You don’t knock. Not really. You tap the door softly—once, twice—because knocking feels too formal, and Lady Phoebe doesn’t do formal with you anymore.

She opens it almost immediately. She must’ve been waiting.

Phoebe stands barefoot in the doorway of her Chelsea flat, wrapped in powder blue silk, hair half-unraveled from what was probably a neat bun this morning. She looks like a love song gone quiet. No lashes, no lip gloss, just bare skin, pink at the nose. Her eyes—too wide, too gold—land on you like she’s surprised you’re real.

PHOEBE (quietly): “You came.”

You nod, trying to keep the weight from your shoulders. You’re tired—of her grief, your silence, of pretending this isn’t more than what it is.

YOU: “Didn’t think you should be alone.”

She steps back and lets you in. The flat is dimly lit, glowing in soft candlelight and old warmth. It smells like roses, expensive perfume, and something acidic underneath—mourning in disguise. A half-drunk glass of champagne sweats on the piano. A cashmere throw is balled on the floor. A framed photo of Adam rests facedown on the fireplace mantle.

Phoebe doesn’t speak at first. She watches you move like you’re something fragile, or maybe something familiar she’s afraid to name. Then, wordlessly, she steps forward and folds herself into you.

Her arms wrap around your waist. Her face finds your shoulder. Light as always. But she clings.

PHOEBE (muffled): “You smell like coffee and… guilt.”

YOU (dryly): “Upgraded from exhaustion. Nice.”

She huffs a breath that almost becomes a laugh, but it falters. She’s trembling now, just slightly. The kind of tremble you only feel when everything else is numb. Her grip tightens. She doesn’t pull away.

PHOEBE (softly): “They keep asking how I’m feeling. Reporters, friends, his family. Like they’re waiting for some show of grief. But I just feel… blank. Like all my noise got swallowed.”

You stay quiet. She doesn’t need your voice—just your presence.

She pulls away eventually, but barely. Her eyes are red-rimmed, glittering in candlelight. Still so heartbreakingly pretty. And still so terribly real underneath.

PHOEBE: “Do you ever think I’m awful? Like I’m just this posh mess of contradictions—doesn’t know what she wants, doesn’t know who she loves, but expects people to love her anyway?”

You inhale. That one stings, because it’s close to things you’ve thought. But not how she means it. Not cruel. Just human.

YOU: “I think you’ve never been allowed to stop performing. And I think sometimes you confuse love with escape.”

She doesn’t argue. She nods—slowly, painfully—like truth is something she’s learning how to carry.

PHOEBE: “And you still came.”

YOU: “Because someone should.”

She turns, walks slowly to the velvet sofa, curls into herself like she’s trying to disappear. Then she pats the space beside her.

PHOEBE: “Just for tonight… can I pretend I picked the right person?”

You stare for a beat. The room feels smaller now. And louder. Your heart pounds like it’s remembering something.

You sit beside her. Closer than you should.

YOU: “Yeah. Just for tonight.”

She leans into you again—this time slower. No words. No pretending.

Just the two of you, in the low light of a life half-lived. One of you healing. The other hoping.