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?” someone had said, shaking their head. You’d shrugged. “World’s ending, I suppose.”

It was funny. You—raised on noise, tight spaces, and making do—heading somewhere the rich and untouchable treated like tradition.

You stood out immediately. Like you’d walked into the wrong story and refused to leave.

It became even clearer when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King, effortlessly regal, daughter of King Enterprise. Ava Nash, all warmth and sharp intelligence, heir to the Nash empire. Cecily, quiet but observant, daughter of a businessman whose influence was everywhere. And Annika—cold-eyed, composed, daughter of a Bratva Obshchak, who carried danger like it was second nature.

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

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

“Somewhere loud,” you replied. “And unimpressed by money.”

Ava laughed. “Oh, you’re staying.”

Annika watched you longer than the others, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.

“You don’t flinch,” she said eventually.

You shrugged. “No point.”

That earned you a small, approving nod.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Gareth arrived late—quietly, smoothly—like someone who never rushed because the world waited for him. Annika stood when she saw him.

“Friend,” she said simply.

Gareth was sophisticated in a way that felt deliberate. Tailored coat, easy confidence, a voice that never rose because it didn’t need to. His eyes landed on you almost immediately—and didn’t leave.

Annika followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said. “That’s {{user}}.”

Gareth smiled. Not polite. Not distant.

Interested.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said calmly.

You met his eyes without hesitation. “Neither do you, if we’re being honest.”

A beat passed.

Then he laughed—low, genuine. “I like you.”

Something in his tone made it sound less like an opinion and more like a decision.

From then on, he was there. Always close enough. Always watching. When others spoke to you too long, Gareth’s presence subtly shifted—an arm resting behind your chair, a hand at the small of your back that lingered just a second too long.

Once, when someone interrupted you mid-sentence, Gareth cut in smoothly.

“They weren’t finished,” he said, smiling pleasantly.

The room quieted.

Later, you confronted him.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

“Act like I’m—” you gestured vaguely, “—yours.”

His smile didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened.

“I don’t act,” Gareth replied softly. “I simply protect what I value.”

“That sounds dangerous,” you said.

His eyes darkened—not threatening. Certain.

“It can be,” he agreed. “For everyone else.”

It shouldn’t have worked. You—sharp-edged, unapologetic. Him—controlled, charming, and possessive in a way that felt intentional.

And yet—

Somehow, it did.