Character Bios

Lord Laurence Ashford (26)

Profession: Author, former aristocrat
A reserved and deeply analytical writer who thrives in solitude. Still holds his title but has lost everything attached to it. Socially awkward hermit, yet lonely, quirky, struggles with emotional vulnerability, convinced he’s a reject in every sense—especially when it comes to interpersonal matters. Lives in the middle of a row of townhouses.

Juliette Douglas (20)

Profession: University student (Britchester), studying literature
Sharp, witty, and resilient, Juliette refuses to let rejection define her. She sees through Laurence’s walls and isn’t afraid to push past them. Beneath her confidence lie old insecurities she hasn’t fully outrun. Sister to Craig.

Craig Douglas (19)

Profession: Law school student.
Juliette’s protective younger brother, party-animal, outgoing, blunt and quick-witted. Prone to skepticism, especially regarding his sister, he thrives on teasing and borderline interrogation tactics. Despite his sharp tongue, he cares deeply for his sister.

Chris Cameron (19)

Profession: Med student
Craig’s best friend. Charismatic, socially effortless, and forever oblivious to Juliette’s past feelings for him. His relationships inadvertently shaped her worst insecurities, though he remains completely unaware.

Lord Henry Monfort-Yates (26)

Profession: Consultant, family owns a historical estate as well as a row of townhouses
Laurence’s cousin and only friend—and occasional tormentor. Playful, infuriating, and effortlessly charming, Henry enjoys pushing Laurence’s buttons while remaining a true friend. One of the good guys, despite appearances.

Baroness Clara Monfort-Yates (60)

Profession: Matriarch, estate owner
The formidable second wife of Lord John Monfort-Yates, Henry’s father and Laurence’s uncle by marriage. A deeply intelligent and socially adept woman, former widow Clara stepped in after John’s late wife’s scandals, becoming not only a great mother to Henry but also the mother of the Windenburgian queen consort. Well-connected and respected, her husband remains King Maximilian Cromwell’s lifelong confidante and friend. Together, they own the townhouse row where everything unfolds, making Clara a quiet yet undeniable force in the backdrop of Laurence’s world.

Act One: The Weight of a Name

Island Kingdom of Henfordshire

At twenty-six, Laurence Ashford sat in the worn-out leather chair, the cracked surface cool beneath his palms, his fingers tracing the imperfections absently.

The rain lashed against the windows of No. 3 Montfort Court, relentless and unyielding, its steady percussion drumming against the stone façade, soaking the canal below.

The fire spit and crackled, sending sharp embers into the air, its movements restless—uneasy, as if mirroring the turmoil beneath his skin.

The gloom suited him.

It was easier to exist in shadows than under the scrutiny of those who barely whispered his name anymore.

Henfordshire had changed in his years away. Or perhaps—he had.

The cobbled streets still wound through the town with deliberate elegance, as if time refused to alter their ancient paths. The grand estates of old families still stood—some crumbling, some desperate, all haunted by history.

And then there was Ashford. Once, his name had been spoken with reverence.

Now—even in private company—it felt heavy in the mouth, unwelcome and drenched in scandal.

A name burdened with ruin.

The Ashford estate was gone—foreclosed, sold off, its elegance reduced to echoes in forgotten halls.

His father had vanished abroad, mooching off whoever tolerated him, likely fathering more children he would never acknowledge.

Laurence knew of one for certain but suspected there were others by now—probably still counting.

Rumor had it that his father’s cheating, recklessness, inability to hold onto a shred of decency had driven his mother into an early grave.

And after that—everything collapsed.

At eleven, Laurence had been thrust into his father’s chaos—a life of relentless relocations, ever-changing women, and a revolving door of deception. New faces, new lies, nights thick with manipulation and careless abandon.

“Call her Mum.”

How he had despised that sentence..

Until finally, at eighteen, he walked away.
Left.
Never looked back.
But his torture was far from over. His troubles had only just begun now.

Doors slammed in his face when he tried to find help. No one wanted to be associated with Devon Ashford’s son. They assumed he would be just like him—another man soaked in failure and scandal. One that couldn’t be trusted around money, alcohol, women or gambling tables. And perhaps, in some ways, they were right to worry, since his father hadn’t been the only black sheep in the Ashford family. His father’s sisters Eugenia and Charlene had been worse yet.

Charlene had been sentenced to life in prison, where she ultimately perished under tragic circumstances. His other aunt, Eugenia, had a shorter sentence as she ended up releasing the princess and become the informant. While this certainly helped her case and the way the public viewed her, she had been cast out too. After years of exile, she had come before the king, begging for mercy—to return home, to be allowed back into the life she once knew, her husband and two sons. Shockingly, the Princess Royale, no longer the fragile sixteen-year-old girl Eugenia had abducted but now a grown woman, married, and standing in authority—had chosen to pardon her. Impressed, the king had obliged. Eugenia had been welcomed home, her past not erased, but accepted in society.

Laurence had gone to her for help, too. But she had turned him away, too. She was determined to keep her vest white now—to avoid any involvement with her late sister’s sins, her devilish brother’s scandals, or any remnants of disgrace still clinging to the Ashford name. Laurence had been just another ghost she refused to carry.

But finally someone did help. Lord John Monfort-Yates had no obligation to take Laurence in. But he did anyway. He was Laurence’s uncle by marriage, his former wife being Lady Charlene. John had suffered his own scandal—the fallout of his late wife’s crimes, the damage control, shielding their son, Henry, from permanent ruin. Henry, Laurence’s cousin, had been spared from disgrace by sheer force of John’s will and his connections to the royal family. John did the same for Laurence to the best of his abilities, putting him through college, with Henry there by his side.

After graduating, Laurence had traveled, tried to reinvent himself, to scrape away every last remnant of his name. To start over. But he couldn’t find a place called home anywhere. Everywhere he went was amazing, but strange. Foreign.

His roots were buried too deep. And not just that, no matter how far he went—his distinct Henfordian accent still set him apart. Always the stranger … In mainland cities, his accent was a dead giveaway, a marker of his origins that made him stand out instead of disappear. Made him a gimmick, a novelty. The exact opposite he wanted.

Henfordshire was the only place where he sounded and felt like everyone else. It was the only place that felt like home—even when it wasn’t.

And once more—it had been John and Clara who became his saving grace. Laurence’s home—a rental townhouse—stood among three, perched neatly along the canal, standing in stubborn alignment, remnants of a forgotten era.

Unlike the great Ashford estate, which was now long gone—sold, lost, crumbling into memory—No. 3 Montfort Court wasn’t his.

Not really.

He was only a tenant, the buildings belonged to John and Clara, who had mercifully rented it to him for next to nothing—another quiet favor he could neither refuse nor resent. He paid less than a third of what others in the neighboring townhomes did—and they had to share their space with roommates. Laurence had it to himself. Because John and Clara knew his history. Knew his social anxieties. Knew that the damage had left him with wounds people couldn’t see, quirks people couldn’t understand making it very hard for him to function in society.

They had saved him again.

Given him a home, even when his own blood had abandoned him. And still—he remained stuck somewhere between aristocracy and ordinary life, trying to exist in a space that felt borrowed, never truly his.

To Laurence’s left, No. 1 Montfort Court thrived at all hours, filled with professionals who exchanged pleasantries in passing, their voices polished but curious. Ben Fairchild, the chef, filled the air with taunting aromas, making Laurence resent his own pitiful meals. Alice Cartwright, pragmatic and too observant, always seemed to notice more than she let on. Ellie Kingsley, the journalist, chased aristocratic ghosts, sniffing too close to Henfordshire’s buried history. Hugh Cavendish, the scholar, remained lost in books, yet Laurence sensed he was quietly cataloging his presence anyway.

To his right, No. 5 Montfort Court was worse—college students, heedless of history, living freely where Laurence could not. Tom Harcourt, their self-appointed leader, had charm that grated against Laurence’s nerves. Charley Heath, the historian, asked too many questions, and she came dangerously close to truths best left alone. Liv Farrington, the social butterfly, ensured no one stayed unnoticed—including Laurence. Will Parkes, the artist, was quiet, but still a presence Laurence couldn’t ignore.

Laurence timed his outings carefully. Ignored invitations. Pretended he lived alone, even when Montfort Court constantly reminded him that he did not.

Living in a space that smelled faintly of dust and regret, surrounded by strangers who neither knew nor cared who he was. Laurence told himself he preferred it this way. That solitude was simpler. But even he knew—Loneliness is a persistent enemy.

And eventually, even the most guarded walls begin to crack.

Act Two: Intrusion

The pounding at the door shattered Laurence’s concentration.
Persistent. Loud. Intrusive.

He never answered. Usually, it never took them long to move on and leave him be again.

But this time, it didn’t stop.
And then—voices.
His stomach tightened.
Multiple voices.

Laurence’s jaw clenched, irritation surging as he tore open his office door, the sudden force making the old hinges groan in protest. He stomped down the stairs, each step heavy, sharp, deliberate—a warning to whoever dared disturb him.

Another pound at the door. He ripped it open. And there she was.

Baroness Clara Montfort-Yates stood in the doorway, his landlady, shaking out a damp umbrella with aristocratic ease—utterly unapologetic for forcing herself into his life. Next to her a young woman with red hair and big brown doe eyes, whom Laurence had never seen.

“Finally! Took you long enough. A young man in his prime, yet slower to answer the door than John on a bad knee day!”

Laurence barely had time to react before Clara pushed past him, linking her arm through the young woman’s and pulling her along, presenting her to the townhouse as if a prized guest.

The young woman—half-dragging, half-carrying a suitcase ready to burst, a duffel bag packed within an inch of its life, and a tote dangerously close to spilling—stumbled to keep up.

Laurence took one look at her luggage and immediately thought: pack mule.

Clara slammed the door shut behind them, muttering about Henfordian weather, while the girl stepped out of her soaked flats, neatly placing them by the door.

Laurence sighed in premature relief—at least she wasn’t tracking mud through his townhouse. He hated messes.

Until—

He looked down.

Puddles.

Rainwater spilling from her drenched luggage, pooling around the edges, seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.

His eye twitched.

“Laurie, this is Miss Juliette Douglas from San Sequoia, studying at Britchester. Due to an unfortunate mishap, her dorm room was allocated twice, and since the other student applied first, they got the space—leaving our sweet young lady homeless for the semester. We can’t have that!”

Laurence wasn’t listening.

He was too focused on the growing puddles, the slow destruction of his clean floor, the dark watermarks spreading like a personal affront to his sanity.

“I heard about it through the usual grapevine, and of course, I had to help. Sadly, both other townhomes are full. But you, my sweet boy, have plenty of room.”

There it was.

The death sentence.

“Juliette, this is young Lord Laurence Ashford—my husband’s nephew by marriage, not blood. Laurie’s father is the brother of my John’s first wife; may she rest easy in hell.”

She said it without hesitation, like discussing the weather.

“Laurence is our Henry’s cousin—well, technically John’s Henry, but I adopted the boy after his witch of a mother kicked the bucket and raised him as my own. Henry and Laurie are about the same age too, and we’ve helped this sweet boy out of more pickles than I care to count—which I’m sure he now remembers well and will welcome you like the gentleman host I know he is.”

Laurence’s silence was deafening.

“Well then, come along, both of you!” Clara announced, sweeping ahead, still arm-in-arm with Juliette, leaving a dotted trail of rain behind them like a crime scene.

“This is the kitchen—well-stocked, unless Laurence has gotten stingy about groceries again. The living area is cozy, a bit dark in winter, but it has character. Out back is a small garden—nothing grand, but charming in its own way.”

Laurence wasn’t taking in the tour.

He was watching puddles collect under Juliette’s bags in the hallway.

The leather straps darkening, the damp edges of her duffel bag absorbing water like some sacrificial offering to his poor floor.

His eye twitched again.

Up the stairs.

“Laurence, be a gentleman and fetch Juliette’s luggage,” Clara instructed, without looking back.

Laurence stared at the bags, the absurd weight of them. Before he could properly argue, Juliette bristled.
“I can do it,” she insisted, stepping forward.
“It’s heavy,” Laurence snapped back.
“I can carry my own things,” she shot back.
They both reached for the same bag at the same time—

Bumped heads.

Laurence hissed, rubbing his temple.
Juliette winced, laughing under her breath.
Clara sighed dramatically.
“Laurence, stop being ridiculous. Act like a young man and get her luggage upstairs. Can’t believe you must be told something so utterly basic!”

Laurence muttered under his breath, hoisting the absurdly heavy bags, bemoaning the contents.

“Christ on a bicycle, what do you have in here—bricks? Boulders? A bloody anvil?”

“Just essentials. It has to last me an entire semester,” Juliette answered sweetly with an apologetic shrug.

The two women ascended the stairs before Laurence, who now panted, still hauling the obnoxiously heavy luggage, nearly knocking his knee against the banister.

Clara turned as they reached the landing, flashing him a sweet but utterly merciless smile.

“Do be careful, Laurie. The good wooden stairs are antique—no scuffing up the banister, no dragging along the floor! You are a strong young man, you can do better!”

Laurence almost dropped the luggage out of spite.

Juliette hid a laugh behind her hand.

Clara continued effortlessly, gesturing toward each room.

“This is the guest bathroom—and also the one you will be using, since Laurence refuses to let anyone use his. That there is his office—he’s a writer. Word of advice: just don’t go in there. Ever.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow.

“This is another bathroom. Laurence favors it and hates to share. This stairway leads up to Laurence’s room—just don’t go up there unless he invites you. That boy has more issues than Vogue, but he’s sweet and harmless once you get to know him.”

Juliette choked on a laugh, feeling like a background extra in some Henfordian murder-mystery movie, where it was already clear the harmless sweet guy would see to her sudden demise in the next scene.

“And this, my dear, is going to be your room. If he were my Henry I would tell him the same as I told you about his room, but knowing Laurence wouldn’t enter this at gunpoint, I know you have nothing to worry about.”
Laurence exhaled sharply, feeling his nerves fray even further.

Great.

Fantastic.

Not only did he have more issues than Vogue, but now his avoidance of human interaction had escalated to the gunpoint threshold, as per his aunt. And that wasn’t yet touching on her so casually highlighting his many issues around women. Lovely.

He could feel Juliette’s gaze flicker to him, her lips twitching ever so slightly, and that was enough to make him want to dramatically exit this conversation immediately.

Instead, he remained frozen in reluctant defeat, blinking once before finally muttering—

“Lovely introduction, truly. This was sure to leave a splendid first impression with Miss Douglas, many thanks, Auntie.”

Clara smirked. “Oh? Have I offended you? My apologies, sweetheart. Tell me which part was incorrect, and I shall apologize. Hm, what’s that darling? Nothing? Yes, just as I thought.” she smiled and winked at Juliette, who grinned outright.

Laurence wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He had braced himself for some level of discomfort, knowing that Clara had a habit of speaking so plainly it occasionally felt like an ambush.

Juliette looked around the room as Clara checked her wristwatch, gasped theatrically.

“Argh, time flies. I really must be off—we’re expecting company. If you have any questions, ask Laurence. Laurence, be a good host. Oh, and welcome home, Juliette. Tootles!”

Laurence nearly sagged in relief as she hurried down the stairs.
Juliette was still dripping wet, shifting uncomfortably.
“I’ll just change, maybe take a hot shower—”
Laurence nodded and turned to leave, paused in the doorway, turning back just enough to issue one last warning.

“Please refrain from singing in the shower, or worse yet, whistling. I abhor it. Don’t be alarmed when you hear odd noises while taking the shower or using a faucet. The plumbing was retrofit but is nothing like you are used to. It’s an old house. Has it’s quirks.” With those words, he softly pulled her room door shut behind himself.

Juliette blinked, thinking ‘Not just the house. He’s cute, but damn he has some wires crossed or something.’

Then fell onto the bed with a sigh.

“Oh, great. Just great.”

She glanced toward the window, the rain giving way to a soft sunset, casting gold across the canal, its winding stream, the stone bridges, cobblestone streets, rolling hills beyond.

She smiled, rising up, stepping to the window, staring out in awe.

“Great. This is great.”

Soft. Expectant. Hopeful.

The Next Morning

By the next morning, Laurence had forgotten she existed.

Groggy, barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs—his usual morning routine. He barely registered the world around him, only focused on one goal—the bathroom. His bathroom.

Only—he wasn’t the first one there.

Just as he stepped off the last step of the stairway up to his room, Juliette walked out of his bathroom, placing them right in front of each other in the most awkward way.
Laurence froze.
She froze.

The universe paused in excruciating silence.
Then—
Juliette burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, eyes sparkling with pure delight. “I wasn’t expecting a Chippendales moment this morning! Do I have to tip you now or something?”
Laurence’s stomach lurched in immediate regret.
His bathroom.
She had been in his bathroom.

“This is my bathroom,” he barked.

Juliette tilted her head.
“It’s right outside my door.”
“You’re supposed to use the guest bathroom.”
“They’re exactly the same. And this one is more convenient. Why would I go all the way down the hall when there is one right here?”

Laurence gaped at her.

His morning ruined, his patience obliterated, his sanctuary compromised beyond repair. He gave up. Bolted into the bathroom. Slamming the door. Locking it.

Juliette was still laughing outside. Laurence ran a hand down his face.
This was going to be hell.

Act Three: Next Level Intrusions

Laurence wasn’t expecting company.

Which was why, when Lord Henry Montfort-Yates strolled into his townhouse with the effortless confidence of a man who never asked permission—only forgiveness—Laurence felt a soul-deep urge to leave his own home.

Henry was everything Laurence wasn’t—properly titled, well reputed, effortlessly wealthy, universally respected, socially invincible. People gravitated toward him without question, charmed by his disarming ease, his natural presence.

And Juliette?

She noticed.
She most definitely noticed.
And Henry noticed her.

Laurence watched—helpless, silent, suffering—as Henry claimed the room and Juliette’s full attention, introduced himself with a perfect, casual air, and let the world bend around him as it always did.

“Lord Henry Montfort-Yates, at your service, Mylady.”

His smile was disarming.
His posture, too damn perfect.

Juliette was impressed. She was eating it up. The way her eyes lit up when she heard Henry’s title and name, the way he acted so nonchalant, in a way Laurence never could, the way he so openly flirted with her.

Laurence cringed, his lips barely moving as he muttered under his breath—so quietly, only for himself.

“…I’m a lord too.”

No one heard him.
Not Henry, who was too busy flirting.
Not Juliette, who was too busy enjoying it.
Laurence should have walked away. Should have shut his door, buried himself in his office, ignored the world beyond his walls like he always did.

But he didn’t.
He stayed.
And watched.
Every agonizing moment of it he watched.

Henry returned.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first, it was dates—a casual invitation, a simple dinner, an outing that felt harmless enough.
Then, it was routine. Drinks at the pub. Late-night conversations. Soft laughter in the hallway as Juliette returned home—never alone, never with Laurence, always with Henry.

Laurence told himself it was fine.
She wasn’t his.
She wasn’t even interested in him.
Why would she be?

She had Henry.

Henry, who was everything Laurence wasn’t—everything Laurence should have been, if his life had unfolded differently.
The dates continued.

But it all reached its crescendo the moment Laurence stepped into his kitchen one morning, to find Henry roosting at his table, drinking his tea, eating his toast.

Wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs.
No shirt.
Barefoot, completely unbothered, completely at ease in a house that wasn’t his—but might as well have been.

Laurence stood there frozen, staring, waiting for his brain to catch up to his reality.

Henry, still half-asleep, reached for the kettle, rubbing a hand across his face as if he hadn’t just taken over Laurence’s kitchen, his space, his morning routine, his entire damn peace of mind.

“Need another cuppa, want one too? Maybe you should go for something stronger, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Henry mused, finally glancing up.

Laurence blinked.

“I wasn’t expecting company this morning. I don’t remember inviting you over either,” he muttered, voice sharper than intended.

“Well, you see the fun thing is that I don’t need you to invite me. Someone a lot prettier than you did, cousin. She is still asleep by the way. I wore the poor girl out last night. I don’t know if this is true for all redheads, but the rumors about fiery temper certainly apply to her.”

“It would just have been nice to have received a heads up before finding you in my kitchen in a state of undress. Just … very unexpected. One might call this rude.”

Henry smirked. Effortlessly unfazed.

“Well, considering the house is technically mine, you might want to start expecting it. Especially now that I know it ticks you off. I just LOVE watching you squirm, you nutty author, you. You should have become a professor; it would have been so perfect. Or a scientist. Then again, I would wager nobody has ever seen a completely sane author either.”

Laurence hated how casually Henry said it. How easily he reminded him of the townhouse’s true ownership, how easily he settled into Laurence’s world like he belonged there more than Laurence ever had. And it reminded him of Juliette. With Henry.

Laurence gritted his teeth.
Henry poured the tea.
Juliette hadn’t even come downstairs yet.
And Laurence already knew—
This was going to be unbearable.

Act Four: Intrusions Galore

Laurence had been gone all day.

It hadn’t been accidental—just an endless string of errands, detours, distractions, excuses not to go home.
Okay, it had been intentional.

The townhouse—once his sanctuary—was now a place where someone else existed.

By the time he returned that night, the house was dark, the air still.
Finally—peace.
Then—he heard it.
A faint rustling.

Laurence stilled, fingers tightening around the doorknob.

A shadow shifted in the kitchen, out of sight from the hallway.

His pulse spiked, but not with fear.
No, this wasn’t a break-in.
This was Henry. Again.
Obviously.

Ugh.

Why did he never turn on the lights?
Laurence exhaled sharply, irritation mounting.

How many nights had Henry barged in like this—raiding the fridge, drifting through the kitchen with that effortless arrogance, fresh from God knows what mischief with Juliette? Always dragging her home, barely upright, her exhaustion sending her straight to bed—leaving Laurence to deal with a Henry afflicted by a relentless, utterly inconvenient case of the munchies.

Laurence hated how much he noticed.
Hated how much it bothered him.

Hated the way he felt—too indebted to Henry’s family, too aware that Henry was the closest thing he had to a friend, and yet, a friend he could barely stand.

His stomach twisted.
Juliette wasn’t his.
She never had been.

But that didn’t stop the jealousy from crawling under his skin like an infection he refused to acknowledge.

Laurence stepped forward, scowling, ready to finally tell his cousin to stop treating his house like a bloody hotel room.
And just as he flipped the light on—

The intruders screamed.
Laurence screamed back.
His brain short-circuited.
There were two of them.
Two. TWO!
Neither of them was Henry.

One was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a football player—dark-haired, tanned, muscular, standing rigidly like he was deciding between fight or flight.

The other was leaner, effortlessly handsome, golden-haired with striking blue eyes, his entire presence too smooth, too practiced, too comfortable—even in this completely ridiculous situation.

Laurence’s pulse jumped.

He took one shaky step back, grip tightening around the umbrella he had instinctively grabbed.

And then—

“YOU’RE NOT HENRY!”

The sheer nonsense of the statement echoed through the kitchen.

The two men stared. Clearly confused.
One of them—the dark-haired one—was holding a half-eaten sausage roll, mid-chew, eyes wide in panic.

The other—the golden-haired one—held a bottle of HP sauce, gripping it as if it might somehow protect him.

A half-unwrapped Scotch egg rested on the counter alongside a nearly demolished pack of Jaffa Cakes, the absurd spread making the scene even more baffling.

Laurence stared at them.

They stared back.

Sausage Roll hesitated, slowly chewing, his jaw tense.

HP Sauce blinked, looked down at the bottle in his hand, then back at Laurence, then at his equally panicked friend.

Laurence’s eye twitched.
Whatever this here was, it was worse than Henry.
Much worse.

Then—

Thunderous footsteps.

Juliette exploded onto the scene, hair wild, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder looking befuddled. Just then Laurence remembered the intruders, so he stepped in front of her, umbrella raised, protecting his roommate with heroic determination.

“I’ve got this,” he muttered. “Stay behind me. Call the police!”

Juliette stared at him. Then—she sighed. She turned to the intruders. Her exasperation was immediate, visceral, exhausting.

Laurence noticed too late.
The men weren’t running.
They weren’t grabbing anything.
They were just… standing there.
Arms outstretched.
Dressed in t-shirts and boxers, damp from the rain.

Burglars in boxers, munching through his groceries?
No.

That made no sense.
Laurence’s stomach dropped as he lowered the umbrella.

“Who are these two wankers, and why are they in my kitchen?!”

“Hey bro, dafuq! No need for insults.” HP Sauce protested.

Juliette groaned, rubbing her temples, then turned, scanning the hallway. “Did you not see my note?”

“What note?” Laurence wondered.

With a frustrated huff, she turned her head, then walked off into the hallway, bent down, picking up a piece of crumpled paper, Scotch tape hanging uselessly off the edges. With it, she returned, handing it to him. “This note.”

Laurence’s eyes narrowed, he grabbed it, then read:

“Hi Laurence, sorry for the late notice, but I don’t have your cell phone number. My brother and his best friend had an unplanned stopover in Henfordshire due to inclement weather, so they’re crashing on the couch for one night. Hope that’s okay. XO, Julie.”

Laurence slowly exhaled.

“Oh.” His grip tightened slightly, gaze flicking from the note to the scene before him—the couch occupied with blankets and clothing, two large backpacks on his good wooden floor near the couch, Juliette looking exasperated, and Craig and Chris already making themselves at home.

He lifted his eyes back to her.

“But why did you place it in the hallway by the front door? Why in the world would I go to my kitchen via the entrance hallway,” he asked, voice calm but laced with disbelief, “when that is well past the kitchen, coming from my office or bedroom?”

Juliette stared. Laurence tilted his head slightly.

“I understand that everyone calls me quirky, but I still am not in the habit of climbing out my window to reenter via the front door only to go to my kitchen.”

Chris snorted. Craig made a low, approving hum, shaking his head.

“Honestly, Juliette? He’s got you there, this was dumb.”
Chris nodded, leaning back against the counter.
Juliette shot both of them a glare, crossing her arms.

“It seemed like logical placement – for when I entered through the front door which he would not do. This really makes no sense at all. My bad. Oops!”

Laurence lifted the crumpled paper, flicking the dangling, failing Scotch tape.
“Oh, yes. Very logical placement, nearly foolproof, in fact.”

Chris and Craig chuckled, Craig shaking his head. “Yeah, you really owe the dude an apology. Damn girl.”

“Fine. I am sorry for the scare, Laurie. Anyway, this is my brother, Craig, and this is Chris Cameron, his best friend. Guys, this is Laurence Ashford.”

Laurence barely had time to process the information before Craig burst into laughter.

“Laurie?” Craig grinned, eyebrows shooting up. “Did you just call that dude Laurie? You just made him sound like the captain of the cheerleader team in high school.”

Laurence glared at him.

Then the other guy, chuckling, stepped forward.
HP Sauce. What was his name again? Right, Chris.
Laurence stared, already regretting every single decision in his life.

Chris extended his hand.
Laurence didn’t move, staring at the hand like a venomous snake.
Then—Chris paused, frowned, shrugged, and wiped his hands on his boxers first.
Laurence visibly recoiled.
Chris grinned, completely unbothered.
Laurence avoided the handshake entirely looking horrified and offended.

Craig snorted. “God Jules, where did you find this specimen of almost human-likeness?”

“So,” Chris said casually while nudging Craig, shifting, arms crossed over his bare chest. “Now that we established names, we know that guy is Laurence, but then who’s Henry now?”

Craig didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, he launched into a mocking, sing-song tone—
“I am Henry the Eighth I am, yes, Henry the Eight I am…”

Laurence closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly, willing himself into patience he did not possess.
“Her boyfriend,” he said flatly.
At the exact same time, Juliette snapped—”His cousin.”

Craig froze mid-song, slowly turning toward Juliette, suddenly far more invested in this conversation than before.
“I’m sorry, did you just say boyfriend?”
Laurence stiffened.
Juliette looked like she had been personally insulted by the universe itself.
“Laurence, WHAT?!”

Laurence blinked, confusion cracking through his irritation.
Juliette wasn’t dating Henry?
Craig’s entire face shifted into suspicion, eyes narrowing, flagging it immediately.
“Hold up.”

He turned directly to Juliette, voice stiff with disbelief.

“Boyfriend? And who is this weirdo anyway? I mean, he is entertaining, I give you that, but you told Mom and Dad you were renting a room from some old bitty. Now Chris and I find you living with this dude? That fool there defies logic, but he isn’t an old lady!”

Juliette groaned loudly, dragging a hand down her face in pure frustration.
“Craig there is no boyfriend, and I am renting this from an older lady, and so is he, he’s, my roommate. And yes, separate rooms on separate floors. Laurence, what are you talking about?!”

Laurence hesitated.
Wait.
Wait!
Was Henry not her boyfriend?
He had assumed—hadn’t everyone assumed?
The dinners. The drinks. The lingering smiles. The late nights. The very unpleasant breakfast surprise.

And now Craig was staring at his older sister, completely blindsided, rage slowly brewing.

“Hold up,” Craig said, voice stiff with disbelief. “Not only do you live with some random dude, but now you’re dating—WHO IS THIS HENRY GUY?! Why has NO ONE told me about this?! Do Mom and Dad know?!”

Juliette looked ready to set everything on fire.

“I told you there is no boyfriend. Henry is Laurence’s cousin, like I said, and Henry is also the son of the people who own this place, so yes I am going to be nice to him, but I am NOT dating Henry! It’s been absolutely platonic, and he is a Henfordian lord who owns several estates, not to mention really handsome and wealthy, so if there were something to tell, believe me, I would be flaunting it. But there is nothing. I don’t even know where that comes from now!” she shrieked.

Laurence stiffened, still tangled in his own confusion.
“Of course you are dating him, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Friendship is what I would call it!” Juliette countered.
“Friends don’t sleep with friends! If they do, it is called something different!” Laurence snapped at her.
“I don’t sleep with Henry! We are neither dating nor friends-with-benefits! Oh my GOD!”

“Yeah, you better not be sleeping with random dudes named Henry!” Craig started, but Juliette shut him down with a glare “Shut up, Craig!”

“Friendship doesn’t end in each other’s beds! And if you didn’t have sex with him, then explain the breakfast moment. He definitely dropped enough hints,” Laurence shot back, faster than he meant to.

Juliette blinked.
“What?”
“Yeah, what? This took a turn …” Chris said, grimacing.
“I gotta hear about the breakfast now …” Craig added.
Laurence crossed his arms, irritation mounting again.

“The morning I walked into my kitchen expecting peace, only to find Henry standing there, half-naked, raiding my fridge, acting like he owned the place, which .. I know he kind of does, but that’s not the point. He was acting like he owned you—like— It was very much implied.”

Juliette cut him off with a loud groan, dragging her hands through her hair.

“Oh my God, Laurence, are you serious? Henry is a joker. He lives to push your buttons—duh! I have known him a few weeks and figured it out, you have known him all your life and still haven’t? Get a grip!”

Laurence paused, thrown off by her casual dismissal.

Craig raised an eyebrow, suddenly far more intrigued.

Chris, meanwhile, looked seconds away from enjoying the incoming chaos as he grabbed one of the sausage links and munched on it.

Juliette huffed, arms flying outward as she finally explained.

“Okay, you want an explanation, I will give it to you. We drank! He couldn’t drive home—it’s forty minutes away, and I wasn’t about to let him kill himself on the roads just to avoid inconveniencing your delicate sensibilities! So, yeah, he crashed on the couch. Big deal!”

Laurence stared, processing.

Juliette leaned in, exasperated.

“Let me guess—he was smirking the whole time while he was dishing you up some hints? Probably made some offhand comment about how he was taking over your life, right? Because that’s what he does.”

Laurence’s silence spoke volumes.
Juliette rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t see her own brain.

“For the love of—Laurence! He does that on purpose! Do you honestly think Henry didn’t immediately clock that it would annoy you? That’s what he lives for!”

Laurence opened his mouth. Then closed it. Like a fish in an aquarium.
Then opened it again, fumbling for a comeback but finding absolutely nothing.
Craig laughed outright, shaking his head.
“Damn, bro, she’s got your number.”

Laurence resented that deeply.

Chris grinned. “Honestly, I kind of respect Henry for that. Having fun and got his cousin’s panties in a bunch. I wish I weren’t the oldest cousin, cos that would be hella fun to do to my cousins. I totally would.”

Laurence hated that more.
Juliette finally threw her hands up.
“See? Case closed. Not my boyfriend. Just fun to hang out with and a pain in your ass.”

Laurence exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
Chris and Craig exchanged glances, perfectly entertained by all of this.

Juliette, meanwhile, had turned to rummaging through the cabinets like nothing had happened at all.

Laurence felt like he had been hit by a carriage.

And just when he thought the conversation was finally dying down, Craig leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Okay, fine. So that Henry-dude not your boyfriend and he loves fucking with his cousin, got it. But if you are not into him, why the hell are you hanging out with him so much, then?”

Juliette didn’t miss a beat.

“Because he knows all the best places to go. Henfordshire is pretty boring unless you know where to go and when. Henry makes things fun and he is having fun flaunting the redhead from the mainland. Not everything has to be romantic, Craig!”

Craig was not convinced.

Laurence was suddenly even more annoyed.

Chris looked deeply amused.

Juliette sighed, waving a dismissive hand.

“Look, I don’t know what the issue here is. Henry is easygoing, he knows all the cool spots in Henfordshire, he drags me along to things I’d never normally do—and guess what? I enjoy it! Not everything needs to come with an emotional agenda! I am in college. College is supposed to be fun. And if you want to point fingers, let’s talk about YOUR behavior on campus, Craig and Chris.”

Chris nudged Craig, still grinning.

“Yeah, she’s kinda got us there, but in my defense, I have a girlfriend now and dropped out of that game. Maybe you should take notes, Craig. Sounds like Henry has the whole social life thing figured out without serial nailing every chick he meets.”

Craig scoffed, not having it at all.

Laurence ignored them both, grabbing a mug from the counter, deciding this was far too ridiculous for one night.

“Be all this as it may, just please next time, Juliette, please put your damn note somewhere I can actually see it.”

Juliette smirked, picking up the discarded paper with the useless Scotch tape still attached and quickly sticking it to Laurence’s forehead before he could move away.

Laurence tore the note off, then glared at her.

Chris and Craig laughed again.

And just like that, his quiet night was officially ruined beyond repair.

Act Five: Sunlight and Shadows

For the first time in weeks, the sun broke through Henfordshire’s endless grey, spilling golden light onto the canal, dancing across rooftops, warming the air just enough to make stepping outside bearable.

Laurence barely noticed at first.

He had been writing for hours, mind tangled in revisions, hands aching from the pressure he hadn’t realized he was applying to the keys.

Eventually, the exhaustion crept in—frustration prickling under his skin.

He needed tea.

A break.

Something to force him out of his head for a moment.

He stepped into the kitchen, still distracted, eyes skimming the cabinets as he reached for the kettle.

And that was when—through the backdoor window—he saw her.

Juliette.

She wasn’t studying.

Not really.

Books lay sprawled across the table, pages fluttering lightly in the breeze, but her attention was elsewhere, her fingers tracing the petals of a cluster of wildflowers, their colors soft against the bright afternoon.

Laurence hesitated.

Something shifted in his chest—a quiet pull, something familiar and foreign all at once.

Still holding his tea, he poured a second cup, lingering for a beat before finally stepping outside.

Juliette didn’t notice him immediately, still caught up in whatever thoughts had stolen her attention.

“That’s wood anemone,” he offered casually, setting the second tea cup down near her books, nodding toward the delicate blooms.

Juliette blinked, startled, glancing up at him.

Laurence took a slow sip of his tea, the warm air pressing against his skin, the unexpected brightness making him feel exposed in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Anemone nemorosa,” he added, the Latin rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “In old folklore, they were believed to ward off misfortune. Some healers used them for fever treatments. Never eat them, though—the toxins can be nasty.”

Juliette eyed him closely, lips twitching in something between amusement and irritation.

“Thanks for the info, and no worries, I am not in the habit of snacking on random weeds I see by the wayside. And is there something you don’t know?”

Laurence smirked, taking another sip.

“Had to research it for a book I worked on a while back,” he admitted. “One of the protagonists was an explorer. Botanist.”

Juliette hummed, lifting her own cup, sipping thoughtfully.

Her next question caught him off guard.

“Isn’t it hard?”

Laurence frowned slightly.

“Hard?”

“Writing about characters who do all these big things—explorers, womanizers—while you basically live like a hermit?”

Laurence exhaled slowly, gaze drifting toward the canal, the sunlight glinting off its surface.

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t know.

Unless Henry had said something—but he doubted it. That would bring Henry’s own dirt to light.

Still, Juliette wasn’t asking cruelly.

She was curious.

So he kept his answer measured.

“I’ve done my fair share of traveling. Now I prefer to stay put. Some people are shaped by circumstances,” he said simply. “Not everyone gets to choose the kind of life they end up with.”

Juliette studied him for a long moment.

Laurence could feel the weight of her stare, but he didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

“Circumstances?” she echoed finally.

Laurence hesitated.

Then—for the first time in a long time—he let himself explain more.

“It’s easy to lose sight of what’s possible when you spend your formative years watching people tear each other apart. Doing things you know they shouldn’t be doing. Things that eventually collapse everything you ever knew, everything you ever believed in.”

Juliette didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t fill the space with useless words.

She just listened.

Laurence wasn’t used to that.

So he let the silence stretch, let her curiosity sit without needing immediate defense.

And then—just as the conversation threatened to dive too deep, she shifted, placing her tea down, looking away toward the canal.

“I think I get it. You remember the guy with my brother?” she murmured. “The blonde one—Chris Cameron?”

Laurence nodded.

“His best friend.”

Juliette’s lips pressed together, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup.

“Yeah. My brother’s best friend. Some years ago, when I was still in high school, I had the biggest crush on him,” she admitted. “Always hoping he would finally see me as more than Craig’s sister.”

Laurence stilled.

Juliette sighed, shaking her head.

“He never did. And when he started dating some chick from Newcrest—literally across the country from San Sequoia—I guess that was the slap in my face. He’d rather be in a long-distance relationship than see me?”

Laurence didn’t speak.

Didn’t interrupt.

Juliette swallowed, voice quieter now.

“One summer, she stayed with them. I had front-row seats to it. And something burned out in my brain. I did things I’m not proud of.”

Laurence’s pulse ticked faster.

“What did you do if you don’t mind me asking?”

Juliette exhaled, looking away, almost as if reluctant to put the words into the air.

“I’ll tell you but it may change your mind about me. Remember I was a teen and stupid and crazy in love, at least so I thought. So, the girl, she was just a red flag to me. Her dad had addiction problems all his life. Really bad ones. Chris’ dad saved his life a few times, he’s a doctor, Chris wants to be one too, he’s in med school. Anyway, somehow I thought if I made Indie—her name’s Indigo Blu—look like an addict, Chris would drop her.”

Laurence felt his stomach twist.

Juliette laughed bitterly, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I know, that logic was dead on arrival, but I was so certain that with Indie out of the picture, somehow, he’d fall in love with me.”

Laurence couldn’t look away now.

Juliette sighed.

“Of course, that’s not what happened. And I can’t believe I did that. My parents were so disappointed in me and of course it did the exact opposite of what I hoped for, Chris did finally see me, but only to judge me and look at me like a huge cockroach. And the most ironic part: Indie ended up breaking his heart, and to add salt to my humiliation, he’s now dating another one from our clique. As if I’m completely invisible. I guess I’m just not memorable. Or pretty enough.”

Laurence’s pulse stuttered.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t measure the words.

Just said them.

“But you’re beautiful. And unforgettable.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, absolute, irreversible.

Laurence’s entire nervous system malfunctioned.

Juliette’s eyes widened slightly, her breath catching for half a second.

Laurence’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Juliette’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

He had never meant to say it out loud.

Juliette studied him, searching his expression, something shifting between them in the sunlight—something fragile, something inevitable.

She leaned forward just slightly.

Laurence didn’t move away.

Didn’t breathe properly.

And then—

The kiss happened naturally.

Soft.

Just a quiet gravity pulling them closer.

The scent of tea, sunlight on skin, the faint trace of flowers.

Juliette’s lips were warm, hesitant, testing the waters of something they both knew had been building.

Laurence’s pulse pounded in his ears.

And for a moment—just a moment—he let himself want this.

Need this.

Feel her.

But then—

Panic surged.

His breath cut off.

Every muscle in his body locked up.

His heart raced too fast.

He jerked backward.

Stumbled.

And then—without thinking—he ran.

Away from the table.

Away from the sun.

Away from her.

Juliette sat frozen, still holding her tea, still tasting his warmth on her lips, watching hir hurried retreat in stunned silence.

Laurence didn’t look back.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t let himself process any of it.

Act Six: A Fate Rewritten

Laurence avoided Juliette at all costs.

Every morning, he waited.

Waited for her to leave for Britchester, knowing she combined her class schedule with library hours and visits with friends to make the 1–2-hour train ride worth it—meaning he had hours of uninterrupted solitude before she returned.

Only then would he step out of his bedroom or office.
Only then would he breathe.
Only then would he pretend the kiss had never happened.

But even with the distance—even with the carefully crafted avoidance—the memory refused to fade.

It haunted him.

Consumed him.

Melted his writer’s block.

Pages poured out faster than he could type, his mind unraveling every detail, every conversation, every quiet moment spent watching her from the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn’t looking adding his daydreaming and fantasies to it, making it all real.

And when he finally finished the book, when he finally wrote the last word—he sat frozen, staring at the ending.

A happy one.

Edwin and Celeste chose each other.

Laurence’s pulse ticked unsteadily.

Just as he relaxed, his phone buzzed.

His publisher.

“The deadline’s approaching,” came the voice on the other end. “How’s our masterpiece coming along?”

Laurence swallowed.

“It’s done.”

“Finally! When can you bring it by?”

“Tomorrow,” Laurence murmured, still staring at the manuscript.

Final touches.
Edits.

Whatever mattered when handing over something that had consumed every waking thought for months.

He hung up, exhaling sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Then—

Soft rustling beneath his office door.

A note.

Juliette’s handwriting.

“Party next door. Long week studying—need to blow off some steam. Come find me there. Please. :)”

Laurence cringed instinctively.
Parties. Noise. Crowds. Everything he avoided.

But then—

His eyes drifted to the leather-bound sleeve containing his manuscript.

Edwin had fought for Celeste. Laurence had written that. Which meant—he could do the same.

He could stop watching her from a distance. He could act. He could be Edwin and claim his Celeste.

Laurence dressed carefully, pulling on something presentable.
Something that made him feel like someone who could actually do this.

He reached for his phone in the kitchen—and froze.

Through the backdoor window, his eyes flickered toward the small rosebush, delicate red blooms scattered between the leaves.

Without thinking—without hesitation—he stepped outside.

He ran his fingers along the stems, searching for the perfect rose, finally snapping off a long-stemmed, flawless bloom.

A gesture.

Something honest.

Something real.

He stepped into the backyard, cutting through toward the neighboring townhouse garden—gate open, soft music humming faintly in the night air.

And then— He saw her.
Juliette.

Standing too close to another man.

Laughing.

Her attention fully on him.

Laurence stopped cold, pulse crashing against his ribs.

The man leaned in. Fingers brushing her arm.
Breath close.

Laurence felt it immediately—the sinking, consuming realization that he had miscalculated everything.
Juliette hadn’t been waiting for him. She was here. With him. The nameless stranger.

The rose slipped through Laurence’s fingers.

Fell silently into the grass.

And just like that—he turned back. Nearly ran back in the house, up the stairs to his office. Stepped inside. Locked the door behind him.

And erased the ending.

Laurence tore apart his manuscript, pulling out the happy ending and tossing it in the bin, then turned to the keyboard, erasing huge sections of what he had carefully written, fingers moving too fast, rewriting sentences before he could stop himself.

Edwin and Celeste didn’t choose each other. They drifted apart. Never happened. Never tried.

Because that was reality, wasn’t it?

Not the delusions of hope he had conjured before. Not the version where the underdog won. That version—the hopeful version—lay in the trash.

Juliette found the rose in the backyard.

She hesitated.

Bent down.

Ran her fingers along the soft petals, the snapped stem.

Her brows furrowed deeply. It wasn’t random clutter. This hadn’t fallen off like this, too perfect.
Laurence wouldn’t leave clutter. Laurence wouldn’t leave anything misplaced. And it hadn’t been here before she left.

She ran inside and up the stairs to his office, knocked.

No answer.
She waited.

Still—no answer. She tried the handle. Locked.

The next morning, Laurence was gone before she woke up.

Avoiding her.

Escaping.

Juliette’s stomach sank.

He had seen something. Misunderstood something. And had run before she could explain the drunk guy who kept creeping into her personal bubble, but she was the girl from abroad so she didn’t want to be too rude, but kept pulling away and telling him no.

She let the disappointment settle deep—just for a moment—before something else took over.

Curiosity. Determination.
She had never been inside Laurence’s office.
She assumed it was locked. But when she tried the door handle—It opened.

Juliette scanned the room, eyes skimming the desk, the notebooks, the stacks of papers.

And then—she saw it.

The trash bin, overflowing with discarded pages.

Laurence was meticulous.

Precise.

This was unnatural. Laurence was too pedantic for this. He would never leave a trashcan this full for long. Definitely wouldn’t leave the house like this.

She frowned, kneeling down, smoothing out one of the discarded pages—

And stopped breathing. It was his book. The ending.

A happy ending.

He had thrown it away.

Juliette’s pulse pounded, realization settling into her bones. This wasn’t just a book with random fictional characters. This was them. He was Edmund and she was Celeste. And in this version they ended up in a beautiful romance. But why was this in the trash? It was great. Sounded like any book she ever read. And where was the rest of it? The beginning.

She looked around and finally found it in the leather sleeve on his desk. She read the whole thing in one sitting, until the part where the ending she read should go, but instead it was a cold goodbye making the blood run ice in her veins.

Laurence had rewritten the ending. Their ending.

Laurence had decided Edwin and Celeste weren’t meant to be together. Laurence had decided he wasn’t meant to have her. Celeste met someone else, married him and moved away.

Juliette sat motionless, holding the pages in her hands, holding his thoughts, his fears, his hesitation, his heartbreak—everything he hadn’t told her. Truth was, there was so much she hadn’t told him either. She was just a girl from San Sequoia, one of millions. Nothing special about her. Never been an outstanding student, exceptional at anything. Always in the shadow of her brother and his best friend. One reason she wanted so desperately to study at Britchester. The elite university. It made her something. Initially her grades hadn’t been good enough to get her in, so she studied a few semesters locally, putting in a lot of work until finally, she got the letter. Which caused new problems. Dorm rooms were booked years in advance, everything was super-expensive and while her parents weren’t exactly poor, they weren’t millionaires either. But if she could pull this off, if she could say she graduated from Britchester, it would make her someone. Special somehow.

Though now, she kinda was distracted by her odd roommate. Initially she found Laurence ridiculous and borderline creepy with this weird quirks and strange habits. Until she got to know him better. She quickly realized there was much to be had beneath all that.

When Henry noticed her and flirted with her she was thrilled. A Lord Monfort-Yates interested in HER? Yes please. But quickly she realized he was just like her brother and Chris. Same type. No thank you. Not another one of those. Laurence had always acted so uninterested, she honestly had thought he might be gay, not one bit interested in her or any other girl as there were no photos of anyone, let alone girls, she had stalked him online but every social presence he had was barely updated and only ever about his writing. Yet, every single book he wrote was about heterosexual love, with the occasional gay family member or friends sprinkled in. Why would a gay man not write about something closer to home? Then when she realized he thought she was dating his cousin, it made more sense. And when she kissed him, she knew he liked her and the way she tingled all over told her the feeling was mutual.

So—she made her choice.

Laurence sent the manuscript without knowing.

Weeks passed.

Proofing, printing, publishing.

And then—finally—his publisher called.

Laurence arrived at Langston’s office, signing the final paperwork, accepting his check, barely absorbing the praise.

Langston grinned, clasping a firm hand onto his shoulder.

“No matter the year, century, or millennium—readers are suckers for a feel-good story where the underdog wins and gets the girl. Hurray for a happy ending.”

Laurence froze mid-step.

Happy ending?

Wait a minute—

Langston ushered him out of his office and shut the door before he could ask.

Laurence didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He stormed to the nearest bookshop, shoving through the entrance, ignoring the polite greeting of the cashier, heading straight for the new arrivals section.

There it was.
His book.
He grabbed a copy.
Flipped to the final pages.
And his entire world shifted.
Not the new ending.
The old one.
The original one.
The happy ending.

Juliette.

She had switched them.

She had found the discarded pages.

She had fixed it.

Laurence rushed home, breath uneven, heart racing, slamming open the door—

Juliette stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, cup of coffee in hand.

She turned.

Laurence held up the book.

“Did you swap out the endings?”

Juliette set her cup down.

“Yes.”

Laurence exhaled sharply.

“Why?”

Juliette stepped forward, fingers curling around the book, looking at the title image, then at him, holding it between them.

“Can you make it so?”

Laurence didn’t breathe. Her eyes were steady, waiting. Not mocking. Not pitying. Just waiting. Laurence felt everything at once. The book in his hands. Juliette standing too close, waiting. The weight of her words.

“Just like this? Can you do that?” she asked. She had rewritten his ending, but now—she wanted him to rewrite his own.

Laurence swallowed, his pulse uneven.

He had run before. Had rewritten the past to erase what he didn’t know how to handle. But now—standing here, her eyes holding steady on him, unwavering, certain—running didn’t feel like an option. He could step back. Could retreat. Could let this slip away again.

Or—

His fingers curled tighter around the book. Juliette exhaled softly. Still waiting.

Laurence breathed in—then finally, finally let himself breathe out.

“I can try.”

Juliette’s lips parted—somewhere between relief, surprise, and something else entirely.

Laurence felt her gaze press into him, quiet, unspoken, undeniable.

The silence stretched—but this time, it wasn’t empty.

It was waiting for something real to begin. Laurence didn’t manage any grand gestures. He didn’t even manage to really move or speak.

But he managed to stay. This time—

Laurence didn’t run.
A small gesture, negligible to some. But Juliette had figured out that this was a grand gesture coming from him.

“Will you celebrate your book release with me? I bought wine. I have to warn you: I am no connoisseur, and I am on a student’s budget.”

Act Seven: A Moment Unrushed

Laurence relaxed into the chair, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, exhaling softly as the warmth of the drink settled into his chest.

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he wasn’t on edge.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward.

It was easy.

Comfortable.

Juliette watched him carefully, curling her fingers around her own glass, swirling the deep red liquid idly.

“Why me?” Laurence asked suddenly, voice steady but quiet, curiosity laced through the words.

Juliette’s eyes lifted to his, unwavering.

“Because you’re not like the other guys. Which is a good thing, trust me.”

Laurence chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“I am odd. Quirky. Strange. And I know it. I know what I am and what I am never going to be. Do you?”

Juliette smirked, taking another sip before responding.

“I like your quirks. Well, some are a bit extra. Like when you leave, then come back inside and check the stove and the fireplace again. You already did that, usually twice before you left. Every. Single. Time.”

Laurence laughed, rich and unguarded, swirling the wine in his glass before taking another sip.

Juliette’s eyebrows shot up.

“That’s justified,” he said, leaning back slightly. “My father let two of our former estates burn down—forgot the fireplace. And the oven. Granted, he was most likely drunk, or otherwise intoxicated—absent-minded at best. But it dehomed us. More than once.

He exhaled, fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass.

“And considering this place isn’t even truly mine, I’d hate to be the one responsible for burning down property owned by the only people who ever truly helped me when I needed it most.”

“Estates? Plural? So, you really were rich once? And a Lord?”

Laurence exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly.

“Still am a Lord. Just doesn’t mean much anymore. And yes, we once were very wealthy, influential and our name meant something. Still does, I suppose, but now more as a cautionary tale.”

He lifted his glass, inspecting the deep red against the candlelight.

“And I clearly don’t own anything besides what’s in this house. If you ever look up the word ‘reject’ in a dictionary, you will find my photo.”

Juliette snorted, shaking her head.

“Maybe in the Henfordian version. The mainland dictionaries have me under reject—and also under loser.”

Laurence’s amusement shifted, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Why do you keep saying such things?” he asked, tilting his head, genuine curiosity flickering in his expression. “Your family clearly cherishes you. I hear you talking to them, and to your many friends, and I met your brother, he clearly cares about you a lot. You are so clever, witty… beautiful.”

Juliette’s fingers froze around the stem of her glass.

She lifted her eyes, gaze piercing through him, holding his words still in the air.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

Laurence’s lips curved slightly, his voice steady, deliberate.

“Ravishing.”

Juliette blinked.

And then—

She smirked.

“If I were to hypothetically kiss you again,” she mused, tilting her head slightly, “would you run again and make things weird between us again?”

Laurence chuckled, shaking his head.

“I don’t know. It’s not intentional. I can’t really control it.”

Juliette hummed thoughtfully, finishing the last sip of her wine.

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Well, we’re almost through this bottle. Do you have any more wine? I think two bottles should do the trick. If anything, make you too drunk to just be able to run.”

Laurence laughed again, rich, warm, shaking his head in quiet amusement.

He sighed, setting down his glass, running a hand through his hair.

Then—

“Don’t worry, I’m not running.”

He stood, holding out his hand.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Juliette hesitated only for a moment before slipping her fingers into his palm, letting him pull her up.

Laurence led her up the staircase—but this time, for the first time since she moved in, he took her somewhere new. The other staircase. The forbidden one.

The one to his bedroom.

Juliette blinked, hesitating on the threshold, eyes flickering across the space. She liked him and definitely wouldn’t mind making out with him, but bedroom stuff. That was a bit much.

Laurence caught her hesitation, holding up a hand.

“Please—no worries. I’m not trying anything.”

He nodded toward the far side of the room.

“This way.”

Juliette relaxed, following him until he reached a door—one she hadn’t noticed before.

Laurence pushed it open, stepping outside.

Juliette followed.

And then—

She stopped breathing.

Before them, at this height, the town stretched out in soft golden lights—the canal reflecting the shimmer, the small houses winding toward the rolling hills of Henfordshire, green and lush even under the night sky.

“That is stunning,” Juliette murmured, awestruck.

Laurence’s gaze drifted sideways, watching her reaction.

She was silent, taking it all in, the soft breeze shifting through her hair, her profile bathed in silver moonlight.

“Yes, it is,” he murmured.

And then—

He kissed her.

Not sudden.

Not rushed.

Just a slow gravity pulling them toward what had already been inevitable from the start.

Juliette tilted into him, her fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, warmth pressing against warmth, the world falling away beneath them.

Laurence didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t run.

Not this time.