Chapter Text
Lydia
Wednesday Lunch – My Kitchen
There’s something suspicious about James turning up for lunch with pastries. I mean, yes, he’s usually polite. Yes, he sometimes remembers we both need carbs to survive. But these pastries? From that place in Marylebone that sells smugness with a side of laminated dough?
He’s bracing for something.
And I know what.
I hand him a mug of tea, wait until he’s leaning on the island, trying to act casual. I let him stew a little. Stir the soup just to have something to do with my hands.
“So,” I say. “Are we going to talk about the Ruby-shaped development in your life, or are you hoping I’ll just let it slide while I serve butternut squash and pretend not to notice?”
He groans. “I knew you were going to say something.”
“You brought pastries, James. The only other time you’ve done that was when you knocked out a chandelier at Aunt Margot’s wedding and tried to pre-bribe me not to tell.”
He huffs. “Okay, fine. Yes. We’re together.”
I smile. “Finally.”
He doesn’t argue.
“Honestly,” I go on, ladling soup into bowls, “I thought you already were. Charlotte asked me last week if Ruby’s your girlfriend and I just said yes.”
“Did she?”
“Mmhm. Aidan thinks you’re mated.”
“Oh, God.”
“I told him that’s a lion thing, but yes. You’re mated, apparently.”
He laughs softly, rubbing his good shoulder. “It’s weird. Saying it out loud. Makes it more real.”
“Well, I’m thrilled,” I say, placing the bowl in front of him. “She’s smart, sharp, and somehow likes you despite knowing everything. Plus, the twins adore her.”
“She’s amazing,” he says, almost under his breath.
There’s something soft and awe-struck about it that hits me in the chest.
Then I do what any sister does when faced with her baby brother in a vulnerable, grown-up moment: I ruin it.
“So…” I draw the word out. “What marked the shift from oh, she’s just being a good friend to this? I assume you’ve had sex, right?”
He chokes on the soup so violently I have to thump his back.
“Jesus, Lydia!”
“What? You’ve basically been playing house. Three nights a week, dinner, coffee, probably foot rubs—come on. I figured you’d—”
“We haven’t.”
I blink. “Wait. Seriously?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“…But like, because of the injury or…? I didn’t think it would..well, you know..”
His ears are developing an almost crimson shade of red.
“No. I mean, yes, it’s changed things. But physically I’m fine. It’s not that.”
He pauses. And I feel sorry for poking.
“It’s me.”
I take a seat beside him, tone dropping. “James, talk to me.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve been through so much this year. The pain, the surgery, the rehab. My body’s different. I’m different. And Ruby… she’s seen all of it. She’s seen me at my lowest. And part of me—” he stops, breathes— “part of me is afraid she stayed because I needed her. And now… what if I’m not enough like this?”
Oh, sweetheart.
“You are.”
He looks away.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he mutters. “But Al—he’s great. But he’s also Alistair.”
Which means in James-speak he’s also gay and never defined his masculinity by the way he approached having sex. I love Alistair. And I love my brother. And I get it.
“I’m serious,” I say. “But also—James, I get it. I really do. After I had the twins… I didn’t even want Graham to look at me, let alone touch me. I felt like my body wasn’t mine anymore. It was swollen and wrecked and grieving and bleeding and—” I wave a hand. “It took months before I let him in again. And even then, it wasn’t great. It took time. Real time. And he wasn’t even the one who was there when I gave birth.”
“I was,” James murmurs.
“Yeah. Because I couldn’t stomach him seeing me like that. And I knew you’d be there. Not judging. Just… being you.”
He blinks hard. I can tell he remembers. The fluorescent lights. My hand crushing his. Our mother already gone. Everything raw and broken.
“You gave me space to come back to myself,” I say. “Ruby will too. If you let her.”
He nods, slowly. Still doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“And by the way,” I add, nudging him, “you’re still hot, in case you needed to hear it. Even with the shoulder brace and your sad little heat pack.”
“Lydia.”
“Don’t ‘Lydia’ me. I’m married to a man. I know hot. And you—annoyingly—still qualify.”
He laughs, finally. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best. Admit it.”
“You’re both.”
We eat in silence for a bit, the soup warm and grounding. Then he says, almost too quietly:
“She’s the love of my life.”
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I know.”
And I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in a long time.
——-
Sometimes I forget we’re not kids anymore. That we’re not in that drafty old manor with too many bedrooms and never enough warmth. That James isn’t eighteen and furious at the world, and I’m not eighteen, scared and swollen and hiding everything I possibly could — except from him.
We were always close, the kind of siblings who could finish each other’s sentences or fake matching stomach aches to skip piano lessons. But it changed the year Mum died.
Changed everything.
She went fast, quietly. One minute there. The next… just gone. And I was already pregnant. Eight weeks, maybe nine. Still pretending it was nothing. Still praying it wasn’t real.
Except it was. And Mum would never know. And Dad would absolutely find out. And James — James already knew.
I’ll never forget that night. I was sitting on the floor of the upstairs bathroom, back against the tub, shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. He knocked once and then didn’t wait. Just came in, sat down beside me, and said, “I’ve got you. It’s going to be hell, but I’ve got you.”
And he did.
He held me up when I told our father.
He yelled louder than anyone when the press found out.
He trained like a madman, aced his exams, signed with a pro team — and sat in every single one of my prenatal appointments like it was a tactical briefing.
He was there when I gave birth. Not Graham. Not even my best friend. Just James. Holding my hand through twenty-four hours of labor, whispering the dumbest jokes, brushing my hair back when I vomited on the floor and still calling me brave. I remember thinking, in the middle of some wave of pain so intense I thought I might actually split in two — thank God it’s him. Thank God it’s James.
He never asked me to explain.
Never once made me feel like a burden.
And when the twins came out screaming into a world that already wanted to hate them, he was the one who cried.
Not me.
James.
Ten years.
Ten years, and now I get to watch him fall in love. Real love. The kind that shakes you down to the bone.
And now I get to give something back. I get to be the steady hand this time. The person who sees all of him — the broken, the healing, the scared, the extraordinary — and says you are still good. You are still loved. You are allowed to take your time.
He carried me when I couldn’t stand.
And now?
Now it’s my turn to carry a little of this for him.
Just until he remembers how strong he is.
Because he is.
My brother. My rock. My favourite person on this goddamn planet.
And I will never stop being grateful that we were born just four minutes apart — and that he always acted like it was his job to protect me.
Even when he was the one bleeding.
Ruby — Friday, Week 4, 6:43 p.m.
It’s not just another Friday. It’s a declaration.
Percy doesn’t tell me where we’re going. Again.
Just smiles as he takes my bag and opens the door for me like this is completely ordinary—me being ferried across London in a car I didn’t call, to a destination I don’t know, to meet a man who’s quietly rearranged the furniture of my life with very little warning.
It’s been four weeks of Fridays.
Four weeks of soft invitations, private spaces, slow trust.
But tonight feels different.
I know it the second the car pulls into a gravel driveway lined with bare trees and soft lighting. A tall Georgian house, warm windows glowing in the blue of early evening. Not flashy. Not guarded. But old. Important.
This is a family house.
His family.
When James meets me at the door, his hair’s still damp from the shower. He’s in a navy jumper over a crisp white shirt, collar loose, his sling nowhere in sight. He looks—
He looks good.
Not glossy. Not posed.
Just… real.
And when he takes my hand and says, “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet,” my heart forgets how to beat properly.
She’s in the sitting room.
Ophelia Beaufort, she introduces herself. Of course I know who she is. The painter.
But also his aunt. I never made that connection. Silly me.
Sharp green eyes, warm lipstick, a cashmere shawl thrown over one shoulder like she was born dramatic.
“You must be Ruby,” she says, standing, assessing me in one graceful glance before smiling. “I’d say I’ve heard a lot about you, but James hasn’t returned my calls in four months.”
“Busy healing,” he says, far too quickly.
Ophelia raises a brow. “And yet somehow, looking surprisingly well.” She turns to me. “He asked nicely, so you’re welcome to the conservatory. I assume you’re staying for dinner but don’t want company?”
I glance at James, overwhelmed. He nods. I nod.
“I like her,” Ophelia says at once, as if that settles something. “Tell Percy to come in if he wants tea with me.”
We take the long way—through a hallway lined with paintings, past a grand staircase that’s probably seen a hundred years of whispered conversations, and into the conservatory.
And it’s—God.
It’s all glass and stone and plants clinging to life despite the season. Fairy lights tucked into branches. A space heater humming near the seating area. A small table already set.
There’s wine.
And mezze.
And art.
James lifts the corner of a leather folio on the table and hands it to me.
“I’ve been sketching again,” he says, quiet. “Narvesh said it might help. Coordination, memory. I don’t know. It felt stupid at first. I did this a lot when I was a teenager.”
I open it.
The temple in Chinatown.
The monks.
The curve of saffron robes, frozen in movement.
And then—me.
Not posed.
Not dramatic.
Just a quiet figure in motion, from memory—me in the nightmarket, a paper lantern above, the outline of my braid, the suggestion of a turned head.
I don’t say anything for a long moment.
Because what do you say when someone shows you how they see you?
“They’re beautiful,” I whisper. “You’re—James, you’re really good.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “They’re rough.”
“They’re yours.”
And he just looks at me like I’ve handed him something he didn’t know he needed.
We eat slowly. We talk about the paintings on the walls, about the house, about Ophelia. He tells me stories about summers here, about hide-and-seek and art and arguments.
And when we leave, hours later, Percy waiting quietly at the gate, James thanks his aunt with a soft kiss to her cheek.
She watches me as I pass. “He’s different with you,” she says. Not cold. Not warm. Just… curious.
And I smile, because she’s right.
He is.
And so am I.
James — Friday night, 11:42 am
The night Jasper met Ruby (but really… didn’t).
I hear him before I see him—soft footsteps, a quiet thud of the fridge door, the faint clink of a glass being pulled from the cupboard.
And then—
“Oh,” comes a strangled voice I don’t recognize at first.
I round the corner of the hallway and stop.
Ruby’s standing in the kitchen, reaching for the tap.
And Jasper—Jasper-with-a-hyphen, future-Viscount-something-probably—stands frozen in a robe so silky it’s committing tax fraud just by existing. There’s at least one peacock feather embroidered on the lapel. His hair is pillow-mussed and he’s clutching a half-empty mug like it might protect him.
Ruby glances sideways.
“Oh. Hello.”
Jasper’s eyes go wide.
“You’re—” he starts, but clearly has no idea how to finish the sentence.
“I’m thirsty,” Ruby says, filling her glass. “You must be Jasper.”
He gapes.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying very hard not to laugh.
“I—uh—yes.” He shifts his mug to his other hand. “I didn’t know—there would be—guests.”
“She’s not a guest,” I say dryly.
Jasper jumps. He clearly hadn’t noticed me.
Ruby just takes a sip of her water, utterly unfazed.
“I’m James’s girlfriend, Ruby,” she tells him matter-of-factly, as if that clears up anything. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting water. No judgment for the robe. It’s… spirited.”
Jasper makes a noise that might be “thank you” or might be a plea for divine intervention.
Ruby leaves it at that, turns and pads back toward me with the glass in hand. I reach for her waist as she passes, press a kiss to her temple.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I murmur, too quietly for Jasper to hear. “He looks like he’s buffering.”
“I noticed.”
“You okay skipping the awkward bit for now?”
She nods. “I’d rather be horizontal anyway.”
Bless her.
We vanish down the hallway before Jasper can recover enough to start small talk.
And for the record?
Not that Ruby needs explaining.
She handled it herself—dry as sandpaper, sharper than a scalpel.
God help the aristocracy.
Poor Jasper-with-a-hyphen nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw her in the kitchen.
She handled it herself, like always.
But it made me think—again—how badly I want her here. Full-time. Toothbrush next to mine. Her mess in the corner of my room. Her name on the parcel shelf.
Not yet, though.
This isn’t about that.
It’s just us, again.
In my room. On the bed.
Alistair’s playing host. I’m playing lucky bastard.
Ruby had said “You must be Jasper” like she was announcing a storm system, then walked off with a glass of water like she hadn’t just reduced him to Victorian wallpaper.
But we’re not going to talk about that.
I take Ruby’s glass, set it down. Catch her hand before she makes it back to the bed.
“We’re not,” I say, and she tilts her head, brow raised.
“Not what?”
“Not going to talk about Jasper.”
She bites her lip, already holding back a laugh.
“Or the robe.”
That gets her. Her mouth twitches. She’s trying so hard to behave.
I lean in, close enough to kiss but not quite there yet. “Because if we talk about the robe, we’ll laugh. And if we laugh, I’ll lose all self-control and probably do something like text Alistair ‘Your man tried to curtsy at my girlfriend’.”
She’s grinning now. Full smile. Glorious. “You didn’t see his face.”
“Oh, I did. I’m choosing to erase it for the sake of my sanity.”
She laughs—soft and breathy—and I press my mouth to hers.
There. That’s better.
Nothing else matters when she kisses me like this. Like she already knew I needed it. Like she’s been waiting for me to shut up and just feel her.
One hand in her hair. The other on her waist. I kiss her slow, deep, with everything I’ve been holding since we walked through the door.
Her breath hitches. Her hand slips under my shirt, palm over my ribs.
And yeah—this is the vibe. Not robes. Not Jasper.
Just this.
Her.
Us.
“So,” she says, minutes later, suddenly all business. “Evaluation time. Professor Beaufort, your week in review?”
I lean back against the headboard, legs stretched out, her hand curling softly over my ankle. God, how far we’ve come.
“I…” I pause, and she tilts her head like she’s grading my hesitation. “I want more.”
One brow arches. “Of what?”
I reach for her hand. Guide it over my stomach. Press it, lightly, where I still feel her touch from last week.
“More closeness,” I say quietly. “More of this. Skin. Touch. I want you to… feel me. Not just here and there. And if that’s okay with you… maybe we see how far I can go with that. What feels good. What doesn’t.”
She doesn’t rush to answer. Just shifts closer until her knees bump mine and her eyes are right there, searching.
“You’re sure?” she asks, voice low. “Not just saying that because it’s week four and we’re ‘supposed’ to?”
“I’m saying that because when you touch me, it’s the first time since the accident that I don’t feel like I’m stuck in someone else’s body.”
I breathe in. “It feels good, Ruby. I want it. You. Us. That.”
She nods once, slow.
Then lifts her fingers, traces the hem of my shirt.
“Off then,” she says. “And we’ll see where this goes.”
God help me.
I hope it goes exactly where it needs to.
One step at a time.
James — Friday night, Week 4
Bedroom. Low light. Her and me. Everything in reach.
It’s quiet.
The soft kind of quiet—the kind you don’t dare break. A lamp glows in the corner, casting gold across the bed. Her hair catches the light like ink and flame, and I can’t look away.
She doesn’t ask if I’m sure again.
Just undresses with quiet grace—like this is the most normal thing in the world. Knickers, a bra. That’s it. No slow striptease, no performance. Just Ruby, barefoot, bare-legged, and crawling across the bed like she belongs here. Like I’m allowed to see this.
God, I want her.
But not like that.
Not tonight. Not all the way.
I tug off my shirt, slow.
Only from the front. That’s what I said. She’s not looking at the shoulder. From the front, it doesn’t look as bad as from the back or the side. She said whatever I need is okay. And I realize I’m holding my breath. Not good. So I exhale.
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches. Not my shoulder or collarbone. And it’s not inspection. It’s invitation.
I settle back against the pillows. Left arm supported, right hand reaching. And she comes—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Straddles me, low on my thighs, leans forward, her hair brushing over my skin as she kisses me.
Soft.
Then not so soft.
I don’t know how we got here. I don’t know how I deserve this. But her mouth is warm and searching, and her hands—Christ, her hands. She maps the line of my ribs, my stomach, my hips. No rush. Just exploration. Just… care.
And I give back what I can.
Palms full of her.
Her back, her sides, the swell of her hips, the heat of her skin beneath the strap of her bra. And when she leans into my touch—offers me more—I cup her breasts with both hands like she’s sacred.
She gasps against my mouth, just barely. And it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
Thumb brushing over lace. Then beneath it. Soft skin. Stiff peaks. Her breath stutters when I trace a circle.
“Okay?” I ask, voice wrecked.
She nods, fast, and shifts closer. Her thighs bracket my hips now. We’re so close it’s almost unbearable. Almost.
We keep kissing.
We keep touching.
I kiss her because it’s the only thing I know how to do.
The only thing that doesn’t feel foreign.
And she kisses me back like she’s starving.
I feel her roll her hips once. Just enough for me to notice. Just enough for her to exhale against my mouth like she couldn’t help it.
My hand’s under her bra, thumb brushing over soft skin, the curve of her breast, the line of her ribs. She gasps again, that quiet please don’t stop sound, and I swear I’ll never forget the way she arches into my touch.
She wants this.
Not all of it. Not everything.
But more.
And I want her to have it.
“I want you to feel good,” I whisper, my lips brushing her collarbone. “Tell me what you need.”
Her fingers skim down my chest—bare for the first time, skin tight over healing ribs, still marked but mine. She leans in, forehead resting against mine, breath warm between us.
“Can I show you?” she asks.
God, yes.
I nod.
Whatever she wants.
She shifts in my lap, knees bracketing my hips, and I can feel her heat even through the lace. She slides her hand between us, grazes herself, and then takes mine—gently, deliberately—guiding it. Over her knickers first, then a little lower. A little firmer.
And I swear the second I press my hand down, her hips respond like she’s been waiting hours for this. Maybe she has.
The softest sound leaves her lips—half gasp, half sigh—and she looks at me like this is okay. Like I can be the one to do this. Again. For her.
I press my palm more firmly, slow and careful, just the way she moved my hand. Her head falls forward for a second, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut.
She feels everything. So do I.
And then—my fingers slip beneath the lace.
She gasps again. Not from surprise, but from how right it feels.
I draw slow circles, soft at first, then just a little firmer. Her hand clutches my shoulder, skin against skin, no fabric left between us up top—my hoodie long discarded, her bra slipped low. Her thighs are tight around me, and she’s rocking with each motion, a rhythm we’re finding together. Her forehead drops to my shoulder, her breath stuttering out against my neck.
I press deeper. Lower. Slide two fingers through her wetness and back up, learning her all over again. The way her hips jerk. The way her breath hitches.
“James,” she whispers, wrecked.
And fuck, I feel it—how much I want this. My body is fully awake under her, tight with heat, my briefs suddenly a punishment I’ll gladly take if it means this—her—like this.
But this moment isn’t for me.
It’s for her.
Her hands grip my shoulders, her lips finding mine in a messy, desperate kiss. She’s shaking now, hips grinding down, and I curl my thumb just right. The sound she makes—it undoes me.
“More?” I murmur. She nods frantically, already there.
I give it to her. Everything she showed me. Everything she needs.
When she comes, it’s beautiful. Quiet, close, trembling in my arms. She gasps my name like a secret, like a vow, and melts against me, forehead still tucked into my neck, arms winding around me like she’ll never let go.
I don’t want her to.
Her breath is hot on my throat. Her thigh twitches around my waist. She’s smiling against my skin.
“I love you,” I whisper, again, always.
She laughs, breathless. “I really love you too.”
And I just hold her.
My body is aching in all the good ways. Hard beneath her, yes. Desperate, yes. But calm too. Capable. Because wanting doesn’t have to mean rushing. Or fear. Or pain.
Because this body of mine—it can give.
And God, I want to.
We’ll get there.
But for now?
This is everything.
Ruby — Friday night, Week 4
He says, “Tell me what you need.” And I do. I show him. And he gives me everything.
There’s something about his eyes—focused, gentle, unwavering—that makes it easy to let go.
I’m in his lap, the curve of his thighs warm beneath mine, his good hand resting at my waist, steady, present. My bra is sliding off my shoulder, but he’s not rushing anything. Just kissing my skin like it matters. Like I matter.
And when I ask if I can show him what I want—when I guide his hand to where I’m aching—he doesn’t hesitate. He just nods, presses his forehead to mine, and breathes, “Okay.”
What he gives me then isn’t just touch. It’s devotion.
It’s slow. Focused. So careful it breaks me a little.
His fingers move exactly the way I need—circling, pressing, learning me by feel and sound. I moan quietly, lips brushing his, and his other arm tightens around me, holding me like I’m precious. Like this—me, unraveling in his hands—is sacred.
I try to kiss him, but it comes out broken. Because my body is already starting to shake. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, every muscle drawn tight, every nerve lit. And still, he keeps going.
I think I whisper his name. Maybe more than once. Maybe like a prayer.
When it crashes over me, it’s not just pleasure—it’s relief. It’s being seen. Held. Given to.
And God, the way he holds me through it. Arm around me. Mouth in my hair. As if he’d carry me through the waves if he could.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, folded against him, my body limp and still humming, his skin warm beneath my cheek.
“I love you,” he whispers. Like he needs me to know.
I do. Of course I do.
And I love him. So much it almost hurts.
“You’re everything,” I whisper back, still catching my breath. “You know that, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls the blanket around us and holds me tighter.
And I think—I’ve never felt anything safer than this. Anything more mine.
Not the pleasure. Not even the way he touches me.
But the giving.
The love in it.
The trust in it.
Him.
James — Friday night, Week 4
Recovery isn’t linear. Narvesh says it every damn week like a mantra. There are plateaus, setbacks, days when nothing seems to move. And then there are sudden, impossible strides—your body remembering how to be a body again.
Tonight feels like one of those.
Except this time, it wasn’t supposed to be about me.
She’s curled into me, all softness and heat, her legs tangled with mine beneath the blanket, one hand moving slowly across my chest, trailing down my ribs, stomach, circling in lazy, tender strokes that feel better than anything’s felt in months. She’s quiet. Just pressing small kisses into my jaw, the corner of my mouth, like she’s memorizing me.
And I—I’m still humming from what I gave her. But she knows. Feels it. That my body didn’t get the memo that that was it for the night. That something lit up in me too.
Her hand drifts a little lower.
Not rushed. Not presumptuous.
She pauses. Lips brushing my temple.
“This is your choice,” she whispers. “Yours alone. But if you want me to… I’d love to do this for you.”
God.
There’s no pressure in her voice. Just wanting. Just love.
And something in me—tense for so long, afraid of what’s broken, what’s changed—just lets go.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes. I want that.”
And she smiles against my skin like I just gave her the greatest gift.
She moves slowly. Carefully. Slides her hand beneath the waistband of my boxers. Pushes them just low enough. Her palm, warm and steady, wraps around me.
I exhale. Shakily. My hips shift without thinking.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tease. Just holds me first. Just touches. Smooth, sure strokes that send heat curling through my spine and breath stumbling out of me.
Her free hand stays on my chest. Anchoring. Gentle.
And I let it happen. Let myself feel it. Her. This.
No pain. No tension.
Just pleasure.
Pure and good and real.
My hand slides into her hair, threading at the base of her neck, grounding me. She murmurs something I don’t quite catch, something tender and teasing, and I almost laugh—but the sound turns into a groan as she shifts her grip, changes her rhythm.
God.
I didn’t know I could still feel like this.
Didn’t know I could let go.
And I do. I fall into her hand, her touch, the sound of her breath near mine.
When I come, it’s not a thunderclap. It’s a quiet collapse. A surrender.
And she holds me through it like she knew it would feel like this.
Soft kisses. Quiet praise. Hands never leaving me.
I’m not shaking, not quite—but I feel hollowed out. Full and emptied at once.
She tucks us back in, presses her forehead to mine.
And I don’t have words yet.
So I just hold her.
Tighter.
Ruby — Friday night, Week 4
It’s not about wanting him.
Well. It is. I do.
God, I do.
But it’s more than that. Deeper. Slower.
It’s about him letting me.
Letting me see, touch, soothe. Letting me be here—in the space he used to claim with such ease, his body, his confidence, everything he used to offer the world without thinking. And now he hesitates. Not because he doesn’t trust me, but because trust isn’t the same as readiness.
So when he says yes—
Quiet. Raw.
I know what that costs him.
I also know what it gives me.
His body is warm under my hand, all tension and want and the quiet kind of aching that’s not about pain anymore. It’s about something else. Something waking up.
I take my time.
He deserves that. We both do.
Just my hand, low and steady, learning him. His breath catches once. Then again. His hips lift into me like his body can’t help it, and I keep going—gently, rhythmically, never pushing too fast.
I keep my other hand on his chest. Over his heart.
It’s racing.
I’m sure mine is too.
He moans softly, low in his throat, and it might be the most honest sound I’ve ever heard him make. I kiss the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Whisper that he’s doing so well. That I’ve got him.
And then he lets go.
So quietly. So completely.
No bravado. No guarding.
Just—trust. And this soft, overwhelmed noise that makes me press my forehead to his cheek and close my eyes.
He shudders once. Breathes out. And I keep holding him through it, gentle strokes turning to stillness. One hand smoothing his hair.
Eventually, I rise and disappear for a second—warm cloth, careful cleanup, a kiss to his temple.
He’s blinking at me when I return. Eyes heavy, a little dazed.
I crawl into his arms without waiting. Curl against his side, one leg draped over his, my head on his shoulder. His good arm wraps around me like instinct.
And then, finally, I get to hold him.
He’s quiet. Breath even. Hand at the base of my spine, thumb brushing lazy circles like he doesn’t want me to move. Like I belong here.
And maybe I do.
“I love you,” I whisper into the curve of his neck, the words barely louder than my breath.
He presses a kiss to my hair. “I know,” he murmurs. “I felt it.”
And then, softer, as if it’s a secret he forgot to tell me—
“Thank you.”
I just hold him tighter.
There’s nothing to thank me for.
But I’ll let him say it anyway.
James
He’s holding the kettle like it owes him an apology.
There’s a man in the kitchen.
A sharp-jawed, pinstriped, hyphenated-name sort of man who clearly didn’t expect me this morning—and is now staring at the electric kettle like it just insulted his foreign policy stance.
“Morning,” I offer, stepping past him toward the mugs. Neutral tone. No edge. I’m trying.
He jumps slightly, startled. Clutches the kettle with both hands like it’s a loaded grenade. “Oh—hello. Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else was up.”
Right. Jasper-something-something. Alistair’s current plus-one. Hyphenated title, government job, likely descended from minor royalty and two generations of catastrophic inbreeding. I try not to let any of that show on my face.
“I’m James,” I say anyway, because manners are apparently not dead. “Alistair’s flatmate.”
He hesitates like he’s not sure if I’m real. Or if I’m about to throw him out a window.
“Jasper,” he replies at last. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to be in the way. I was just making tea.”
“You’re not,” I say, though my voice comes out flatter than I’d like. Not unkind, just… tired. My shoulder twinges as I reach for the coffee tin, and I wince before I can stop it. He notices. Of course he does.
Jasper glances awkwardly at the door, then at the counter, then at me.
“You, um… you’ve done something to your arm?”
God. Small talk. “Surgery,” I mutter. “Long story.”
He nods as though I’ve just given a riveting account of trauma and resilience. “I see.”
We stand there in the brittle silence of two men who’ve both slept under the same roof but wish very much not to be sharing this kitchen.
Then, because it’s the polite thing to do—or maybe just because I’m trying—I ask, “You going out?”
He looks relieved to have a question with a simple answer. “Yes. Thought I’d get some pastries. Cinnamon buns.”
“Alistair likes the ones from that bakery in Marylebone,” I say. And because I’m me, and because I want him to short-circuit just a little, I add, “Grab two more? For me and Ruby.”
He falters, just for a second. The words me and Ruby land exactly as intended—like a small, elegant hand grenade dropped in the plush carpet of his morning.
“Oh. Of course. Right. Ruby.”
“She’s still asleep,” I add, pouring coffee. “Late night.”
And Jasper nods quickly—too quickly. Mumbles something about traffic and timing and pastries before making a swift and thoroughly uncomfortable retreat in a cloud of high-end cologne and constitutional guilt.
I sip the coffee. The silence settles.
It’s not that I mind Jasper. He seems harmless. Earnest. Bit of a twitchy pedigree, but Alistair could do worse.
It’s just… I’m ready.
Not to move on.
To move home.
Maybe even with her.
And maybe—just maybe—buy some mugs of our own. Because we deserve this. And because Alistair deserves a dating life without his date having to deal with me even before breakfast.
Ruby
Jasper comes back.
With pastries.
Twelve of them.
Twelve.
Cinnamon rolls, cardamom buns, and something that looks like a pudding-stuffed pretzel. He’s balancing the box like a man delivering a peace offering to an unstable regime. Which, to be fair, maybe he is.
I blink. “Did you raid an entire bakery?”
He glances at me like he’s not sure if that was a joke or an accusation. “I… wasn’t sure what people liked.”
James snorts. Full, unrepentant snort. Behave, I mouth at him across the kitchen island.
This is Alistair’s man, even if he’s currently dressed like a BBC political correspondent on his day off. So we’ll be decent. Civilized. Two couples sharing breakfast. Okay? Okay?!
James raises an eyebrow like he’d rather wrestle a crocodile in his pants than play happy domestic foursome, but he starts setting the table anyway—plates, forks, even the cloth napkins because he and Alistair are both rich pricks. I reward this with a kiss to the back of his neck and a squeeze to his good side. He grumbles. But quietly.
Jasper lingers awkwardly until I point him toward the hallway. “Alistair’s still out, I think. You’ll have to wake him.”
“Oh. Yes. Right.” And he’s off, scuttling like someone late to a palace appointment.
James mutters, “Twelve pastries.”
“Don’t,” I warn, reaching for the kettle. “He brought pudding bretzels. That’s the act of a man trying very hard.”
He leans in, low, brushing my hair off my shoulder. “Trying for what?”
I sip my tea. “Not to die.”
He grins. I swat his arm.
And in this strange, sugar-dusted, tension-threaded morning—James laying out plates, me steeping tea, the sound of Alistair groaning somewhere down the hall—it feels… weirdly perfect.
Even the chaos.
Especially the chaos.
Alistair
Christ.
Jasper is trying.
Trying very hard.
Too hard.
Like he’s forgotten the very basic concept of reading the room. Or that he’s not at a breakfast briefing in Whitehall but at my kitchen table, across from James Beaufort, who has exactly three modes before noon: broody, wounded, and homicidal.
“James,” Jasper says—god help us both, “how did you and Alistair meet?”
James blinks once. That slow, are-you-kidding-me blink that usually precedes murder or sarcasm.
“Nursery,” he says flatly. “He bit me. I pushed him off the swing. True friendship was born.”
Jasper chuckles. Nervously. Then—because apparently he’s decided to dig straight through the floor of this conversation—he continues, “And what do you do now, James? For a living, I mean?”
I close my eyes.
Ruby doesn’t.
Ruby, glorious Ruby, slides in like she’s spent years neutralizing hostile dinner guests and bored aristocrats. “Jasper,” she says lightly, “you work with the telecom oversight group, don’t you? The Ofcom consultancy subunit?”
He lights up. Actually lights up, like someone just uncorked him.
“Yes! We’re working on the deregulation draft framework—post-Brexit implications on independent broadband vendors. It’s incredibly layered.”
And he’s off.
On a tangent.
About satellites. Spectrum auctions. Legislative amendments. He’s gesturing with a pudding bretzel, using it like a pointer, and I swear to God he says the word infrastructure five times in one sentence.
James, miraculously, does not throw his coffee at the wall.
He just sips it.
Eyes half-lidded, jaw working quietly, foot resting against Ruby’s under the table. Behaving.
For me.
It should be a red flag, how close that makes me to tearing up. But I’ve had worse mornings.
Jasper, for all his political blundering and awkward attempts at bonding, is still cute as fuck. Even when he’s catastrophically misjudging the vibe.
And James?
James is still here.
Still being James. Irritated, quiet, polite-ish. With Ruby anchoring the room like she’s always belonged in it.
So I refill the tea.
Watch Jasper gesticulate dangerously close to the marmalade jar.
And I think—maybe we’ll survive breakfast after all.
James
I rinse the mugs, stack the plates, scrape the remnants of three different types of breakfast pastries into the bin. It’s quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of socks and the click of the kettle heating behind me.
Jasper’s standing there. Waiting. Or loitering. Or psyching himself up to say something he probably rehearsed in a mirror.
I glance over my shoulder. “You know I don’t bite, right?”
He startles, clutching his teaspoon like it might double as a shield.
I turn back to the sink, keep my voice easy. “I’m not exactly in prime shape. Mornings are… not my peak.”
A pause. I can feel him calculating behind me. A political advisor with no playbook.
I set down the dish towel. “You don’t have to pretend not to know.”
His gaze sharpens. I meet it. “My story. The… drama. Me disappearing. Hiding, actually. What happened to James Beaufort’ exposés.”
I shrug, slow and deliberate. “It is what it is.”
He’s quiet. Blinks once. Then, cautiously: “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You didn’t.” I pause. “You’re trying.”
“I really am,” he says. He looks like he means it. “I just thought—if I acknowledged it, it might feel like a thing. And if I didn’t, I might look like a coward.”
I snort. “Welcome to my daily dilemma.”
The kettle clicks off.
Jasper reaches for the teabags, but his eyes flick toward me again. “I like your girlfriend, by the way.”
“Good,” I say simply. “So do I.”
And that’s the end of that.
We both make tea. He adds way too much milk. I ignore it.
Maybe not friends. But not enemies either.
Not a bad start.
Alistair
There’s something bizarrely gentle about watching James try.
Not in the way he used to try—charm and bravado and effortless cool—but this new kind of trying. The kind that’s a little awkward around the edges, slightly stiff in the shoulders, but steady. Measured. Real.
He’s rinsing plates like the fate of the nation depends on it. Jasper is hovering with a mug like he’s been sent in by MI6 to infiltrate a tea-making ceremony. And between them, this weird, tentative truce is forming.
I don’t know whether to feel proud or horrified. Maybe both.
James says something. Low-voiced. I catch the tone, not the words. Jasper nods, earnest and a bit tight around the jaw, like he’s just been knighted or accused of treason.
Which is my cue.
I slip out before either of them notices I’m still there, ghosting down the hall toward my room with my socked feet making traitorous little squeaks on the floorboards.
And then—of course—Ruby.
She rounds the corner from James’s room, hair up in that messy crown she somehow makes look editorial. One brow arches.
“That bad?” she whispers.
I just tilt my head and mime an explosion with my hands.
She grins, raises hers. We slap palms gently, like we’ve just completed a covert mission in enemy territory.
“Operation Socialise the Beaufort,” she says under her breath, chuckling.
“I give him seven out of ten,” I whisper back. “Didn’t even flinch at Jasper’s milk-to-tea ratio.”
Her eyes widen. “He saw that and didn’t leave the building?”
“He’s practically a saint.”
She laughs, soft and quiet. “Thanks for this, Al.”
I wave her off. “It’s not like I’m doing anything. Just… watching the circus I accidentally booked into my flat.”
She nudges my shoulder. “You picked a good circus.”
Maybe I did. Maybe we all did.
I head to my room and shut the door quietly behind me.
Some mornings, you don’t need much. Just a high five, a halfway decent cup of tea, and your best friend trying like hell not to scare off your boyfriend.
James — Saturday morning (later)
She’s still here.
That shouldn’t feel like a revelation, but it does.
Ruby Bell, in my bed. Hair sleep-mussed, one leg tangled around mine, her hand tucked beneath my shirt like she owns the spot just above my hip. And maybe she does now. I wouldn’t put up a fight.
The coffee cups are empty, cooling on the nightstand. Her head rests against my chest, the weight of her so natural I hardly notice it until she shifts, her lips brushing the place where my heartbeat lives.
And I think—
This could be the rest of my life.
She looks up at me then. No makeup. No armor. Just Ruby. Honest and devastating.
I kiss her because there’s no other logical thing to do. No strategy, no hesitation. Just the press of my mouth against hers, warm and slow, until her fingers tighten against my ribs and the air changes.
Want.
That’s the shift. That sharp little spark that says yes, this again.
I roll us gently, my good arm braced beside her, careful of her hair as it spills across the pillow. Her eyes are still soft but dark now too—curious, aware. She doesn’t need to ask.
“I want you to feel good,” I murmur against her skin. “Can I?”
She breathes, slow and sure, and nods. “Please.”
So I do.
I take my time. She deserves that. This isn’t about heat or speed—it’s about showing her what she does to me. What she means to me. How deeply I’ve memorized the map of her sounds and breath and the way her knees shift when I kiss just below her ribs.
And when she comes—
God.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I hold her close, breathing her in, letting her feel how wanted she is. How wanted she’s always been.
She’s still catching her breath when she turns to me with that little smirk of hers, cheek flushed, voice husky. “That was very thorough, Professor Beaufort.”
“Scientific rigor,” I say, deadpan, and she laughs.
She climbs into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing her forehead against mine, whispering: “My turn?”
And—Christ—yes.
This. Her.
She’s not just healing me. She’s giving me back to myself.
And I never want this morning to end.
The window’s cracked open, letting in light and the distant sound of a delivery van, maybe a bird or two. She’s curled against my right side, her hand moving slowly over my chest, like she’s sketching invisible lines into my skin.
No shirt. My choice.
She asks.
Everything she does lately starts with asking. Or maybe I’m just noticing it now—how much care is laced into every touch, every glance. Her fingers trail over the edge of my ribs, feather-light, then drift lower, brushing my abdomen.
“I love that I get to feel you again,” she murmurs, her voice all quiet heat and truth.
I swallow.
But the apology’s already clawing up my throat before I can stop it. “I know I keep avoiding the other side,” I say, barely louder than a breath. “It’s not fair to you. I just— I can’t. Not yet. Not because of you. Just—”
She lifts her head. Her palm stills over my stomach. “James.”
I look at her. God, she’s beautiful like this. Hair a bit messy. No makeup. Just her. And somehow even more radiant than anything I could deserve.
“It’s okay,” she says, pressing a kiss just beneath my collarbone. “I don’t need to see your shoulder to make you feel good.”
That hits something in me. Soft and deep.
She leans over me now, warm skin sliding against mine. “Let’s focus on what you do want.” Another kiss, higher this time. “What you can have.”
Her thigh shifts over my hip, and the slow drag of her body across mine is fire and honey and God yes. Her mouth brushes my jaw, then my throat. She’s everywhere. Her hand glides up my chest again, fingertips grazing my sternum like she’s tasting the shape of me.
And I’m already gone.
The breath in my chest turns ragged as she finds my ear with her lips, whispering, “You’re still mine, James Beaufort.”
Yes. Yes, I am.
Her hand slides lower. Past the trail of hair on my stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of my briefs. My hips shift, already anticipating her, already aching. But she doesn’t rush. No, not Ruby. She eases her hand inside, skin on skin now, and I exhale like I’ve been holding that breath for years.
I’m hard already, embarrassingly so. But she doesn’t tease me for it. Doesn’t smirk. Her touch is reverent. Intentional.
She strokes me slowly—long, sure movements that have my spine arching and my eyes closing. My hand finds her back, gripping her waist. She’s pressed so close, her breasts brushing my chest, her breath on my cheek, her mouth catching mine again, hot and wet and hungry.
It’s the kind of kiss that splits you open.
Her thumb slides over the head of my cock and I moan into her mouth, hips bucking up involuntarily. She smiles—God, she smiles—and starts again, slow and deep and steady. I can’t speak. Can’t do anything but feel.
Her mouth trails down again, over my throat, my chest, tongue brushing the hollow beneath my collarbone.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispers.
I could break from that alone.
My thighs are shaking now. My hand fists in the sheet. She keeps going, keeps giving, like this is what she lives for—this, me, in her hands. Her rhythm changes just slightly, and my hips jerk again, helpless.
“I can’t—” I gasp.
“You can,” she whispers. “Let go for me, James.”
And I do.
It hits fast, hard, spectacular. My whole body bows up into her, and she holds me through it, kisses my neck as I come undone beneath her, breath ragged and desperate. I feel her hand still moving, gentle now, coaxing me through every last wave.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me.
And I’ve never felt more raw. More wanted. More mine.
She presses a kiss to my temple and lays her head on my chest, her arm wrapped tight around my ribs.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I nod. Still catching my breath. Still trembling.
“I love you,” I manage.
“I know,” she whispers back, smiling into my skin. “Me too.”
And in the quiet after, with her still wrapped around me, I let myself believe it.
This body.
This morning.
This love.
Ruby
It’s the perfect time to ruin him with nerves.
“I was thinking,” I murmur, soft but not tentative. “Maybe next weekend… or one of the next, when it works for you… would you come to Gormsey with me?”
He opens his eyes properly now. Still sleepy, but alert. “What for?” he asks, voice still warm and low.
“To meet my family,” I say, just like that. Because I mean it. “Properly.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. Not shocked. Just processing. So I go on, gentle and honest.
“I know we’re not out in the world yet. I know you’re not ready for that. And I’m not trying to rush it, James. But it would mean a lot to me if you met them. Not just my Dad. Ember properly. And my mom.”
His hand slides slowly over my back, grounding. “Because you think someone will see us soon?” he asks.
I nod. “Eventually, yes. When you’re ready. And I want them to have met you properly before that. As my boyfriend. So it doesn’t feel like you’re some stranger when the rest of the world starts to stare.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
So I kiss his shoulder, just a brush of lips over his skin. “They already love the idea of you, you know,” I whisper. “They’ve seen what you’ve done for me. How I sound when I talk about you.”
His hand stills, flat against my spine. I feel his breath change.
“And you don’t have to be anything but yourself,” I add. “No airs. No pressure. They’re… lovely. My mum will cry, my dad will go off on a tangent about darts or cooking, and Ember will probably flirt with you once just to mess with me.”
He huffs a laugh at that, and I smile.
“But they’d love to meet you. Not the Beaufort name. You.”
I pull back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Come to Gormsey with me, James.”
He doesn’t answer yet. But something in his gaze softens in that very particular way that means yes.
Even if he doesn’t say it now.
Even if he’ll need a day or two to decide on the logistics, or ask Percy how to politely survive a family dinner in a terraced house where the TV is probably too loud and someone always forgets to refill the kettle.
Still, I feel it.
The shift. The lean into us.
And it feels right.
James
I hate that I paused.
It was just a breath—just a second too long—but I felt it.
And worse, I know she felt it.
Her weight still curled into my side, her voice still so soft and warm and certain. Asking me to come to Gormsey. To meet her family. To be—in that part of her life.
And I paused.
Like a goddamn idiot.
I don’t even know what she thinks that pause meant. Maybe that I’m not ready to let people know about us. That I’m still ashamed, or hiding, or clinging to whatever’s left of the privacy I’ve buried myself in since the fall.
But that’s not it.
Anyone can know. Everyone can know. I’d shout it down the halls of Westminster if she asked me to. I’d put it on the cover of the Spectator if I thought that would make her smile.
She’s what my world orbits around now.
But I’m not ready for the world to dissect me. Not yet. Not when I still wake up with pain where my shoulder used to be a promise, not when I still have to plan my day around meds and stretches and how much I can carry. I’m not hiding her. I’m hiding this—this broken version of myself I haven’t figured out how to carry with pride yet.
But that’s not why I paused, either.
I paused because… fuck, I don’t know how to do this.
Meet the parents?
My mother’s dead. She wasn’t a “hot chocolate and board games” mum—she was silk blouses, business deals and art auctions and sadness she wore like perfume. She tried, in her way. I think. But by the end, even that faded.
And my father—Mortimer—he and I haven’t spoken a single personal word in years. We coexist now. That’s it. We found some kind of truce after everything exploded. He plays the role of doting grandfather better than he ever played the role of dad, and I’ve stopped trying to understand how that happened.
But I would never—never—bring Ruby into that.
I don’t want her sitting in those cold, echoing rooms pretending that kind of life has anything to do with who she is. I don’t want her shrinking under the weight of inherited silence or listening to my father ask about her Oxford credentials like he’s vetting a job candidate.
And now here she is. Asking me to come to her family. Her real, messy, loving family. A dad who probably does make hot chocolate. A mum who’ll cry. Ember, who will 100% flirt with me to wind her up.
It’s the most foreign thing I’ve ever been invited into.
And the most sacred.
Because it matters to her.
So it will matter to me.
I glance down at her, still curled up like she belongs here. Because she does.
“Okay,” I say, brushing my thumb slowly over the curve of her shoulder.
Her eyes flicker up.
“Let’s do it,” I tell her. “Gormsey. Proper introduction. Whatever it takes.”
And her smile, that smile—
God. If this is what it feels like to be wanted by Ruby Bell, maybe I can learn how to do the rest of it, too.
Ruby
He’s trying. I can see it.
That furrow in his brow that means he’s actually thinking, not deflecting. The way his thumb keeps grazing the inside of my wrist, back and forth like he’s grounding himself. Or me. Maybe both.
“I just…” he starts, then stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m emotionally illiterate at the best of times, but this—this is doctoral-level intimacy, and I skipped the prerequisites.”
I smile, but I don’t interrupt. I think he needs to say this.
“My father is—” he exhales hard, shakes his head, “—simply put, a jerk. With generational emotional constipation. If feelings were a language, he’d need a translator and a five-year course plan. And the thing is—he’s atoning now. In his own… absolutely infuriating, self-righteous way.”
His tone isn’t angry. Just tired. Older, somehow, like this version of James has lived through more than his years should hold.
“But he’s not the point. You are. And I would never—never—ask you to sit through a dinner at that table. Not when I wouldn’t sit through it myself unless Lydia promised me the twins were bringing card games and chaos.”
I laugh, quietly. That sounds about right.
He pauses again, looking at me, all serious now. “That’s why I hesitated. Not because of you. Because of me. Because I’ve never had a family like yours, and I think I needed a second to remember that it’s real. That you want to bring me into something like that.”
I blink. My throat’s suddenly tighter than I expected.
“And I know you’ve been here a lot these past weeks. Maybe more than you meant to. Which means less time at home, and I’ve just been…” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “Needy. And broken. And probably terrible at time management.”
“You’re not terrible,” I murmur. “I chose to be here.”
He nods like that helps. I think it does.
“So,” he says, drawing the syllable out. “Depending on how much lead time your family needs, I’m game. Even this weekend. Or next. Just—tell me what shoes to wear and what Ember’s least offensive interrogation tactic is.”
I grin. God, I love him.
“You’re going to be fine.”
He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. “I’m going to try. For you.”
And I don’t say anything right away. I just slip my arms around him and hold him there, breathing him in.
Because what he doesn’t know yet is that showing up like this, explaining instead of retreating, trusting me enough to tell the truth—that’s so much progress that I don’t know what to do with that.