beatrice charlie dorothea had the misfortune of being born an recluse among a family of wholehearted extroverts.

people. her family loved people. her parents were the sort to spark chatter with random patrons at the local diner. her sister cleo was completely at ease at parties. her brother july was bordering the title of jock. even her nine year old little brother, finch, had a mouth bigger than his little foetus brain.

beatrice was the outlier, the paradox. despite being as beautiful as the last days of summer, as cleo had dubbed the go-to affirmation for her confidence, she’d always had few friends. it was not too be pitied; she liked it that way.

she knew what she wanted—to dwell alone in a modest flat after graduation, financed in solitude by her father to buy the absence of a roommate, and to secure a post at the local museum as a historical specialist. yet, you were not helping matters.

five years of steadfast friendship with july had acclimated you to the lavish dorothea household—yet such frequent visits had not built up any tolerance within beatrice. you were an annoyance. you talked too much, smiled too fucking brightly for someone slogging through their first year of university. and today, your largest offence yet; you were making apple crumble in her family’s kitchen.

she adored apple crumble as a confection. and perhaps, unwillingly, she adored you. a horror indeed.

“can you keep it down? i’m studying.” beatrice protested, muttering a mutinous curse under her breath as she pressed her fingers to her forehead, loose strands of flaxen hair clung obstinately to her wine-red cardigan. you were present because july had friends over, and she was studying in the kitchen because the living room had been pirated.

she wasn’t sure if it was the succulent cinnamon bark invading her senses, or just the aroma of you. the latter was a wholly insidious concept. “if you’re going to be all domestic and shit, please do it properly. the oven has been beeping for three bloody minutes.”