back.

And that—
That’s the only thing I want to be doing when the year changes. Or any day after that.

Ruby

I thought about this.

Not just now, but before. Earlier today. Yesterday. All week. Wondering where the line would be—where I’d draw it. What I’d be okay with. What I wouldn’t.

Because I don’t want this—us—to slip into that awful mess again. Into wanting so much that we end up hurting each other. We’ve had enough of that. And this thing we’re doing now… it’s tender. Precious. Still healing.

But I also knew—I wanted to sleep in his bed tonight.

And that means something.
That means, eventually, I’ll have to get undressed. Get into my nightshirt.
Naked legs. No bra.
Just me. Just skin.
And he’ll be there.

Kissing me like he is now. Like I’m the most important thing in the world.

His hand is warm on the side of my face, his body close, but not too close. Still careful. Still holding back.

I feel his breath catch when I shift my weight, feel the edge of his fingers tremble when they move to the curve of my waist—outside my shirt, nothing bold. Nothing rushed.

He’s holding himself back. Of course he is.
Because he won’t try anything. He promised.

But I’ve been thinking about that too.

Because I want him.
Of course I want him.
I felt him hard against my thigh on the beach, and that didn’t scare me. It made me feel… wanted. Desired. Still safe.

And I want to feel that again.

I want his hand on my skin.
I want my hand on his skin.
Not all the way. Not everything. Not yet.
But more than this.

And I know he won’t start it. He’s too careful now. Too aware of how much it cost me when he got it wrong before. He’s trying so hard to be good—to be safe. And that’s the thing: he is safe.

He just doesn’t know yet that I’ve already decided.

That I want this.
That it’s okay.
That I’m ready for this much.

I kiss him again, deeper this time. Let my hand slip beneath the hem of his shirt, just to his skin.

I feel him freeze for half a second, like he’s not sure if I meant it.

So I do it again. A little slower.

And that’s how I tell him.

James

Yeah. She’s definitely the braver person.

One second, we’re just kissing—slow and steady, the kind of kiss that’s more about being close than anything else. And then her hand slips under the hem of my shirt.

I stop breathing.

It’s not a big move. Just her fingers, light against the small of my back. But it feels like everything. Like a door opening I didn’t know I was allowed to touch.

And then she moves higher, smoothing over my skin, tracing the shape of my ribs, my abs. Grazing the line of my waistband in a way that makes heat crawl up my spine and into my skull.

Our mouths part, just slightly—our kisses open now, more desperate. More honest.

And my hands—fuck. My hands are still stuck above her clothes, like a goddamn idiot, hovering at her waist, one cupping the side of her jaw like we’re in a Jane Austen film.

Because I promised. And I meant it. I still do. I’m not going to risk crossing a line just because I want.

But then—

She pulls back just slightly, just enough for her forehead to rest against mine, and whispers,
“I’d really like to feel your hand on my skin. If you’d want that too.”

And everything in me just—melts.

Because she could ask me anything and I’d want it. Because of course I want that. I’ve been dreaming of it. Imagining what it might feel like to touch her again, carefully this time. Reverently. Right.

But the way she says it—small and brave and almost shy—it’s like she’s handing me something fragile.

I nod. Just once. Just so she sees I heard her.

Then I say it, low and certain, my voice rough against her cheek:
“Yeah. I want that. I want to feel you.”

And then I finally, finally let my hand slip under the back of her shirt.
Skin. Warm. Soft. Real.

I close my eyes.
And breathe.

Ruby

We get lost in it.

In the kissing, in the heat curling low in my belly, in the soft drag of his hand beneath my shirt. Every touch feels like something new. Something deliberate. He’s not rushing, not fumbling. Just… feeling. Learning. And I do the same. My hands explore the lean curve of his waist, the slope of his back, the soft edge of a scar under his ribs.

At some point, he murmurs—“Can I take this off?”—fingers grazing the hem of his shirt. His voice is hoarse, low against my mouth.

I nod. Then—before I can overthink—I sit up just enough to pull mine off too.

And for a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just looks at me like I’m the most impossible thing he’s ever seen.

His eyes are wide, lips parted, and then his hand comes up slowly—like he’s afraid I’ll vanish—and brushes my shoulder, right where the strap of my bra rests.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Voice cracking just enough that it hits somewhere deep.

Then—softly, fiercely—“I won’t draw this. But I’ll never forget it.”

And then he’s leaning in again, his mouth pressing a kiss to my shoulder, warm and tender and maddeningly slow. He trails down, following the strap, whispering, “Tell me to stop. Anytime.”

But I don’t want him to stop. Not with this.

I whisper his name instead. A yes. A please.

He kisses the top of my chest, the dip where my neck meets my collarbone, slow and reverent. Then we’re lying down again, tangled together, skin to skin in this new way. He’s warm and solid, his chest against mine, the hem of his boxers brushing my thigh.

My bra stays on. So does his underwear. That’s the line I drew for tonight, decided long before this ever began. But the ache between my legs is real, undeniable, pressing heat into the cotton of my knickers, and I know he feels it when I shift against him.

He gasps into my neck. I feel him hard against me, and it only makes everything sharper. Closer. He kisses down the centre of my chest until his mouth finds my breast, kisses the curve through the cotton. The damp cotton.

My back arches, a gasp escaping before I can hold it back.

He murmurs something I don’t catch—my name, maybe, or a prayer—and does it again.

My hands are in his hair, fingers fisting gently, guiding him without needing to speak. We don’t need words. Just breathing. Just yes.

We explore. Trace. Taste. Whisper.

There’s nothing rushed, nothing expected. Just heat. Connection. Skin on skin and trust slowly knitting itself back together with every kiss, every breath.

When we finally settle under the duvet, tangled and exhausted in the best possible way, my head on his shoulder and his arm around my waist, I know sleep won’t come for a while.

But that’s okay.

Because this—this is everything I hoped for.

And more.

James

I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything this much in my life.

Not just her body—though, God, that too. The weight of her in my arms. The way her skin feels under my hands, warm and alive and soft in all the ways I’ve dreamt about for months. But more than that—it’s the trust. The way she lets me touch her. The way she looks at me. The way she gives this to me and makes me feel like I’m not broken, like I can give something good back.

She let me take off my shirt.

Then she took off hers.

And I think something inside me actually stopped working for a moment.

Because she’s there. Bare-skinned and blushing and beautiful in the low light. Not just beautiful—herself. Completely. Unapologetically. And I get to see her like this.

I reach for her shoulder with more reverence than I’ve ever held for anything in my life.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, barely able to get it out. My throat is tight, heart knocking around like it’s trying to break out of my chest. “I won’t draw this,” I add, my hand sliding across the slope of her shoulder, trembling just slightly. “But I’ll never forget it.”

She doesn’t look away.

God, she doesn’t look away.

My mouth finds her skin, warm and silken. I kiss along the strap of her bra, down the hollow of her throat. Her breath stutters under me. I tell her she can stop me anytime. And she doesn’t say stop.

She says my name.

And please.

That’s all I need.

I take my time. Kissing her collarbone. Her shoulder. Her sternum. My hands curve around her waist, skin to skin. I feel her shiver. Her fingers in my hair. Her thigh brushing against mine. And then—Christ—she shifts just slightly and I feel the heat of her centre pressed against my leg. Even through the fabric of her knickers, the damp cotton clings to her, and it’s all I can do not to lose my mind.

I’m hard—have been for a while—and it doesn’t matter that we’re both still in our underwear. That pressure, her body moving against mine, it’s enough to make me dizzy. To make my stomach tighten and my breath falter.

But I don’t grind into her. I don’t take. I feel.

She arches slightly when I kiss the curve of her breast, just above the cotton. And then again—harder this time—when I press my mouth to the soft peak beneath it. Through the fabric.

She gasps. And I swear I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.

“You okay?” I murmur against her skin, brushing my nose along her.

She nods. Her fingers tighten in my hair. I kiss her again, slower this time, letting the heat of my mouth linger through the thin cotton. She gasps again, a different sound now—less surprise, more please don’t stop.

Every inch of her I touch feels sacred.

Her skin, warm and flushed. The soft inside of her thigh, the place my hand rests. Her ribs rising with every breath, my thumb brushing the underside of her bra.

I don’t rush. I don’t need to. This—this—is more than I ever thought I’d be allowed again. Her breathy moans. Her softness. The taste of her skin. The way her body moves against mine without fear.

I want her.

But I want this more. This closeness. This trust. This night where we get to be together and not broken.

My cock aches, twitching with every shift of her hips. Her damp heat against my thigh is dizzying. But I just press her closer. Let her feel what she’s doing to me. Let her know that she’s wanted, wildly, reverently.

“You’re perfect,” I whisper against her skin, and I mean it.

And if this is the line tonight—skin and kisses and underwear—then that’s more than enough. More than I deserve.

Because she’s here.

Because I get to hold her like this, kiss her like this, fall asleep with her in my arms.

Because maybe love is just this—gentle, reverent, aching and slow.

And holy God, I love her.

Ruby

I think he whispered Happy New Year sometime around two.

It was quiet—barely more than breath against my hair—but I heard it. Felt it too, in the way his hand curled a little tighter around my waist, in the way his nose brushed the crown of my head like he couldn’t not touch me.

We’d gone to the bathroom one after the other, like two people who live together. Like two people who’ve done this a hundred times before.
Now we’re back in bed. His room is so quiet it almost hums. The duvet is pulled up around us, and his chest is against my back, his arm heavy and warm across my middle. Every time I breathe out, he breathes in. Like we’re synced up now. Like this is how we’re meant to fit.

His skin is warm against mine. My nightshirt rides up a little at the back, so his hand is on bare skin again. Not in a way that wants anything—just holding. Touching. Like he needs that reassurance as much as I do.

And God, it feels… safe.

Not in the boring sense. Not in the way people sometimes say when they mean settling. This is the kind of safe that lets me sleep. The kind that steadies something in me I didn’t even know was shaking. His thumb brushes slow circles against my stomach. Lazy. Absentminded. Anchoring.

The heat of him behind me, the way his knee hooks behind mine, the rise and fall of his breathing—it all wraps around me. Pulls me under.

I blink, heavy-lidded.

He whispers something. I don’t catch it. Doesn’t matter.

I sigh and shift closer, pressing my back fully against his chest, tucking my fingers around his hand like it belongs there.

It kind of does.

And as my eyes flutter closed, I think—
This. This is what it feels like to be okay.
Maybe even more than okay.

Held. Warm. Wanted.
Falling asleep with his breath at the nape of my neck.
A new year beginning.

James

She’s still asleep.

Barely. One leg tangled with mine, her hand curled against my chest like she’s holding something precious. Like maybe, just maybe, I am. The duvet’s slipped low on her back, her hair half-fanned across the pillow we now somehow share. And she’s breathing slow, steady. Peaceful.

I don’t move for a long time. I just lie there and watch her, my eyes adjusting to the pale, cold January light leaking through the curtains.

I’ve had this once before. A morning like this.
Waking up beside her, heart full and foolishly sure that whatever this was becoming, it wouldn’t fall apart just because I was terrified of how much I felt.
And then it did.

But maybe this time—if I just do things differently.
If I am different.

Maybe that bends the universe a little.

It’s a stupid thought.

But I’ve had worse.

I move slowly. Gently untangle myself from her, slide my leg free, and hold my breath when she shifts. She lets out a soft exhale, but doesn’t wake. Just rolls slightly towards where I was, brow furrowing like she’s already missing the warmth.

God.

I press a soft kiss to the crown of her head before I leave the bed.
I don’t think she feels it.
Doesn’t matter.

⸻

The floorboards creak less than expected, though I wince every time. Downstairs is still warm from the heating timer I’d set the night before. I flick on the coffee machine—thank Christ I remembered to stock beans—and slice some bread for toast. Jam from the pantry. A little butter. Orange juice poured into a glass. Two mugs. Hers with a splash of milk. I remember.

It’s not a feast. But it’s breakfast.

And it’s something I chose to do. Thoughtfully. Quietly. Not to earn anything. Just to be good to her. Because she’s good to me.

⸻

When I come back up, the tray balanced awkwardly in one hand, she’s stirring. Eyes barely open, one hand tucked under her cheek.

She sees me, squints, then blinks like she’s trying to determine if I’m real.

“James?” Her voice is rough with sleep.

I smile, small and careful. “Hey.”

She blinks again. Sees the tray.

And then—god, that little smile. That sweet, sleepy curve of her lips.

“I made coffee,” I say unnecessarily. “And toast. And um—orange juice. Thought we could maybe have a slow morning.”

She pushes herself up on one elbow, hair a mess, her nightshirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. “You made toast?”

“I didn’t burn it,” I offer. “That counts as skill now.”

She gives me a soft laugh that makes everything inside me unfurl.

And when I set the tray down on the edge of the bed and climb back in next to her, her head drops onto my shoulder like it belongs there.

Maybe it does.

Maybe this morning won’t change everything.

But maybe it tilts something. Just enough.

Maybe the difference between losing her and keeping her is as small—and as huge—as this.

Toast. Coffee. A January morning.

And love, like gravity, pulling me closer.

Ruby

I pad back into his room, my hair damp from the shower, my skin still warm from the steam. He’s on the bed, legs drawn up, mug in hand, watching me like he’s trying to capture this moment in his head so he won’t lose it. He sets the mug aside and says quietly, “Come here.”

So I do. Barefoot across his carpet, crossing that space that feels smaller every day, less like a distance and more like a bridge. I climb onto the bed, and before I can even settle, I lean in and kiss him.

It tastes like toothpaste and honey—sweet and clean and safe. But more than that, it tastes like something I haven’t dared to name out loud in a long time. Hope.

I linger there, lips brushing his once, twice, three times, and his hand comes up to the back of my neck, gentle, steady. It feels like starting fresh. Like this morning is different from the one we lost months ago. Like this time, maybe, we’ll get it right.

Chapter Text

James

It’s the first normal day, in a way.
No holiday chaos. No late-night fireworks. No excuse to pretend the real world doesn’t exist.

Ruby worked the morning shift—she didn’t see me at first. Was still laughing with Maya at the counter as I walked in, frost in my hair from outside. The bell above the door rang, she turned, and smiled like it wasn’t two days ago we were half-naked and whispering happy new year into each other’s mouths at 2 a.m.

We went to Pemwick first—she had to return some books to the local library. And of course, she chatted with the librarian, knew her name, asked about her cat. Because she’s Ruby. And of course, I carried the books.

Back at mine, we both knew we had to tackle the reading list.
She said, “No snuggles until we cover at least 40 pages.”
Ruthless.

So I said, “Fine. I’ll do 80. But only if we read while lying on the bed.”

Which was a bit of a gamble.
But she said yes.
And now we’re here.

She’s lying on her back, head resting on my stomach. I’m leaning against the headboard, book in hand, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts while she hums under her breath every time she agrees with a passage.

I’ve underlined the same line four times.

I run my fingers gently through her hair as she reads, just to feel it. It’s not meant to distract her—but I think she knows I’m not being entirely innocent. She hums again. Her hand reaches back, brushes along my knee.

This.
This is how I want to do winter term.

We’re fifty pages in when I ask, quietly, “When do you need to be home?”

She rolls onto her side, looking up at me, cheek against my shirt.
“Not too late,” she says. “My dad’s got an appointment in the morning, and I’ll drive him. But…” —a beat— “…maybe you want to have dinner with us? At mine?”

She says it like it’s casual. Like she’s not inviting me into the warmest part of her life.

Seven o’clock at the Bells’.
Me. At her kitchen table.

God help me, I want that.
More than I ever thought I would.

I nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like that.”

And I mean it.

Maybe it’s not a big deal.
Or maybe it’s the biggest one yet.

Ruby

He closes his book with a satisfied thump and looks down at me, all smug and lazy charm.
“Eighty pages,” he says. “No snuggles until eighty. Done.”

God, his voice. That low, slightly scratchy, very pleased-with-himself tone.
I should quiz him.
I really should.

But I just shake my head and say, “No.”
And he raises an eyebrow, about to protest.
“You’re not getting quizzed,” I clarify, and I’m grinning now. A little breathless from how fast my heart is suddenly beating.
“You’re getting a reward.”

The flicker in his eyes is immediate.
Not arrogant. Not cocky.
Just—hopeful. Curious. Like he’s not sure what I mean, but he very much wants to find out.

And maybe I’m a little surprised by myself.
But I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon. Since he walked into the café, frost still in his hair, smiling like I was the only person he wanted to see. Since he offered to carry my books, since he kept brushing his fingers through my hair like it calms him. Since he started mouthing words from the reading with this focused little crease between his brows.

He looked like the lead out of a romcom.
And I’ve been mentally making out with him for hours.

So I shift.
Slowly. Carefully.

Push up onto my elbows and swing one leg over his thighs, sliding until I’m straddling him—knees bracketing his hips, palms resting lightly on his chest.
His breath catches.

And I say nothing.
Because I don’t need to.

I just lean in—
And kiss him.

Not a soft, tentative brush like it’s new.
Not a teasing one like we’re still playing games.

But a real kiss.
Deep, sure, unhurried.
The kind of kiss that says: I want you, and I trust you, and I’ve waited all day for this.

And the sound he makes into my mouth—low, warm, startled—is everything.

His hands come to my waist, steadying me like he can’t believe I’m really here.
But I am.
Right here.
Exactly where I want to be.

James

There are some things in life that feel like a reward you didn’t earn.
This is one of them.

Ruby, in my lap, kissing me like she means it.
Like she really means it.

Her mouth is soft and open against mine, her hands slipping into my hair, tugging just a little.
And her body—
Jesus.

The soft weight of her, right where I’m already painfully hard in my jeans—
The friction of her moving, ever so slightly—
The way she leans in, slow and sure, her body pressed to mine—

It’s fucking heaven.
If heaven came with a front-row seat to her cleavage. Which, yes—would be spectacular right now if I looked.
But I don’t.

Why would I break this kiss?
Why would I stop?

Except—

Except I have to.

Not because I don’t want this. God, I do.
But because I want her.
And I’m not risking messing this up.

So I lift her. Just a little.
My hands slipping under her thighs, under the hem of her jumper. She gasps into my mouth, surprised—but she doesn’t stop me.
I shift, turning with her, gently lowering her down onto the bed beside me.

Not straddling me anymore.
Not grinding down on me in a way that’s making it very, very difficult to think.

Now she’s on her back.
And I’m leaning over her, one arm braced beside her head, our mouths still locked together.
Just as intense. Just as good.

But not about to end with me embarrassing myself in my jeans.

I let the kiss taper off. Slowly. Softly. Her lips still chasing mine for a second longer.

Then I exhale.
Rest my forehead to hers.

“Hey,” I say. Quietly.
Not a warning. Not a rejection. Just—real.

“Maybe we should… talk about this. Before we do something we’ll wish we’d slowed down for.”

Ruby

He doesn’t push.
Doesn’t tease.
Doesn’t make it awkward.

He just rests his forehead to mine, warm and steady, his breathing still fast like mine.

Then he says, softly, “Okay, so, first of all—”
A pause.
“I’m only human, you know.”

That makes me laugh, even if I’m still breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Eyes dark, but soft. “I mean—I know I was the one who promised I wouldn’t try anything. And I meant that. But you on top of me, kissing me like that? That’s… that’s not fair, Bell.”

My lips twitch. “I was rewarding you.”

“Right,” he says dryly. “Well. You nearly rewarded me into early death. Or, at the very least, into a deeply humiliating situation involving these jeans.”

I snort. “You could’ve stopped me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s easy to stop you when you’re determined.”

Fair point.

Then his expression changes. A little more serious. Still so gentle.

“But, hey… what I would happily, happily want right now? That’s not the question unless you want it too.”
A beat.
“I just think maybe we talk about it a bit, yeah? So I’m not the one who messes it up again.”

My heart gives a stupid lurch.

He adds, quieter now, “I don’t want to mess it up again, Ruby.”
Another beat.
“And whatever you think you’re ready for—I’m there for it. I just… I need to know. So I don’t end up rushing you. Or myself into… you know.”

“Embarrassing situations?” I offer, smiling.

He groans softly. “You did feel that, didn’t you.”

I nod. “Hard to miss.”

He laughs, but his eyes stay serious. Still waiting.

And I suddenly realise—he’s not doing this to make it easier for him.
He’s doing this to make it easier for me. So I don’t have to feel weird about wanting. Or not wanting. Or somewhere in between.

I touch his cheek. “I do want you.”

His eyes flicker.

“But I also know that if we cross that line too fast… it’s going to get messy. Emotionally, I mean. And we’ve had enough of that already, haven’t we?”

He nods. “So much.”

I take a breath. “But I’ve also been thinking… about what I do want. And…”
I move a little, shifting closer, wrapping one leg over his again.
His breath catches.

I lean in, press a kiss to his jaw. Then one to his throat.
Then I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“This,” I whisper, reaching for his hand.
Sliding it slowly under the hem of my shirt.
Bringing it up. To where my heart is racing.

“To feel your hands on me.”

He makes a sound—soft and low and reverent.

“This is what I want. Today.”

His palm curves over my breast, warm and careful and perfect.
I exhale, and close my eyes, as his thumb brushes over cotton.

And then I kiss him again.

And we get a little lost. But only as far as we both want to go.
And that feels like something new.
And safe.
And right.

James

She’s leading now.

Deliberately.

Consciously.

And fuck if that isn’t the most beautiful thing in the world.

There’s no hesitation in her touch, no second-guessing in her voice when she whispers, “I thought about this.”
Her fingers, warm and sure, tug gently at the hem of my shirt.
“I want you to take this off,” she says, eyes on mine. “And mine too. My bra, just… just that. For today.”

And I nod. Instantly.
Not because I want more.
But because what she’s offering is everything.

We shift a little, sitting up. I peel my shirt over my head and toss it aside.
Then I help her with hers, careful and slow.
She raises her arms, and the cotton lifts.
She’s in her bra. Pale blue, I think, but I barely notice the colour. Just the way it hugs her curves.
The swell of her chest rising with each breath.

“Can I?” I ask, my voice already rough.

She nods. And I reach behind her, fingers fumbling a little—stupid nervousness—but I get it undone. The clasp gives, and I slide the straps gently down her arms.

And then—

God.

She’s bare in front of me.
And my breath just—leaves me.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper. It comes out hoarse.

She ducks her head slightly, but her eyes are shining.
“I won’t draw this,” I add.
She lets out a small breath of laughter.
“But I’ll never forget it.”

And then I kiss her.

Slow. Deep. Full.

Kiss her like I mean it, because I do.
Then her jaw.
Her neck.
Her collarbone.
Down the line of her sternum.

And lower—
The soft swell of her breast.

My mouth meets it, reverent.
I cup her gently, carefully, my thumb brushing her skin.
She sighs, her body leaning into mine.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, her other hand splayed across my bare back.
Holding.
Wanting.

I kiss her again, mouth to mouth now, and she’s warm and soft and breathless.

Later, it’s my turn.

She pushes me down onto my back.
Eyes on mine as I lie there, dizzy and undone.
Her fingertips trace my chest, my stomach.

“You like this?” she whispers.

I nod, eyes closed, pulse pounding. “God, yeah.”

Her hands keep moving, learning me.
Mapping skin and breath and want.

And it’s never been like this.

Not once.

Not ever.

No one has ever touched me like I’m something worth knowing.
Worth learning.

No one has ever asked what I like.
Not really.
Not with care. Not with love.

But she does.

Ruby does.

And I can barely breathe from how good it feels.
From how right this is.

Not rushing.
Not chasing something further.

Just this.

And just this is everything.

Ruby

I’ve never seen him like this.

So still.

So open.

His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, as my fingertips trail down his chest, feather-light. I feel the rise and fall of his breathing under my hand. Warm skin, smooth and solid beneath my palm.

He lets me explore, doesn’t rush, doesn’t try to turn this into something else. Just lies there, letting me learn.

And I want to.

I want to know the map of him.
Where the muscles tighten under my touch.
Where his breath catches.
Where he melts.

So I ask, softly, “You like that?”

A quiet, almost broken, “Yeah,” slips out of him.
I smile. Press a kiss to his collarbone. Let my hand wander lower, not to push a boundary—just to feel. To offer.

This is slow.
Patient.
Giving, just to give.

He’s letting me see him in a way I don’t think many people ever have. Maybe no one.
But I don’t know that yet.

I only know that his hands are still so careful on me.
Still worshipping.

And when it’s his turn again, he pulls me close, his mouth back on mine, and suddenly it’s all heat again.
The kiss deepening.
My bare chest pressed against his skin, warm and soft and grounding.
One of my legs curls around his hips, pulling him closer without thinking.

God, that feels good.
Just the pressure.
The connection.

I feel his breath hitch.
My own too.

But we both know.

We’re not going further.
Not today.

There’s no question.
No pushing.

Just this.

His skin and his smell and his hands.
My body wrapped around his.
Breathless kisses and slow touches.
A kind of closeness that doesn’t demand more.

And in this moment, it’s enough.
More than enough.

James

Her hands are so gentle it almost hurts.

Not because she’s doing anything wrong—God, no. But because no one’s ever touched me like this. Not like I’m something to be learned. Explored. Felt.

She asks, “What do you like?”
Softly.
Into the crook of my neck like it’s a secret.

And I don’t know how to answer.
Not really.

Because the truth is—I don’t know.

I should. Should have a whole catalogue of answers, things to say. But every time someone’s touched me before, it’s been about… the end. The finish line. Never the journey. Never me.

It’s never been like this.

She’s not doing this for herself. She’s not doing this to get a reaction. She’s not doing this so I’ll owe her something later. She’s doing this just to do it.

To be here. With me. In this.

And fuck, that’s terrifying.

But also—

Her fingers graze down my ribs. Splay over my stomach. I feel the tension coil and ease, coil and ease, like my body is trying to keep up with what she’s offering.

She presses her lips to my chest, just over my heart, and it’s almost unbearable—how good that feels. How good she is.

I force myself to breathe, to stay here. Not to disappear into my head.

Because this—this is better than anything I’ve ever known.

I open my eyes and she’s watching me. Not checking if I’m okay. Just… seeing me.

I want to tell her everything. That no one’s ever done this. That I don’t know what I like, not really, because sex was always something I gave, or took, but never really felt.

That I’ve never had the luxury of gentleness.

But I can’t say all of that. Not now.

So I lift my hand instead. Press it to her cheek.
“Whatever you’re doing right now,” I murmur, voice low and scratchy, “that.”

She smiles. Not smug. Just soft. Beautiful. And I think I might lose my mind when she kisses me again.

Slow.

Like we have time.

Like she wants to know the shape of my mouth.

Her leg is draped over mine, her chest against mine, skin to skin. I feel the soft swell of her breasts against me and something aches inside me. Not just lust. It’s deeper.

I want this. All of this.

Not just her body—but her trust. Her want. Her curiosity.

She keeps touching me. Not in a way that’s heading anywhere specific. Just… exploring. And I realise I’ve never been given this. Never even thought to want this.

And now—now I never want to go back to anything less.

She whispers, “Tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

I nod. “You won’t.”

Her hands are over my chest again, her mouth following, leaving soft kisses down my sternum. Every press of her lips rewires something in me. Every slow brush of her fingers is unlearning years of noise I didn’t even realise I was carrying.

I close my eyes again. Let her learn me. Let her have me, in this way that feels more intimate than sex ever did.

And when I open them, she’s right there. Looking down at me like I’m something she’s choosing.

Not because I’m good at this.

Not because I know what I’m doing.

But because I’m me.

And that… that undoes me.

This is better than sex.
This is everything.

Ruby

There’s a shift I can’t explain.
Not in words.
Not even in thoughts, really.

Just… something changes. In the way he’s breathing. In the way I’m touching. In the way this moment feels—like it’s balanced on the edge of something new, something fragile and good and quietly huge.

So I don’t try to name it.
I just keep going.

Because his skin is warm under my hand.
Because I can feel him exhale when I smooth my palm down over his stomach—slow and light, just enough pressure to trace the muscle underneath. Because he’s smiling. Not grinning or smirking, not playing a role—but something softer. Calmer. Almost boyish. Almost… happy.

And I want that.
I want to be part of that.

His hand is cupping my breast again, thumb brushing slowly over my nipple and I inhale like it’s the first breath I’ve taken all day. It’s just warm. Intimate. The way his hand curves around me, like I’m something precious. Something his. But not in a possessive way. In a gentle one.

He kneads me softly. No rush. Just this rhythm. This reverence.

I close my eyes. Let my forehead rest against his. Let my fingers move, just to feel him again. The heat of his stomach. The way he shivers a little when I drag my nails gently along the line of his ribs.

And then I ask—quietly, because I want the truth.
“Do you like touching me?”

He stills. Just for a moment. Then—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “God, Ruby. So much.”

And there’s something in the way he says it that makes my stomach tighten. Like I’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed. Like I’m not the only one feeling this shift.

My fingers curl into his side, and his mouth finds mine again.

We’re not going further tonight. That’s been decided.
But this—this is still more than I ever imagined.

And somehow, it feels like the most honest thing we’ve ever done.

James

“Do you like touching me?”

She asks it so quietly. Like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to ask.
Like I haven’t been aching just to be this close to her for months.

And it nearly breaks me.
Because… yeah. Of course I do.

But it’s how she asks that hits something deeper.

Because this is the moment I realise how much I got wrong the first time.
Not the wanting. God, not the wanting. That was always real. Always burning.
But the order of it. The intention behind it.

I slept with her before she even knew how much I adore her.
How I look at her and see a miracle wrapped in fire and logic and softness.
Before she knew how much I cherish her—every inch of her, every thought, every boundary, every breath.

And I thought—we’d have time.
Time to grow into that.
Time after to show her. To say it. To live it.
But we didn’t.

Because I fucked it up.
Because I was a coward.
Because I let my pain lead and walked away instead of fighting for us.
And then I was stupid and reckless and everything I never wanted to be.
A liar. A cheater. A disappointment.

So now?
Now I’m holding her in my arms while she touches me like I’m someone worth touching.
And she asks that question like it’s something fragile.

Do you like touching me?

And I could cry.
I could rage at myself for stealing this gentleness from her the first time around.
But I won’t.
Because I have this now.

This chance.
This night.
This skin under my hands and her breath against my neck.
And fuck me if I ever waste it again.

So I look at her.
Really look.

And I whisper, “Yeah. God, Ruby. So much.”

I press a kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek.
My hand is still on her breast, soft and slow.
Her thigh draped over my hips, her warmth pressed into me.
And her fingers, sweet and unhurried, trailing along my ribs.

“I love touching you,” I murmur. “I love being touched by you.”

Her lips curve in a way that makes my chest hurt.

And I swear—this, right here, this slow unfolding,
it might be better than anything else I’ve ever known.

Ruby

How do you stop when something feels this good?

When his hands are on my skin, so warm and gentle, and I’m pressed against him, bare from the waist up. When every kiss feels like it’s sinking into the marrow of my bones. When his mouth is on my neck, then lower, and my fingers are skimming over his back just so I don’t lose my mind from how good it feels.

How do you stop when you don’t want to?

When part of you wants to slide your hand lower. Pull him closer. Let go.

But I do know how.
Because I know myself.
And I promised that when it happens again—when we go there—it won’t be about trying to hold something together or make sense of chaos or patch over pain. It’ll be because we’re ready. Because it feels right.

And this?
This feels good.
This feels beautiful.
But I know the line I drew, and I know why.

So I breathe. One deep breath. Two.

And then I kiss his shoulder. Soft. Just there, where I know it makes him melt a little.
He’s lying on his back now, and I’m half on top of him, warm skin against skin.

I trace a lazy circle on his chest.
“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, and it’s the truth. “But I think we should.”

His eyes open. Still hazy. Still a little wild.
But calm. He nods.

There’s no protest in him, just quiet understanding.

I think that’s what makes it easier. That I don’t have to explain.
That I could probably tell him I’m afraid of breaking myself open too soon again, and he’d say, Then let’s wait until you’re sure.
Because he’s not asking for anything except honesty.

I shift a little, just enough to lie back beside him, my head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, one hand still resting against his bare chest.

He exhales slowly.
Wraps his arm around me.
Kisses the top of my head.

“I’m good,” he murmurs. “If this is what today is, I’m so, so good.”

And that — that settles something deep in me.

Because stopping doesn’t mean breaking the spell.
It doesn’t mean ruining the moment.
It just means… we’re not there yet.

But we will be.
When it’s right.

And for now, the way his thumb traces slow arcs along my spine, the way we’re skin to skin under the covers, the way I’m falling asleep in his arms—
That’s more than enough.

James

She’s falling asleep on me.

I feel it in the way her body sinks against mine, all warm limbs and quiet breath. The way her fingers go still where they’d been drawing shapes on my chest just minutes ago. The soft sigh she lets out as her head settles into the curve of my shoulder like it belongs there.

And maybe it does.
God, I hope it does.

It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt.
That she trusts me enough to drift off like this.
After everything.

I don’t move. Don’t even breathe too deep, afraid I’ll wake her. I just lie here, my arm around her, my other hand resting gently at her waist, and let her be. Let myself be, too.

She’s so beautiful like this it almost aches.

And I don’t want to wake her.
I really, really don’t.

But I know she has to go.
Her dad’s doctor’s appointment is in the morning. She said they’d have dinner together tonight. I don’t want her mum worrying. I don’t want to be the reason she feels like she let anyone down.

So I give her a full hour.
Sixty quiet, perfect minutes of just holding her.

Then I brush a hand up her back, light as anything.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Sleeping Beauty.”

She shifts, breathes deeper, then blinks up at me, still half-dreaming.

“Mmh?”

I smile. Tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

“It’s time,” I say gently. “You’ve got a dinner date. And a family who might send a search party if I keep you any longer.”

She blinks again. Then smiles—sleepy and slow, the kind of smile that makes my ribs feel too tight.

“Okay,” she murmurs, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder once more before she stretches, sits up.

I miss her body against mine the second she moves.
But she’s looking at me like she doesn’t really want to go either.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Chapter Text

James

It’s strange, watching someone live a life that makes sense.

Not perfect. Not flashy. Not some glossy version of anything. Just—real. Full, without needing to be dramatic about it.

Ruby’s life is like that.

She works morning shifts at the café a few days a week, the early ones that would kill me but somehow suit her. Comes home flushed from the cold, hair damp with steam and the scent of coffee clinging to her sleeves. Her mum says she’s always been like this—up with the sun, steady, reliable.

When she’s not working, she’s doing something else. Reading. Making notes. Curled up in her dad’s armchair with a blanket and three different highlighters. Helping her mum cook. Taking Ember for a walk through Gormsey when it’s not raining. Watching a film with her family. Not because they’re stuck in the same house—but because they actually like each other.

And I don’t think I ever understood how much that matters until now.

I didn’t grow up in a house like that.
I grew up in a house that made sense on paper.

She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been taking notes.

Because honestly, my days look a little empty in comparison. Not lonely—not exactly—but I don’t have the same rhythm. The same built-in closeness. So I’m figuring it out.

I started running again.
Not for some team obligation—just for myself.

I swim at the local gym once or twice a week, take long walks around Pemwick with my headphones in. I catch up on the reading list because Ruby’s threatening to quiz me again, and I’m not about to let her down when she already made me a whole study plan over breakfast like a total lunatic.

Lydia’s been harder to pin down.

She’s still at the estate sometimes, but most nights she stays at Cyril’s now. I haven’t asked. I want to, but I can’t figure out how to do it without sounding like I’m prying—or like I’m worried. I am worried, but mostly because I don’t know how things are changing between them, and I’m terrified of getting it wrong. Again.

And then there’s Ruby.

Her mum told me, very firmly, that I’m expected for dinner at least twice a week. More, if I can make it. So I do.

Usually on nights when Ruby works late and I pick her up. She comes out of that café just past seven, eyes heavy, her scarf pulled up to her chin. The first time I offered her a lift, she said it was fine, she didn’t want to trouble me.

Then I reminded her the walk was twenty minutes and through a park that’s poorly lit and likely haunted. She rolled her eyes—but got in the car. And now it’s just what we do.

Some nights, we go straight to mine. But often, she tells me to come in. Her mum’s kept food warm, or Ember’s made something sweet, or there’s tea and laughter and warmth, and I sit at their table like I’ve always been there.

It’s a simple life.
And I didn’t know how much I needed it until now.

She doesn’t fill my time.
She doesn’t fix anything.

But being around her makes me want to build something better.

Something quieter.
Something steadier.
Something that doesn’t vanish the moment the term starts again.

And God—if that’s not terrifying, I don’t know what is.

Ruby

Last day before term.

Which means last full shift. Thank God.

I’ve been on since nine, and by two my feet already feel like they’ve been replaced by bricks wrapped in wet socks. By four, it’s my back that’s complaining—sharp little jabs every time I twist to grab a new tray. And by five, I’m not sure I even have shoulders anymore. Just burning knots of tension under a shirt that smells like syrup and feta and espresso and despair.

I love this job. I do.
But I also love not being on my feet for eight hours.

The last five minutes drag. Then the clock ticks over, I hand over to the evening girl, wash my hands, throw on my coat, and push open the front door. The air hits me like a blessing—crisp, cool, clean.

And James is standing there.

Leaning against the bonnet of his car like some stupid romcom character. Arms crossed, scarf looped once around his neck, his cheeks a little pink from the wind. Looking at his phone, brows slightly furrowed. His hair is behaving today, which feels rude.

He looks up when he hears the door.

Smiles.

And that smile—ugh, it’s not fair how good it feels. Not when I’m sticky and sore and vaguely smell like grilled halloumi.

He walks over and kisses me. Just a brief one. His hand finds my waist automatically. Not possessive. Just steady. Warm.

I exhale. Lean in. Let my forehead rest against his chest for a second. Just a second.

He smells clean.

Soap and something fresh. Maybe cedar or his shampoo. Not like milk foam and baklava and kitchen grease like I probably do.

“Hi,” I murmur against his coat.

“Hi,” he says softly. One hand strokes down my back, a gentle line, not pressing too hard. “You made it.”

“Barely.”
I tilt my face up and give him a tired half-smile. “I’m ninety percent made of caffeine and spite right now.”

He grins. “Sounds like you’re ready to take on the world.”

“Only if the world involves a hot shower and something that doesn’t involve cutlery.”

His eyebrows lift a little. “So… not dinner in town then?”

“I mean—unless you carry me in and feed me like a Victorian lady fainting on a chaise longue, no.”

He laughs.

It’s one of those low, fond sounds he makes when I’m being ridiculous but he doesn’t mind. I love that sound. I’d bottle it if I could.

“We can go back to mine,” he says. “I’ll even carry you over the threshold if you ask nicely.”

“Not happening. But I might fall asleep in your passenger seat.”

“Permission granted.”

He opens the door for me. Kisses my temple as I pass.

And somehow, even though everything hurts and I smell like café carnage—I feel completely fine. Better than fine.

Because he’s here.
And I don’t have to be anything except exactly as I am.

James

She looks wrecked.

Not in a bad way. Just… done. Shoulders slumped, that slight tilt to her head that means her neck’s been hurting for hours, the kind of tired that seeps into bone. She’s still beautiful, still utterly herself, but she’s one long blink away from sleepwalking.

She kisses me hello and rests her forehead against my chest like I’m the wall holding her up.

That’s the moment I decide.

Not cooking tonight.

Because when we cook, let’s be honest, she cooks—and I chop vegetables unevenly, get distracted by her, and pretend I’m useful by making witty comments about garlic ratios.
And right now? She looks like she can’t even stand anymore.

So no. Absolutely not.

“Change of plans,” I murmur as I open the car door for her. She sort of melts into the seat. “I’m dropping you at the mansion. You go straight to Lydia’s wing. Use the bathtub. Lock the door. No one will disturb you.”

She doesn’t even open her eyes. Just lets out a soft, “Mmm.”

“I’ll head into Pemwick. Get that Thai place you like—the one with the ridiculous mango sticky rice. Then we eat. Movie. You can spend the night. I‘ll grab your things if you want.”

Silence.

Then, after a long pause, still with her eyes closed, she says—

“Heaven.”

A beat.

“You’re heaven.”

That does something to me.

She’s asleep before I even start the engine, mouth parted slightly, her head tilted toward me like some quiet act of trust.

I drive us home in silence, the heater on low, my hand brushing against her thigh now and then at red lights.
And I don’t say anything.

But inside?

I hope she knows I’ll do this every day if she lets me.

Ruby

He said he’d be gone at least forty-five minutes. Probably an hour.

And I believe him. James isn’t the kind of person to rush when he’s got a plan—especially not if the plan involves mango sticky rice and making things nice for me.

So I have time.

The water is hot enough to sting a little at first, but that fades quickly. The scent of the lavender bath oil Lydia keeps tucked behind her mirror is calming, even if it feels far too indulgent to use it. Still, I do. James said it’s okay. Slowly ease myself down, let the heat curl around me, swallow me whole.

It feels so good.

My feet are sore, my back is tight, my shoulders are screaming. But in here, none of that matters.

I let my thoughts drift.

If things were different… would he come in?

Would I want him to?

I tilt my head back against the cool porcelain. Close my eyes.

Maybe.
Not tonight, but… maybe soon?

I think I would.
I think I’d want him close. Want his fingers in my hair, the weight of his gaze. The way he’d probably be half amused, half reverent, trying not to ogle while I’m entirely naked and warm and wet and—

I cut off the thought. Smile a little to myself.

We’re not there yet.

But maybe that’s not as far off as it once felt.

I soak a bit longer. Wash my hair. Rinse. Drain some water and top it up with more heat, stretching out the silence as long as I can.

By the time I finally step out, the mirror is fogged and the air is thick with steam. I towel off slowly. Massage lotion into my arms, my legs, the curve of my hips. A soft, simple act of care.

It doesn’t have to mean anything—but somehow, it still feels like something.

I get dressed in the soft clothes I had in my backpack. Warm jumper, cotton leggins. And then I hesitate over the last bit—reach for my bra, then pause.

Do I need it?

No.
Not tonight.

I smile at my reflection.
Not quite wicked. But not innocent either.

By the time I head downstairs, I’m warm, clean, soft, and ready to curl up beside him.

And maybe—maybe ready to see if we can turn almost into more.

James

She’s here when I open the door.

My hands are full—bags of food dangling from my wrists, drinks in a cardboard tray I’m trying not to drop—but the moment I see her sitting cross-legged on my bed, scrolling through something on her phone, her hair damp and curling around her cheeks, my whole brain goes quiet for a second.

She’s here.

And that feels… right. Not even the loud kind of right, just this low, steady hum under my skin. The kind of right that settles in your chest and whispers, don’t fuck this up.

I drop the food on my desk and say, “Hope you’re in the mood for everything they had on the menu.”

She looks up and smiles, that soft post-bath kind of smile that makes me want to do very stupid things, like kneel in front of her and ask if she wants to move in. “You didn’t have to go all out.”

“I didn’t,” I say, and toss her a spring roll. She catches it. “I just couldn’t decide. And I wanted an excuse to order two portions of satay.”

“I knew it.”

We eat sitting on my bed, backs against the headboard, legs brushing. She leans over now and then to steal from my box. I let her. Obviously.

“So.” I poke at my noodles. “Movie?”

She looks at me suspiciously. “What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know,” I say, too casually. “Something easy. Something without too much plot. Dialogue optional.”

“Dialogue optional,” she echoes, narrowing her eyes. “You’re just trying to sneak a Marvel movie past me.”

“Excuse me, that’s underappreciated modern art.”

She snorts. “Right. Nothing says modern art like men in capes punching each other in space.”

“There’s character development.”

“There’s five-second monologues between explosions.”

“Well, if that’s your standard,” I say, grinning, “we can always watch something with actual plot, but then we run the very real risk of missing something important if we get distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“Hypothetically.”

She arches a brow. “So you’re planning to kiss me during a movie.”

“Ruby,” I say solemnly, “I’m always planning to kiss you.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t quite suppress the smile. “We’re watching The Dig.”

Of course we are.

“Ah,” I say. “So no risk of missing anything.”

“That’s unfair,” she says. “It’s atmospheric.”

“It’s slow.”

“It’s beautiful. And romantic. And thoughtful. And Ralph Fiennes is a national treasure.”

“More of a soft excavation, isn’t it?”

“Shut up and pass the satay.”

We settle in. She kicks the tray off the bed, brushes crumbs off the duvet, then leans into me as I hit play. Her head fits perfectly against my shoulder, and I press a kiss into her hair.

This isn’t Marvel. And I’ll probably fall asleep if she lets me. But there’s no place I’d rather be.

She belongs here.

And for tonight, she is.

James

I don’t fall asleep.

God knows I thought I would. It’s slow. Quiet. The kind of film where entire minutes pass in silence and no one raises their voice, and somehow that’s more piercing than shouting.

But I stay awake. Maybe because Ruby’s warm against me, curled so close that her arm is tucked between my ribs and her nose brushes the edge of my jaw when she shifts. Maybe because I can feel her breath when she sighs at something sad on screen. Or maybe because this film—

It’s getting under my skin.

We’re barely halfway through when I realise what it’s really about.

Not just the dig. Not even the history they’re trying to uncover. But legacy. What we leave behind. Who decides what’s worth remembering. How, in the end, no matter how important we were in our own lives, someone else gets to write the version that survives.

“Do you think it matters?” I murmur.

Ruby shifts. “What?”

“If we’re remembered. Or not.”

She doesn’t answer immediately, and I don’t push. The film is still rolling—Ralph Fiennes in the mud, the boy with the telescope, the shadow of war coming closer.

Then she whispers, “I think… it matters how we live. Not how we’re remembered.”

I nod slowly. “You’re probably right.”

But it still aches a little.

Because what if all of this—everything we do, everything we feel—gets smoothed over like dirt on a field? What if all the versions that remain are missing the pieces that made us who we were?

What if people only remember the worst part of you?

Like him. My father. Or… me.

I glance at Ruby.

She’s not watching the screen anymore. She’s watching me.

“I don’t want to be remembered for the wrong things,” I say quietly.

“You won’t be,” she replies. No hesitation. “Not if you live like the person you are now.”

And then she kisses me.

It starts soft—just her mouth on mine, a familiar sweetness. But then her hand comes to rest on my chest, and she presses a little closer, and I’m not thinking about legacy or memory or anything but the fact that she tastes like coconut lip balm and something I can’t name. Something that feels like the opposite of regret.

The film is still going. I have no idea what’s happening anymore. Someone’s probably made a discovery. Ruby’s fingers have found the back of my neck, and I’m kissing her deeper now, her body twisting to face me more fully.

We do eventually surface, slightly breathless, cheeks warm, her leg half-draped over mine.

“I missed like ten minutes,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re the one who chose this film.”

She grins, smug. “Worth it.”

I laugh softly, kiss her temple, and let the film play on.

History can wait. For now, she’s here. In my arms. Real. Alive.

And that’s what I want to remember.

Ruby

He fed me the last bite of mango with his fingers, sticky-sweet and smug about it, laughing when I tried to nip at his hand. I threatened revenge and kissed the pad of his thumb instead.

It should have stayed playful.

Should have.

Except now we’re tangled up in his sheets, the TV humming some menu screen in the background, and I’m not even sure when the shift happened. When “messing around” stopped being light and teasing and started turning into this—kisses that last too long, breaths that sync, hands that aren’t just joking anymore.

I’m straddling his lap again, half over him, half pressed beside him, and I can feel the heat of him through two stupid layers of clothing. And I’m kissing him like I’m starving. Like I can’t not.

His shirt is half unbuttoned. I did that. Because I wanted to. Because the sight of him in that crisp white shirt he probably wore just because had been killing me all night.

I push the last buttons open now, slowly, deliberately. He makes a soft sound when I run my hands down his chest, and I press a kiss to his collarbone just because I can. Because I want to.

And then his hands come under my sweatshirt.

Not rushed. Not fumbling.

Just… warm and sure, sliding over my skin like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s thanking me. Like he’s still surprised that this is allowed.

He stills when he gets to the place where a bra should be.

“Oh,” he whispers, mouth near my ear. “You… you planned this.”

I smile, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I planned a bath.”

“And no bra.”

“Turns out I don’t need one for Thai takeout and The Dig.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, reverent and a little wrecked.

And then the sweatshirt’s gone.

I’m bare to the waist, sitting in his lap. His hands are on me. His mouth is on me. My fingers are in his hair and I’m not thinking, I’m not second-guessing—just feeling.

We don’t stop.

We shift. Move. Shed layers like we’ve done this a thousand times, but not like this. Never like this. Not this pace. Not this care. Not this much feeling in every caress.

By the time I’m down to just my knickers and he’s only in those stupid sexy boxer briefs that feel way too thin to hide anything, we’ve been kissing for so long I don’t even know what time it is. I don’t care.

Because I’m on top of him again. And I’m moving.

A slow, searching kind of grind. My body finds the angle instinctively, and I can feel him right there—god—it’s good. The heat and pressure and friction. The way he’s holding my hips now, guiding me gently. Like he knows. Like he feels what’s happening.

I drop my head to his shoulder, pressing kisses against his neck, the crook between his neck and collarbone. My fingers claw lightly at his arms, his chest. My breath starts to stutter, catching on something that feels bigger than I meant to feel tonight. Bigger than I expected.

And I can’t stop.

I don’t want to stop.

I keep moving, slowly, grinding against him. And then—

It builds too fast.

It breaks too fast.

A sound tears from my throat—half gasp, half moan—and I’m clinging to him, panting, shivering, burying my face in his neck as something absolutely shattering overtakes me.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

I didn’t… I didn’t even know that was possible.

I just came.
Without either of us even meaning to.

And I don’t know what to say.

So I don’t.

I just stay right where I am. Breathing him in. Trembling. Clinging.

And waiting.

James

I knew before she did. Felt it in the way her body shifted against mine, in the sudden sharp rhythm of her breath, in the way her fingers clenched in my hair. And I let it happen for her. Just let her move the way she wanted, the way her body was asking to, because Christ—she was so beautiful like this.

And she felt so good. Still feels good, her warmth pressed against me, damp cotton between us and nothing more, her skin soft under my hands.

But now she’s gone still. Not pulling away, but not moving either. And I know that flicker of doubt when I see it. I’ve lived with it long enough inside myself to recognize the shadow on someone else.

So I hold still too. My arms steady around her, no rush, no pressure. I shift carefully, rolling us so she’s on her back and I’m braced above her, caging her in without trapping her. Her hair fans out across my pillow, her cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising fast. She’s never been more beautiful.

I kiss her softly. Once, twice. Just her mouth, then her cheek, then the corner of her jaw. The kind of kiss that says you’re safe. You’re mine to cherish, not to take from.

“It’s okay,” I whisper against her skin. “That was… beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Her eyes flick up at me, searching, uncertain.

I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in. “No need to feel—whatever’s making you doubt now. There’s nothing wrong here. Nothing.”

I kiss her again, gentle as I can. My thumb strokes her cheek, slow circles to keep her grounded.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, huh?” I murmur. “Talk to me.”

Because I won’t let silence poison us again. Not now. Not when I just saw how much she can give me if I make her feel safe.

Ruby

I don’t mean to go still.
It’s just that something shifts.

Everything was so good—his hands on my skin, the heat between us, the way he looked at me like I’m something beautiful. And then—
it happened.

Out of nowhere.

My body just… let go.

It felt amazing. I didn’t even know I could feel that good from something that wasn’t even sex. From this—from him.

And when it happened, when it snuck up on me, I didn’t stop it. I didn’t want to. My whole body just… tipped over the edge, as if it had a will of its own. And it was good. It was so good.

But now I’m still, and so is he.

He moves slowly, like I might break if he’s too fast. Gathers me into him, turns me gently so I’m on my back and he’s leaning over me. His hand is warm on my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my skin.

Then his voice, soft:
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, huh?”

I swallow. Try to smile. Fail.
“It was good,” I say, too quickly. “It was really—really—good.”

He nods, leans in to kiss me lightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

But he’s waiting.

So I look at him, try to find the words.

“I just… I didn’t expect that to happen. I wasn’t trying to—” I cut myself off, frustrated. “I don’t know, it just happened, and now I’m lying here wondering if I made it weird. Or if I’m being weird.”

James frowns slightly, confused. “Weird how?”

“I mean…” I pull the blanket up a little. “You didn’t, um… you didn’t come.”

A pause.

He blinks. Then he laughs—quiet and incredulous—and kisses my forehead.

“Ruby,” he says gently. “That’s not a problem.”

“I know, but…” I exhale. “It feels like I… I took something? And didn’t give anything back. Which is stupid, I know, but my brain won’t shut up about it.”

His smile softens. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering at my jaw.

“Okay, first—nothing about that was stupid. Second—this isn’t a trade. You didn’t owe me anything. I’m not sitting here doing some mental checklist of who gave what.”

I laugh a little. “You’re sure?”

“Very.” He kisses me again, slower this time. “You were beautiful. That moment was beautiful. And I don’t want you lying here, spiraling, thinking you did something wrong when all you did was trust me and let go.”

I bite my lip. “I think I just… I didn’t expect to feel that much. That fast. I’m not used to… this.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, soft again:
“Me neither.”

I blink. “Wait, really?”

James nods, eyes open and clear. “I’ve never done this before. Not like this. Not with someone who makes it feel like the world’s falling away. So yeah, I get it. It’s a lot. But it’s also okay to just let it be what it was. You were with me. That’s all that matters.”

„I didn’t exactly expect this to happen tonight,” he continues, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I loved every second of it.”

I smile for real now. My body relaxes a little under his.

“I like being with you,” I whisper.

“I like you being with me.” He leans in again, brushing his nose against mine. “Also… you looked insanely hot on top of me, just saying.”

I laugh, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Shut up.”

“Never,” he murmurs, and kisses me again.

“I have no reason to complain,” he adds, fingers brushing my temple. “No reason to at all. Okay?”

And this time, there’s no doubt in my mind. Just the soft thud of my heart, and his hand holding mine under the blanket, like a promise.

James

I’m not a saint.

Let’s just get that out of the way.

She’s lying next to me—flushed, breath soft, hair a little damp at her temple—and all I want is to press her down into this bed and make her feel everything she just gave me again and again until we both forget how to breathe. And I want to feel that too.

But I won’t.
Because she’s looking at me like that.

So trusting.
So open.
So Ruby.

And that changes everything.

I didn’t lie. I didn’t expect any of this tonight. Thought we’d eat, argue over movie genres, end up watching something sad and British with slow plot and heavy symbolism. Thought she’d fall asleep curled into me halfway through. Because she’d worked an eight-hour shift and looked like her bones were about to go on strike when I picked her up.

And instead?

Instead I got this.

Her on top of me, moaning into my mouth. Her sweater somewhere on the floor. No bra—Jesus, no bra—and that body I keep dreaming about pressed against mine, trembling as she let go completely. With me.

I didn’t know it would happen. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t expect her to come in my arms without a single word said about it.

And now?

Now I can’t keep going.

Not because I don’t want to.
God, I want to.
But because that’s not what she needs right now.

This—this—requires more than heat and want.

So I shift, just a little, and gather her close. Tuck her head under my chin. Pull the blanket over us even though the room’s not cold.

She melts into me instantly. That kills me more than anything.

It’s the kind of trust that makes my throat tight.

I press a kiss into her hair. Just hold her for a while.

Let her feel it.
That I’m here.
That she didn’t do anything wrong.
That this was everything I didn’t even know I wanted.

Her fingers find mine under the blanket, gentle and absent-minded, like she doesn’t even know she’s reaching. I squeeze them. Just once.

“I meant what I said,” I murmur into the quiet. “No pressure. No expectations. Just you.”

She nods against my chest, and I feel her exhale like she’d been holding her breath.

And that’s enough for tonight.

More than enough.

Ruby

“I love you,” I whisper.

It’s not sudden. It’s not planned either. But it comes out as natural as breathing, as easy as curling into his arms, as necessary as everything else we just shared.

We’ve said it before.
But right now—I need him to hear it again.
I need me to hear it again.

James doesn’t move much. Just shifts his face toward mine and nuzzles a kiss against my temple, like the words soothed something in him.

“I love hearing that,” he murmurs, voice thick with something tender. “But I know, Ruby. I know.”

He pulls me closer. His hand strokes slowly down my back, over my spine, the touch grounding and soft and perfect.

Still, he keeps going.

“I just…” A pause. “I still can’t believe I got so lucky.”

I turn my face up to look at him, just enough to meet his eyes in the faint light from the hallway.

“Don’t say that.”

His brow creases, just a little. “What?”

“Don’t sell yourself short like that.” I raise my hand, slide it gently across his cheek, thumb brushing his skin. “You didn’t just get lucky, James.”

He blinks at me, and I feel the resistance in him—not argumentative, not stubborn, just that old habit of thinking the worst of himself. The version of him who thought all he had to offer was charm and damage, and that no one would ever want more.

“You changed,” I tell him, quiet but sure. “You let me see who you really are. That’s why we’re here. That’s not small. That’s not chance. That’s you showing up, over and over. That’s you choosing to be known.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at me like he’s trying to work out whether to believe me or not.

So I lean in and kiss him again.
Softly.
Just once.
Right in the center of his chest.

And then I whisper against his skin—

“I didn’t fall for someone lucky. I fell for someone real.”

His arms tighten around me.

And for a long while, we don’t say anything else.
We just lie there. Quiet and safe and warm.

Exactly where we belong.

James

It’s quiet now. That kind of late-night quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. The house is still. The screen’s gone dark. Ruby’s curled into me, one leg over mine, her fingertips drawing slow, mindless shapes on my chest.

And I should be asleep. We both should.

But I’m not. I can’t stop this… ache. Not the painful kind. Just the kind that doesn’t quite let you rest.

“I don’t know how to say this,” I murmur.

Ruby hums. “Try.”

I stare at the ceiling for a beat. Then—

“Sometimes I think it’s unfair.”

She shifts, just enough to tilt her face toward mine. I keep looking up.

“That my mum died,” I say. “And now I’m… this happy.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. So I keep going.

“I mean, I’m not just happy. I’m still sad. Properly. I still miss her all the time. But I also have this. You. Us. And it’s—fuck—it’s everything. And it almost feels like I… got something out of losing her. Like life gave me you in return. And I hate that thought.”

Ruby doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush in with a fix. Just shifts closer, her hand sliding up to my jaw, thumb resting gently under my cheekbone.

“I think,” she says quietly, “that’s one of those things no one prepares you for.”

“What is?”

“How you can feel two things at the same time. Completely. Side by side.”

I nod, though I’m not sure she sees it in the dark. “Yeah.”

I pause, then glance at her.

“I’ve been thinking about it more lately. Especially since Christmas. I haven’t spoken to my dad since then. Lydia’s barely here anymore. I know she’s probably with Cyril, but I haven’t reall asked. And I haven’t… dealt with any of it. Not properly. I think I’m hiding. From him. From what’s next. From missing her.”

She’s quiet, and then I feel her press a kiss to my collarbone.

“I don’t think hiding makes you weak,” she says. “I think it just means you’re trying to figure out where it’s safe to feel the things you need to.”

Her words land like soft snow, and I let myself breathe again.

“I’ve been thinking about your dad,” I say after a while.

Ruby looks up at me. “What about him?”

“I don’t know. Just… that dinner last week. The way he made that whole speech about the sauce ratio on shepherd’s pie like he was defending a dissertation. And then made me eat an extra serving because apparently I’m too skinny.”

She smiles. “He likes you.”

“I like him too,” I say honestly. “A lot.”

She watches me for a beat, then says, “You remember I told you about the accident, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” I reach over, gently brushing her hair back. “You told me. You were eight. He saved you. And everything changed after that.”

She nods. “I don’t talk about it often. But you already know most of it anyway.”

“Still,” I murmur, “you can talk about it if you want to.”

She’s silent for a moment. Then—

“It changed everything,” she says. “Not just the obvious. Not just money or space or needing a ramp. But everything. Mum took on more hours. Things got tighter. And my dad… he never stopped being my dad. But he couldn’t coach mini league anymore. Couldn’t walk me to school. Couldn’t come to half the school events. Parent-teacher evenings had stairs.”

I nod. I’ve seen him struggle. Seen the way he keeps cracking jokes, pretending not to notice the places that still exclude him.

“And he never said anything like ‘it’s your fault,’” she says, quieter now. “But I think I carried that guilt anyway. For years. Even though I know it’s not mine to carry.”

I brush my fingers along her arm. “You don’t have to carry that alone. Not with me.”

She gives me a tiny smile. “He says he’s happy, you know. That he’s a rich man. Rich in love, humor, closeness.” She mimics his dry tone perfectly, and I laugh softly. “He means it, though. Took him a while to see it that way. But he says it all the time now. And he’s not faking it.”

I feel something settle in my chest. A kind of grounding warmth. The way she talks about her dad—the love in it, the truth—it’s… steadying.

“I think your dad and my mum would’ve liked each other,” I say. “I mean, she was completely different, more business than mini league and roast potatoes but she’d appreciated his matter of fact attitude.”

Ruby laughs under her breath. Then she shifts, curling tighter against me.

Grief and love. Pain and happiness. All tangled up.

Maybe we don’t have to untangle them.

Maybe it’s okay to carry both.

Ruby

It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels small and safe, like we’re the only two people left awake. We’re still curled up in his bed, warm under the blanket, limbs tangled and bodies relaxed, but my mind won’t settle.

I’m not even sure why I say it. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s how soft his breathing is. Maybe it’s the way he’s been looking at me all evening—like I matter. Not just in the moment. But really.

So I say it.

“There’s something I haven’t told anyone.”

James turns his head toward me, instantly alert in that calm, James way of his now. He doesn’t press. Just gives me his full attention.

I stare at the ceiling for a second before I can meet his eyes.

“The money I make waitressing… I don’t need it.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—my scholarship covers everything. And I don’t need much. I’m not working those shifts because I have to.”

He frowns slightly, trying to follow. “Then why do it?”

I take a breath. This is the part no one knows.

“I’m saving it. For my dad.”

James doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his hand gently stilling where it was tracing along my arm.

“His stairlift broke a few years ago. The one that takes him from the living room to the upstairs bathroom and bedroom. And the NHS wouldn’t cover a new one. Said it wasn’t urgent. Said he had options.”

James’s brow furrows. “What options?”

“A commode. Or sponge baths in the kitchen. Or living in just one part of the house permanently.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “So he couldn’t move freely in his own home anymore. Not unless someone was there to help him.”

I pause, swallowing hard. “That’s why I started saving. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Ember. I just put away everything I made. I was going to surprise them.”

James is still quiet. Watching me with this softness that almost makes it harder to speak.

“But then,” I continue, “in October, my mum found the money. I’d been stashing it in a box under my bed, and she was changing the sheets one day and found it.”

His fingers curl around mine, warm and steady.

“We had a fight,” I admit. “She thought I was… doing it out of guilt. That I still blamed myself. And I got so upset because I didn’t even know I did, until she said it. But it’s not that. It really isn’t. It’s not about atonement. I just—” I glance at him. “I just want him to be happy. To feel like he can live in his own house again. Like it’s not a prison.”

James brings my hand to his mouth, kisses my knuckles. I let the silence hang between us for a moment.

“After we talked,” I say, quieter now, “they agreed. They said I could keep giving the money. But only if it was something we all did together. They matched what I saved.”

“You paid for a stairlift.”

I nod. “Yeah. Me and them, together. It was installed while we were in Oxford.”

A breath leaves me then. Like I didn’t know I’d been holding it.

“But I know they drained their savings to do it. So I took every shift I could over the holidays. Weekends, nights, doubles. With tips, I made nearly two grand in November and December. I’m trying to pay some of their part back.”

James is still holding my hand, still quiet, but I can feel how much he’s listening. Like every word matters. Like it doesn’t make me weird or broken or silly for doing what I did.

He just squeezes my fingers a little tighter and says, “You are… something else, Ruby Bell.”

I shake my head, but there’s a smile tugging at my mouth. A tired one. A real one.

“I didn’t do it to be heroic.”

“I know. That’s what makes it even more incredible.”

My cheeks burn, and I tuck myself into his side.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head and whispers, “He must be so proud of you.”

I don’t answer that. Not with words. I just hold on a little tighter.

James

I don’t say anything for a while.

I can’t. Because if I open my mouth now, I might say something wrong. Like how furious it makes me that she had to do this in the first place. That she worked every spare second to save for something that should’ve been a basic human right. That she didn’t tell anyone. That she carried that alone. That she shouldn’t have had to.

But I can’t say that. Not the way I want to. And I definitely can’t say what flashes through my mind next—that I could’ve written a cheque and covered the whole damn stairlift in five minutes. Because she’d hate that. Not because she’d be ungrateful. But because it would erase everything she did. Everything she gave.

And I wouldn’t do that for anything.

So instead, I hold her hand. Let her curl closer against me. I kiss her hair and say nothing, because anything else would be wrong.

She doesn’t need saving. She just needed space to give something meaningful—and no one has ever really let her do that before. They didn’t trust she could carry something without breaking. But she didn’t break. She built something.

And she kept building, even when no one knew.

My throat feels tight.

I think back to all the times I picked her up from work these past weeks. Half-frozen from the wind. Exhausted. Her shoulders tense and aching, her eyes tired, her feet barely keeping her upright. And every single time she smiled when she saw me. Rested her forehead against my chest like I was something safe.

I didn’t know then. Not all of it.

But maybe I knew enough to do what I could.

I couldn’t give her money, but I could give her warmth. I could show up, every time. I could get her into a hot bath, today of all days. I could pick up her favourite Thai, get the rice just the way she likes it. I could let her choose the film, even if she bullied me into watching The Dig again.

And maybe that’s what I have to offer. That after everything—after saving and fighting and putting up with stairs and shifts and customers and god knows what else—she could land here. In my bed. In my arms. In this stupid big house that doesn’t matter nearly as much as the girl inside it.

Maybe the best I can do right now is make sure she never has to carry something alone again.

Not when I can carry a piece of it for her.

Not when I want to.

Ruby

I wake slowly.
Not all at once, just in soft layers, like the light slipping through the curtains. Pale, blue-grey, too early for the world. But warm. His body next to mine, tangled in sheets and skin and sleep.

We’re still only in underwear. Nothing else. We never dressed again. Just curled into each other after all that talking. After everything.
And I think I must’ve fallen asleep in the curve of his arm.

He’s still sleeping.
Face turned toward me, mouth soft, hair messy in a way that should be illegal.
His lashes are ridiculously long. And I’m unfairly in love.

I move closer, careful not to wake him. Or maybe I do want to wake him. I don’t know. I just want this moment to last a little longer.
My mouth brushes against his cheek. A featherlight kiss.
Then another, lower—against his jaw, his neck.
And then one on his collarbone, because I can.

He shifts, almost imperceptibly. But I feel it. A breath, a hum, a hand seeking mine under the covers.

I let my fingers trail down—over his chest, his stomach. The rise and fall of breath. His skin so warm beneath mine. So familiar now. Still new. Still thrilling.
Lower.
I hear him inhale. Not sharply. Just…aware.
But he stays still.

Except for his hand, which finds my cheek. His thumb strokes over my skin, gentle as the dawn. Not guiding. Just grounding. As if to say, I’m here.

My hand lingers. Not hesitating, not rushing. Just feeling. Wanting.
And then I lean in, my lips close to his ear. My voice barely a whisper.
“James…”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but I feel the shift in him.

“I want you to feel good,” I whisper. “I want to give this to you. If you want it too.”

That thumb on my cheek brushes again, slower now.

And when he nods—small, quiet, reverent—it’s everything.

James

I wake slowly.

Not because of a sound, or a shift in the room.
But because of her.

Soft kisses. Featherlight. One on my cheek, one near my jaw, another lower—my collarbone.
And then her hand.

Ghosting.
That’s the only word for it.
Fingers drifting down my chest like she’s memorizing it in the half-light. Drawing lines over my skin I never want to fade.

I stay still.
Not out of fear she’ll stop, but because I don’t want to startle the moment. Don’t want her to think she has to rush.
My hand finds her cheek, my thumb brushing the softness there. That’s the only answer I can give, because words would ruin this.

Her hand goes lower, over the thin fabric of my briefs. Just resting first. Just warm, curious pressure.
I exhale—quiet, slow. She feels that and kisses my cheek again.

And then she moves her hand.
Not fast. Not tentative either. Just…deliberate. Over me. Through the fabric. The kind of touch that makes your whole body pay attention.
And I do.
Everything in me goes still except where she’s touching me. And then her fingers slip under the waistband, slow, certain, and then—

Oh.

Her hand wraps around me. Careful. Steady.
A touch I’ve imagined a hundred different ways. But this—this is better.
Because it’s her.
Because it’s not about lust or urgency or ego.
It’s about giving.

She’s giving this to me.

Her forehead rests briefly against mine. Her breath warm. Her hand moving now—exploring, adjusting, learning me. No hesitation. Just love.

I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer.
Just to feel.
Just to let it be real that I’m here, with her, and this is happening.

Her hand is still moving. Slow. Intentional. Beautiful.

And I can’t help it—I whisper her name. Not as a question. Not as a plea.
Just a thank you in the only language I have left.

Ruby.

Ruby

I don’t know exactly what I’m doing.

But I know I want to do it.
I want to give this to him.
Because he’s given me so much softness. So much patience. Because I feel safe here, curled into the warmth of him, our bodies bare but not exposed.
Because I love him.

My hand is wrapped around him now, and I can feel the way he’s trying not to move, not to make a sound, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away.

“Show me?” I whisper.

His eyes open then, just barely, and I see the answer in them before he says anything.
He nods once, quiet.
And then he shifts. His hand comes over mine, warm and sure, his touch guiding—not correcting. Not taking over. Just showing.

The other hand pushes the waistband of his briefs down a little, and I follow that cue without words.
My hand adjusts.
He breathes out—long and low—and I feel him pulse under my fingers.

He doesn’t say much, and he doesn’t need to. I can tell by the way he moves, the way his hand shapes mine, the pressure he adds and then lets go again. The rhythm he finds and offers to me. Like a language I’ve never spoken, but he’s willing to teach me.

I pay attention.
To everything.
The way his body shifts just slightly when I get something right.
The way his breathing changes.
The way his lips part when he’s trying to keep quiet.

He leans his forehead into mine, and I can feel the weight of it—that intimacy, that trust.
His hand leaves mine after a while, and I keep going. The way he showed me. The way I know he likes.

It feels beautiful.
To give him this.
To be the one making him feel like this. Not just because I can—but because I want to.
Because he’s lying here, letting me love him in a way that isn’t about performance or perfection. It’s just us.

And it feels like everything I ever hoped it would be.

Close. Real. Ours.

James

It starts slow.

Like how she always moves with intention. Never rushed. Never careless. Like she means every second of it.

Her hand is steady now, wrapped around me the way I showed her, the rhythm slow and deliberate. And she’s so close — her breath warm against my jaw, her body pressed into mine.

I feel everything.

The silk of her hair brushing my neck as she leans in.
The softness of her chest, her breast against my side, the peak of her nipple tight against my skin.
The delicate pressure of her thigh around mine, how her hips shift just slightly as if her own body is responding, instinctively, to mine.
Like something shared. Something exchanged.

And her hand — God.

It’s like she already knows me.
The way she strokes me, the pace she keeps. The quiet control of it. Not teasing. Not trying to prove anything. Just… giving. Letting me feel good. Letting me fall apart slowly, one breath at a time.

I press my forehead to hers, because I can’t say it. Not now.
That I love her. That this is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me. That I didn’t even know I needed this — not like this.

Her name is on the tip of my tongue, unspoken.

Because she’s everywhere. Her scent, her warmth, the sound of her breathing a little quicker now. I feel her pressing herself closer, maybe not even consciously. Just following the same thread I am. Wanting to be near.

I think I’m shaking.

Not from tension — not exactly.
But from the way it’s all building, in quiet waves. From how good this is. How safe. How full of care.

And then it breaks.

Slow, deep, beautiful.
Not a crash — more like a surrender.
Like something inside me letting go for the first time in too long.

I come with a low, stuttering breath, burying my face into her shoulder, overwhelmed.
And it’s not just pleasure. It’s her. Her body wrapped around mine. Her hand holding me. Her chest rising and falling against me. The warmth of her skin, the way she doesn’t stop touching me.

It’s too much and somehow still not enough.

I could cry.

I won’t — but I could.

Because nothing in my life has ever felt more like being cared for than this moment right now.

And I think —
I think I love her even more.

Which shouldn’t be possible.

But here we are.

Ruby

I don’t move at first.

I just lie there, curled against him, breathing in the afterglow of everything we just shared. His chest is still rising and falling with that soft, steady rhythm, his hand resting on my back, warm and safe. The room feels quiet in a new way now — not just because it’s early, but because something has shifted. Deepened. Like a truth spoken without needing words.

But then—
Then there’s this slow, low ache blooming in my body.
A wanting. A quiet hum beneath my skin.

And maybe it’s the way he touched me all night — like I mattered. Like I was art. Like I was something he wanted to feel and remember.

Maybe it’s how I watched him fall apart in my hands — open and unguarded and beautiful.

Or maybe it’s just me. Wanting to feel. Needing to.

I press a kiss to his shoulder, let my nose nuzzle into the hollow just beneath.
Then I whisper, so soft I’m not sure he hears it at first.

“Would you…”
My voice trails, and I try again, quieter.
“Would you help me feel good too?”

His breath hitches. Just slightly.
Then he kisses the top of my head and shifts, his fingers already sliding under the waistband of my knickers.

He doesn’t say anything — not until they’re pushed down, and I lift my hips to help, kicking them away.
I settle back into the crook of his arm, heart loud in my chest, nerves fluttering, but he’s here. He’s not rushing. His other hand finds my thigh, strokes softly there before drifting higher.

And then his voice, low and close to my ear, “Do you want to show me what you like?”
A pause.
“Or tell me?”

I turn my head slightly. Our noses brush.
“Soft,” I whisper. “Not too fast. Circles. Not… not directly on that spot. Not at first.”

He kisses me again, slower this time. “Show me.”

So I take his hand — place mine over it. Guide him. Light pressure. Small movements. Not quite there, but close.

And when I feel myself start to melt under his fingers, I let go.
I trust him.

I press my face into his neck, and he keeps touching me just like I showed him — exactly like I need. Patient. Gentle. Attentive. He’s not chasing anything. Just giving. Just… being with me.

My breath catches again and again, but I don’t want to rush. I want to feel every second of this. Every little thing. Every slow, beautiful flicker of pleasure building beneath my skin.

And I do.

God, I do.

Because it’s him.
And because I know he’ll stay with me all the way through.

James

There’s something about this moment I don’t think I’ll ever recover from.

She’s curled into me, her bare leg draped over mine, her hand resting on my shoulder like she needs the contact, like she needs me. And she’s so warm. So soft. Every part of her breathing under my fingertips. The rise and fall of her chest, the little gasps — those quiet, unguarded sounds that make my heart stutter.

I can feel her.

Not just her skin. Not just the way her body moves in response to mine.

I can feel her.

Every flicker of trust. Every tremble of need. Every beat of her pulse beneath my hand.

And I’m addicted.

I think I could spend the rest of my life learning her like this — what she likes, what she wants, what she asks for and doesn’t say out loud. I don’t want to guess. I want to listen. I want to hear her breath catch and know what it means. I want to remember the way her hips shift when I get it right. I want to be the one who gives her this.

Yesterday, it caught us off guard.
Now — this — she asked for it.

And that matters more than anything.

So I keep my touch steady. Gentle. Exactly the way she showed me.
No rush.
No more.
Not yet.

I hear her breathing change before anything else — a tremor in the rhythm, like she’s getting closer to the edge. Her hand finds my wrist, and she presses me in just a little more, silently asking.

I kiss her cheek. Keep my breath calm even though my pulse is anything but.

And then — just one finger, where she needs it most.

Soft. Careful. No more than she asked for.

That’s all it takes.

She exhales with a sound so quiet I nearly miss it — but I don’t.
That tiny whimper.

Sweet. Shaky. Beautiful.

It’s the most perfect sound I’ve ever heard.

And I feel it in her body too — the way she tenses for a breath, then melts completely. Her hand clinging to my wrist. Her cheek pressed to my chest. Her thighs trembling.

I hold her through it, kissing her hair, whispering nothing in particular.

Just here.
Just I’ve got you.
Just you’re safe.

And God, she is so beautiful.

Ruby

We don’t talk.

He just holds me.

And I let him.

There’s nothing to say. Not yet. Just this slow, steady return to myself while he traces quiet circles on my back like it’s all he’s ever meant to do. My breathing still hasn’t evened out completely, but his is so calm. So constant. Like I could match mine to his and fall asleep with that rhythm in my bones.

My body feels loose. Open. Like the world’s been peeled back and all that’s left is warmth.

“I’m tired,” I murmur, cheek pressed to his shoulder, lips grazing the edge of his collarbone.

He brushes his hand down my spine, rests it low on my back, and says, soft as anything, “We can sleep a bit longer.”
Then quieter still:
“It’s Sunday. I’m not going anywhere.”
A pause.
“Why would I?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I just lift my head enough to find his mouth and kiss him. Gentle. Slow. Almost lazy. Like we have all the time in the world.

And maybe we do.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing mine.

And I feel it everywhere.

My whole body melts at the sound — soft and pliant, like he’s taken every knot out of my chest, every tight place in my heart, and replaced them with warmth. With love. With him.

I curl into his chest, let him pull the blanket around us, and slip under.

Wrapped in him.

.

James

I’m not sleeping.

She is. All tucked into me, warm and peaceful, one arm slung across my stomach like she meant to hold on and forgot halfway through. Her hair’s a soft tangle on my chest. I can feel her breath against my skin. Slow. Even. She’s completely out.

And I’m not tired. Just—still.

Still in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

I think… I got this right.

Not just the morning. Not just the way I touched her, or how I let her lead when she wanted to show me what she liked. But the waiting. The space I gave her, without ever making her feel like it was something she owed me.

That was the part I was never taught, wasn’t it? How to be patient. How to want something—someone—and not push. Not take. Just… hold it in my hands when it’s offered. And honour it.

God, she’s beautiful. And brave. And so soft when she lets herself be. The kind of soft that trusts you not to drop it. The kind of soft that says here, I’ve never done this before, but I want to do it with you.

I’ve never wanted to be careful more in my life.

And I was. This morning, I was. With her body, her breath, her rhythm. I didn’t rush anything. I didn’t need to. She told me what she wanted, and I gave it to her, and something about that—about being what she needed—made everything else go quiet.

And I know now—really know—that I won’t fuck this up.

Because this time, I won’t.

Not with her.

Not with what we’re building here, piece by piece, so tender and real I can barely breathe sometimes.

She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent and curling in tighter.

I rest my hand on her hip. Let my thumb stroke the curve of her waist. Feel her settle again with a sigh.

Yeah.

This is the real thing.

And I’m not letting go.

Ruby

I stay in the shower longer than I need to. Not because I’m trying to avoid anything—just… gathering myself. Letting the water run down my back, watching it swirl at my feet. My body still feels warm and a little tingly. Loose. Like I’m made of something softer today. Not fragile—just unguarded.

I towel off and pull on my clothes slowly. Jeans, an old jumper I must’ve left here last week. I brush my hair, tie it back. My face is clean. No makeup. Just me.

And still, I hesitate a moment before opening his door.

He’s there. Of course he is.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed like we didn’t do everything we did. Like it’s a normal morning. Except… maybe it is.

His hair is a little wet—he must’ve showered in one of the guest rooms—and he’s somehow assembled breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Sliced fruit. A bowl of yogurt with honey. Coffee that smells stronger than sin.

“Hi,” I say, soft, like we’re pretending this is our first conversation.

He looks up and smiles. “Hi.”

He doesn’t ask how I slept. Doesn’t comment on anything we haven’t put words to yet. Just hands me a mug and scoots over, making space for me on the bed.

I sit down, tuck one leg under the other. Take a sip. It’s perfect.

“Where’d you get all this?”

“Kitchen downstairs. Don’t worry, no one was harmed.”

I smile. Still a little shy. Because—well. Because.

Because I touched him like I’ve never touched anyone before. Because he touched me like I was made of stars and not breakable pieces. Because I don’t quite know how to look at him now without remembering all of it.

He doesn’t press. He just passes me half a toasted piece of sourdough with honey on it.

“Eat,” he says. “You’ve got that ‘I forgot I’m human’ look again.”

I roll my eyes, but I take the bread. And as I bite into it, he brushes his hand lightly against my thigh—barely there, just a reminder. Of comfort. Of care.

And I breathe.

Maybe it’s okay to just be here. To be held in this space that feels like morning light and safety and the strange sweetness of being known.

Maybe it’s more than okay. Maybe it’s everything.

James

The thing is—I have no fucking clue how to do this part.

The morning after.

Because I’ve never done it. Not really.

Not like this.

There were never mornings. Not with the other girls. Just nights. Parties, chaos, a spare bed or someone’s couch. Half the time it didn’t even involve a bed. Or if it did, it wasn’t one that belonged to me. And I never stayed.

Hell, I usually didn’t even ask their last names.

But this—waking up with Ruby curled against me, both of us still wearing nothing but skin and what we’d just learned about each other—that’s new. Holding her as she drifted off again. Getting out of bed quietly. Taking a shower in the guest room so she could have space in mine. Finding eggs and bread and yogurt and coffee. Laying it out. Pretending I know what people do in situations like this.

She comes in and she’s freshly showered, hair still damp at the ends, cheeks a little pink. Wearing one of her jumpers I think she left here last week. And when she smiles, it’s small. A bit shy.

Which means… she’s thinking. Probably too much.

She says hi. Sits beside me, careful not to spill her coffee.

And I want to tell her I’m cool, casual, confident. But the truth is, I’m guessing. Winging it. All I know is I don’t want her to think this was anything but what it was—good, and wanted, and hers as much as mine.

I watch her for a moment. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she picks at her toast like it might bite back. And something in me just says: enough guessing.

So I put my plate down, wipe my hands on the napkin, and reach for hers. She looks up, eyes a little wide.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?” I ask quietly.

She shrugs. But I hold her gaze.

“Talk to me.”

Because this is not Oxford. This isn’t that adrenaline-fuelled morning in the dorm, where neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. This is the real world. This is her in my bed after a real day, a long shift, a bath, a movie, a night that meant something.

And I need her to know—whatever she’s feeling, whatever she’s thinking—it matters.

So I hold her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles, and wait.

Because I’m not going anywhere.

And neither is she.

Ruby

It’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m not making a fool of myself.

Like it’s okay to not know how to be, the morning after you’ve… done something like this.

And that’s the thing, right? It was beautiful. It was everything I hoped it would be. Maybe even more. But now my head is full of these quiet little questions that I don’t know how to ask without sounding ridiculous. I pick at my toast. He’s still holding my hand.

So I ask. Softly.

“Was it… okay? For you?”

His eyes go wide. “Okay?”

I look down at our hands. His thumb still sweeping lazy strokes across mine.

“I mean…” I try not to sound too unsure, but I’m definitely unsure. “I wanted it. I really did. But I fell asleep after and I didn’t— I didn’t ask you to come into the shower with me or anything and— I don’t know, maybe that’s what people do and I just didn’t think of it and—”

“Ruby.” His voice is quiet but firm, and I glance up.

He looks like he’s somewhere between smiling and heartbroken. Not actually heartbroken, just—gentle. A bit stunned.

“I wasn’t keeping score, you know?” he says, and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t have to do anything except be here.”

I bite my lip. “I guess I just don’t know the rules.”

“There aren’t any,” he says simply. “Not for us.”

I sit with that for a moment.

“And yes,” he adds, with a smile that’s very much him, “it was good for me. More than good. It was—” He exhales. “Honestly? I’ve never felt anything like that.”

I flush and he notices, of course.

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing my hand gently. “You fell asleep after because you were safe. Because it was good. And because you were probably exhausted after everything. That’s not weird. That’s perfect.”

I breathe out, shoulders easing a little.

“And not asking me into the shower?” He laughs softly. “Ruby, I didn’t even know if you’d want me there. You just looked like you needed a moment to yourself. So I gave it to you. That’s all.”

I smile. “I’m glad you did.”

He leans forward, presses a kiss to the side of my head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And just like that, the questions settle. I don’t need to know how everyone else does this.

This is us.

And that’s enough. More than enough.

James

The tray’s on my desk now, mostly empty. The coffee’s gone cold. Rain taps gently against the windows, steady and grey and perfect.

And she’s here.

Curled into my side like she’s always belonged there. Like this is her place. My arm around her, her fingers tracing something aimless across the fabric of my t-shirt. I can feel her breathing. Warm and slow.

It’s so stupid, but I think this might be the happiest I’ve ever been on a Sunday morning.

Because we’re not doing anything. That’s the whole point. No walk. No plan. Just her body pressed to mine and the rain outside and this stillness between us that I never knew I could love so much.

I’m supposed to drive her home soon. She’s meant to be there for lunch.

And I’m supposed to show my face at Ellington’s Sunday lunch with Lydia and him. Which I’m sure will be just as delightful as every other awkward Beaufort family performance. But I haven’t told her that yet. I don’t want to ruin the mood.

Instead, I glance down at her, playing with her damp hair a little, and say—casually, as if it’s nothing:

“Theoretically…”

She lifts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Yes?”

I smirk. “Should you ever… want me with you. Under the shower. For example. If such a desire were to arise… I could be persuaded.”

She blinks once. Then lets out a laugh—sharp and sudden and honest.

“Oh my god,” she says, swatting my arm. “James.”

“What?” I’m already grinning. “I’m just saying. It’s good to be open about these things.”

“Open,” she repeats, rolling her eyes, and then she’s laughing again, properly this time, pressing her forehead into my shoulder like she can’t believe I’m real.

And maybe I can’t either.

Because she’s laughing and I’m laughing and the rain keeps falling outside and it’s just—us. In this room that finally feels like it’s ours.

She leans up, still smiling, and I kiss her.

And it’s all good.

Better than good.

It’s real.

Chapter Text

Alistair

First day back.

The air smells like frost, overbrewed coffee, and teenage delusion. It’s 7:45 in the bloody morning, and the vultures are already circling.

I can hear the whispers before I’ve even set foot on the courtyard.
“Do you think he’ll be here today?”
“I heard he’s back—with her.”
“Didn’t she dump him after that party drama?”
“Scholarship girl, right? What’s her name again?”

Jesus Christ. It’s not even 8am. I haven’t had caffeine. And James Beaufort’s legend is apparently still alive and kicking after two months of absolute radio silence.

Make no mistake—he’s still the king. Even when he ghosts the place. Even when half the Upper Sixth doesn’t know where he’s been or what exactly happened at the party. That’s what royalty does. Leave gaps for people to fill in. Write myths in their absence.

And right on cue, the Beaufort Rolls-Royce glides into the courtyard like the world’s most ominous omen.

Heads turn. Phones twitch. And then—

It’s just Lydia.

She steps out, tall and striking as ever, her coat cinched tight against the cold. But before anyone can fully process that James isn’t with her, Cyril appears out of nowhere and—

—Takes her hand.

Wait. What?

They don’t even stop to let the rumors catch up. They just walk. Together. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd pivots. All attention shifting like heat-seeking missiles. What the fuck just happened?

Which is precisely when James arrives.

Not from the car. From the other end of the school grounds. On foot.

And he’s not alone.

Ruby Bell is walking beside him, dark curls tucked into a scarf, her hands in her coat pockets. Lin Wang is on his other side, effortlessly elegant as always, saying something that makes Ruby smirk.

It’s casual. Effortless. No hand-holding. No kissing in front of the lockers. No show.

But make no mistake: this is choreographed.

I would know. I helped plan it.

James waited for Ruby at the bus stop. Walked her to the parking lot where Lin was waiting. The three of them crossed the last stretch together. No fanfare. No statements. Just this.

The message is clear:
Get used to the sight of us together.
And what we are?
None of your fucking business.

And yet…

I see it. Because I’m looking for it. Because I know him.

The way James glances sideways every so often. Not performing. Just checking on her. Making sure she’s warm. That she’s alright. That she’s still here.

He’s so fucking gone for her.

It’s not even subtle.

And she—God, she doesn’t even know how steady she makes him. How she walks beside the king of this place like he’s just James. Just hers.

It’s sweet.
And real.
And frankly? Kind of unfair that a story like theirs exists in this mess of a school.

But also—maybe that’s exactly why it does.

Because somehow, in the wreckage and noise and chaos of everything, they still found their way back.

And this morning?

They’re walking through the crowd like it doesn’t matter what anyone says. Like they’re choosing each other. Quietly. Clearly. Completely.

Ruby

James is back.

Which means the rumors are back too.
They’d died down just before winter break—finally, blessedly faded into the background like the echoes of last term’s drama. But then came the gala. Our appearance at the gala. And now… now we’re walking into school on the first Monday morning like we didn’t detonate the place with our return.

Except we kind of did.

We talked about this. How to handle it. Not making a show of it, but not hiding either. James said he’d never push for anything public—not at school, not with everyone watching—but he also didn’t want us to be walking on eggshells like we had something to be ashamed of.

I don’t want that either.
I don’t want to feel like this—us—is a dirty little secret.

So we arrived together. Sort of. He waited for me at the bus stop, then we walked to where Lin was waiting in the car park, and the three of us made our way onto school grounds together. No hands. No kisses. Just quiet, casual steps, shoulder to shoulder. Like we’re saying:
Yes, this is real. Yes, we’re okay.
No, it’s not your business.

But people watch.
They always do.

And they whisper.
Of course they do.

Most of my classes are still with Cyril and Alistair. A few more with Lydia now too. Lin’s in nearly all of them. And two classes are with James.

Lunch? It’s all of us together. One long table, always surrounded by murmurs.

They fall silent the second James stands up to refill his glass, like he might cast a spell or throw a chair or make a dramatic exit. And they start up again as soon as I’m alone in a hallway. Or walking the gallery from one side of the school to the other.
That’s when it gets exhausting.
So I’m never alone, not really.

Lin sticks close.
Cyril has taken it upon himself to become the ultimate gossip shield.
Lydia pretends she’s too grown-up for all of it, but I catch her watching too. Not them. Me. Making sure I’m okay.

I am. Mostly.

James is back at lacrosse this week. I’m running the events committee again, which means afternoons are full of emails, planning, and pretending I’m not scrolling back through our texts just to see his name.

We don’t get a lot of time during the day. Passing moments in class. Shared looks across lunch. A smirk from him when someone mispronounces a philosopher’s name or gets the dates wrong on an essay question.

But I find little notes tucked between the pages of my books.

He never signs them. Never says anything too revealing. Always perfectly PG-13. But also… very him.

One folded into the front flap of my planner:
“Today will be better than yesterday. That’s a threat, Bell.”

One slipped between the pages of The Tempest:
“Full fathom five thy boyfriend lies… probably under a pile of linen in the locker room. Send help.”

One scribbled on the inside of my notebook, just under a diagram I drew of the committee seating chart:
“You’re not allowed to be this clever and this beautiful at the same time. It’s rude.”

They make me laugh when I’m supposed to be serious.
Make me blush when no one’s looking.
Make me feel—quietly, insistently—seen. Wanted. Chosen.

And that makes everything else… just noise.

James

Lacrosse feels good.
Being back on the pitch, feeling the slam of boots and bodies, the sting of cold air in my lungs. It’s grounding. Familiar. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I got back out there this week. Didn’t realize how much I needed it.

School? That’s… okay.
Manageable.
It’s not Oxford, and thank God for that. No pretending not to care while secretly unraveling.

But being back here, at Maxton, it’s still a whole thing. For me?
Doable.

For Ruby?
It’s taking more out of her. I see it.

She doesn’t say anything, not directly. She keeps showing up, doing what she always does—head held high, work polished, arguments sharp as glass. But it’s different now. You can see the way people look at her. Hear the pause in their voices when she walks by.
Is that her? The girl?
The scholarship one?

Yeah, it’s her.
And she’s still doing better than all of you.

But still. It’s a lot.

And we haven’t had time this week. Not real time. Not like Sunday. Not even like before break, when she’d meet me after work and I’d sneak her home in the dark, feed her, hold her, let her sleep against me while her hair dried on my pillow.

We haven’t had that.

So now, tonight, I’m heading to hers.

It’s Thursday evening. Practice just ended. I’m showered, bag slung over my shoulder, hair still wet because I couldn’t be bothered. I texted her five minutes ago.

You home?
Can I come by?
No agenda. Just want to see you.

I don’t even need a yes.

I’ll be there in ten.

Ruby

I didn’t even hear my phone buzz.
Didn’t check it.
I was too buried in homework, three tabs open, highlighters everywhere, some chaotic corner of my brain trying to argue about Rousseau and the social contract while the rest of me was quietly giving up.

And then—

He knocks once and lets himself in.

James.

He’s here.

I blink up at him like I’m dreaming for a second. Like he’s stepped out of a memory and into my room—sweats, t-shirt, hair still wet from training, bag dropped in the hallway, a slight flush still in his face. Post-practice wiped. But smiling.

And I didn’t even check my phone.

“I didn’t see your text,” I say as I close my laptop, already halfway off my chair.

He shrugs. “Didn’t need one.”

And he’s right.

I cross the room and he’s already sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning back on his hands, long legs stretched out, like he belongs here. And maybe—he does. Maybe I’m finally letting that feel real.

I crawl onto the bed and into his space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Into his warmth. Into his scent—clean and faint shampoo and something so him I can’t describe it without sounding hopelessly gone for him. Which I am.

He opens one arm for me, and I go.

No questions.

Just his chest, steady under my cheek. Just his arms curling around me, heavy and warm and safe. Just us, folded into a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel heavy.

“I missed you,” I mumble, not moving.

“Yeah?” he says, soft and a little hoarse. “I missed you too.”

And for a moment, that’s enough.

Just breathing.

Just being.

James

This is my normal now.
And I can’t lie—it still stuns me sometimes.

I show up after training, half-wiped and starving, thinking maybe she’ll be too tired or too buried in coursework—and she looks up from her desk like I’m the best part of her day. Like she forgot she was exhausted the moment she saw me.

And maybe that’s ridiculous. Maybe that shouldn’t undo me like it does.
But it does.

Ruby Bell, hair in a messy bun, sleeves pushed up, all legs in those goddamn leggings—who lights up when I walk into her room and then curls herself against me like we’ve done this forever.

“Stay for dinner?” she says, soft against my neck after she kisses me hello. “Mum made pasta. She’ll be glad you’re here.”

Like I do this all the time.
Like I belong.
Like I’m hers.

And then she nuzzles into the crook of my neck, warm breath on my skin, arms wrapped around my middle like I might disappear if she let go.

“It’s been too many days since I had time with you,” she says, so innocently it hurts.

Because—fuck. She says it like it’s sweet. Like it’s a line from a daydream. Like it isn’t the most dangerous thing she could say while pressed against me in a long-sleeved top with no bra and nothing between us but those goddamn leggings and my self-control.

And look. I’m not being a touch-starved pervert. I’m not.

I’m sitting here, behaving, heart racing, arms wrapped around her, nodding like this is fine.

Because it is fine.

This—her—us.
This is my normal now.

And I’ve never wanted anything more.

Ruby

My mum is on a personal mission to fatten James up.
She made garlic bread and that one baked pasta she only ever does when she likes someone.
And when James asked if he could help with anything, she just waved him off and said, “You could help by coming over more often. After practice. Or for homework. Maybe you could drive Ruby a few afternoons? Then she wouldn’t have to wait for that awful late bus, and you could study here. Together.”

Honestly. Quite the meddler, my mum.

But I love her for it.
Because what she’s really saying is—you belong here now.
That she sees him. Wants to fold him into something normal and warm. Wants to offer what he didn’t have.

Food is a love language in this house.
So I tell him that when we go upstairs. That if she offers seconds, he’d better take them. That if she asks if he wants to bring leftovers home, he absolutely does.

James smiles, sits on my bed again like he’s meant to be there. “I could use a little of that,” he says.

And it’s not cheeky. Not flirty.
Just honest. A little quiet. Like something else is behind it.

I sit next to him, our shoulders barely touching.
He looks down at his hands.

“My parents were never ones for Sunday feasts and boardgames,” he says. “And I’m glad I’ve been free of interactions with my father, honestly. It’s been… good. But it still feels weird. Not having a family anymore. Not in that way.”

And god—what do you say to that?
How do you respond when someone tells you that the shape of their home disappeared with their mother? That their father is still there but isn’t, not in any of the ways that matter?

You don’t.
You just sit there. Stay close.

And maybe that’s the point.
That he said it. That he let me see it.

And that I stayed.

James

I’ve never said that out loud before.
Not like this. Not in a way that made it sound real.

And now it does.
Real, and raw, and a little pathetic, maybe. Like I’m begging for pity.

I hate that.
I hate the thought that she might look at me and feel sorry.

But Ruby doesn’t say anything hollow.
No “I’m sorry” or “You still have people who love you.”
Just this quiet—presence.
Her fingers find mine, and she slips her hand into my palm and gives the smallest tug.

I follow her lead.

We lie down—clumsy, a little awkward with all these school papers in the way. I move one of her books with my elbow, and she shifts sideways, until somehow I end up with my head on her chest, my arm loosely around her waist.

Her heart is beating under my cheek.
And her hand comes up, soft and steady, resting at the back of my neck. Her thumb strokes once. Then again.

And I exhale.
Long and slow.

It’s a strange and beautiful thing.
That I can just be here. Like this.

Not Beaufort. Not sharp-tongued or charming. Not cracking jokes to deflect or posturing like I’ve got it all figured out.

Just James.
A little sad tonight.

Not the kind of grief that comes crashing in like a storm. Just that steady undercurrent—quiet, persistent. The kind that pulls at you until you’re tired by the end of the day, without quite knowing why.

But now I’m here.
And she’s holding me.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m about to be pulled under.

Ruby

He’s quiet now.
Breathing slower.

I can feel it—how his body shifts ever so slightly against mine, heavier where his head rests on my chest. That little exhale, like something let go inside him.

And I move my hand. Just a bit.
Fingers sliding up into his hair, slow and gentle, and then—

Oh.
Yeah. That did something.

He sinks further into me, like I’m not just holding him but anchoring him.
I don’t say anything.
Wouldn’t dare ruin it.

So I just keep going.
Little circles at the base of his skull. A bit more pressure, gentle but sure.

He melts.

Like—actually melts.
His whole frame relaxing, breath deeper now, one arm curling tighter around me. The way he trusts me with this moment—this softness—it’s so tender it makes something ache behind my ribs.

And for the first time, I think—maybe he shouldn’t have to leave every night.

Not always.
Not go back to that enormous, echoing house alone.

Not tonight, obviously. School night. But maybe…
Maybe soon. Maybe I could ask.

Just, sometimes, could he stay?
Sleep here. Let this—whatever this is between us—feel like a place he can return to. Not just when the day’s too heavy, but when it’s light, too.

My fingers keep moving through his hair, and he hums—so quietly I almost miss it.

Yeah.
I’ll ask.

James

I know I shouldn’t.
Shouldn’t lean into this quite so much. Shouldn’t be so needy.

But I am tonight.

Being back—back at school, back in the rhythm of it all—it’s not bad. Not like last term. But it’s still…
A lot.
Draining in a way I can’t always explain.

Some days are better.
Others—well. The grief cycle has a sense of humor. Just when you think you’ve leveled out, it says, “Surprise! Another round. Let’s go.”
And you’re back in the spin, trying to find your footing again.

So when Ruby nudges me a little, palm warm against my chest, guiding me to lie flat on my back, I let her. No questions. No resistance.

Her voice is soft.
“Close your eyes.”
She shifts beside me, the mattress dipping as she moves. I keep my eyes shut, because that’s what she asked. And because part of me is afraid that if I look at her now, I’ll fall apart.

Then I feel it—
Both of her hands.

One on my cheek.
The other on my jaw.
Soft, sweeping strokes.

She touches me like I’m something fragile, like I won’t break under her hands—but I matter. Every movement says I see you. I’m here.
And then she’s in my hair, fingertips working gently over my scalp, behind my ears, down the back of my neck—fuck.

It’s heaven.
It really is.

The kind of touch no one’s ever offered me before.
No demand in it. No expectation.
Just care.
Just her.

I feel my chest go tight with it, but not in a bad way. Not like panic.
More like something warm expanding behind my ribs, pressing against all the places that still hurt, just to say—it’s okay.
I can breathe here.

I don’t say a word.
I don’t need to.
She already knows.

Ember

Okay, listen. I wasn’t going to spy.
I just… happened to walk past Ruby’s door. And it was super quiet in there. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like teen drama levels of significant silence quiet.
So obviously I had to check. For safety reasons. Obviously.

I crouch down, peer through the keyhole like a total cliché.

Boring.
He’s just lying there. Flat on his back. T-shirt slightly rumpled, hair all mussed in a just got petted like a golden retriever kind of way.
Ruby’s sitting next to him, cross-legged, gently massaging his face like he’s some ancient prince recovering from heartbreak in a fairytale.

The only piece of clothing that’s not where it should be? His socks.
Which is… not that scandalous.
Honestly, it looks like a spa day.

And, okay. He is gorgeous. I’ll give him that. Sharp jaw, lashes for days, the whole tortured-poet thing going on.
But my sister?
Is doing nothing with that gorgeousness.

I lean in a little more—
And yelp when a hand closes around the back of my hoodie and pulls me firmly back from the keyhole.

“Mum!”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives me the look. The I’ve-seen-everything-you’ll-ever-try kind of look.

“You will never, ever spy on your sister and James again. Do you understand me?”

I squirm. “But they’re not even doing anything!”

“That’s not the point, Ember.”
Her voice is low. Kind. But final.
“What they do or don’t do… is theirs. Private. Not yours to watch. Okay?”

I nod, slightly sheepish.
“Okay.”

But seriously.
They didn’t do anything.
Nothing juicy.
Just feelings and forehead strokes and sighs.

Ugh.
So much sighing.

James

There’s a thump outside the door. A muffled yelp.
And then—
“Mum!”

Ruby stills.
I don’t.
Because I’m already completely still.

Her eyes meet mine, wide for half a second—
And then she grins.

God, that grin. Mischief. Amusement. Slight mortification.
I grin back, because—yeah.
This is hilarious.

We don’t say a word.
Just listen to the comedy unfolding in the hallway. Ember, caught mid-spy mission, getting the full mum-mode talkdown.
Something about privacy. Something about never again.
Ruby buries her face in my shoulder, trying not to laugh. Her body shaking just a little from holding it in.

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her closer. She goes willingly, warm and light and lovely, shifting to lie fully on top of me now, her cheek pressed to mine.

And I kiss her.
Soft. Slow. Smiling into it.

Then I whisper, lips brushing her ear,
“Ember’s right, you know…”
My fingers skim the small of her back.
“Time to stop with that whole ‘not doing anything’.”

She giggles against my mouth.
And God, that feels good too.

Ruby

Lying on top of him like this—just leggings and a long sleeve on me, soft sweats and a t-shirt on him—I can feel.

Not just the kiss. Not just his lips moving with mine.
But him.
How he’s feeling into it.

The way it shifts, slowly, like the tide.
From soft and smiling to something deeper.
Lips parting.
A flicker of tongue.
His hand tightening just slightly on my waist.

And then his thumb grazes beneath my shirt. Just a sliver of skin, right at my side. Barely anything. But everything.

I press a little closer, not even thinking about it. Just moving toward him because I want to.
And that’s when I feel it.

The change.
The way he’s getting hard beneath me.
The slow build of it. The pressure, warm and growing.

I’ve never felt that process so closely before. So unmistakably.
It’s not sudden or crude—it’s just happening. Between us.
Because of us.
Because of this.

And it feels…
Nice.

Nice in a way that makes something low in my belly ache sweetly.
That makes me want to press down just a little more.
Because the pressure between us—where I’m aching too—is really, really good.

So I stay.
Still kissing him.
Feeling him.
Letting this moment be ours.

James

God.

I can feel her.
All of her.

The way she’s shifting just slightly, pressing closer.
Not urgently. Not even deliberately, maybe.
Just—seeking.
A better angle, a sweeter moment.

And yeah, I’m already hard. How could I not be?
She’s lying on top of me, kissing me like that. Moving against me like this.
It’s… a lot. In the best way.

And I know—we’re not doing anything more tonight. Not here. Not with Ember doing keyhole surveillance and her mum clearly two seconds away from installing motion detectors outside the door.

We haven’t even talked yet about what we’re comfortable with in this house.
With her parents downstairs.
Her sister lurking.
This space that isn’t mine.

So—no. Nothing more.

But this?
This still feels really good.

The way she’s breathing. The way her fingers curl a little into my t-shirt.
The way she moves her hips, just once, like she’s not even thinking about it—just feeling.

And I can’t help it.

I pull back just enough to breathe against her mouth, my voice quiet.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper.

Her lashes flutter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back, cupping the back of her neck. “If you want—would you maybe stay with me this weekend?”

Her eyes search mine.

“My room’s quieter,” I say softly. “No Ember.”

She laughs—quiet and warm. Her smile tucked right against my cheek.

“I’d like that,” she whispers.

God, so would I.

Chapter Text

Ruby

Friday is a shitty day.
Full stop.

Which is ironic, because it starts beautifully.

James is waiting for me at the bus stop.
No one else ever takes the bus. It’s just me, and it’s always just him waiting.

He looks stupidly good for 7:18 a.m.
Clean-shaven. Crisp uniform. That coat. That scarf. That smile.
He smells like cedar and expensive soap and just—James.

I’m carrying a small overnight bag today. He takes it without asking, puts it in the boot of his car when we reach the parking lot. Lin’s already there, chatting to Alistair. But before we get there—just us, in the forest path—we pause.

This is our ritual. Five minutes of quiet.
Sometimes we kiss.
Nothing heated. Just once or twice.
He always says it’s for “getting up early” or “making it through the day.”

This morning, it’s both.
His hands are cold. His mouth is warm.
He kisses me like it matters. Like it always matters.

And I love that.
I love this.

Friday is our only day without shared classes, but we still have lunch together.
The group, now. His friends, my friends. Lin. Cyril. Alistair. Lydia joins too, today.
And it’s fun.

He leaves for Lacrosse practice after.
Jogging backward out of the courtyard like an idiot, grinning at me.
“Don’t forget to wait for me,” he calls.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
Lin’s going to get the keys for the committee room.
I start walking that way. Slowly.

And that’s when it happens.

Elaine.
Of course it’s Elaine.

She’s with two of her friends. Maybe three. I don’t care to count.
They’re laughing. Louder than necessary.
I hear my name even before they say it.

“…I just think class still matters,” one of them says. “Like, you’d never date below, right?”
“Not unless he’s really good at… you know…” Giggles.
“Honestly,” Elaine says, “it’s just sad to watch. It’s not going to last. It never does.”

And then Lucinda chimes in, voice all sugar and venom.

“Ruby. What’s your take on dating far above your class?”
She tilts her head, mock-sincere.
“What do you even do to keep him entertained? Bake cookies? Read him bedtime stories? Or do you have other—talents?”
A pause. A laugh.
“How long until he dumps you again? Third time’s the charm, isn’t it?”

I stop walking.
Heart pounding.

Because the thing is—I knew this would happen.
I knew.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

I look at her. At all of them.
Perfectly groomed, smug, gleeful.

I want to say something clever.
Cutting. Calm. Devastating.
But all I manage is stillness.

Because what if—
What if some of what they’re saying is true?

What if I’m just the scholarship girl in leggings and sneakers?
What if I’m… temporary?

I swallow.
And then Lin’s voice is there—bright and cutting as a blade, behind me.

“You’re seriously out here measuring girls by their class like it’s 1887?”
She loops her arm through mine and keeps walking.
“I’d worry about your own entertainment value, Lucinda. Your boyfriend literally fell asleep at the winter gala.”

And just like that—
I breathe again.

But Friday is still a shitty day.

James

Lin texted me.

Thank fuck she did.

Otherwise I’d have no idea why my entire body is pulsing with this low, slow anxiety the moment I spot Ruby in the parking lot.

She’s standing by my car.
Alone.
Shoulders drawn up like she’s cold. But I know it’s not the weather.

It’s them.
Elaine. Lucinda. That entire vicious little pack.

I don’t even know exactly what they said. Lin didn’t give me quotes, just context.
But honestly, do I need quotes? I know the tone. I know the type.
I grew up with it.

And right now?
Right now I’d love nothing more than to take a Lacrosse stick to Elaine fucking Ellington’s perfect ponytail.
(Not helpful. Not smart. Not legal. But—God, it’s tempting.)

Instead, I take a breath.
And walk to her.

She looks up when she hears me.
Offers a small smile.
But she’s still curled into herself a little, like she’s bracing for something.

I don’t say anything.
Not yet.
I just open my arms.

She hesitates for half a second—and then steps into them.

And I wrap myself around her.
Not tight. Just… steady. Warm.
Safe.

“I know we said no PDA at school,” I murmur, nose brushing the top of her head.
“But technically, we’re not on school grounds anymore.”
I feel her exhale.
“And school’s out. So this totally doesn’t count.”

Another breath from her—longer this time.
A bit deeper.

“Was thinking,” I say, keeping my voice casual, “we could pick up Thai on the way. And then decide if we want to swing by Cyril’s later or just… stay in.”

She nods.
Still tucked into me.

“I don’t mind either way,” I add. “Just figured we could do something that doesn’t involve Lucinda and company’s opinions about socioeconomic compatibility.”

That earns a tiny laugh against my chest.
And I’ll take it.

I press a kiss to her temple.
Not for show. Not for anyone else.

Just because I can.
Because she’s mine.
And because they don’t get to touch what’s ours.

Ruby

He doesn’t ask right away.
Just holds me, lets me settle.

And then, softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head.
“No. Not really.”

It’s not that I’m hiding anything.
I just… don’t know what there is to say.

“It is what it is.”
That’s all I manage.
All I can manage.

He pulls back slightly so he can see my face.
His expression is calm, but his jaw is tight.
I know that look. It’s the James Beaufort version of barely restrained fury.

“Do you want me to do something?” he asks.

I shrug.
“What could be done?”
My voice is quiet. Not bitter. Just… tired.
“They’ll always look down on me. People like that—Elaine, Lucinda—they were raised to believe some of us don’t belong. That doesn’t change just because you’re… with me.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment.
And I can tell he hates that.
That he can’t fix it.

“I can’t change how they were raised,” he says eventually, voice low, “but I can make it damn clear that I won’t accept that kind of gossip. Not about you.”
A beat.
“I can speak to them.”

I look at him.
Really look.
He means it. He would.

But I shake my head.
“I don’t want this to become a drama.”

He studies me for a second longer, then nods slowly.
“All right,” he says.
“But what I can do,” he adds, fingers sliding gently down my arm, “is make it impossible for anyone to pretend they don’t know where I stand.”

I tilt my head.

“Just… quiet actions,” he says. “Being seen with you. In school. Outside of school. Not in some grand, showy way. Just—normal. Constant. Undeniable.”

And the way he says it—undeniable—
God.

It’s not about proving anything.
It’s about making it clear that no whisper, no rumor, no snide remark could ever touch what we have.

I nod.
Lean in.
Press my forehead lightly against his.

“Okay,” I whisper.
And he squeezes my hand, like a promise.

James

Alistair would be proud of me.
Honestly.

Because I didn’t let my temper get the better of me.
Didn’t go full Beaufort.
Didn’t storm across the school grounds and throw Elaine’s Prada bag into the nearest hedge.

I asked.
In spoken words.

What Ruby needs.

Because I think what she doesn’t need is another round of me saying I’m sorry I let it get to this.
She knows that.
I know that.
There’s no version of this where I can undo the damage.

But what I can do—
is be there.

Not just standing for her, like I’m some shining knight with a sword and a superiority complex.
But standing with her.

I’d take it on, all of it, if she’d let me.
That’s not the question.
But this—
this is better.
Quieter. More lasting.

So: Thai.
At home.
She’ll steal the spring rolls. I’ll let her.

Then she can choose.
Whether she wants to go to Cyril’s thing later or stay in.
I won’t push.
It’s not about being seen tonight. It’s about us.

Tomorrow, I’ve got practice in the morning.
She can do whatever she wants—sleep in, go to Pemwick, read in my bed, rearrange my bookshelves alphabetically again just to torment me.

Afterwards, it’s just us.
The whole evening.
All the way until Sunday at noon.

Lunch at the Bell’s.
Then her afternoon shift.

A full weekend.
Planned together.

Like a real—
well.
Couple.

Yeah.
I like the sound of that.

——-

It’s a glimpse.

Not planned. Not suggestive. Just—real.

I’m halfway through the doorway, carrying two plates, when I see her.
Bare back. Slender, smooth. Her bra already clasped.
She’s pulling a sweatshirt over her head—mine, I think, not sure if that makes it better or worse.

She turns when she hears me—
Grinning. Zero panic. No scrambling for cover. No fake shock.

Just a quiet sort of ease, like she knows I’d never look at her wrong.
Like this—her half-dressed in my room, my sweater falling over her hips, her uniform draped over my chair—is exactly what it’s meant to be.

And maybe it is.

Because God, I love this.

Not just the back. Not just the grin.
But her toothbrush in my bathroom, her books on my desk.
The way her school blazer still smells faintly like her shampoo.
The small overnight bag she tucked under the window bench, like she belongs here. Like she’s staying.

“You like Colbert?” I ask, walking in, managing not to trip over my own feet or dignity.

“Love him,” she says, pulling her hair out of the sweatshirt collar. “He’s my hero. Sharp, funny, pro-books, anti-fascist.”

“So…basically me.”

“Minus the bedtime glasses and satirical news empire.”

I set the plates down. She folds her legs beneath her on the bed.
I hand her the chopsticks she likes—she’s weirdly good at them—and press play on last night’s segment.

And that’s it.

It’s not dramatic. Not intense.
It’s warm, quiet, familiar.

Thai food. Laughter.
Colbert’s monologue in the background.
Ruby next to me in my sweatshirt, hair still slightly static from pulling it on, fingers picking spring rolls from my plate when she thinks I’m not noticing.

She’s here.

She’s not shy.
And I’m not stupid.

This is what home feels like.

Ruby

He says it sometime between the second and third Colbert episode. Right after a bit about a senator with the IQ of a shoehorn, when I’m still laughing and stealing a piece of tofu from his plate.

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” he says, casual. Soft.
“Just if you insist.”

I raise an eyebrow, stretch my legs out in front of me—my toes are cold, but I don’t mind—and tug the hem of his hoodie over my thighs.

“Do I look like I insist?”
I gesture at myself.
No socks. His old Lacrosse hoodie. Hair in a lazy knot.

He smiles.

“It’s a look.”
Then adds, teasingly,
“But no—you’re probably not planning to grace Cyril’s thing with your presence, are you?”

“Nope.”

“No?”
He turns fully toward me now, giving me one of those looks. Half-curious, half already smiling.
“Got something better planned, Bell?”

I nod, playing along, pretending to give it actual thought.
Then I stretch a little closer, let my shoulder lean into his, tilt my face up so we’re barely inches apart.

“Yeah. I have this very handsome boyfriend,” I murmur,
“who I like a lot. And barely got to be alone with this week. So I thought maybe…”
I let the sentence dangle.

He’s watching me now. Really watching. Like he already knows where this is going but wants me to say it anyway.

So I do.

“Maybe it’s just time for him to kiss me?”

And the tilt of my head—soft, sweet, a little daring—
It earns me a sound from him that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.

His hand finds my cheek.

And then he kisses me.

James

Kissing. Yes.

God, I’m so gone for her.

One second she’s tilting her head in that way that short-circuits my entire system—like she knows exactly what she’s doing—and the next, my hand is on her cheek and her mouth is on mine.

And then—

We’re kissing.

Slow, at first. Just her lips, soft and sure. Just my hand in her hair, thumb brushing her jaw. Just the quiet, comfortable couch and her in my hoodie and the scent of Thai food still lingering in the air like none of that matters.

Because it doesn’t.

Not when she leans in closer.

Not when I sink further into the cushions and she follows, legs tangling with mine until she’s sitting in my lap, just—there, with me, on me. Her knees on either side of my thighs, her hands braced lightly on my shoulders, and her mouth—God, her mouth—finding mine again with a little more heat this time.

She kisses me like she means it.

Like this is her plan for the night.

And I’m not even trying to be cool about it. I don’t care. I’ve got a girl in my lap, the girl, and she’s kissing me like she wants me, like she likes me, like this whole stupid week where we barely had time to breathe is forgiven with the press of her lips and the way she exhales softly into the kiss when my hand slips under the hem of her hoodie to rest against the small of her back.

Warm skin. Warm breath. Her.

She shifts a little, and I groan quietly against her mouth because yeah—this is good. It’s so good. Like I could stay like this forever.

Her fingers twist into the hair at the back of my neck, and I swear the whole world narrows to her weight, her hands, her mouth.

Who was Cyril again?

No idea.

Don’t care.

I’ve got Ruby Bell in my lap, kissing me like I’m her favorite book she never wants to finish.

So yeah.

This?

This is everything.

Ruby

He’s kissing me like I wanted to be kissed all week.

Like it’s easy.

Like he’s sure.

And good God, he is. So good.

There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing greedy. Just him. His mouth on mine, his hand warm against the small of my back, under the hem of the hoodie I borrowed and am never giving back now. His other hand rests on my thigh, steady. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just there. Like he’s not trying to get anywhere else—just stay right here.

This kiss, and the next.

And another one.

Like each one matters.

And I’m sitting in his lap, and we’re tangled together like we’ve done this a hundred times, like this is just ours. My knees press gently against his sides, his chest rising under mine, his breath soft when we finally pause for air.

He looks up at me—flushed and grinning like the world’s best-kept secret just landed in his arms—and says, “Hey you.”

And then, like it’s the most important thing in the world:
“Who’s that Cyril-guy again? Never heard of him.”

It’s so stupid.

And so perfect.

I laugh—quiet and breathless—and lean in to kiss him again.
Because how could I not?

He’s ridiculous.

He’s wonderful.

He’s mine.

James

She’s still in my lap, and it’s ridiculous how right this feels. Like we were always meant to fit like this. Her legs curled over mine, her hand at the back of my neck, thumb stroking lightly. And her mouth—

God, her mouth.

She kisses me like she’s got all the time in the world. Like she’s not going anywhere. Like we’ve got forever, and she’s in no rush. And maybe that’s what makes it so good. So easy.

We pause, breathe. Her forehead rests against mine, and I could stay like this for hours.

But then I lean in again. Another kiss. And another. And her fingers slide into my hair like she knows exactly what that does to me, and I groan, soft and low. Not from need—though it’s there, always there—but from how good it feels to just… be here. With her.

“I want you closer,” I whisper, and she doesn’t even answer, just kisses me again like that is her answer.

So I shift. Stand.

My hands slip under her thighs, lifting her easily. She gasps a little against my neck and laughs, then tightens her arms around my shoulders. Her legs come around my waist. It’s nothing heavy or rushed—it’s just us, warm and wrapped together, and I carry her the five steps across the room to my bed like it’s nothing.

Because it is nothing.

Because it’s her.

I kneel onto the mattress, laying her down slowly, following her, settling next to her, above her. We’re still dressed—she’s in that soft long-sleeve shirt I love and leggings, and I’m in just sweats and a tee—but somehow there’s more skin now. More of her to touch. Her shirt rides up a little when I shift, and my hand finds the small of her back again. Bare skin. Warm. Silky.

She shivers a little, but not from cold. And when I pull back to look at her, she smiles. Soft. A little dazed. Beautiful.

So I kiss her again.

And this time, it deepens slowly. Like the tide. Her mouth opens under mine. Her tongue meets mine. It’s all slow, exploratory. Careful, and not. One of her hands fumbles under my shirt, fingers brushing my stomach—and I feel it everywhere.

My palm finds her hip. Then her waist. Then her ribs. I’m careful, always careful, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. So I let my hand drift a little higher. Over the fabric of her bra.

She breathes in, sharp and quick—but she doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t hesitate. So I cup her gently. Just that.

No pressure.

Just presence.

And when her eyes flutter shut and she arches into me a little—just the smallest motion, the smallest sound—it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.

We stay like that.

Kissing. Breathing. Learning each other with every slow touch, every soft sigh.

There’s no rush.

There’s just us.

Ruby

His mouth is on mine, slow and steady, and I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, right where I’ve got my hand resting. We’ve been kissing for—I don’t even know how long anymore. Time got lost somewhere between the couch and his bed, between me in his lap and me now beneath him, soft sheets and steady hands and this warmth that keeps blooming between us.

But.

I’ve had enough of this sweater.

It’s soft, sure. I like how it smells like him. But right now? I want it gone. I want him.

“Shirt off, okay?” I whisper, my voice a little hoarse from all the kissing. “I want it gone.”

He pauses, blinking down at me, and I swear I see his heart stutter behind his ribs. But I keep going—because not talking never did either of us any good, and I’ve decided we don’t do that anymore. No second-guessing. No guessing at all.

“I want skin,” I say, a little softer now. “Not—more, necessarily. Just… that. You. Closer.”

He’s already tugging it off before I finish the sentence. And oh—God. Yeah. That’s better.

And I rest my hands against his warm, bare sides, feel the way his breath trembles just a little at my touch.

But I want more than his skin tonight.

I want his mind, too.

“James?” I murmur, not pulling away. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, hand still at my hip, grounding me. “Anything.”

I draw in a breath. Steady myself.

“What do you want?” I ask, searching his face. “Right now. Tonight. If you could ask for anything—what would you ask for?”

Because we never got to talk about this properly. What we’re doing. Where the lines are. What’s next. And I want to know. I want to give him the space to want things. Not just go with what I’m comfortable with. I want this to be both of us.

All of us.

James

That’s a loaded question.

Because—what do I want?

It’d be easy to say you. All the way. Just like that. And yeah, it would sound cool and confident and maybe a little bit sexy, and it wouldn’t even be a lie. Because of course I want her. I want her in every way a person can want another. Want her skin, her mouth, her sounds, the way she tilts her head when she’s teasing, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.

But it’d also be easy to say whatever you want. And that’s not a lie either. Because I’d wait. A month. A year. Doesn’t matter. If it’s her, I’d wait.

But neither of those answers are the truth. Not really.

So I look at her. Her hand still at my ribs, warm and steady, her legs tangled with mine. Her eyes locked on mine, waiting—not scared, not nervous, just curious. Like she really wants to know. Like what I want matters.

And I say—

“I want skin,” I begin quietly. “Yours. I want you warm and close, and I want those little sounds you make when it’s really good, and I want you looking at me like that, like I’m… like I’m allowed to have this.”

She doesn’t look away.

“I want something that’s just ours,” I go on. “Doesn’t matter what, exactly. Just something we do that’s ours. Something that feels good and soft and right, so we fall asleep wrapped up in it, and wake up still wanting more. I want…”

I pause. Then smile, because it’s suddenly so clear.

“I want to kiss you next Wednesday and have you smile like a dreamer and say, ‘Do you remember last weekend?’ And I’ll say, ‘Yeah. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.’”

Her smile starts as a twitch. Then it grows.

And that’s it.

That’s exactly what I want.

Ruby

That answer was a twelve out of ten. I tell him that, and he grins like he knows it. Which he does. Sweet-talker. Charming. Dangerous.

“You’ve got a talent,” I murmur, teasing as I push at the hem of the hoodie he gave me earlier.

He helps me pull it over my head. Underneath, I’m just in my bra. Just a normal cotton one, nothing fancy. Nothing I bought to impress anyone. But he looks at me like it’s something else entirely. Like I’m something else.

His gaze doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pretend not to look, and he doesn’t gawk either. He just sees me. Fully and calmly and with something in his eyes that makes my breath hitch.

So I ask, quietly, “Do you want to take it off?”

The question hangs in the air for a second—soft and bold, like all the best things between us.

He nods, shifts a little closer. I stay sitting, legs folded under me, heart steady but loud. His hands are warm and slow as they reach around me, fingers fumbling for just a second before he unclasps the back. The straps slide down my arms as he draws the fabric away, careful, like it’s something delicate. Like I am.

There’s a pause when the bra’s gone, and I could cover myself—but I don’t. Because his eyes don’t make me want to. They make me feel… beautiful. That’s not a word I use easily. Not for myself. But it settles between us, unspoken but real.

He looks, really looks. Like he wants to remember this forever. And something shifts in the way I breathe. In the way his hand rises, slow and reverent, cupping me gently like he’s not sure if I’ll let him. I do.

He leans forward, kisses me softly—first my mouth, then lower, a whisper of warmth that makes everything hum.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice low and almost hoarse. “This—this will be the moment I won’t stop thinking about.”

And I believe him.

Because I won’t stop thinking about it either.

James

We don’t rush.

It’s quiet, this unfolding. Soft. Certain. Like we both decided without saying anything that tonight would be just ours. That nothing and no one gets to interrupt.

Sweats and leggings are somewhere on the floor now, forgotten. Her body warm against mine, only the thinnest layers between us. My hand on her waist. Her leg tucked between mine. Kisses that slow and deepen and slow again. Like we’re breathing through each other.

I feel her—her weight, her heat, the subtle shifting of her hips. The dampness where she presses against me. And God, I want her. Not in the frantic way I used to want things. This isn’t frantic. It’s full. It’s this quiet ache that feels like reverence.

I don’t ask for permission when I slip my hand beneath her underwear.

I don’t need to.

Because she’s already curling into me, and whispering, “Yes… there. Just like that.”

And I swear I could die here.

Her breath hitches. Her lips part. One of her hands fists in the blanket, the other in my hair. I keep going, slow, steady, as she presses into my hand—following the rhythm we find together. Her body, so responsive. So beautiful. Her skin flushed, her mouth open. Until her whole body goes still.

Silent.

Except for the softest whimper as it breaks over her, through her.

And I can’t help it.

“I love you,” I whisper. Right into the curve of her neck. “God, Ruby. I love you.”

She doesn’t speak.

Just holds me tighter.

And maybe that’s the answer I needed.

Maybe tonight, this—her letting me in like this—is all the answer in the world.

Ruby

I lose track of time.

We kiss until I can’t remember what we started with. Until my mouth feels swollen in the best way, and he tastes like something I want to carry with me into next week, and the week after that.

He’s still holding me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. And I don’t think he knows what it does to me—how undone I feel by how careful he is. By how much of himself he’s given me tonight. Quietly, completely.

I want to give something back.

Not because I have to. Not because there’s a balance sheet.

Because I want to.

Because I want this to be what he remembers midweek too. I want him to think about how it felt to let go with me. To stop keeping it together. To just be—with me. For me.

I kiss him again, slower now. My hand slipping under the waistband of his briefs, fingers brushing lower.

He tenses for a moment, almost like he wants to stop me. Like he’s not sure.

I pull back just enough to look at him. And I say it softly.

“I want this. I want you. Let me, okay?”

His throat bobs as he nods.

“Take these off,” I whisper, tugging a little at the waistband. “Please.”

He obeys.

And I feel him—really feel him now—and curl my fingers around him.

He exhales like the air’s been punched out of him. His eyes flutter shut.

“Hold still,” I tell him, with a smile he can probably hear in my voice. “This will be slow, okay?”

He nods again. Barely breathing.

And I begin.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… giving. Just being here with him, for him, watching him fall apart a little. Watching his face soften and shift and grow quiet under the weight of it all.

And the only thing I can think—over and over—is how much I love him like this.

Open. Vulnerable.

Mine.

James

It’s never been this slow.

Not ever.

It’s like she read my whole soul and decided—this is what he needs. Not frenzy. Not fire. Just this.

Something steady. Warm. Deep. Something like surrender.

Her hand barely moves. Just enough.

And I don’t even know how she does it. Just that I never want her to stop.

It’s unbearable in the most bearable way—this endless, quiet pleasure, like being held beneath warm water, gently turned over and over in a current I don’t want to fight.

I’m breathing through my mouth, eyes closed, trying to keep myself grounded. Trying to keep the feeling from cresting too fast.

But it builds anyway. Slowly. Steadily. Like a tide pulling me under. And when it breaks—it’s not violent, not at all.

It’s relief.

It’s ache.

It’s peace.

My whole body stills. Then shudders. My breath catches.

And I fall into her. Her hand. Her arm. Her mouth on my temple.

I don’t even know if I say her name or just think it really loud.

But I feel her. Everywhere. Like she’s imprinted on my skin now. On every part of me.

God, I didn’t know it could be like this.

Didn’t know you could come home in someone’s arms like that.

And when I finally blink up at her—utterly wrung out, dazed, undone—she’s smiling.

Like she knew.

And maybe she did.

Ruby

I didn’t know it could be like this.

I mean—I thought I had some idea. I’d read enough, imagined enough. I thought I understood the theory of intimacy. Of giving. Of being with someone, like this.

But I never knew what it would feel like.

To watch someone unravel in your arms. Slowly. Trustingly.

To feel every breath he takes and know you’re part of it.

To choose this—intentionally, gently—and to see him choose it too. Not pushing. Not pretending. Just here.

He’s so quiet now. Chest rising under my hand. One arm slung around my waist, the other across his eyes. Like he doesn’t even know what just happened to him.

But I do.

I watched it. Felt it. Felt him.

I didn’t know it could feel this big and still be this soft. That closeness didn’t need noise or speed. That it could hum under the skin, build with every look and touch and kiss, until your whole body just—remembers someone.

I didn’t know how beautiful it would be to give something and feel it received like that.

How intimate it is to be quiet together.

To make someone feel good. Not to impress. Not to perform. Just… to be there, fully, and mean it.

And I did mean it.

I still do.

He turns his face into my neck after a while. Murmurs something—maybe my name, maybe just a sound. I stroke his hair.

I didn’t know it could feel like this.

And now I do.

And now I’ll never forget.

James

She’s tucked into my side now, skin warm against mine, her head resting on my chest like it’s always belonged there.

I don’t even remember how we ended up like this. One moment I was floating—barely tethered to earth—and the next she was pulling the covers up over both of us, curling in close like she could shield us from the world.

My arm tightens around her. She fits. She really fits.

She’s quiet.

Not asleep, I know her breathing too well for that. But she’s drifting. Thinking, maybe. That look she gets when something’s still moving around inside her and she hasn’t said it out loud yet.

So I speak first. My voice is hoarse, and I don’t care.

“You know this was good, right?”

Her eyes blink open slowly. I feel the soft flutter of her lashes against my skin as she shifts just enough to look up at me.

“I mean it,” I murmur. “Whatever you’re thinking, you don’t have to. You were perfect. This was…” I trail off, breath catching. “You’re everything, Ruby.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just nestles in closer, her fingertips brushing slow circles across my stomach. Like she’s saying I know without needing the words.

I press a kiss to her forehead. “You never have to try to be something you’re not. Not with me.”

A beat passes. Then she exhales, long and soft.

“I wasn’t thinking I wasn’t enough,” she says quietly. “I just didn’t know it could feel like that.”

“It can,” I whisper. “With the right person.”

She hums. A little smile brushing against my skin. “And you’re sure I didn’t mess anything up?”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You shattered me in the best possible way.”

That earns me the smallest giggle, half-asleep already. I kiss her again. Her temple. Her hair.

We fall into silence.

Not awkward. Not uncertain.

Just warm limbs and soft breath and the slow quiet after something tender and true.

She’s drifting now for real.

And I hold her like a promise.

Chapter Text

Ruby

He gives me the keys like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You sure?” I ask, squinting into the morning sun.

James grins and tosses his duffel bag into the back seat. “You said you wanted to get coffee and go to the library, right? I’ll be done around noon. Just pick me up, or text if you want me to walk down to Pemwick. Easy.”