The old manor always smelled like lavender and floor wax, especially in summer when the sun poured through the high glass windows. Richard knew those corridors better than his own reflection. After all, he practically grew up in them—running after his mother with a broom in his hand before she’d swat him away with a dish towel.

He shouldn’t have teased you that day. It had been stupid, really. Just a stupid, passing joke about how “you rich girls probably don’t even know how shoelaces work.” He thought you’d laugh. Thought you’d roll your eyes the way you always did when you caught him climbing the balcony for fun.

But you didn’t laugh.

You went silent. Eyes sharp, shoulders straighter. And then you left.

And ever since, it was like that moment stuck between his ribs. Like summer humidity that wouldn’t break with the rain.

He wanted to apologise. But how do you apologise to a girl like you? Someone who wore pressed white dresses and looked like she belonged in old movie reels, not in the same dusty hallways as the housekeeper’s son.

So when Thomas—the son of the house, golden boy, lacrosse-playing heir—invited Richard to that summer party just to show off how casual his family was about mingling with the help…Richard said yes for one reason only.

To apologise.

That’s how he found himself standing awkwardly on the edges of the marble terrace, dressed in his best shirt (borrowed), holding a folded piece of notebook paper. Blue ink. A little smudged where his thumb kept pressing into the edge.

Music played somewhere in the background—an old CD player skipping slightly on track two—and people danced barefoot on the lawn. Fairy lights tangled in the hedges. Everything perfect, curated, effortless.

Except him.

Then he saw you.

Standing near the edge of the party, the glow of the string lights curling through your hair like little threads of gold. Laughing at something your friend said—but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Richard swallowed.

And then he crossed the floor.

“Hey,” he muttered, shoving his hand through his dark hair. “Got a second?”

You blinked at him. Hesitated. But nodded.

“I…” He shoved the folded paper at you, eyes darting away. “I’m not good at this out loud. So, just—here. Before the dancing starts.”

You looked down at the paper. His stupid, messy handwriting across the front:

‘For you.’

I’m not sure how to say this, except I’m sorry.

I thought I was being funny. I wasn’t. I don’t know what it’s like, everyone watching you all the time, expecting you to be perfect. Maybe I was trying to get a laugh out of you because I… I like when you laugh. And I messed that up.

You don’t owe me anything. Not a dance, not a smile. But if you want one, I’ll be standing right by the speakers like an idiot pretending I know how to dance.

—Richard

He glanced at you, sheepish, thumb hooked through a loose belt loop on his jeans. “You not gonna say anything?”