Chapter Text
The test began the moment the jet’s engines whined into silence.
They had crossed an ocean of history in a flight of less than an hour.
Ava led Beatrice from the small aircraft across the tarmac of the regional airport to a waiting car- chauffeured. Beatrice noted it, another data point in the new, unflinching reality of Ava’s wealth. They drove in silence through the rolling, green-gold landscape of the Loire Valley, past vineyards and stone farmhouses, until they turned down a gravel drive lined with ancient chestnut trees.
The house at the end was a maison de maître, a small, perfect 18th-century manor house built of pale stone, its slate roof gleaming in the sun. Wisteria climbed its façade. It was the kind of place that spoke of quiet money, not flashy, but deeply rooted and exquisitely maintained.
“Your home for the week.”, Ava said, her voice oddly casual, as she shouldered her bag and unlocked the oversized oak door.
Beatrice stepped inside. The interior was… simply elegant. Wide-plank oak floors, exposed beams, walls the colour of old cream. The furniture was a mix of genuine antiques and modern, comfortable pieces in neutral linens. Vases held simple, dramatic arrangements of dried grasses and branches. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating the space. It was beautiful, serene, and intimidatingly perfect.
Ava moved through the space with easy familiarity, dropping her keys on a heavy console table. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Your room. The words were polite, a host’s consideration. They also carved out a necessary distance in this intimate space. Beatrice followed her up a curved stone staircase, her fingers brushing the smooth, worn limestone of the banister. Ava pushed open a door at the end of a hallway.
The room was spacious, airy, with a large bed draped in white linen and a view over a walled garden. It was, like everything else, impeccable.
“The bathroom’s through there.”, Ava said, gesturing. “Make yourself at home. I’ve got the whole week off, so… I’m here. But no pressure. There’s food in the kitchen, wine in the cellar. Help yourself to anything.” She gave a small, uncertain smile, the shadow of the wedding weekend finally fading into the reality of their situation. “I’ll be… around.”
She was giving Beatrice space. An out. A whole, beautiful house to hide in, with the vague, open-ended promise of her presence.
Beatrice stood in the centre of the room, her small suitcase at her feet, feeling profoundly displaced.
*
There was no advance on Ava’s side on the first night. She was perfectly -almost formally- respectful, when she wished Beatrice a good night from the doorway of her own bedroom down the hall. The charged silence of the chalet, the desperate, stolen urgency, was gone. The unspoken pretence of this week being a long, luxurious hookup evaporated the moment they were left alone in the vast, quiet house.
During breakfast the next day Beatrice realised that they had never simply inhabited a space together. The Catholic boarding school had imposed strict borders- separate rooms, communal areas, the constant watch of nuns. Their intimacy had been built in stolen moments, always against a clock. The wedding weekend had been a pressure cooker of old feelings and new audiences.
They had never had a kitchen to share in the morning, a living room to sit in quietly, a stretch of hours with nothing to do but be in each other’s presence.
Ava watched Beatrice with a patient stillness that felt entirely new. Beatrice, feeling the weight of the inevitable, knew they had to talk about their lives at some point. Beatrice hadn’t asked before. In the chaotic aftermath of the last forty-eight hours, she had deliberately avoided asking for specifics about her ex’s life. She had told herself that the less she knew about Ava’s present, the easier it was to rationalise her as a spectre from the past, a complication to be managed and then left behind. But it didn’t hold anymore. So she settled on the easiest question.
“What drew you to France?”
Ava’s smile faltered for a second, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. She set her coffee cup down slowly. “At the wedding...”, she started, her voice careful, “You said, you were proud of the woman I’d become. But… you don’t actually know what I do?”
Beatrice blinked, taken aback by the directness of the question. Her gaze dropped, a faint tinge of colour rising on her cheeks. “No.”, she admitted, the word stiff. “Lilith told me you went to Brown. That’s the last update I have. And obviously that you live in France now. That you work here.” She gestured vaguely, as if the geographic fact explained everything.
Ava scoffed softly, a brief, incredulous sound. But she recovered quickly, the initial sting melting into a kind of wry resignation. She took a steadying sip of her coffee, gathering the threads of a story Beatrice had never heard.
“It’s a long story...” Ava began, her smile returning and she started telling it. She spoke of Tiago, the luthier, she described how a silent apprenticeship had become a partnership, how she had used her economics degree to build a sustainable business model around her tio’s genius, turning a humble workshop into ‘Silva & Co. Artesanal’ a name now whispered among connoisseurs. She explained the delicate, focused skill of marquetry and wood restoration she’d learned from him- actual manual labour. She spoke about the contract in France being the latest, most prestigious validation of that path.
“So… in short: I’m a restoration artisan.”, Ava finally settled, after having given Beatrice a greater part of her history.
Beatrice listened, cataloguing the information with a scholar’s detachment that couldn’t quite mask her dawning awe. She saw the beautiful, frustrating paradox unfold: a wealthy heiress, who chose calluses over comfort, who used a master’s degree to painstakingly preserve the beauty others had left behind. It was a path of purpose, not privilege. Against her will, a profound respect settled in Beatrice’s chest.
“It’s interesting, how similar our fields of work are.” Beatrice remarked, picking crust off a half-eaten croissant absentmindedly. She took a steadying breath, focusing on the safest ground she knew. “I’ve acquired degrees in History of Art, am currently doing my PhD on-”
“Beatrice…”, Ava interrupted softly, her voice cutting through the clinical description. “I know.” She met Beatrice’s startled gaze across the table, her own expression earnest, stripped of any pretence. “I’ve read your publications. I’ve kept track.”
Beatrice’s rehearsed explanation died in her throat. The professional distance she’d been trying to establish crumbled in an instant. Ava hadn’t just moved on into a separate world. She had looked for Beatrice in the one place she could be found- in the meticulous, published record of her intellect.
The admission was too much. It pierced the careful, academic detachment Beatrice was clinging to, revealing a connection that felt more intimate than any physical touch they’d shared that weekend.
Beatrice deflected, her voice a notch too high. “Right. Well. I should… I need to check in on some data. What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
Ava looked momentarily thrown by the abrupt segue, but recovered quickly. “It’s on the router. ‘Tuffeau_1723’.” She recited it, her eyes still holding a question Beatrice couldn’t answer.
Beatrice retreated to the sanctuary of her assigned bedroom, laptop open. But the lines of research notes blurred. Her focus was trapped in the kitchen, on the earnest look in Ava’s eyes when she’d said, I’ve kept track. The quiet devotion in that statement was a seismic force, shaking the foundations of Beatrice’s carefully maintained distance. By noon, work was impossible. She abandoned the computer.
She found Ava in the living room, standing before a large window that overlooked the walled garden. Drenched in sunlight, she looked ethereal and grounded all at once. Her profile was soft, her gaze distant and pensive, lost in some private thought. The sight stole Beatrice’s breath.
Ava sensed her presence and turned. Her question -a gentle “Everything okay?”- died on her lips, as she caught the look on Beatrice’s face. It wasn’t composed or polite. It was raw, focused, and entirely centred on her.
Before Ava could speak, Beatrice crossed the remaining space between them. One of her hands fisted the soft fabric of Ava’s sweatshirt. She didn’t say a word. She just drew her in and kissed her.
When she finally broke away, Ava’s eyes were wide. Her gaze dropped to Beatrice’s swollen lips.
A beat of charged silence pulsed between them.
Then Ava moved. She leaned in this time, her own kiss a softer echo. One hand found Beatrice’s bent elbow, drawing her in again, urging her closer, until there was no space left.
“Do you still hate me?” The question, whispered against Beatrice’s lips was fragile, stripped bare. It was the core of everything.
Beatrice drew back again, the words a brand against her heart. Because every time she had spat I hate you at Ava over the chaotic weekend, it had been a shield. A furious, constructed barrier against a truth so much more terrifying.
The truth was that Ava had a hold on her -a deep, gravitational pull that had survived six years of silence- and Beatrice hated her for it. She hated that the chaotic girl had become this frustratingly self-possessed, charming woman. She hated that Ava’s beauty now had a depth and a confidence that was utterly mesmerising. She hated that some broken, loyal part of her was still, and would always be, enthralled. She hated that she had once loved her so completely, so youthfully, that the echo of it had the power to unravel her even now.
The hatred wasn’t for Ava’s actions, not really. It was for the power Ava still wielded over her soul. It was a hatred born of love.
“Yes.”
The word was a lie, but Ava didn’t call her on it. Ava saw it in the way Beatrice’s eyes held hers- with a scorching, helpless anguish.
Ava closed the distance Beatrice had created. Her hands guiding her, until Beatrice’s back was pressed against the cool glass of the window. Caging her in the light.
Then she kissed her again. Not with the question’s fragility, but with a deep, consuming certainty.
Beatrice’s hands, which had been frozen at her sides, were on Ava’s shoulders in an instance. The pretence of hatred, the last fragile defence, dissolved under the relentless, tender pressure of Ava’s mouth.
It was then that Beatrice forgot, for a glorious, breathless moment, that she was supposed to hate her at all.
*
The next day, Ava slid behind the wheel of a canary-yellow vintage VW Beetle, its convertible top already down. “Our chariot.”, she said with a grin, gesturing for Beatrice to get in.
Beatrice, to her own surprise, loved it immediately. The wind whipping through her hair, the smell of old leather and gasoline, the ridiculous brightness of the car- it was the antithesis of everything staid and controlled in her life. It was unapologetically Ava.
Ava drove them through winding country lanes, her hands confident on the thin steering wheel. She seemed genuinely surprised, and quietly pleased, when Beatrice asked to see the villa she was restoring. “Really? It’s a mess…”, she’d warned, but the spark in her eyes betrayed her pride.
As they approached the property, Beatrice’s historian’s gaze swept over the façade. It was a beautiful structure, elegant even in its state of disrepair. “It’s magnificent.”, she breathed, the professional appraisal instinctive and sincere.
Inside the grand rooms the original parquet floors were covered in thick, clear sheeting- for protection. Ava explained the process, as they walked, her voice dropping in the empty space. She was not just a contractor here; she was the guardian. The workers, she said, were only permitted on-site under her direct supervision. She didn’t just execute the most delicate marquetry herself; she oversaw every other aspect, from the sourcing of period-accurate wood for replacement floorboards to the mixing of historically appropriate stains.
Then they entered the grand salon. The room was scaffolded, but one section of the ornate wood stucco was complete. Beatrice stopped dead.
It was a breathtaking panorama of carved cherubs, vines, and flowers, frozen in wood. The restoration was flawless. She could see where the new, paler wood seamlessly met the aged original, the carving so precise, it was impossible to tell where history ended and Ava’s intervention began. The level of skill was humbling, a kind of magic performed with patience and a chisel.
Beatrice listened, her initial awe deepening into something more profound. This wasn’t a hobby or a vanity project. It was a massive, complex undertaking, and Ava commanded it with an authority that was mesmerising.
In that moment Beatrice hated Ava a little more.
Later that evening, Ava took her to a Michelin-starred restaurant tucked into a stone village nearby. Over an exquisite, multi-course meal, Beatrice found herself loosening. The weight of their shared history the previous day, the professional interlude, faded into the background of good wine and easy conversation. She was in the middle of an anecdote about a disastrously pompous visiting lecturer at Oxford, her hands sketching emphatic shapes in the air, her expression animated in a way it hadn’t been in years.
She caught Ava watching her, a soft, unwavering intensity in her gaze. Beatrice faltered mid-sentence, her hands dropping to the tablecloth. Self-conscious, she ran her tongue over her front teeth. “What? Do I have bok choy stuck in my teeth?”
Ava laughed, a warm, rich sound. She shook her head, her eyes not leaving Beatrice’s face. “No… you’re fine. I just-” She paused, her smile softening. “You’ve gotten more beautiful by age.”
Beatrice made a face, a reflexive deflection against the directness of the compliment. “Ava, I’m twenty-four, not eighty.”
Ava leaned forward over the table, her voice dropping. “You know what I mean.” Her gaze was specific, a look that spoke directly to the memory of the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become. It was simple admiration, pure and potent.
And Beatrice, her heart doing a clumsy, familiar somersault in her chest, hated Ava for that, too.
She hated that a single, sincere look from Ava Silva could still make her feel like she was sixteen.
The sommelier had just poured the last of a stunning white wine, the final act of a symphony of dishes that had left Beatrice feeling pleasantly untethered. The restaurant’s warmth, the meal, the unexpected ease of Ava’s company- it had lulled her into a rare state of unguarded relaxation. She’d been gesturing, laughing even, telling a story.
Then the bill arrived.
Beatrice reached for her clutch, but Ava’s hand was already there, her fingers closing over the leather folder with a casual, unquestioning ownership. She didn’t look at the total. She simply extracted her card, placed it on the tray, and gave the hovering waiter a small, definitive nod.
The waiter vanished to get a card machine. Ava signed the slip with a flourish, threw in a 20€ bill as a tip, thanked him in flawless, unaccented French, and handed it all back.
The entire transaction took less than thirty seconds. It was efficient, effortless, and it sent a cold splash of reality through Beatrice’s wine-warmed veins. She watched, her earlier animation cooling into quiet observation.
Ava slid her card back into her wallet. “Ready to go?”
Beatrice didn’t move. She tilted her head, a slow, considering smile touching her lips- the kind she used in tutorial debates. “Are you trying to impress me with your money?”
Ava snorted, a genuine, unfiltered sound of amusement. She leaned back in her chair, the picture of relaxed confidence. “Why would I do that? I will never be able to impress you with that.” She said it, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. Beatrice’s regard, her real regard, had always been currency of a different, far rarer kind.
“Well…”, Beatrice countered, her voice light, but her eyes sharp, “You flew us here in a private jet… you’re seizing every bill. You wouldn’t even let me pay to refuel that sunshine-coloured menace of a car earlier.”
“Because you’re my guest.”, Ava said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The simplicity of it was a trap.
Beatrice leaned forward then, resting her elbows on the table, closing the intimate space between them. The candlelight flickered in her dark eyes. “So this week…”, she began, her voice a low, deliberate murmur, “We’re just going to drive around the countryside, and you’re going to show me French restaurants in the area? Is that why I came?”
She let the question hang, a challenge.
Ava held her gaze, the smug, knowing smile returning to her lips. She gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug. “Why? What else did you expect?”
The challenge was thrown back, direct and daring. Say it, Ava’s eyes seemed to glint. Admit what you thought this was.
And Beatrice, who had boarded the plane with a theory of controlled overdose, who had braced for a week of ruthless, wordless sex and food delivery, felt the flimsy architecture of that expectation collapse. This -the conversation, the professionalism, the respect, the dating- was infinitely more unsettling. And Beatrice didn’t like not being in control. Not being in control of her emotions.
Beatrice leaned back, putting deliberate distance between them once more, her posture regaining its familiar, elegant composure. She gathered her napkin, placed it neatly onto the table, and met Ava’s waiting gaze.
“I’m ready to go.” Beatrice finally answered the initial question.
“Okay.” Ava replied simply and raised a hand for the waiter to bring their coats.
The house seemed to hold its breath around them.
“Can I get you a nightcap?” Ava’s voice was carefully neutral, a host’s polite inquiry. “Or… hot cocoa?”
Beatrice turned from arranging her shoes by the wall. “Hot cocoa.” Beatrice mocked and shook her head, the movement sharp. “No.” She took a step closer, the space between them shrinking from polite to intimate. Her voice dropped, losing all pretence of social grace. It was low, direct, a blade finally unsheathed. “I’ve been here for two days. And I haven’t even seen the inside of your bedroom yet.”
Ava’s gaze flickered upward, following the curve of the stone staircase almost instinctively, before snapping back to lock with Beatrice’s. The air in the entryway grew thin.
“If that’s what you want.”, she said, her voice a low rasp.
“Is that not what you want?” Beatrice pressed, the words a challenge. “Is that not why you brought me here?”
Ava didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out, her fingers closing around Beatrice’s with a firm, undeniable grip. Without a word, she turned and led the way, pulling Beatrice behind her, as she started up the stairs.
Ava stopped before the open doorway of her bedroom, flicking the light on, which spilled onto the worn runner. She gestured inside with a sharp, almost dismissive flick of her wrist.
“See? That’s my bedroom… are you satisfied?”
It was a statement, a bare fact. But the tension in her arm, the way she didn’t turn to look at Beatrice, betrayed it as something else- a line drawn, a dare issued. She was waging a war.
Beatrice tugged back, gently, a counter-pressure. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, one that didn’t need words to translate. You know what I meant.
And Ava did know. Of course she did. The electricity that had crackled between them since the wedding, the ruthless sex in the chalet- it was a language they were both fluent in.
But something had shifted. In the charged chaos of the wedding weekend, surrounded by the ghosts of their past, it had been easy to lose herself in the physical. It was an exorcism.
Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her own home the calculus was different. This house was her present. It was her peace. To bring Beatrice into this space, into her private sanctuary, and reduce it to another forgettable transaction… it felt like a violation. Not of Beatrice, but of herself.
She didn’t just want to have sex with Beatrice in her bedroom. She wanted to wake up with her. To see her hair on the pillow in the morning light. To argue over the coffee maker. To share the quiet of this space, not just the heat of the sheets.
She wanted to overwrite the lonely memories of this house with new ones. Memories of her past lover, the one she had never gotten over, the one who still, after everything, held her fragile heart in the palm of her hand.
Beatrice felt the subtle shift in Ava’s posture, the way the defiant offering of the room had curdled into something more hesitant, more sacred.
Slowly, Beatrice stepped past her, crossing the threshold. She let go of Ava’s hand, the separation feeling significant. Her eyes moved around the space, not with the predatory scan of a conquest, but with the watchful eyes of an archivist entering a private collection. It was orderly, beautiful, and felt strangely unlived-in.
Ava followed, hovering just inside the doorway, her hands finding uneasy purchase in the back pockets of her jeans, a nervous gesture that betrayed the woman of poised confidence from the restaurant.
Beatrice’s gaze landed on a neat row of leather-bound volumes on a shelf. “Are these just decorative?”
Ava blinked, as if seeing them for the first time. “I… honestly haven’t even paid attention to them, so- yes.”, she admitted, the confession making the room feel more like a showpiece, a stage set for a life not fully inhabited.
Beatrice’s fingers trailed away from the books, skimming over the surface of a small, elegant box on a side table. It was simple, its beauty in the clean lines and the visible, smooth grain of the wood.
“I made that.”, Ava said, the words leaving her in a rush, filling the quiet with something real.
Beatrice turned, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you made that?”
“Carved it. From a single piece of cherrywood.” Ava’s voice was low, almost shy. “It holds candles.”
Beatrice’s gaze dropped from the box to Ava’s hands, which had fallen to her sides. She looked at them- the strong, capable fingers, the faint, pale lines of old nicks and the subtle, earned callouses. They were the hands of a restorer, an artisan. The hands that had held her with such desperation just days before.
Wordlessly, Beatrice closed the space between them. She reached out, her movements deliberate and gentle, and took Ava’s hands into her own. She turned them palm-up, cradling them, as if they were a fragile artefact. Her thumbs traced the roughened pads at the base of her fingers, the story of dedicated work written there. Then, slowly, she brushed the sensitive, fluttering pulse point on Ava’s inner wrist.
Ava’s breath hitched. Their eyes locked, and in that shared gaze, the last of Ava’s defences dissolved. In this moment Beatrice held a piece of her, and she didn’t know, how to take it back- it was too much. It threatened to spill out of her in words she was terrified to say.
So she acted. Her hands, which had been passive in Beatrice’s hold, suddenly gripped back. She pulled, drawing Beatrice firmly toward her, erasing the careful distance. Their lips met in a kiss that was a desperate translation of everything she couldn’t voice.
They halted, lips still connected, breaths mingling, eyes open. The world narrowed to the points of contact: their joined hands, their pressed mouths. Ava could see the storm in Beatrice’s dark eyes, could feel the eager hum of response vibrating in her own throat. It was too much, and not enough.
With a soft, broken sound, Ava’s tongue swept into Beatrice’s mouth. Beatrice answered with a welcoming hum, her fingers tightening around Ava’s. The kiss deepened, losing its initial shock and becoming a slow foreboding to what was to come after. Ava didn’t let go of Beatrice’s hands. She simply turned, still holding them, and led Beatrice the few remaining steps across the room, while still being connected to her lips.
At last, Ava showed Beatrice her bed, and the dizzying, intimate view of her bedroom from within it- all while she was lying utterly at the mercy of Ava’s devotional, artisanal touch.
The room was bathed in silver and shadow, the deep quiet of the countryside pressing against the windows. Beatrice lay on her side, propped on an elbow, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Ava’s bare back. She was turned away, asleep, the sharp line of her shoulder softened by slumber.
In the unconscious dark, she was not so scary. The challenging glint in her eye, the confident set of her jaw, the entire frustratingly enticing personality that made Beatrice’s chest ache with a feeling too close to hatred- it was all muted. Stripped away, she was just this shell. Albeit a breathtaking one.
Beatrice’s gaze traced the constellation of faint moles scattered across Ava’s shoulder blade. Tentatively, her fingertips followed, skimming the warm skin. She touched the ends of Ava’s shorter hair, the strands surprisingly soft. Her palm slid down, a slow, sweeping caress over the smooth, powerful length of Ava’s spine.
Ava stirred. A soft, sleepy sound escaped her, as she turned over, the movement fluid and unguarded.
Beatrice snatched her hand back, feeling a hot flush of being caught in a moment of naked vulnerability.
But Ava’s eyes, blinking open in the dark, held no smugness, no triumphant gleam. They were just soft, hazy with sleep. A slow, uncomplicated smile touched her lips, and she leaned in, pressing a kiss to Beatrice’s shoulder. Then she seemed to have a striking thought and turned away, fumbling in the drawer of her bedside table. Her hand emerged with a strip of gum. She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, and chewed with a few focused crunches.
Then, and only then, she turned back, her gaze finding Beatrice’s in the gloom, and leaned in again for a kiss.
The entire, bizarre ritual threw Beatrice back through years, to a narrow dorm room bed, to a different Ava who’d had the same self-conscious habit, born from a teenage worry about morning breath. The gesture was so unchanged that for a dizzying second, the woman and the girl superimposed, and the six years of silence between them collapsed into nothing.
While Beatrice was reeling from the temporal whiplash, Ava’s own mind was piecing together a different revelation. She had registered the gentle, almost exploratory touch of the night before in contrast to their weekend hookups. She noted, with a quiet, seismic shock, that Beatrice was still here. In her bed. And she was letting Ava kiss her. Accepting the ridiculous, gum-chewing advance without protest.
The realisation was a warm, expanding thing in Ava’s chest, fragile and hopeful. Until she felt Beatrice shift. Not away, but over. Beatrice hoisted herself up, one knee sliding over Ava’s hips, settling her weight atop her. Ava’s breath caught. She instinctively glanced at her phone on the nightstand, the screen blindingly bright in the dark: 4:32 AM.
Beatrice leaned down, her hair a dark curtain around their faces. Her eyes searched Ava’s, a mix of exasperation and a fondness she couldn’t quite mask. “Are you going to keep the gum in your mouth?”
Ava, pinned and utterly disarmed, could only nod, a slow, stupid grin spreading across her face.
Beatrice rolled her eyes and captured her mouth.
Afterwards, spent and tangled in the rumpled sheets, Ava noted with a quiet thrill that Beatrice did not get up. Yet again. She did not retreat to the solitary sanctum of the guest room. Ava’s arm, which had been resting loosely over Beatrice’s waist, tightened. She shifted carefully, drawing Beatrice more firmly against her, guiding her head to rest on the steady beat of her chest. Beatrice, in the deep, boneless exhaustion that followed, offered no resistance, her body moulding to Ava’s with a trusting heaviness.
In the perfect, vulnerable quiet, Ava stared at the ceiling. The first pale hints of dawn were just beginning to dilute the dark. She could feel the soft puff of Beatrice’s breath against her skin, the complete surrender of sleep.
“Beatrice?”, she whispered, the name a secret in the silent room.
There was no answer, only the deep, even rhythm of sleep.
Ava closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of her- realising once again that her bed would smell like her for days.
The words, locked away for six years, slipped out on an exhale, so quiet they were almost just a shape her lips made against Beatrice’s hair.
“I still love you.”
*
The morning light was a liar.
Beatrice was different in the sun. The raw vulnerability of the pre-dawn hours had receded behind a familiar, polite distance. When Ava’s hand brushed hers, as she passed a coffee mug, Beatrice accepted the cup, but her fingers withdrew quickly, avoiding the lingering touch. When Ava leaned in, to point out a detail in a village map spread on the kitchen table, Beatrice subtly shifted her weight, creating an inch of crucial space. The easy physicality of the night was gone, locked away with the darkness.
It was a careful curation. Beatrice would still accept Ava’s invitations. A simple drive to the coast with the top down, the wind doing the talking for them. A stroll through a tiny, immaculate Breton town, their footsteps echoing on cobblestones as they window-shopped for pottery they didn’t need. She was the perfect, engaging companion- intelligent, observant, capable of making Ava laugh with a dry remark about a particularly pompous garden gnome.
And that was the exquisite torture of it for Ava. It was so easy. The conversation flowed without force. Their silences were comfortable. They liked the same ceramics; they both gravitated toward the same secluded bench with a view of the harbour. They bickered playfully over the best route back to the car, their debate a rapid-fire exchange of logic and instinct that ended in a draw and a shared, reluctant smile.
It was easy because, despite the six years and the divergent paths, they were, at their core, shockingly compatible. Their minds worked in complementary, challenging ways. Their values, though expressed differently, were aligned. They were, as they had always been, magnets. The pull was still there, undeniably so.
For Beatrice, the ease was also the hardest part. Each effortless agreement, each synchronised pause, each moment of wordless understanding was a tiny, devastating proof. It proved that the foundation of them- the amicability, the intellectual spark, the fundamental alignment of souls that had existed before the love and the loss, was not only intact, but had matured. The sex was a wildfire- terrifying and consuming. But this? This easy companionship? This was the deep, fertile soil that had allowed that first love to take root and grow so strong it had nearly broken her.
And Beatrice hated it.
*
The guest room was the same, yet everything had shifted.
The pale sheets of the bed were tangled around them. Beatrice sat up, the duvet pooling around her waist, gloriously naked in the soft lamplight.
“I definitely didn’t pack enough clothes.”, she announced to the room, her voice laced with genuine annoyance. “I packed for a weekend in the Alps. Not a… ten-day French sojourn.”
Ava, propped on an elbow, watched her with unabashed delight. She laughed, a warm, rich sound. “And you still brought seven pairs of underwear.”
Beatrice shot her a look over her shoulder, as she swung her legs out of bed. “You can never be too sure.”, she stated, as if it were a universal truth. She padded, gloriously unselfconscious, toward the ensuite bathroom. She didn’t close the door fully, leaving it ajar. The sound of her peeing was followed by her voice, conversational through the gap. “I will have to go commando for the last three days. Or I’ll have to buy new ones tomorrow. The village probably sells ‘Bretagne’ thongs with little sailor knots. Horrifying.”
Ava just listened, a slow smile spreading across her face. The mundane intimacy, the lack of performance- it was so startlingly easy. It felt more intimate than anything that had happened before.
The toilet flushed. The faucet ran. Beatrice reappeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel. She tossed it back onto the counter and walked toward the bed, her expression turning playfully serious.
“You would tell me, if I started giving off a bad odour, right?”
Ava’s laugh was immediate. “Trust me, you don’t smell bad. Your clothes smell like you’ve bathed them in your perfume. It’s… everywhere. It’s even in my bed.”
A slow, feline grin spread across Beatrice’s face. She approached the bed and, with deliberate grace, straddled Ava’s hips, settling her weight. She leaned down, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “Do you like how I smell?” She craned her neck, offering the sensitive curve of it to Ava’s face, an invitation and a challenge.
Ava’s hands came up to span her ribcage, her grip strong, possessive. She buried her nose in the offered skin, breathing deeply. “I love it.”
Beatrice drew back, the seductive mask slipping for a second. She paused, looking down at Ava. Her next words were an attempt to be deceptively light, a throwaway line to reset the boundaries that were dissolving too fast. The word love was Beatrice’s kryptonite.
“Out of my bed now.”, she said, her tone airy. “Get to your own room.”
Ava’s smile vanished. Her hands stilled on Beatrice’s ribs. “Are you serious?”
And because Beatrice hated her -hated, how a single flicker of hurt in Ava’s eyes could make her feel instantly, cruelly sorry for the words- she relented. “No…”, she sighed, the fight leaving her in a soft exhale.
She shifted off Ava and settled beside her, both of them on their sides now, facing each other. Ava reached out, her fingers threading through Beatrice’s. She lifted Beatrice’s hand and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles.
Beatrice watched the gesture, her expression unreadable. It was another thing she permitted, another inch of tender ground ceded, even as she felt the internal limit of what she could withstand straining, almost to its breaking point. And she hated all of it.
*
On Friday they wandered through the aisles of a small, upscale boutique in the nearest market town. Beatrice moved with efficient purpose to the back, where neat stacks of neutral basics were displayed. She selected a five-pack of plain cotton briefs, her expression one of solving a practical problem.
Ava lingered a few steps away, her attention caught by a different display. Delicate lace, sleek satin, straps that promised more than function. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics with a curious, appreciative eye.
Beatrice found her there, the packet of briefs held loosely in one hand. “Got them.”
Ava didn’t look up, instead holding out a specific set: a bralette and matching briefs in a deep, smoky plum lace, simple in cut but undeniably sensual. “How do you like this?”, she asked, her tone casual, as if inquiring about the weather.
Beatrice’s eyebrow arched. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s fine. I’m sure it will suit you.” The words were light, but the instant, involuntary image of Ava in that exact lace flashed behind her eyes. She forced it away, a mental erasure performed with ruthless speed.
Ava shook her head. She met Beatrice’s gaze, her own steady. “No. It’s for you.”
Beatrice’s breath caught audibly. A surprised, almost offended sound. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”, Ava said, her smile widening. She turned back to the rack, her fingers brushing the tags. “Tell me your size.”
The request, so blunt in the middle of the quiet store, broke something in Beatrice’s carefully maintained composure. She glanced around, her gaze darting to ensure no other shopper was within earshot. Then she stepped dangerously close, closing the space between them, until Ava could feel the heat from her body. Her voice dropped, laced with a sharp, crude challenge.
“You’ve had my tits in your palm just last night. And you don’t know my size?”
Ava froze. Her eyes widened at the shocking vulgarity. The crudeness of the statement, delivered in Beatrice’s cultured tone, was… something. It left her momentarily speechless, her mind blank, except for the memory of the very weight and shape Beatrice was so clinically referencing.
Before Ava could form a single syllable in response, Beatrice reached past her. Her movements were devoid of any lingering seduction. She plucked the correct size of the bralette and its matching briefs from the rack with unerring accuracy and pressed them into Ava’s stunned hands.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel, the packet of plain cotton briefs still clutched in her other hand, and walked toward the cash desk.
The cashier, a young woman with a bored expression, began scanning the items. The sensible cotton pack beeped first, followed by the lace set being placed on the counter. Ava stepped up beside Beatrice.
“Tout cela ensemble, s’il vous plaît.”, Ava gestured and reached for the black card in her wallet. Beatrice’s hand shot out, covering hers. She gently pushed Ava’s hand down and away.
“Ava, I am absolutely not going to let you pay for my unmentionables.” She retrieved her own card holder from her bag. “I already feel bad enough for you picking up every bill.”
Ava’s eyebrows quirked upward, a mischievous, knowing glint in her eye. She leaned in slightly, her voice only meant for Beatrice. “Don’t feel bad. I’m getting more than enough in return.”
The words landed awkwardly. It wasn’t the implication of a transaction that stung- Beatrice had told herself that was precisely what this week was: a series of meaningless physical exchanges to finally burn out the obsession. No, the hurt was in the flippancy. The casual, crass reduction of their complicated, charged history to a crude quid pro quo. Ava was saying the quiet part out loud, and it made the whole careful fiction Beatrice had constructed feel cheap.
Her expression remained a mask of cool composure. She turned back to the cashier, tapping her card on the terminal. As she waited for the receipt, her voice was icy.
“So… the fancy dinners, your attempt to buy me lingerie…”, Beatrice started, not looking at Ava. “Am I your whore now?”
Ava -momentarily thrown by the crudeness of the question- saw the frost in her gaze and instantly regretted the joke. The cashier handed her the slip and the bag. Beatrice took it, finally turning to face Ava, her eyes hard.
It had been meant as a flirtation, an acknowledgment of their mutual desire, but Ava’d misjudged the ledge Beatrice was standing on. She met Beatrice’s stare, her own smile fading into seriousness.
“No, Beatrice… I would never think that of you.”, Ava said, her voice softer. She reached out and took the bag from Beatrice’s hand, to hold it for her, an act of service. “I didn’t mean it like that. At all. I’m sorry.”
Beatrice watched the bag change hands, her expression shifting. The hard frost melted into something more calculating, more pensive. She was turning the words over in her mind, analysing the intent behind them, the correction. She didn’t snap back or accept the apology.
*
The afternoon sun was dappling through the leaves of an ancient oak tree that shaded their picnic blanket. They’d driven to a high bluff overlooking a quilt-work of vineyards and patchwork fields that rolled down to a distant, silver sliver of sea. The air smelled of warm grass, wild thyme, and the ripe, pungent cheese from the wicker basket between them.
Ava had chosen the spot with deliberate care, an unspoken apology woven into the landscape. As they settled, she finally gave it voice, her tone tentative. “About earlier, in the shop. I’m sorry again. That was… clumsy of me.”
Beatrice, in the middle of tearing a piece of crusty baguette with her hands, waved it off with the same casual motion. “Don’t be. It was nothing. I was being overly sensitive.” She deftly smeared a generous portion of Camembert onto the torn bread. “We both agreed what this week was, after all.” She said it easily, as if reaffirming a business contract.
Ava bit the inside of her cheek, watching her. She waited a beat, her eyes tracking the simple, sensual act- the ripping of the bread, the spreading of the soft cheese. “Are you enjoying yourself at least?”, she asked, the question almost shy, probing for something real beneath the easy agreement.
Beatrice, who had managed to get a dollop of cheese onto the pad of her thumb, lifted her hand. Her eyes met Ava’s, as she deliberately licked it off, her tongue cleaning the digit with slow thoroughness. Then she smiled, a slow curve of her lips.
“I’m enjoying you.”, she said, her voice a low purr. She raised an eyebrow, a perfect, playful echo of Ava’s own earlier innuendo- a deliberate volley of the same transactional language, weaponised and thrown back.
Ava’s lips twitched in response, a smile that formed but didn’t travel to her eyes. It was a mask of acknowledgment. Her gaze drifted away from Beatrice, out over the sprawling, serene view of the vineyards, as if seeking anchor in something less complicated.
From there, the conversation found a different, easier flow. They talked of the geology that formed the cliffs, the history of the local wine, the absurdity of a particular cloud shape. It was comfortable, intellectually engaging. At some point, as Ava elaborated on soil composition, her hand -resting on the blanket between them- found Beatrice’s forearm. Her fingers began to move, tracing. They drew idle, absent-minded paths along the sensitive skin of Beatrice’s inner arm, following veins, circling the delicate bone of her wrist.
Beatrice fell silent, listening to the words about mineral deposits and sun exposure, but her entire awareness was on that point of contact. She watched Ava’s fingers -the same capable, fingers that carved wood and knew the grain of things- moving with feather-light precision over her skin. The touch was neither insistent nor sexual; it was simply there, a constant, gentle claim.
And Beatrice hated her for it. She hated Ava for how such a simple, thoughtless gesture could evoke a sensation so intense, it threatened to unmoor her completely. And she hated the fact that the familiarity, the tenderness, and the sense of rightness was infinitely more dangerous than any blatant proposition.
It made the idea of a simple, meaningless week full of exchanged physicalities feel like a pathetic lie she was telling herself.
Ava emerged from the steamy sanctuary of her bathroom, a cloud of bergamot-scented air following her. She was wrapped in a silk robe, her skin still flushed and damp. Padding barefoot into her bedroom, she froze mid-step.
The soft light of her bedside lamp spilled across her bed, illuminating a figure reclining against her pillows.
Beatrice.
She was propped up, one arm bent behind her head, the picture of indolent ownership. And she was wearing it- the smoky plum lace. The bralette cupped her breasts, the delicate straps a beautiful contrast against her skin. The matching briefs were a dark band low on her hips.
Ava’s breath caught in her throat, a sharp, silent intake.
Beatrice, seeing her stunned stillness, only seemed to grow more comfortable. She arched her back slightly, settling deeper into the pillows, a slow, deliberate display. Her eyes, dark and knowing, held Ava’s. Then she lifted her hand in a slow, unmistakable gesture- a queen summoning a subject. The command was clear: Come here.
“This…”, Ava said, her voice strangely hoarse, finding its way around the shock, “Is not your bed.” It was a weak protest, a last-ditch attempt to cling to the boundaries that had just spectacularly evaporated.
Beatrice’s lips curved in a slow, triumphant smile. “I know.”, she purred, her voice a low, velvety thing. “I thought the lines were blurring ever since… you invited me into your bedroom.” Her outstretched hand didn’t waver, the command still implicit.
Ava moved, as if pulled by a string. She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She didn’t lie down, but sat across from Beatrice. Her gaze was a physical caress, sweeping from Beatrice’s throat, down over the lace, tracing the length of her legs. It was pure, rapt appreciation.
Beatrice watched her looking at her. Slowly, she drove a hand through her own hair, lifting the heavy fall of it and letting it cascade back over her shoulder with a slight, theatrical flick. “Do you like it on me?”, she asked, though the answer was obvious in Ava’s arrested expression.
Ava inhaled, a deep, shaky breath. “Yes… this- yes.”, she responded, the words full of genuine awe. “The visuals… wow.” But she made no move to touch. She just sat there, a hands-breadth away, drinking in the sight, as if committing it to memory.
A beat of charged silence passed. The air grew taut.
Then Beatrice shifted, leaning forward just a fraction. Her whisper was a ghost of sound, a challenge and a surrender rolled into one.
“So take it off of me.”
Ava wet her lips, leaning forward until her shadow fell across Beatrice’s body. A soft, incredulous chuckle escaped her. “I hope you know…”, she murmured, her voice thick, “That this was not my intention at all, when I suggested buying this.”
Beatrice’s eyes flashed. Her expression turned dismissive, but a playful, knowing smirk played on her lips. “Sure it was not your intention.”, she parroted, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “You just wanted me to own this colour. Hmm?”
Ava gulped, her throat tight. This mood -the sharp, almost defiant playfulness, the bold ownership of the space and the moment- it reminded her viscerally of the Beatrice from the first night at Yasmine’s wedding. The one who had kissed her with furious, punishing intent. It was thrilling and slightly terrifying.
Finally, Ava let her hand move. It inched up Beatrice’s leg, the silk of her robe brushing against skin, until her fingers stroked over the delicate lace stretched taut across Beatrice’s hipbone. She watched Beatrice’s face, searching for the truth behind the bravado. Then her hand slid higher, cupping the full weight of a breast through the lace.
Beatrice’s eyes fluttered shut. A low, helpless moan escaped her, as she let her head fall back against the pillows, her body arching into the touch, all pretence of challenge melting into pure sensation.
Encouraged, Ava shifted closer. One hand continued its appreciative exploration, mapping the curve of a waist, the skin on her stomach, while the other tangled in Beatrice’s dark hair, cradling her skull, as she leaned in to kiss her.
Beatrice met her with a fervour that left Ava momentarily breathless. It was intense from the beginning, all tongue and teeth. Ava kissed back, surrendering to the storm, but a small, analytical part of her mind wondered- was this a kind of revenge for her comment in the shop? Or was it something else, something darker and more desperate clawing its way to the surface?
Frustration seemed to crackle through Beatrice, as the kiss deepened, yet the pace remained, in her mind, too slow. With a sudden, fluid motion that took Ava by complete surprise, Beatrice reversed their positions. One minute Ava was leaning over her, the next she was on her back, the breath knocked softly from her lungs, looking up at Beatrice straddling her hips.
Beatrice’s hands went to the tie of Ava’s robe. With a sharp, efficient pull, she undid the knot and parted the dark silk, letting it fall open. Ava lay exposed beneath her. Beatrice didn’t pause. She dipped down, capturing Ava’s mouth again in a kiss that was incendiary, all-consuming in its intensity. A hand was palming Ava’s breast, while Beatrice’s tongue licked into her mouth relentlessly.
Ava’s head swam. The heat, the weight, the pace- it was too much, too fast, a wave threatening to pull her under, before she could even find her bearings. She broke the kiss, turning her head to the side with a ragged gasp for air.
“Can we…”, she panted, her voice trembling, “Slow down a little?”
“Slow down? What…?” Beatrice pulled back slightly, her brows knitting in genuine confusion. The seductive mask slipped, revealing raw vulnerability beneath. “You don’t want to have sex with me?”
The question was so redundant it was almost painful. Of course Ava wanted to. The desire was a physical ache. But she didn’t want this. Not this performative version, hyper-charged with the day’s transactional tension and the unspoken fear that it was all just a meaningless fling. She wanted the woman, not the spectre of revenge.
“Just… come lie down.”, Ava said softly, patting the space beside her. “Next to me.”
For a long moment, Beatrice hovered above her, her expression warring between defiance and something else. Then, with a shaky exhale, she complied. She shifted off Ava and settled onto her side, facing her, putting a few careful inches of cool sheet between them.
They lay facing each other. Ava reached out, her fingers gently disentangling a strand of Beatrice’s hair that was caught beneath her. She pulled her robe closed over her chest, a flimsy shield for the sudden emotional nakedness. The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of their breathing.
“I’ll be here all summer and fall.”, Ava began, her voice tentative, testing the waters of a future she had no right to map. “Probably even winter.”
Beatrice stayed perfectly still, a statue in lace, but Ava felt the faint tension coiling in the air between them.
“Nantes to London is a short plane ride…”, Ava continued, pushing the idea into the space between them.
At this, Beatrice’s composure, so carefully rebuilt, began to show fine hairline fractures. She could feel the old, familiar shape of commitment -of hope, of complication- beginning to form, and it terrified her. She didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.
“I want to keep seeing you.”, Ava finished, the admission simple and devastating.
“Why?” The word was a bullet, cold and direct.
“Because I enjoy your company,” Ava said, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.
A brittle, humourless sound escaped Beatrice. “I’m pretty sure, if you went looking in any charming village within a fifty-mile radius, you’d find a perfectly suitable summer fling.”
Ava’s eyes flashed with sudden, sharp annoyance. That Beatrice would even suggest it, would reduce what was between them to something so replaceable, felt like a fresh betrayal. “They are not you.”, she shot back, her voice gaining strength.
“And what am I, then?” Beatrice challenged, her own voice rising, the walls she’d spent years building, trembling.
“You’re Beatrice. The woman in my bed.” Ava said, her gaze unwavering, intense. “The one I love.”
The words landed like a final, shattering blow. Beatrice finally broke. A sob, harsh and involuntary, caught in her throat.
And that’s what Beatrice hated Ava the most for.
“That’s precisely the point, Ava!”, she couldn’t contain it any longer, “You love a seventeen-year-old version of me! The ghost you never got over! You don’t love me. You love the idea of me being that girl, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You don’t know me anymore. I’m not her.”
Ava’s brow furrowed in pained confusion. “I don’t know you anymore?”, she echoed. Then, softly, devastatingly: “Do you know me?”
“No.”, Beatrice whispered. “And I like it that way. I don’t want to revisit the emotional turmoil of the past. This week wasn’t meant for that.” She clung to it, a last desperate defence.
A single tear traced a hot path down her cheek, a stark betrayal of her words. But Ava was there. Her hand came up, cupping Beatrice’s jaw with infinite tenderness. Her thumb swept over the wet track, wiping it away.
“Don’t lie to me, Beatrice.”, Ava whispered, her voice thick with her own unshed tears. Her eyes held Beatrice’s, seeing through every crack, every deflection. “You know me. You know all of me.” Ava’s thumb stilled on Beatrice’s cheek, her gaze piercing through the tear-streaked facade. “And I think, some part of you loves me too.”, she said certainly, “Otherwise… it wouldn’t be this easy. Being with me wouldn’t be so easy for you, if you didn’t love me. You wouldn’t have come here with me.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched. The warmth of Ava’s palm against her skin felt like a brand, searing through her lies. She rallied, grasping for the coldest, crudest defence she had left.
“It’s easy…”, she forced out, “Because the sex is good.” It was another lie, and her own voice betrayed her, growing quieter, weaker with every syllable. “This week was supposed to be just that. Meaningless sex…” The words faded to a whisper, dying in the charged air between them.
Ava’s expression didn’t harden; it softened with a profound, aching sadness. “How could you think this was meaningless sex to me?”, she asked, the question a gentle devastation. “How could it ever be, when you mean so much to me?” She leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching Beatrice’s, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “Tell me, you don’t love me. Tell me, you feel nothing for me.”
The challenge hung in the space between their lips. Beatrice closed her eyes, as if shutting out the sight of Ava could make the words true. She summoned every shred of will, every defensive instinct honed over six long years.
“I don’t love you…”, she whispered, the words ghosting against Ava’s mouth. She opened her eyes, matching her gaze with Ava’s, “I hate you.”
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Beatrice saw it- Ava was smiling, a small, sad, knowing smile that held no triumph, only infinite understanding. Her eyes searched Beatrice’s, seeing the turmoil, the fear, the desperate self-deception.
“Are you still trying to convince yourself of that?”, she inquired, the question so soft, almost inaudible. It wasn’t an argument. It was an observation. A recognition of the war Beatrice was waging within her own heart, a war Ava knew, with absolute certainty, was already lost.
The charged look lasted a lifetime- Ava’s dark eyes dropping to Beatrice’s mouth, the air between them pulling taut with the weight of their history. And that was it. The last fragile thread of Beatrice’s resistance snapped.
She surged forward, crashing her mouth against Ava’s in a kiss, a furious attempt to outrun the words still hanging in the air. It was consuming, a storm seeking to drown out reason.
Ava kissed her back, but her pace was different. Where Beatrice was a wildfire, Ava was the deep, steady earth. Her mouth was patient, softening the frantic edges, absorbing the fury and gentling it. Her hand, which had been cradling Beatrice’s face, skated down her side, coming to rest firmly on her waist. The pressure was grounding, not restraining. Then her fingers sought Beatrice’s, threading through them, lacing them together against the sheets- an anchor in the storm.
When Ava finally broke the kiss, it was just far enough to speak. Her breath fanned over Beatrice’s wet lips, her eyes holding hers with an unbearable tenderness.
“I love you.”, she confessed again, the words a simple truth.
Beatrice shook her head, a frantic, denying motion, as if she could physically dislodge the words. The intimacy of the intertwined fingers, the solemn certainty in her eyes- it was too much. The fortress was crumbling, and the only defence left now was flight.
She tore her hand from Ava’s grip. The separation felt violent. In one abrupt, fluid motion, she pushed herself up and off the bed, standing in the delicate lace picked out for her and trembling in the centre of the room.
“I can’t do this.”, she choked out, the words barely audible.
Then she turned, and without another glance, walked out of Ava’s bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.
The guest room door closed down the hall. The sound was a period at the end of a sentence Beatrice had spent six years trying to write in her head.
Ava fell back against the pillows, her body sinking into the sudden, immense quiet. The sheets still held the ghost of Beatrice’s warmth, the scent of her perfume, the impression of her weight. Ava stared at the ceiling, at the subtle texture of the plaster in the lamplight, her mind eerily calm.
The truth was out there now. It wasn’t coiled in her chest anymore, a silent, screaming secret. It was loose in the world, hanging in the air of this room, lying in the empty space beside her. I love you. She had said it. To Beatrice’s face, in the light, with her hands in hers.
There was no taking it back. No retreat into polite distance or academic detachment. The foundational lie of the week -that this could be meaningless- was incinerated.
All that remained was the truth: she was in love with Beatrice, and Beatrice was so terrified of that love she had fled from it.
*
The next morning, the house held its breath. Ava was at the kitchen counter, the quiet gurgle of the coffee maker the only sound. She watched the rich stream pour into a mug, when the soft pad of footsteps on the stairs announced Beatrice’s arrival.
Ava didn’t turn, but her shoulders stiffened almost immediately. She heard Beatrice stop behind her, a hesitant presence. When the mug was full, Ava finally turned. She took in Beatrice’s appearance- dressed, composed, eyes guarded, but shadowed. Without a word, she held out the mug.
Beatrice looked at the steam curling from the dark surface, then at Ava’s face, which was softer than she deserved. And she hated her for it. She hated this specific, quiet kindness, because she knew, with a sickening certainty, that it wasn’t just politeness. It was Ava’s love for her, distilled into a morning ritual. It was the love that had survived six years of silence, that had whispered in the dark last night, now silently offering her her own coffee, as if her heart hadn’t just been ripped out and laid bare on the floor between them.
She took the mug, her fingers brushing Ava’s briefly. “Thank you.”
Ava just nodded and turned back to make a second cup for herself, her movements methodical.
Beatrice carried her mug to the island and sat on a bar stool, watching the tense line of Ava’s back. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. She had to break it. She had to be the one to define the ending, since she had so clearly failed to define anything else.
“I’ve looked at flights.”, she began, her voice unnaturally steady in the quiet room.
Ava’s hands stilled on the counter. She didn’t turn, but her posture became one of absolute, listening stillness.
“There is a direct one at 4 PM tomorrow.”, Beatrice continued, staring at the dark liquid in her mug. She took a shallow breath. “Or there is another one today… I could fly back in the evening. Then you’d have tomorrow for yourself. Before work on Monday.” She laid the options on the table like cards, giving Ava the choice of a swift cut or a delayed one.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the new coffee dripping. Then Ava turned around, her own mug now in hand. She regarded Beatrice, “I’ll drive you to the airport after we have brunch tomorrow.”
The statement was a verdict. It refused the hastier escape, forcing one more day, a formal, drawn-out closure. It accepted the end, but on its own, deliberate terms.
Beatrice blinked, thrown by the quiet authority of it. She searched Ava’s face for a sign -regret, anger, pain- but found only a resolute certainty.
“Thank you.” Beatrice said again, the words feeling even more inadequate this time.
Ava just nodded, her eyes holding Beatrice’s for a weighted second over the rim of her mug, before she took a slow, deliberate sip.
The air after lunch was soft, carrying the scent of cut grass and a distant sea. They walked without a destination, side by side along a gravel path that wound through a park at the edge of town, their steps falling into a slow, synchronised rhythm. The tension of the morning had mellowed into a kind of weary truce.
“Tiago and Ana came to visit a few weeks ago.”, Ava said, her voice quiet against the backdrop of chirping birds. She kept her gaze forward, on the dappled shade ahead. “They stayed for a week. I showed them the villa. Tiago just… stood in the grand salon for twenty minutes, not saying a word. Just looking at the wood.” A soft, fond smile touched her lips. “Ana cried. She... said my father would have been proud.”
Beatrice listened, the story painting a picture of a life Ava had built- a life of chosen family, of hard-won respect, of a home that was more than a beautiful house. It was the opposite of the rootless, academic austerity Beatrice had constructed for herself. It was warm, and real, and it made something ache deep in Beatrice’s chest.
They rounded a bend and the path opened up to a stunning vista: a wide, green valley dotted with stone farmhouses, and beyond, the slate-grey shimmer of the Atlantic under a vast, cloud-dappled sky. A simple wooden bench, silvered by weather, faced the view.
Wordlessly, they moved toward it and sat. The space between them on the bench was careful, but not cold. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Ava’s hand, resting on wood between them, shifted. Her fingers tentatively brushed against Beatrice’s, then, with a quiet resolve, she laced their hands together.
Beatrice didn’t pull away. She let her hand lie in Ava’s, a passive acceptance that felt more intimate than any kiss they’d shared that week. She stared out at the breathtaking landscape, but her awareness was narrowed to the familiar warmth, the slight roughness of Ava’s calloused palm, the gentle, steadfast pressure.
And she noticed, with a devastating clarity, how easy it truly was. To sit here. To listen to Ava’s stories about São Paulo, about Ana’s homemade food, about the master luthier. To simply be beside her, without the armour of anger or the distraction of desire. It was shockingly, peacefully easy.
She hated it. She hated how Ava was right. All her protests, her walls, her insistence on a meaningless fling- they crumbled to dust in the face of this simple, profound compatibility. There was something there, something deep and solid and terrifying beneath the physical pull, beneath the electric sexual chemistry. It was the foundation she’d spent six years trying to bury, and it was still there, as strong as ever.
She voiced none of this. No confession, no surrender. She just sat in the sunlight, her hand in Ava’s, staring at a beautiful view she would never see again, and accepted the final, irrevocable truth in the silence of her own heart: She really, truly hated Ava for still loving her. She hated Ava, because she still loved her as well.
And that love made a lie of every defence she had left, and it made the act of walking away feel like amputation.
The evening of their last night settled over the house like a soft, blue blanket. They sat on the large sofa in the living room, a respectable distance between them, each holding a glass of wine like a shield. The fire Ava had lit crackled softly, painting dancing shadows on the walls. It was a scene of domestic tranquility that felt like a beautifully staged lie.
Beatrice broke the quiet, her voice measured, as if reading from a prepared statement. “I’m very busy. I plan on finishing my degree in the foreseeable future. I cannot afford distraction.” She took a sip of wine, not looking at Ava.
Ava set her glass down on the low table. She regarded Beatrice, the firelight flickering in her dark eyes. “I’m also busy.”, she conceded, “But you know how the French are. They value their weekends.” She seemed to come to a decision, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t have a single weekend that you use to unwind?”
“And you think I want to unwind with you?”, Beatrice’s retort was sharp, but lacked its usual defensive heat. It sounded almost like a genuine question.
Ava considered it. Her arm, which had been draped along the back of the sofa, moved. Her hand came to rest on Beatrice’s shoulder, resting there, a warm, heavy weight. “Can’t you…?”, she asked, her voice softening, the sentence trailing off.
Beatrice turned her head, meeting the touch with a slight, reserved smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “What do you expect from me, Ava?”
“I expect you to think about this.”
“About what, exactly?”
Ava was silent for a long moment, her gaze searching Beatrice’s face. “I want you to think about having me in your life again.”
Beatrice took a slow sip of her wine, buying time. She set the glass down with deliberate care and turned her body to face Ava fully, tucking one leg beneath her. The movement brought them closer. “May I remind you…”, she said, her voice dangerously calm, “What you think of long-distance… romance?” The word relationship felt foreign to her.
Ava didn’t flinch. “I was seventeen. My parents had just died. I could have offered you nothing. We wouldn’t have lasted.” The words were clinical, a post-mortem analysis of their shared tragedy.
“And you think we would last now?”, Beatrice challenged, the old wound throbbing beneath the question.
“Wouldn’t you want to try and find out?”, Ava’s reply held the weight of the entire week, of the six years of silence that had preceded it.
Beatrice considered it. And frankly, no. A cold, logical part of her screamed that she would die, if she had to go through that particular brand of heartbreak again. It had taken years to rebuild from the ashes of the last one. But then the other part of her -the part that loved Ava so desperately, it had curdled into this potent, all-consuming hatred- couldn’t accept that she could simply walk away from this house, from this woman, and ever feel whole again. The week had changed the calculus. It had proven the ghost was still flesh, and the flesh was a siren’s call.
So she settled on something in between surrender and flight. A compromise with herself. “I should let you know...”, she began, her voice carefully neutral, as if discussing a colleague’s schedule. “My calendar opens up a bit more from mid-June.”
Ava’s breath caught. June. It was just a week away. Hope, bright and terrifying, flared in her chest, making her heart thump a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“I could consider…”, Beatrice continued, emphasising the word, “Taking some time off. To unwind.”
The ghost of a smile, the first real one all evening, touched Ava’s lips. It was small, but it lit her whole face. She leaned in, just a fraction, her hand still warm on Beatrice’s shoulder.
“Just tell me when and where.”