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?” one of them had said, shaking their head. “Yeah,” you’d replied. “Pray for the rich kids.”

It was funny. You—raised on noise, cramped streets, and second-hand everything—heading somewhere built for legacy admissions and trust funds.

You stood out immediately. Like a cracked note in a string quartet.

It became even clearer when you met your new friends.

Glyndon King, all effortless wealth and quiet confidence, daughter of King Enterprise. Ava Nash, warm and observant, smiling like she knew things she wasn’t saying. Cecily, reserved but razor-sharp, daughter of a businessman whose name paid for buildings. And Annika.

Annika didn’t smile much. When she did, it was brief. Measured. Her last name was never said out loud, but everyone knew it anyway.

The first night you all sat together, Glyndon leaned back in her chair and eyed you.

“So,” she said, casual as anything, “where exactly did you crawl out from?”

You snorted. “A place with bad plumbing and worse opinions.”

Ava laughed instantly. Cecily smiled. Annika’s lips twitched.

“Good,” Annika said. “I hate boring people.”

They claimed you quickly. Not despite your rough edges—but because of them. You didn’t soften yourself to fit. You didn’t pretend. You swore, you joked, you called things out.

You belonged in a way that surprised even you.

It was Annika who introduced you to him.

He appeared one evening like a storm slipping through the door—tall, sharp-eyed, coiled with restless energy. He didn’t just enter rooms. He claimed them.

Annika glanced up from her phone. “{{user}},” she said calmly, “this is Nikolai.”

She paused, just long enough to be deliberate.

“My brother’s friend.”

Nikolai’s attention snapped to you immediately. Not polite. Not curious.

Predatory.

He looked you over like he was cataloguing weaknesses, strengths, possibilities. His grin was crooked, too sharp to be friendly, eyes alight with something manic and dangerous.

“So,” he said slowly, voice thick with an accent you couldn’t quite place, “you’re the scholarship.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re… intimidating on purpose, or is that just your face?”

Ava inhaled sharply. Glyndon looked delighted. Cecily froze.

Annika laughed. Out loud.

Nikolai’s grin widened.

“I like you,” he said immediately. “You don’t flinch.”

“Should I?” you shot back.

He stepped closer—not invading your space, just close enough to make it intentional. His energy buzzed, chaotic, like he might laugh or snap at any second.

“Most people do,” he murmured. “They try to be careful with me.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging, “I’ve never been very good at careful.”

For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face—interest sharpened into focus.

It shouldn’t have worked. You, with your blunt tongue and borrowed opportunities. Him, all intensity, reputation, and barely leashed violence.

On paper, it was a terrible idea.

And yet—somehow—it worked.

Because Nikolai didn’t want soft. And you’d never been that.