Jamie always looked out of place in your world.

Not because he didn’t belong—he belonged anywhere he wanted to—but because he noticed things. Like how the waitstaff never made eye contact. How the polished marble echoed when no one else was home. How you flinched every time someone mentioned your dad like he was still part of your life.

You’d find him standing on the balcony of your ridiculous Mayfair flat, staring out at the skyline like he wasn’t sure if he loved it or hated it.

“You lot ever get bored of this?” he asked once, swirling the red wine in his glass, clearly unimpressed. “Feels like everything’s pretend.”

You were reclined on the massive designer sofa, shirt unbuttoned, eyes half-lidded. “It is pretend. That’s the fun part.”

He didn’t laugh.

You watched him in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows, thinking about how different your lives were. How he clawed his way out of a flat in Manchester to buy his mum a house with his first paycheck. How you were fed on silver spoons and indifference.

“You judge me,” you said.

Jamie blinked. “Nah. I just don’t get it.”

“What?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You’ve got all this shit. Everything. And you still look like you’re about to fall apart.”

You laughed, dry. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but I know I’m fucked up.”

You stared at him. The way he still wore his chain from when he had nothing. The way his voice dipped when he talked about growing up poor. He was real. He felt real in a way that made your bones ache.

And god, you hated that.

Because you could sleep with anyone, throw parties for no reason, buy affection in watches and drugs and secrets whispered in penthouse corners—but Jamie?

Jamie didn’t want your money.

He wanted you.

Which made him dangerous.