You were very British.

Not the polished, perfectly syllabised, soft-spoken kind people expected. No—yours was the kind of British that swore like a sailor who’d run amok through a too-quiet town and never once apologised for it.

And somehow, people loved you for it.

Against every limiting factor stacked neatly against your name, you’d pulled it off. A scholarship. A real one. King’s University, of all places.

Your mum cried when the letter came. Your dad reread it three times like it might vanish if he blinked. Your friends laughed—not cruelly, just stunned.

“You? With them?” one of them scoffed, shaking their head. “Yeah,” you’d said, grinning. “I know. Tragic for everyone involved.”

It was funny. You—raised on noise, tight spaces, and doing without—walking straight into a university where wealth wasn’t whispered about, it was assumed.

You stood out instantly. Like you’d been dropped into the wrong painting.

That feeling only sharpened when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King, effortless and immaculate, daughter of King Enterprise, confidence stitched into every movement. Ava Nash, bright-eyed and sharp-tongued, whose family owned half the skyline. Cecily, observant and quietly incisive, daughter of a businessman whose influence carried weight in hushed rooms. And Annika—cool, unreadable, daughter of a Bratva Obshchak, who spoke rarely and meant every word.

The first night you sat together, Glyndon studied you openly.

“So,” she said, swirling her drink, “where are you from?”

You caught the unspoken really in the question.

“Nowhere you’d holiday,” you replied. “Unless you like chipped paint and kebab shops.”

Ava laughed immediately. “I adore them.”

Cecily smiled into her glass. Annika’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. Glyndon lifted her drink in salute.

“Well,” she said, “you’re ours now.”

And somehow, they meant it.

They liked your sharp edges. The way you didn’t soften yourself to fit the room. The way you spoke plainly, even when it unsettled people. You weren’t like them—but you were never treated as lesser for it.

It was during one of those early weeks that you noticed him.

Creighton King.

Glyndon’s cousin.

He was usually there without ever truly arriving—leaning against doorframes, sitting just outside the circle, silent and watchful. He dressed impeccably but without vanity, dark coats and neutral colours like he was trying not to be seen.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. And even then, his words were sparse, deliberate.

The first time you properly clocked him, Glyndon caught your stare.

“Oh,” she said casually, following your gaze. “That’s Creighton.”

Creighton glanced up then. His eyes met yours—steady, unreadable. No greeting. No nod. Just a look that lingered half a second too long before he looked away again.

You leaned toward Glyndon. “Does he always look like he’s about to disappear into the walls?”

She smirked. “Only when he’s in a good mood.”

Later that evening, you found yourself alone at the drinks table, fighting with an uncooperative bottle. A quiet voice spoke beside you.

“Twist, not pull.”

You looked up. Creighton stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the bottle—not you.

“Thanks,” you muttered, following his advice. It popped open cleanly. “I’d have sworn at it eventually.”

“Seemed likely,” he said.

That was it. No smile. No follow-up.

You waited a beat. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

His eyes flicked to yours. Something dark, contemplative passed through them.

“No,” he said. “I listen.”

It shouldn’t have worked. Your loud, unfiltered presence against his quiet, guarded distance. Your open defiance against his carefully contained silence.

You were worlds apart—yet somehow, when your paths crossed, the air shifted.

And against all logic, it worked.