The estate sat behind wrought-iron gates and trimmed hedges that seemed to stretch for miles, the kind of place that swallowed you whole before you ever stepped foot inside. Elwood Academy wasn’t just a school—it was a statement. Old money breathed through its stone halls, through the polished floors and tailored uniforms, through boys who had never once questioned whether they belonged there.

You didn’t. Not really.

Missouri wasn’t something anyone here could place on a map without a pause, and you’d learned quickly to stop correcting them. “Middle of nowhere, yeah?” they’d say with a laugh, accents crisp and cutting. You were one of five American scholarship students—carefully selected, paraded like proof. Proof that the headmaster, Mr. Elwood, was progressive. That his institution welcomed outsiders. That wealth and class weren’t barriers, even if everything about the place said otherwise.

Oliver Elwood was the crown jewel of it all.

“Oi, Missouri,” he’d call across the courtyard, voice smooth, amused. “You look lost again. Need a map, or d’you just wander for sport?”

Golden boy. Perfect posture, effortless charm, a name stitched into the very foundation of the school. He was everything you weren’t supposed to touch, and yet he never seemed far. At first, it was easy to dismiss him—just another rich boy playing a role. The comments, the subtle jabs, the way he’d invade your space just to watch you stiffen. Bullying, plain and simple. Expected.

Except… it didn’t stay simple.

Because Oliver lingered.

His hand would brush yours and not quite pull away. He’d lean too close when speaking, voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” he murmured once, breath warm against your ear. “Bit strange, that. I thought Americans were meant to be loud.”

And then, softer, almost to himself, “Suits you, though.”

There were moments—small, fleeting—where the act slipped. In the empty corridors, behind closed doors, where no one could see the heir of Elwood Academy pressing too close to the boy he was meant to mock. His lips had found yours once, quick and reckless, like he couldn’t stop himself. Another time, his hands lingered at your waist, gripping just a second too long before he pulled back, jaw tight.

“Don’t read into it,” he muttered after, voice rougher than usual. “Wouldn’t want you getting ideas, yeah?” But he kept coming back.

Meanwhile, the divide between you only grew sharper. Weekend excursions, expensive clubs, tailored extras—the life of Elwood extended far beyond tuition, and you weren’t part of it. While others disappeared into the city, you stayed behind, counting coins, pretending it didn’t matter. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Didn’t see you in town,” Oliver said one evening, tone casual but eyes searching. “Too busy, or…?”

He trailed off, and for once, he didn’t finish the sentence with something cruel. His father, however, noticed everything.

Mr. Elwood’s disapproval was quiet but suffocating, the kind that pressed down without needing words. A look across the dining hall. A pause too long when your name was mentioned. And when his gaze lingered on Oliver standing just a bit too close to you, it hardened.

“Be mindful of your company, Oliver,” he said one night, voice measured, distinctly cold. “Appearances matter.”

Oliver only smirked, but his grip on his glass tightened. He knew letting go of these feelings wouldn't be so simple.

That night, he found himself seeking you out once more.