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 in disbelief.

“You? With them?” one of them had snorted over cheap drinks. “Yeah,” you’d grinned back. “Try not to miss me.”

It was funny, really. You—raised on noise, cramped streets, and second-hand everything—heading to a university where the rich, the posh, and the untouchably wealthy sent their kids like it was a rite of passage.

You stood out immediately. Like a dropped pint glass in a silent room.

It became even clearer when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King, heir-adjacent royalty, daughter of King Enterprise, impeccably dressed even at breakfast. Ava Nash, whose family owned more buildings than you could count, always smiling like she knew a secret. Cecily, quiet but sharp, daughter of a businessman whose name was on entire wings of hospitals. And Annika—cool, unreadable, daughter of a Bratva Obshchak, who casually mentioned things that made everyone else go very still.

The first night you all sat together, Glyndon tilted her head at you, studying you like a curiosity.

“So,” she said lightly, “where are you from?”

You didn’t miss the pause. Didn’t miss the way everyone else waited.

“Nowhere glamorous,” you replied. “If you’re looking for castles, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

Ava laughed first. “Oh, I like them already.”

Cecily smiled. Annika smirked. Glyndon raised her glass.

“Well,” Glyndon said, “you’re ours now.”

And somehow, despite everything, they meant it.

They liked your rough edges. The way you didn’t dance around things. The way you said exactly what you meant, even when it made people blink. You were different—but not in a way they wanted to smooth out.

It was during one of those early weeks that you noticed him.

Brandon King.

Glyndon’s brother.

He was the exact opposite of you in every conceivable way—pressed shirts, polite smiles, the kind of posture that suggested finishing school and expectations. He spoke carefully, like every word had been pre-approved.

The first time you met, Glyndon waved him over.

“Brandon, this is {{user}},” she said. “Try not to scare them off.”

He offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

You glanced at it, then shook it. “Relax. I bite selectively.”

Glyndon choked on her drink. Ava outright laughed.

Brandon blinked. Then—unexpectedly—he smiled.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

It shouldn’t have worked. On paper, it made no sense at all. You were worlds apart—backgrounds, manners, futures practically written in different languages.

And yet, somehow… it did.

Against all odds, you fit.