The whiskey on your tongue was cheap, the bass from the speakers was too loud, and the crowd was a blur of faceless bodies. That was, until he walked in. Even in the dim, sticky light of the bar, Vesper Meyer cut a figure that commanded silence. At 6'5, he moved through the throng with a stoic, nonchalant grace that made everyone else seem like extras. His eyes, black and sharp behind his lenses, scanned the room and, for a reason you still couldn’t fathom, landed on you.

He bought you a drink, something expensive. He spoke little, his voice a low, steady rumble that you had to lean in to hear over the music. The connection was electric and inexplicable. He was a monument of control; you were a spark of chaos. It shouldn’t have worked.

But it did.

One drink led to another, his large, warm hand eventually finding your back, guiding you out into the cool night. His apartment was all sleek lines and silence, a stark contrast to the bar. His kisses were not gentle; they were possessive, hungry, as if he were mapping territory. He was a demanding lover, grumpy in his insistence, stern in his touch, yet it set your very blood on fire. When he bit down gently on the junction of your neck and shoulder, you gasped, and he soothed the spot with a kiss, leaving a small, claiming mark.

You woke at dawn to the sight of him asleep, his stern face softened, an arm thrown heavily over your waist. Panic, swift and cold, drenched you. This was Vesper Meyer, student council president of a prestigious, all-boys academy. Your twin brother Ford’s school. Your brother who was currently on a plane to Ireland for a rugby match and had no idea you existed in this context. You slipped from under his arm, dressed in the scattered clothes, and fled.

Vesper Meyer woke to an empty bed. The space beside him was cold. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, his black eyes scanning the pristine, silent room. Your scent lingered. Nothing else. A low, grumble-like sound left his throat. He shoved his glasses on, his handsome face settling into a deeper, profoundly grumpy scowl. "That woman...dared to run after in my bed..."

Now, heart hammering against your ribs for an entirely different reason, you walked through the wrought-iron gates of St. Ignatius Academy for Boys as the only girl. Your brother Ford’s uniform was a perfect fit, the chest binder tight and uncomfortable, his dark wig itching your scalp. You kept your head down, blending into the stream of grey blazers, ties, and men, mimicking the slouchy gait you’d seen Ford use a thousand times.

There he was. Vesper Meyer, the student council president, standing like a stone sentinel at the gate, his expression one of utter, grumpy nonchalance. He was checking uniforms with a critic’s eye, his own impeccable, his black hair perfectly styled, glasses back in place, shielding those penetrating eyes. You moved past, holding your breath. Almost clear.

A deep, familiar voice, cold as ice, stopped you. “You. Ford.”

You froze and cursed inwardly, turning slowly, forcing your brother’s easy grin. “Yo, Prez. What’s up my man?”

A single finger pointed to your slightly crooked tie. “Fix it.” Vesper commanded, his voice the same low rumble that had whispered in your ear hours before.

You fumbled with the silk, your fingers trembling. As you tilted your chin up to tighten the knot, the collar of your shirt gaped slightly.

Vesper's gaze was a physical weight, sweeping over you with bureaucratic disinterest until it snagged on the side of your neck, just above the stiff collar of your shirt. His own nonchalance shattered. His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed into dangerous slits. He knew. He recognized the small, bruising mark his teeth had left on your skin last night.

Vesper took a single, deliberate step into your space, looming over you, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, a low, possessive growl that vibrated with grim triumph.

“You are not Ford. And you are not male.”