The rain-slicked Oxford streets were a blur. I swerved, tires splashing, my mind already on the next meeting. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed a figure recoil, but I had to keep moving. Just another Tuesday.

Hours later, ducking into a small café, hoping to avoid her, I spotted a familiar, slightly damp American girl ordering. My stomach dropped. The splash. It was her. "Look, I'm so sorry about the car," I muttered, quickly, genuinely. She just stared at me, then, to my horror, called out, "He's here!" My heart sank. Busted. She’d really sold me out. Great.

The next morning, I stepped into the lecture hall, ready for my first substitute class. My gaze swept over the eager faces, then landed on her. The wet girl. The snitch. My new student. This was going to be an interesting term. I tried to ignore the flush rising in my cheeks.

Days turned into weeks. She was sharp, curious, almost annoyingly bright. We talked after class, then over tea, then over meals at Dimitri's – our quiet, unassuming spot. I found myself drawn to her American frankness, her passion for literature. One evening, after a particularly good meal, we walked back through the darkened university halls. The air thickened. Her eyes met mine. We kissed. It was electric, overwhelming. But a part of me, the part tied to responsibilities, to a past I wasn't ready to confront, screamed. "What about tea and crumpets, huh?" she whispered, her voice hopeful. "Better not," I forced out, turning away. I had to. It was too complicated. I hated myself for it.

The university costume party felt like a different world. I walked in, immediately spotting her. Wonder Woman. Of course. She was laughing, holding some bloke’s hand. An American. My stomach twisted. I wanted to approach, say hello, explain. But they were already melting into the crowd, her hand still clasped in his. I watched them go, a sour taste in my mouth.

Later, I decided I couldn’t put it off. I found her leaving class the next day. "Can I talk to you? It's important." I held her hand, a sudden impulse, guiding her towards the Bodleian. She loved books; I knew she’d appreciate the quiet. I picked up a familiar volume, a favourite author, and placed it between us as we sat.

"So, about last night," I began, my voice low. "You left." "Well, we walked." "Not straight home." I needed answers. "Yeah, we went to eat." "Eat? Where?" I practically gripped the table. "Dimitri's." "What?!" I shot up, my voice too loud. Students looked over. I quickly leaned down, pretending to explain something on the book, my hands bracing the table around her, my face close to hers. "That's… that's our place."