Ancient History

by standoutinacrowd

Chapter 4: Act IV

Summary:

>> “You look really hot, working. It… throws me back. To boarding school.” <<

The noise in London was a stark contrast to the deep quiet of the French countryside. 

Beatrice sat across from Lilith, cradling a cappuccino between her palms, as if for warmth.

Lilith had just finished dissecting the strategic incompetence of a new junior analyst at her firm with surgical precision. Beatrice, in turn, had offered a dry anecdote about her professor’s obsession with 14th-century mortar samples, delivered with the same detached amusement.

A comfortable silence fell, filled by the clatter of cups around them. Then Lilith set her own coffee down. She leaned forward, her eyes sharpening.

“Alright, I can’t hold it in anymore.”, she announced, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial register that was entirely at odds with her usual demeanour. “The week with Ava in France. How was it?”

Beatrice didn’t look up, instead traced a finger through a stray spill of cocoa on the saucer. “It was… insightful.”, she said, the word perfectly chosen for its sterile ambiguity.

Lilith snorted, a short, unladylike sound. “Insightful? That’s a word I expect you to use when describing your research on water damage in Gothic buttresses. Come on, Beatrice. I’ve been waiting for this.”

Beatrice finally met her gaze, one eyebrow arched in cool displeasure. “Since when do you indulge in gossip, Lilith?”

Lilith placed a hand over her heart in mock offence. “This is not gossip. This is primary source intelligence, straight from the source, about two of my oldest friends potentially rekindling a world-historic romance. Or destroying each other. Either way, it’s significant.”

Beatrice shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She took a long, slow sip of her coffee, saying nothing.

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. She pressed, her voice losing its playful edge and becoming direct. “What did you do?”

Beatrice’s gaze snapped up, holding Lilith’s.

Lilith clarified without missing a beat. “Except for the obvious.”

A faint, uncharacteristic flush crept up Beatrice’s neck. Her eyes widened slightly. “It wasn’t like that.”, she said, too quickly, the defence automatic and thin.

Lilith’s expression shifted to one of pure amusement. She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Then what was it like?”

Beatrice looked down into her cup, as if the swirling foam held an answer. She drew in a deep, steadying breath, the kind she took before a difficult vault in fencing. When she looked up, her expression was one of bewildered resignation.

“She’s coming to London.”, she said quietly. “Next week.”

Lilith’s mouth fell open. For a woman who prided herself on unflappability, it was a profound reaction. She blinked, processing. “It went that well?”

Beatrice shook her head, in confusion. “It was… strange. It was like she was the same person. But also not the same person at all.”

Lilith considered this, tilting her head. The amusement faded, replaced by a more thoughtful scrutiny. “You mean…”, she offered, her tone softening into something almost gentle, “She just grew up?”

Beatrice held her gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, helpless shrug. She then continued, the words flowing now, as if a dam had cracked. “Ava is… she has this whole life in France. The beautiful house and- my god, she drives around in a Volkswagen bug…”, Beatrice shook her head slightly at the fond memory, “She’s staying for quite some time. Over the winter, maybe. I saw the villa she’s working on. It’s marvellous, what she can do with her bare hands.” Another faint, incredulous shake of her head. “She’s this woman with exquisite taste, and I…”

She trailed off, finally looking up, and found Lilith staring at her with a perfectly blank expression. It was more unnerving than any direct question.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”, Beatrice asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice.

Lilith didn’t blink. “I have never… in the last seven years…”, she said slowly, with deliberate emphasis, “Heard you speak like that about anyone. Ever.”

Beatrice opened her mouth to retort, then closed it. The truth of the observation settled over her. She deflated slightly against her chair, the fight leaving her in a long, audible sigh. She stared into the middle distance of the bustling café, a reluctant, wry smile touching her lips.

“Well…”, she conceded, the word soft with surrender. “She is quite compelling. I must admit that.”

Lilith’s blank expression melted into a slow, knowing smile. It wasn’t smug or triumphant; it was simply an acknowledgment of a profound and unexpected truth. She said nothing more, picking up her coffee and taking a serene sip.

And Beatrice was, in that moment, infinitely grateful. Grateful that Lilith, of all people, knew exactly when to stop. That she didn’t press, didn’t ask ‘And what does that mean for you?’ or ‘So, do you still love her?’

Because the meaning was simple, terrifying, and absolute. It didn’t require dissection. Ava, adult Ava -with her capable hands, her beautiful house, her quiet confidence and unshakeable love- had adult Beatrice utterly and completely wrapped around her finger.

*

When Ava arrived on a Friday afternoon, weaving through the crowd at Heathrow, Beatrice was there. Not with a driver, not with a grand gesture, but simply standing by the Arrivals board, hands tucked into the pockets of her tailored trousers. She looked like herself -sharp, composed- but there was a new softness around her eyes, as they found Ava in the stream of people.

No kiss. No dramatic embrace. Ava’s face lit up with a smile that was all relief and quiet joy, and Beatrice answered with a small, genuine one of her own. 

A nod of greeting. A murmured, “You made it.”

“I did.”

They fell into step, side by side, through the terminal’s automated chaos and out into the gritty, diesel-scented air of London. There was no private car idling at the curb. Instead, they navigated the crush of the Piccadilly Line together, standing close in the jostling carriage, their shoulders brushing with the train’s sway. They changed at King’s Cross, a familiar ballet of escalators and tunnels, and boarded a quieter train bound for Oxford.

They sat side by side on the worn upholstery, the English countryside beginning to blur past the window. Ava’s knee rested against Beatrice’s, a point of warm, constant contact. They didn’t speak much. Ava pointed out a herd of sheep in a distant field with a soft chuckle; Beatrice offered a dry comment about the predictable delay outside Reading. It was easy. Companionable.

But beneath the calm surface, Beatrice felt a strange, fluttering giddiness. It wasn’t the intense, consuming heat of France. It was something younger, more nervous. The simple act of riding public transport with Ava, of knowing they were heading to her small, scholarly apartment in Oxford, felt illicit. It was the thrilling, stomach-dropping feeling of being seventeen again, of trying to appear perfectly normal, while secretly holding a universe of want and fear inside. The excitement of a secret- not of an affair, but of a possibility, a stolen weekend, where the rules of her adult, carefully ordered life were temporarily suspended. The danger wasn’t in getting caught by nuns; it was in getting caught by her own heart, in letting this woman back into the private spaces she’d guarded for so long.

As they walked the final stretch from the Oxford station, the familiar spires of the university piercing the grey sky, that giddy, youthful anticipation hummed under her skin. She was leading Ava Silva to her home.

*


They arrived at a building of honey-coloured stone, tucked away on a quiet street. Beatrice’s apartment was on the second floor. It was, as she’d said, big enough for one person- a spacious, high-ceilinged living room with tall windows overlooking a leafy square and a small and functional kitchen nook tucked into an alcove.

Beatrice gave the tour with a host’s brisk efficiency. “Bathroom’s here.”, she said, pushing open a door to reveal white tiles and neatly arranged products. “Everything you might need. Towels are in the cupboard.”

Then she led the way down a short hallway. She paused at the final door, her hand on the frame. A faint flush crept up her neck. “This is my bed…”, she said, then cleared her throat, correcting herself with academic precision. “My bedroom.”

Ava walked past her into the room. It was unmistakably Beatrice’s sanctuary. The bed was large, made with military tightness. A beautiful Danish desk stood under the window, piled with neat stacks of papers and books. The shelves here held academic texts, a few well-loved novels, a small collection of smooth stones, a framed black-and-white photograph of a cathedral arch. It was ordered, serene, and deeply personal.

Ava set her duffel bag down softly at the foot of the meticulously made bed. She took it all in, her gaze lingering on the details- the specific pen on the desk, the way the light fell across the floorboards. Then she turned around.

Beatrice had followed her in, hovering just inside the doorway, as if unsure of her own territory.

Ava fixed her with a look that was both playful and intent. She closed some of the distance between them, not all of it, but enough that the air in the quiet room shifted.

“Am I allowed to sleep in your bed?”, Ava asked, her voice a low murmur that seemed to absorb all other sound.

Beatrice swallowed, the motion visible in the elegant line of her throat. “Yes.”, she said, the word a bit breathless. She tried to recover with a joke, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I’m a bit stretched for space, as you see. Not all of us have heiress status and can afford to live in French mansions. Some of us have to manage living off of our trust funds.”, she said theatrically, as if it wasn’t a privilege in itself. 

Ava didn’t smile at the quip. She took another half-step closer, her eyes never leaving Beatrice’s. “Would I be allowed to sleep in your bed…”, she repeated, slower, “Even if you had the space?”

The weight of the question pressed down on Beatrice. It wasn’t about logistics. It was about permission, about belonging, about the erosion of the last private boundary. A shiver, fine and uncontrollable, ran through her entire frame.

“You’re my guest.”, she said, her voice regaining a shred of its formal composure, though it wavered. “Whatever would accommodate you. You would be free to choose.”

Ava’s eyebrow arched, a challenge glinting in her dark eyes. “Yeah?”, she said, a hint of a smile finally touching her lips. “Do you extend that sort of courtesy to all the women you bring here?”

The question hung in the air, a direct hit to the heart of Beatrice’s carefully constructed, solitary life. Beatrice held her gaze, her own composure snapping back into place like a well-forged blade. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by an honest pride.

“I’ve never…”, she said, each word crisp and clear, “Brought any women here.”

In that simple statement, Beatrice laid bare the truth: this space, this bed, this private world- it had belonged only to her. Until now.

*

The quiet in the apartment stretched, comfortable, but charged. Beatrice, still feeling unmoored in her own space, grasped for something practical.

“I… I know a place that does good Neapolitan pizza.”, she said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen, as if the pizzeria might be in the next cupboard. “We could have it delivered. For dinner.” It was the kind of casual, low-stakes meal she might have on a solitary Friday night, buried in research. It felt incongruous, almost disrespectful, to offer it to Ava, but it was the most honest thing she had.

Ava, who had drifted over to a low bookshelf, didn’t look up from the framed photographs arranged there. “That sounds perfect.”, she said, her voice absent, absorbed.

Beatrice hovered, unsure whether to call or to stay and watch Ava explore the archive of her absence. She opted for the latter, her arms crossing over her chest, as she leaned against the doorframe.

Ava studied the pictures with a quiet intensity. There was Beatrice, stiff but smiling in her Oxford gown, Lilith a sharp, proud silhouette beside her. Another showed her with a group of people Beatrice identified as her rowing team, their faces flushed with cold and victory. There were landscapes -an Icelandic vista, the cliffs of Étretat- with only Beatrice’s back or a sliver of her profile in the frame. It was a curated museum of a life lived diligently, and well, and alone.

“We can tour Oxford tomorrow, if you want.”, Beatrice offered, filling the silence. “You can give me your expert opinion on the woodwork at the Divinity School. Or the hammer beam roof at Christ Church.” She was offering her city as a neutral territory, a subject they could discuss without the peril of personal history.

Ava just nodded, her fingers hovering near the glass of a photo showing a younger, more uncertain Beatrice at what looked like a formal dinner. Finally, she turned her head, her gaze landing on Beatrice, who was still hovering, watching her look. The scrutiny was unnerving.

“Have you not dated at all?”, Ava asked, the question seeming to emerge straight from the conversation before and the evidence in front of her- a life of singular achievement, conspicuously devoid of romantic partners.

Beatrice uncrossed her arms, a defensive gesture. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I have. It just… never stuck. I’m a busy woman. It never quite fit into the schedule.” It was the truth, as far as it went. A sterile truth that omitted the yawning comparison every potential partner had failed to meet. She turned the question back, a reflexive parry. “And you?”

Ava turned fully away from the photos, dismissing the question with a slight wave of her hand. “Here and there…”, she said, her tone carefully light. She wasn’t going to detail a parade of lovers. But she seemed to consider something, then walked over to the sofa and sat down, patting the space beside her in a clear invitation for Beatrice to join.

Beatrice did, perching on the edge, keeping a careful foot of space between them.

“I had a… David. We were together for almost two years.”, Ava began, her gaze fixed on the middle distance. “I moved to Boston with him, actually.”

Beatrice’s posture didn’t change, but her attention sharpened to a needle point. “What was wrong with David?”, she asked, her voice carefully devoid of any inflection that could be read as jealousy.

Ava let out a short, humourless laugh. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing was wrong with him. He was kind, successful.” She glanced at Beatrice, a wry twist to her mouth. “If I were another person, I probably would have married him. Had the perfect three children he wanted, in a house with a porch.”

The image was so concrete, so achingly normal, it sent a peculiar pang through Beatrice’s chest. The life Ava could have had -should have had, by any conventional measure- a life of uncomplicated, pleasant love.

“So why didn’t you?”, Beatrice asked, the scholar in her needing the complete data set.

Ava paused, her eyes flicking to Beatrice’s face and then away again, as if the real answer were too revealing. She shifted gears, offering a safer, logistical reason. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway.”, she said, her tone becoming more practical. “I moved back to São Paulo after we broke up. Tiago had his stroke. My life was there.”

It was a noble reason, a family obligation that neatly sidestepped the emotional core of the matter. Beatrice accepted the offered information with a slow nod, filing it away. She didn’t press. She understood the need for strategic redactions all too well.

The unspoken truth -that David, for all his perfection, hadn’t been her- hung between them.



They did not have sex on that Friday night. They didn’t even share a kiss.

The pizza boxes were discarded, the wine glasses washed and put away. A quiet, domestic rhythm took over. Beatrice retreated to the bathroom first, going through her meticulous routine. When she emerged in pyjamas -a buttoned top and matching trousers- the living room was dark, and Ava was already in the bedroom, the soft light from the bedside lamp spilling into the hall.

Beatrice followed. They moved around each other in the small space with a polite, careful distance, like courteous strangers in a shared hotel room. The rustle of Ava changing, the click of Beatrice’s skincare bottles, the rush of water in the bathroom- it was all performed under a heavy blanket of silence.

Finally, Beatrice slid under the cool linen on her side of the bed. A moment later, the mattress dipped, as Ava got in on the other side. Beatrice reached over and clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into a deep, dark.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, separated by a canyon of sheet. Beatrice’s heart was pounding. This -the chaste intimacy of sharing a bed just to sleep- was somehow nerve-wracking. There was no frantic passion to lose herself in, no transactional excuse. There was only the quiet, the dark, and the palpable presence of the woman she had loved, and lost, and who was now lying an arm’s length away.

For long minutes, they just watched each other.

Then, Ava moved. Slowly, as if not to startle, she slid her hand across the space between them, coming to rest palm-up on the cool sheet. An offering. A bridge.

Beatrice stared at it, a pale ghost in the dark. Her own hand felt leaden, frozen. Then, with a deliberate, shaky exhale, she moved hers. She placed it in Ava’s, palm to palm. Ava’s fingers closed, warm and sure, giving a soft, reassuring squeeze.

No words were spoken.

And like that, hands clasped in the no-man’s-land between them, they fell asleep.

*

Beatrice woke to the soft, grey light of an Oxford morning filtering through her blinds. For a disorienting second, the world was simple. Then memory rushed in- the airport, the train, the careful distance, the hand held in the dark.

She had shifted in her sleep, turning away from the other woman in her bed. Slowly, cautiously, she glanced over her shoulder, half-convinced the entire previous day had been an achingly detailed dream.

But it wasn’t. Ava was there, propped up on one elbow, the glow of her phone screen illuminating her face in the dim room. She was scrolling through something, her expression relaxed, utterly at home in Beatrice’s space.

Seeing Beatrice stir, Ava immediately set the phone aside, screen-down on the nightstand. She shifted closer on the mattress, the movement causing the sheets to whisper.

Beatrice made a soft, questioning sound in the back of her throat, not quite a word.

Ava seemed to consider for a moment, her gaze tracing the line of Beatrice’s shoulder. Then, with a deliberate slowness that made Beatrice’s breath catch, she closed the remaining distance. She draped herself along Beatrice’s back, her body a warm, solid line of heat. Beatrice felt the soft press of Ava’s breasts against her shoulder blades, the lean strength of her thighs against the backs of her own.

Then, daringly tender, Ava leaned in and placed a single, soft kiss on the crest of Beatrice’s cheek. Her lips were cool. “Good morning.”, she mumbled, her voice intimate against Beatrice’s ear.

Beatrice just hummed in response, her senses cataloguing details. The kiss, the scent of mint. Ava had already brushed her teeth. The domesticity of it, the unthinking consideration, sent a strange pang through her.

Still facing away, Beatrice blindly reached a hand back, seeking. Ava understood instantly. Her hand found Beatrice’s, their fingers lacing together. Then, instead of just holding it, Beatrice gently guided Ava’s arm, drawing it across her own waist, tucking Ava’s hand securely against her stomach. An invitation, a claim.

Ava didn’t hesitate. She shifted even closer, eliminating any last sliver of space between them. Her other arm slid down, curling under Beatrice’s neck, becoming a pillow, her hand coming to rest on Beatrice’s opposite shoulder. She was wrapped around her completely, a living shield, a possessive comfort.

And Beatrice… sank into it. She let her body relax back into the solid warmth of Ava’s, let her head rest more fully on the offered arm. A deep, unconscious sigh escaped her. In this quiet cocoon of an ordinary morning, in her own bed, she felt a sense of comfort so profound, it was almost shocking. It felt good. Not exciting, not fraught, not complicated. It felt deeply, fundamentally right. A perfect fit she had spent seven years trying to forget the shape of.

*

It was easy. The strange, weightless comfort of the morning carried them through the day. They walked the hallowed grounds of Oxford. Beatrice pointed out the vaulted ceiling of the Divinity School, her voice taking on a lecturer’s cadence, as she explained the fan tracery. Ava listened, her head tilted back, but her gaze often drifted from the stone to the passionate focus on Beatrice’s face.

“The joinery here is 16th century.”, Ava remarked at one point, running a knowledgeable finger along a seam in a heavy oak door in a quiet quad. “Beautifully preserved. No woodworm.”

Beatrice blinked, seeing the familiar architecture through new eyes- through the eyes of a craftswoman who spoke the language of material and preservation as fluently as Beatrice spoke the language of dates and styles. “I wouldn’t have known.”, she admitted, and Ava’s resulting smile was a small victory.

They had coffee at Beatrice’s favourite bakery, a tiny place tucked down an alley, known for its sourdough and its surly, brilliant owner. Beatrice ordered for them both, and they took their cups to a narrow ledge overlooking the river, watching punts glide lazily by.

“You come here often?”, Ava asked, blowing on her steaming latte.

“When I need to remember the world exists outside of 14th-century manuscripts.”, Beatrice said dryly. “It’s my escape hatch.”

“It’s a good one.”

The day unfolded without agenda or friction. They debated the merits of various libraries and shared a silent smile at a group of over-earnest tourists being led by a particularly pompous guide. It was a nice day out. Simple. Unremarkable in its pleasantness. And that, Beatrice realised with shock, was the remarkable part. Being with Ava was simply… nice. It was the companionship she’d told herself she didn’t need.

*

Back in the apartment, the easy calm of the afternoon settled into a comfortable quiet. Beatrice sat at one end of the sofa, her laptop balanced on her knees, her brow furrowed in concentration, as she composed a complex email to her thesis advisor. The soft tapping of her keys was the only sound.

Ava sat at the other end, curled with a book she’d plucked from Beatrice’s shelf. But she wasn’t reading. She was watching Beatrice. Watching the fierce focus in her eyes, the slight downturn of her lips, as she parsed a difficult thought, the precise movements of her fingers on the keys. It was a look of total absorption, a kind of ruthless intellectual grace that Ava found utterly mesmerising.

At some point, Beatrice felt the weight of the gaze. She glanced up, her concentration breaking. She caught Ava staring, and a faint, self-conscious flush coloured her cheeks. “I just need to finish this one email.”, she said, her voice apologetic, as if she were neglecting her guest.

Ava shook her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “It’s no problem.”, she assured her. Her eyes swept over Beatrice again, from the focused intensity in her eyes to the professional set of her shoulders. “You look really hot, working. It… throws me back. To boarding school.”

Beatrice’s expression shifted instantly. The soft flush of self-consciousness vanished, replaced by a flicker of something sharp and wounded. The pleasant buzz of the compliment curdled.

Ava watched the change, the brief crack in Beatrice’s composure, and filed it carefully away. A misstep. The past was still a minefield.

A few minutes later, Beatrice snapped her laptop shut. She set it on the coffee table and turned her body fully toward Ava, drawing one knee up onto the cushion. The professional was gone, but the wariness remained. “So…”, she said, her voice deceptively light. “What do you want to do?”

Ava didn’t answer the question. Instead, she mirrored Beatrice’s movement, scooting closer on the sofa until only a foot of space separated them. She swallowed, her own nervousness palpable now that the easy buffer of the day was gone.

“Do you want to talk about it?”, she asked softly.

Beatrice’s gaze was steady, guarded. “About what?”

“School. The past.” Ava took a shaky breath. “What happened.”

Beatrice was silent for a long, long moment. She looked past Ava, out the window at the darkening sky, her mind clearly travelling back across the years. When she finally spoke, her voice was hollow. “What would we talk about?”

Ava inched closer, her knee now brushing Beatrice’s. She reached out, to gesture, her hands painting a memory in the air between them. She started with a softness, a safe harbour. 

“Remember that one time…”, she began, a tentative smile touching her lips, “In the library stacks, during that freak hailstorm? Sister Frances had locked the main doors, thinking everyone was in the dorms.”

A faint, distant recognition glimmered in Beatrice’s eyes.

“We were the only ones in there.”, Ava continued, her voice dropping to an almost-whisper, as if the nuns might still hear. “It was so dark, and the hail was hammering on the glass roof like the world was ending. And you… you were trying to find a reference for your Latin essay, and I was just following you, pretending to look for a book on… God, I don’t even remember. And we ended up in that little nook behind the geography section.”

Beatrice recalled it. The smell of old paper and dust. The terrifying, exhilarating roar of the storm. 

“Wait…”, Beatrice said, her brow furrowing. “You were just pretending to look for a book? What for?”

Ava’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. She looked down at her hands, a little embarrassed. “I pretended to do a lot of things, just to be with you.”, she admitted softly. Then her gaze lifted, a spark of daring in it. “Do you remember what happened in that nook?”

Beatrice’s eyes flew wide. A sharp, startled gasp escaped her. “That… that was the place I almost had a heart attack in.”

Ava’s smile turned wicked, fond. “Yeah. The geography of tectonic plates suddenly got very interesting.”

The memory crashed over Beatrice, vivid and visceral. The storm had masked their sounds, the darkness their shapes. It had been frantic, desperate, a collision of hands and muffled gasps against the dusty spines of atlases. The sheer, insane risk of it. The heart-pounding thrill.

And then, the creak of a floorboard on the other side of the shelf. The sudden, paralysing silence from both of them, frozen in mid-action, Beatrice’s hand clamped over Ava’s mouth. The beam of a flashlight slicing through the dusty air a few aisles over, accompanied by the slow, shuffling footsteps of the night patrol. They’d stayed there, barely breathing, hearts hammering in unison, for what felt like an eternity, until the footsteps faded.

“I thought Sister Ignatius was going to round that corner and we were going to be expelled, excommunicated, and possibly stoned in the town square.”, Beatrice breathed, the old fear making her voice tight even now.

“But she didn’t.”, Ava whispered, her eyes shining. “And after… when we were sure she was gone… you started laughing. And then I started laughing. We almost got caught having sex in the library of a Catholic school during a biblical hailstorm, and all we could do was try not to piss ourselves laughing.”

Beatrice felt the ghost of that helpless, terrified laughter in her chest now. She looked at Ava, at the woman remembering the same frantic, foolish, glorious girl she had been, and the wall around her heart cracked another irreparable inch.

Ava’s smile faded, the fond wickedness softening into something more solemn. She looked down at their nearly touching knees. “That was the last time…”

Beatrice’s breath stilled. Her mind raced to fill the blank. We had sex? We were happy? We felt that free?

But then Ava finished the sentence, her voice barely above a whisper. “…that was the last time I saw you laugh like that.”

The specificity of it, the tenderness of the observation, caught Beatrice off guard. It wasn’t about the act; it was about the joy. She deflected, grasping for the safer, sexier ground. “Well…”, she said, forcing a light tone, “Probably also the last time I let you take off my knickers in a library.”

The sentence, meant as a barrier, subtly created a possibility- a shared, teasing future, where such things would be considered, where the past wasn’t just a minefield but a shared, outrageous history. Ava grasped it instantly, her eyes lighting up with a playful challenge. “Oh yeah? You didn’t have fantasies of having sex at your uni? In the Bodleian? I hear it’s tradition.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Who said I haven’t had sex at my uni?”

Ava was only stunned for a second, before a grin spread across her face. “Just not a library?”

“Just not the library.”, Beatrice corrected, her voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “It’s sacred.”

The words unlocked something in Ava. The playful tension melted away, replaced by a profound softness. Her gaze grew intense, unwavering. “I knew I loved you, the first time we slept together.”

Beatrice let out a soft, dismissive chuckle, rolling her eyes, as she looked away, toward the darkened window. A classic deflection. “Ava, that is a really cheesy thing to say.”

But Ava didn’t let her look away. She leaned in, her hand coming up to gently guide Beatrice’s chin back, forcing their eyes to meet. “No.”, she insisted, her voice earnest, stripped of all humour. “I’m serious. I think, I felt it before, but I really knew, when we had sex for the first time. In your room. It wasn’t just… sex. It was you. It was everything.” She swallowed, her thumb brushing Beatrice’s jaw. “I’m just sorry I never told you earlier. I only told you, before…”

The sentence hung unfinished, but Beatrice knew what would fill in the blank this time. Before I left you.

The lump that rose in her throat was sudden and violent. She tried to fight it, clenching her jaw, blinking rapidly against the hot, treacherous pressure building behind her eyes. She looked down, breaking Ava’s gaze, trying to will the tears away.

Ava watched Beatrice’s attempt, her own eyes glistening. “That is the only thing I really regret.”, she whispered. “Well, besides the no-contact thing, maybe. I didn’t know any better.”

Beatrice was silent for a long, pensive moment, the weight of Ava’s regret and their shared, catastrophic loss between them. Then she looked back up, her wet eyes searching Ava’s face, clarity dawning through the pain.

“You don’t regret the breakup.”, Beatrice stated, the realisation settling like a cold stone. It wasn’t an accusation, just a stunned observation of a previously unexamined truth.

Ava inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself. She closed the last bit of distance on the sofa, her thigh now pressed fully against Beatrice’s, their faces inches apart. “No.”, she admitted, “I wouldn’t have been a good girlfriend to you then. Not in the state I was in. Grief-stricken, shipped to another continent, living with virtual strangers… I was a ghost. You would have grown to resent me for my absence, for my inability to be present. We wouldn’t have lasted. We were teenagers.”

Beatrice shook her head, a sharp, dismissive motion. “You don’t know that.”

A soft, sad smile touched Ava’s lips. She gave a small, helpless shrug. “Okay, I don’t. Not for certain. But I do know this: I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And you… you wouldn’t be the person you are today. Dr. Beatrice Lee, formidable academic, master of her own destiny.” Her gaze swept over Beatrice with a pride that was entirely separate from romance. “We grew up. Individually. We had to.” She reached for Beatrice’s hand, lacing their fingers together on the cushion between them. “I don’t regret the decision I made back then.”, she said, her voice gaining a quiet, unshakeable conviction. “Because I believe we are where we’re supposed to be. Right now.”

The statement was a paradox- it suggested that the years of silence weren’t just a wasteland of loss, but a necessary, if brutal, forge. And it placed them, here on this sofa in Oxford, not as tragic repeats of history, but as two new people who had earned the right to find each other again.

Beatrice searched Ava’s eyes, looking for the flaw in the grand, philosophical claim. “So…”, she said, her voice dry, “You were destined to be sitting in your ex’s apartment in Oxford on a rainy Saturday night?”

Ava’s grin was instantaneous, brilliant, and utterly convinced. “Apparently, yes.”, she said, the words buoyant with a faith that seemed to light her up from within.

Beatrice could only stare, momentarily disarmed by the radiant certainty of it. And then she noticed. The inches between them had vanished. She could feel the warmth of Ava’s breath, could see the faint freckle just above her lip. Her gaze dropped, tracing the familiar curve, and when it flicked back up, Ava’s eyes were waiting. The air between them grew thick.

Beatrice’s throat constricted. She cleared it, the sound harsh in the quiet. “Are you hungry?”, she asked, her voice suddenly too bright, too practical. “Do you want to go out for dinner?”

Ava blinked, the spell broken. She looked momentarily stunned by the abrupt segue, but recovered with impressive speed, her expression shifting to one of polite consideration. “I’m actually still pretty stuffed from our late lunch.”

“Right.”, Beatrice said, already moving, putting physical distance between them, as she stood up from the sofa. “Well, something light then? A salad?” She was already walking toward the kitchen, a woman on a mission to defuse a bomb with leafy greens.

Ava rose and followed, a silent, watchful shadow. Beatrice busied herself at the counter, pulling out a bowl, opening the fridge with more force than necessary. The domestic clatter was a poor shield.

Ava leaned against the counter, observing the frantic, pointless activity. Then, just as Beatrice reached back into the fridge for lettuce, Ava moved. Her hand closed over Beatrice’s on the cool metal handle, stilling her completely.

“Beatrice.”

Beatrice froze, her back tense. She didn’t turn.

Ava’s voice was quiet, but it filled the small kitchen. She gently turned Beatrice halfway to face her, forcing the eye contact Beatrice had been fleeing. Her gaze was direct, piercing through all the deflections and the talk of salads.

“Are you this afraid of being loved by me?”, Ava asked, her thumb stroking the back of Beatrice’s captive hand.

Beatrice let the fridge door swing shut. She turned around fully now, and Ava saw it all- the deep, familiar pain and layered over it the pure, unadulterated fear she was talking about. It was the terror of the chasm opening at her feet.

Ava stepped into her space, eliminating the last of the kitchen’s safe distance. “I’m not seventeen anymore.”, she said, her voice low and steady, an anchor in the storm of Beatrice’s silence. “You’re not seventeen anymore.”

Beatrice swallowed. She gave a single, slow nod. It was a small movement, but it was the most open, unguarded admission Ava had seen from her that weekend. The walls were down. The drawbridge was lowered.

“Let me love you.”, Ava whispered, the plea so soft, it was almost just a breath between them.

Beatrice didn’t speak. No clever deflection. Just a soft, broken sound that was neither a word nor a sob, but pure surrender. It was the sound of a fortress finally ceasing its defence.

Ava took Beatrice’s face into her hands. Her thumbs stroked over the high cheekbones, wiping away the ghost of earlier tears. She searched Beatrice’s face, which was a map of conflict finally resolving into acceptance. Beatrice’s eyes were closed, her long lashes dark against her skin. When they fluttered open, Ava saw it- the girl she’d fallen in love with, stripped of all her sophisticated armour, looking back at her with a vulnerability that left Ava breathless.

Ava wet her own lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. She leaned in, slowly, giving Beatrice every chance to turn her head, to pull away, to reinstate the border.

Beatrice didn’t move. 

Their lips met.

It wasn’t like any kiss that came before. This was different. This was a first kiss. It was slow. It was gentle. A tender exploration, a question asked and answered with infinite care. There was no frantic pace from Beatrice, no aggression. She was completely present, soft and pliant under Ava’s mouth.

Ava felt Beatrice’s hands clutch at the fabric of her sweatshirt, where it bunched over her shoulders. Her fists were tight, as if holding on for dear life, anchoring herself to the reality of the kiss, to the woman giving it. 

Then, Beatrice pulled back. Just far enough to break the contact, her breath mingling with Ava’s. Her eyes, wide and impossibly dark, searched Ava’s face, scanning for any hint of doubt, of performance. She found none. Only honesty. A sincerity that seemed to glow from within Ava, illuminating the familiar features with a new, terrifying light.

It wasn’t enough to see it. Beatrice needed to feel it. She needed the truth of those words -let me love you- to be more than sound. She needed it to be a physical reality, to surround her, to rewrite the very atmosphere in her lungs. She needed to be encompassed by it.

Wordlessly, her gaze still locked with Ava’s, Beatrice released her death-grip on the sweatshirt. Her hand slid up, finding Ava’s where it still cradled her jaw. She intertwined their fingers, the contact electric with a new intention.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Beatrice began to walk backward, pulling Ava with her. She didn’t look away, as she guided them out of the living space, down the short, dark hallway. Ava followed, her steps matching Beatrice’s, her expression one of dazed wonder and the tender, aching love, allowing herself to be led.



When thinking back to this exact moment, Beatrice would not remember any frantic undressing; they were simply there, bare to each other in the quiet of her bedroom.

Ava hovered above Beatrice, her weight braced on her arms, creating a sacred space between their bodies. Their eyes were locked, a silent conversation passing in the dimness. There was no hurry. No driven need to consume or be consumed.

Ava simply lowered her head and kissed her, with devotion. A slow, deep exploration of her mouth that spoke of time, of patience, of a love that had waited years for this permission. Her left hand found Beatrice’s right and she placed it beside Beatrice’s head on the pillow. Ava’s fingers didn’t just hold; they learned. Her index traced, with exquisite delicacy, the entire length of Beatrice’s thumb -from the sensitive pad, over the joint, along the strong line to its base- before slowly, reverently, folding her own hand around Beatrice’s, encasing it completely. An anchor. A declaration.

When Ava broke the kiss, it was only to pull back a breath, her lips a hair’s breadth from Beatrice’s. Her eyes held hers. “I love you.”, she whispered into the space between their mouths. The words were not a grand declaration, but a soft, sure truth, offered like a gift directly into her soul.

And Beatrice realised, with a shock that reverberated through her entire being, that she had never heard those words in bed before. Not from any of the carefully selected, intelligent, perfectly nice women who had shared one with her. The sentiment had been absent, or implied, or clumsily spoken in daylight (which ultimately always ended with rejection of it on Beatrice’s side).

Then Ava began to worship her. Her mouth left Beatrice’s lips, hovering for a heartbeat, before descending. She first pressed her lips to Beatrice’s pulse point. Then, a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along her left clavicle, as if tracing precious jewellery. She moved up again, her breath warm against the sensitive skin. She kissed the gentle slope where neck met shoulder, then the hollow above Beatrice’s sternum. Her lips brushed the tops of Beatrice’s breasts with a tenderness that was new.

Finally, she reached the centre of Beatrice’s sternum, that flat plane of bone. Here, Ava placed a kiss that was different. Softer, slower, more solemn. She didn’t stop there. Her ministrations continued down the subtle ridge of Beatrice’s abdomen, each kiss a gentle punctuation in the quiet dark. She mapped the terrain of her- the gentle dip of her navel, the faint, silvery stretch marks on her flanks that spoke of a teenage growth spurt, secrets Ava had never learned.

Then, a kiss, featherlight and fleeting, against the sharp, beautiful crest of Beatrice’s hipbone. It was an homage to her architecture, to the strong, elegant frame that housed her. It was a kiss of profound appreciation, for the body that was, and the woman within it.

To be touched like this -not taken, but offered to; not used, but revered- unmade Beatrice completely. It was not about pleasure, though pleasure was a rising, inevitable tide within it. It was about being known, entirely, and being loved precisely for what was known. In the delicate tracing of her thumb, in the whispered confession, in the sacred kisses mapped across her skin, Beatrice felt, at the age of twenty-four and for the first time ever, what it was to be someone’s everything. 

 

Ava was on her back, her knees bent, creating a sheltered space. Beatrice lay fully on top of her, a warm, grounding weight, her chin resting on her crossed arms over Ava’s stomach, just under the curve of her breasts. She was looking up, her expression serene in the dim light, watching Ava’s face, as her fingers absently combed through the dark silk of Beatrice’s hair.

The gentle rhythm of the touch was a quiet metronome in the room. Ava’s voice, when it came, was low and clear, woven into the peaceful quiet.

“Beatrice…”, she began, her fingers stilling for a moment on a strand of hair. “I want to be with you. Not just like this… Not to have frivolous sex. Not just to pass time… I want everything… you’re… everything for me.”

Beatrice didn’t tense, but a slight, wary shadow crossed her features. She turned her head, pressing her cheek against her own arm, her gaze steady on Ava’s. “I’m not the person you left, Ava.”, she murmured, “You have me on a pedestal.”

Ava’s hand resumed its gentle motion, but her eyes were fierce with conviction. She looked down, meeting Beatrice’s gaze directly. “That’s exactly the point. We both aren’t the people we used to be. I want you. The woman lying on top of me right now. The one who gets annoyed by slow walkers and secretly loves rom coms and… and works entirely too hard.” She softened her tone. “I love you for who you are, not just the fantasy I’ve carried. You’re not on some fucking pedestal I built. I know your flaws. I know how hard it is for you to let people in- to let me in, right now. And I will work for it. I just… need you to know all of this. To consider.”

Beatrice searched her face, looking for the cracks, the performative romance. She found only earnest certainty. “Consider what?”, she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Our future.”, Ava said, the words simple and monumental.

A faint, pained smile touched Beatrice’s lips. She shifted slightly, the movement making her more aware of their intimate position. “What kind of future do you see?”, she asked, the pragmatist re-emerging, “When you’re on the other side of the world? When the contract ends and you go back to Brazil?”

Ava didn’t flinch. Her hand moved, her thumb gently traced the line of Beatrice’s eyebrow. “We can talk about the logistics… when you’ve decided.”

Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, absorbing the weight of it all. “I need time.”, she breathed, opening them again. “Time to think about this.”

Ava nodded, her expression calm. Her fingers returned to their gentle stroking in Beatrice’s hair. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Beatrice repeated, a note of skepticism colouring her voice. She lifted her head a fraction. “You’re just… okay with me not giving you an answer right now? After everything you just said?”

Ava smiled then, a soft, radiant thing that lit up her tired face. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of Beatrice’s head. “Yes.”, she mumbled against her hair. “I love you without the condition of you having to love me back. Or of you knowing the answer right this second.” She pulled back and laid back down to catch Beatrice’s gaze again, her eyes serious and warm. “It’s important enough for me to wait.”

The lack of pressure was a monumental relief. Beatrice let out a long, slow breath, the tension she hadn’t even fully acknowledged seeping from her shoulders. She settled her head back down, her arms moved to encircle Ava, where possible, her ear listening to the sound of Ava’s steady heartbeat. Beatrice’s body was relaxing more fully into Ava’s.

*

Heathrow was full of a symphony of rolling suitcases, tinny announcements, and the faint, ever-present smell of jet fuel and anxiety. They stood in a semi-public limbo- past the check-in desks, but before the grim finality of security. A wide, utilitarian space with gleaming floors and rows of hard plastic seats, dotted with pillars of smooth, grey concrete.

Beatrice, who had never been one for public displays, found the rules of her own propriety dissolving. The looming separation acted like a solvent on her reserve. As Ava turned to her, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a sad, resigned smile already on her lips, Beatrice reached for her.

She guided them both back, until Ava’s back met the cool, solid surface of a broad concrete pillar. It offered a sliver of privacy, a tiny alcove in the river of departing strangers.

“Ava.”, Beatrice breathed, and then her mouth was on hers.

It was passionate, deep, and desperate. A kiss meant to imprint, to sustain. Beatrice’s hands framed Ava’s face, as she poured all of her unsaid words into the connection. Ava matched her, her bag dropping from her shoulder, as her arms came around Beatrice’s waist, holding her tight.

They kissed for a long time, lost in their private world against the public pillar, until Ava finally had to break away, gasping for air. Her lips were beautifully, thoroughly swollen. She blinked, dazed, and glanced furtively around them. A few hurried passengers cast indifferent glances; no one was watching the two women saying a heartfelt goodbye. Ava leaned back in, capturing Beatrice’s mouth again, but this time the kiss was slower, sweeter, a lingering promise rather than a frantic claim.

“I need to go.”, she whispered against Beatrice’s lips, her voice ragged. “Security. My flight’s in an hour.”

Beatrice kissed her again, a firm, possessive press. “I will let you know when I land.”, Ava said, her hands coming back up to cradle Beatrice’s face, her thumbs brushing the high arches of her cheekbones. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and unwavering love. “And you… you will let me know. When you know. Or even if you just… have a short opening and want to see me again. No pressure. Just… let me know.”

She sealed the request with another short, soft kiss. Then she hesitated, her forehead resting against Beatrice’s. The three words were there, a truth too powerful to leave unsaid, even here. “I love you.”, she breathed, a vulnerable offering.

Beatrice didn’t say it back. The words were a dammed river behind her own lips, held back by what felt like a lifetime of caution and the fresh, raw terror of what they meant. But she nodded, a slow, sure movement, her nose brushing Ava’s. And then she kissed her again, deeper, longer. She poured her answer into it- the whirlwind of the week, the comfort of the mornings, the seismic shift in her soul, the love she felt, but could not yet voice. It was all there, in the slow slide of her tongue, in the gentle nip of her teeth, in the way her hands slid into Ava’s hair to hold her close.

When they finally parted, both breathless, the world and its noises rushed back in. Ava gave her one last, lingering look, a smile trembling on her kiss-bruised mouth. She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and with a final squeeze of Beatrice’s hand, she turned and walked toward the security queue, looking back once to blow Beatrice a kiss.

Beatrice stood by the concrete column, smiling and watching her blend into the shuffling line, her own lips tingling, her heart a wild, hopeful, terrified thing in her chest.

*

The weeks that followed were a delicate new rhythm. Texts flowed between Chalonnes-sur-Loire and Oxford, a digital lifeline tethering them across the Channel. Ava sent photos of progress on the villa’s stucco- a cherub’s repaired wing, a vine’s newly carved leaf-accompanied by technical notes that Beatrice pored over with a scholar’s interest. Beatrice sent dry updates on her thesis page count, the numbers ticking slowly upward. When she finished it, it was a monumental, silent victory. She didn’t tell Ava. It felt like a card she wasn’t ready to play, a piece of her new life that didn’t feel real yet.

Then, one grey afternoon in Oxford, Beatrice took a selfie in her bathroom mirror, a tired smile on her face, and sent it as a reply to a photo Ava had sent of herself covered in a fine layer of wood dust. It was just a quick, casual shot.

Ava’s reply came a minute later, a zoomed-in screenshot of Beatrice’s photo. The focus was on the sliver of her collarbone and the faint, intricate edge of lace visible at the neckline of her t-shirt.

Ava: Is that what I think it is? Are you wearing that right now?

Beatrice’s cheeks flushed, alone in her room, sitting on the bed. She bit her lip, a slow smile spreading.


Beatrice: Maybe.


Ava: Damn. I missed out. It’s a shame I never got to take it off you.


The words, simple and direct, landed like a lightning strike in the quiet of Beatrice’s apartment. A hot, immediate flush of desire swept through her, pooling low in her stomach, making her skin feel too tight. Before she could overthink it, her fingers were hitting the call button.

Ava picked up on the second ring, her voice a mix of concern and surprise. 

“Hey... everything okay?”

“Yes.”, Beatrice said, her own voice sounding breathless even to her. “I just wanted to call you. To let you know that it was entirely your fault. You could have had me, right there and you didn’t seize the opportunity.”

Ava’s soft laugh was a warm vibration down the line. “I know. I should have waited with the admission of love.”


Beatrice bit her lip, smiling, leaning back against her headboard. “Yes. And I looked so good with them on.”


Ava’s voice dropped, turning sultry and deep, a private rumble meant for her ear alone. “Oh, trust me, Beatrice. I’m pretty sure, you would have looked even better, if I had taken them off.”

Beatrice exhaled, a shaky, audible sound. She said nothing, letting the image, and the truth of the statement, hang between them.


“Are you home?”, Ava asked suddenly, her voice still that low, intimate register.

“Yes.”, Beatrice whispered. “You?”

“Yes.”

A beat of charged silence pulsed through the connection, a continent of unspoken want compressed into the digital space.

“I think about you.”, Ava murmured. “A lot.”


“What do you think about?”, Beatrice asked, her own voice dropping to match Ava’s, playing a game she’d never allowed herself before.

“Of everything. Your smile. Your voice. Your scent- god, I would have never changed my sheets, if hygiene wasn’t a thing.”


Beatrice’s breath hitched. Her free hand drifted to her own stomach, fingers splaying over the thin cotton of her t-shirt. She moved to lay down more comfortably. Then she pushed further, the boldness fuelled by distance and desperate need. “And do you think about me…”, she asked, the words barely a whisper, “… when you touch yourself?”

A beat.


On the other end of the line Ava’s breathing hitched, then noticeably quickened. The soft sound of it, the clear loss of control, was the most erotic thing for Beatrice in that moment.

“Yes.”, Ava breathed out, the word a confession. “All the time. I think about your hands. Your mouth. The way you taste.” Her voice grew rougher. “I think about you in my bed… how you felt, under my fingertips.”

Beatrice’s eyes slid shut. Her own hand drifted lower, under the waistband of her sweatpants. “Tell me…”, she whispered, her own breathing becoming unsteady. “Tell me what you’re thinking about right now.”

“I’m thinking about you…”, Ava began, her voice a ragged thread. “In your bed. In Oxford. Wearing that set that I picked out for you. And I’m thinking about being there. About kissing you low on your stomach.” A soft, wet sound, a kiss placed somewhere, followed by a shaky inhale. “And then your crotch, above the lace. Until you’re begging me to take them off.”

Beatrice’s fingers found their mark, a gasp escaping her lips. “Ava…”

“Are you touching yourself?”, Ava asked, her own voice thick with effort. 

“Yes.”, Beatrice gasped.

A fumbling sound, then the click of the speakerphone. Beatrice dropped the phone onto the pillow beside her head, freeing both hands. The sound of Ava’s ragged breathing filled the room, intimate and overwhelming. Beatrice’s other hand now drifted under her shirt and toward her lace-covered breast.

“I am too.”, Ava confessed, a low moan punctuating the words. “God, I wish it was your hand. Your fingers. Your mouth. You’d do it so much better.”

The praise, raw and desperate, unlocked something feral in Beatrice. A possessiveness, a need to give back, to claim. Her hips arched off the bed. “I’ve had... the best sex of my life... with you.”, she panted, the truth spilling out unfiltered by pride or defence.

Ava’s answering chuckle was breathless, ragged. “So you weren’t lying.”, she managed, her own rhythm audible in the background, “When you said you only came to France to have sex with me. It’s that good?”

“Yes.”, Beatrice moaned, the word breaking on a crest of sensation. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Then think of my mouth on you right now.”, Ava commanded, her voice guttural. “Whatever you’re feeling... that’s my tongue.”

“Oh, god.”, Beatrice cried out, the image a final, devastating catalyst. Her world dissolved into static, Ava’s name a silent scream on her lips, as she came, her body shuddering violently against her own hand.

Through the haze, she could hear Ava’s own climax- a sharp gasp, a series of shaky, stuttering breaths that slowly, gradually, began to even out.

For a long time, there was only the sound of their shared recovery, the quiet intimacy of two bodies calming in unison across a continent.

Then, Ava’s voice, soft and spent, broke the silence. “Check your phone.”

Still trembling, Beatrice reached for the device on the pillow. A new notification glowed. She tapped it.

The image was dimly lit, artfully suggestive rather than explicit. A shot from Ava’s perspective, her own hand disappeared between her thighs, the sheets rumpled, a sliver of toned stomach visible. It was raw, beautiful, and so intensely private, it made Beatrice’s breath catch all over again. She swallowed hard, her throat dry.

Ava’s voice came through the speaker, a hint of a smile in it. “Thank you for your call.”

Beatrice stared at the photo, at the evidence of Ava’s shared need. A wave of emotion, tender and fierce, swamped her. The words rose to her lips, unbidden, inevitable. I love you. They sat on her tongue, ready to be spoken into the quiet, grateful and a little annoyed at the power this woman held over her.

She caught them just in time. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The realisation of how close she’d been -of how naturally the confession had almost slipped out- struck her. She was ready for it now, the love, not as a terrifying abstract, but as a living, breathing thing inside her chest. The realisation was heavy on her chest.

“You’re welcome.”, Beatrice finally whispered, her voice hoarse with everything she didn’t say.



*


The July sun pressed down on the Loire Valley like a heavy, golden hand. The air in the taxi was thick, smelling of hot vinyl and the driver’s faint cologne. Outside, vineyards stretched in orderly, sun-bleached rows, and the stone of distant châteaux shimmered in the heat haze.

Beatrice sat in the back, a small suitcase beside her. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Ava: Just finishing up lunch in town. Heading back to the villa soon. Miss you.

A sharp, sweet pang went through Beatrice’s chest. She typed back, her expression neutral.

Beatrice: Hope it was good. I’m in a meeting all afternoon. Talk tonight?

She sent it, the white lie a necessary part of the operation. The three dots bounced, then Ava’s reply came.

Ava: Okay. Call me when you’re free. I’ll be here.

Beatrice put her phone away, her heart beginning to beat a faster rhythm against her ribs. The taxi turned off the main road after about forty minutes, onto a smaller, tree-lined lane, the very route she’d taken months before. The great iron gates of the estate came into view, standing open for the day’s work. She paid the driver and stepped out into the wall of heat, the gravel of the drive crunching under her.

A man in dusty work clothes emerged from a side door, holding a clipboard. He held up a hand as she approached.

“Pardon, madame, c’est une propriété privée. Les visites sont interdites.” Sorry, ma’am, this is private property. No visitors.

Beatrice adjusted her sunglasses. “Je sais.”, she replied, “Je suis là pour voir Ava Silva.” I know. I’m here to see Ava Silva.

The man’s eyebrows shot up. He looked her over -the tailored linen trousers, the simple blouse, the air of unflappable authority- and his expression shifted from suspicion to surprise. “Vous connaissez la maître artisan?”, he asked, a note of respect entering his voice. You know the master artisan?

A genuine laugh escaped Beatrice, bright and unexpected in the hot, still air. “C’est comme ça qu’on l’appelle?” That’s what they call her?

He shrugged, smiling now, and gestured for her to follow. “Par ici.” This way.

He led her through the cool, shadowy stone entrance hall and toward the grand salon. The sounds of gentle work -the soft sanding of wood, the low murmur of voices- filled the space. The doors to the salon were open.

Inside, Ava stood with her back to them, bathed in a shaft of sunlight pouring through a high window. She was studying a large sketch pinned to a makeshift easel, one hand on her hip, the other holding a pencil to her lips in thought. She was dressed in practical, faded jeans and a white tank top. She looked utterly absorbed, completely in her element.

The worker, Maurice, cleared his throat. “Patronne?” Boss?

Ava half-turned, her attention still on the sketch. “Oui, Maurice?” Yes, Maurice?

“Vous avez une visite.”, he said simply. You have a visitor.

Ava turned fully, a mild, polite curiosity on her face that was completely unprepared for what she saw.

Her eyes landed on Beatrice, standing in the doorway, backlit by the hall light.

For a full second, Ava simply stared, her brain refusing to process the information. The pencil slipped from her fingers, clattering softly on the stone floor. All the colour drained from her face, then rushed back in a wave of stunned disbelief. Her eyes grew so wide, Beatrice could see the perfect circle of her irises from across the room.

“Beatrice?”

The name was a shocked exhale. She was across the room in an instant, moving with a speed that defied the day’s heat. She stopped just inches away, her gaze raking over Beatrice, as if she might be a heat-induced hallucination. “What…”, she breathed, her voice hushed, almost scared. “What are you doing here? How…?”

Then, as if the reality finally cemented itself, her arms were around Beatrice, pulling her into a tight, fierce, almost desperate hug. Beatrice hugged her back, feeling the solid, real strength of her.

Over Beatrice’s shoulder, Ava finally registered Maurice, who was watching the scene with amused curiosity.

Ava pulled back just enough to look at Beatrice’s face again, her own expression a storm of joy, confusion, and radiant hope. She nodded at Maurice without looking away. “Merci, Maurice. We’re… we’re fine here.”

The worker gave a small, understanding nod and discreetly slipped away, leaving them alone in the salon.

Beatrice watched Maurice’s retreating back. She then turned back to Ava, whose face was still a canvas of stunned joy. Beatrice wet her lips, stepped forward, and kissed her. It was a firm, deliberate press, a silent answer to the shock still lingering in Ava’s eyes. Ava made a soft sound of surprise against her mouth but kissed her back instantly, her hands coming up to hold her there for a long, sweet moment, before sliding down to pull her into another tight, almost disbelieving hug.

“Seriously…”, Ava murmured into her hair, her voice muffled. She pulled back, her hands resting on Beatrice’s shoulders as if to steady them both. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to surprise you.”, Beatrice said simply, allowing a small, genuine smile to break through. It felt reckless and wonderful.

Ava shook her head, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. “It’s the middle of the week. You’re supposed to be in a boardroom or a library, being terrifyingly competent.”

“I am being competent.”, Beatrice replied smoothly. “I’m surprising my… maître artisan.” The hesitation over the label was brief, but the use of Maurice’s term made Ava’s smile widen.

Ava just held her for another long moment, as if absorbing the reality of her presence through touch. Then, practicality seemed to kick in. “I’ll be done here in a few hours.”, she said, glancing regretfully at the sketch on the easel. She fumbled in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the keyring with its distinctive, cheerful Volkswagen key fob. She held it out. “You can take the car. Go to the house, make yourself at home. It’s cool there, at least.”

Beatrice looked at the yellow key fob with pure horror. “Absolutely not.”, she said, her voice firm. “I am terrified of driving that car. I can wait for you.” She gestured to her mid-sized suitcase standing by the doorway. “I brought something to read.”

Ava’s gaze followed the gesture, and her eyes snapped back to Beatrice’s face, a new, hopeful light dawning in them. “You’re staying?”, she asked, her voice softening. “For longer?”

Beatrice shrugged, the movement deliberately casual, but the smile she couldn’t suppress gave her away. “I have some time.”

Ava’s answering smile was radiant, transforming her dust-smudged face. She leaned in again, capturing Beatrice’s lips in a sweeter, slower kiss this time. When she pulled away, she was all business again, but a giddy, affectionate business. She scanned the cluttered room, her eyes landing on a wooden chair tucked behind a roll of protective sheeting. She hauled it out, sending a small cloud of ancient dust motes dancing in the sunbeam. She frowned, brushed the seat off with her hand, then seemed to decide it wasn’t good enough.

She strode over to a rough worktable strewn with tools and rolled-up plans, grabbing a worn, soft linen jacket that was draped over it. She shook it out and spread it carefully over the dusty seat of the chair she’d liberated, creating a makeshift cushion. She patted it. “Here. Sit. It’s the best I can do. Don’t want historic plaster dust on your…” she gestured vaguely at Beatrice’s impeccable trousers.

Beatrice arched an eyebrow but accepted the chivalrous, if unorthodox, gesture. She sat, smoothing the fabric of her trousers, and looked up at Ava, who was watching her with a mix of awe and possessiveness. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”, Ava promised, before turning back to her sketch, the energy in the room now charged with a new, thrilling undercurrent.


Beatrice pulled a book from her bag, but it lay unopened in her lap. Her gaze was fixed, utterly captivated, on Ava.

Ava had returned to her sketch, but soon set it aside, moving to a section of the ornate wood stucco that was mid-restoration. She picked up a chisel and a small mallet. The transformation was immediate. The woman who had just been laughing, kissing, fumbling with keys, vanished. In her place was the maître artisan.

Her posture shifted into one of complete, unhurried focus. Her brow furrowed slightly in profound concentration. She examined the damaged cherub’s wing with her fingertips first, reading the grain of the wood like Braille. Then, with a breath that seemed to centre her entire being, she positioned the chisel. The tap of the mallet was not loud, but it was decisive, a perfect, controlled punctuation in the quiet. A tiny, precise curl of old wood peeled away.

Beatrice watched her hands. The same hands that had cradled her face, that had traced maps of devotion on her skin, now wielded steel and wood with a master’s intimate authority. There was no hesitation, only a deep, knowing dialogue between the craftswoman and the material. Ava’s movements were economical, graceful, utterly sure. She would pause, her head tilting, as she assessed her work, her eyes missing nothing- the flow of the grain, the shadow a new cut would create, the ghost of the original carver’s intent centuries before.

And Beatrice understood. With a clarity that was almost physical, she understood what Ava had meant that day in Oxford, when she’d said, You look really hot, working. It wasn’t about the clothes or the setting. It was this. This absolute immersion, this fierce intelligence channeled into a physical act of creation. It was the quiet power of complete competence, the magnetism of a person who is entirely in their element.

Watching Ava carve was... Beatrice had to admit, immensely hot. But it was more than that. It was a revelation. This was who Ava was- not a memory, not a fantasy, but a woman who had taken the shattered pieces of her life and learned, with patience and grit and brilliant hands, how to make beautiful, whole things again.

The love that had been a tangled knot of past pain and present fear unfurled completely in Beatrice’s chest. It wasn’t a whisper or a question anymore. It was a sun, burning bright and sure. She loved her. She loved this woman, with her calloused hands and her unwavering focus, with her ridiculous yellow car and her perfect, solemn kisses. She loved her so much, the feeling was a physical pressure behind her ribs, a truth so vast, she felt it might spill out of her- that she wanted to shout it to the silent cherubs on the ceiling, to the dust motes in the sunbeam, to the whole world.

She didn’t speak. She just watched, her book forgotten, her heart a steady drumbeat in the quiet room, bearing witness to the art of the woman she loved.

*


The yellow Beetle crunched to a halt on the gravel drive of the stone house. Ava killed the sputtering engine, and in the sudden, ringing quiet, she simply leaned across the gearstick and kissed Beatrice. It was short, a punctuation mark of arrival. Then she kissed her again, fiercely, on the cheek, her lips lingering against the damp, warm skin. “I’m so, so happy you’re here.”, she whispered, the words vibrating with joy.

The heat of the day clung to them, a sticky second skin. They agreed, without needing to discuss it, on showers first- a practical reset. Beatrice used the guest bathroom, letting the cool water wash away the grit of travel. When she emerged, freshly dressed, her skin tingling, her suitcase was not in the guest room anymore.

She paused in the empty, pristine room. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. She turned and walked the few steps to the other end of the hall, to Ava’s bedroom.

The door was ajar. Inside, Ava stood by the window in her silk robe. And there, at the foot of the large, neatly made bed, was Beatrice’s suitcase, looking both perfectly at home and like a delightful intrusion.

Beatrice leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. She nodded toward the suitcase, her expression a masterpiece of playful accusation. “So…”, she said, her voice dry. “You just assumed I wanted to sleep here? With you? In your bed?”

Ava turned. She didn’t look guilty. She cocked her eyebrows, a challenge glinting in her dark eyes. “Where else would you sleep?”, she asked, as if the question were absurd.

Beatrice’s resolve broke into a dazzling, unguarded smile. She tilted her head, conceding the point without words.

Ava’s own smile softened. She gestured vaguely toward the world outside the window. “Are you hungry? We could go into the village, there’s a place that does amazing-”

“No.”, Beatrice cut her off, her voice firm but warm. She uncrossed her arms and took a step into the room. “Kiss me.”

Ava blinked, momentarily thrown by the directness.

“I haven’t seen you in three weeks.”, Beatrice continued, closing the distance between them. Her gaze was intent, all playful pretence gone, replaced by a raw, simple want. “Kiss me.”

*


The living room was a cocoon of cool, artificial air, a refuge from the lingering July heat outside. They were tangled on the large sofa. Ava’s legs were stretched across Beatrice’s lap, her bare feet tucked under a cushion. Beatrice’s hand rested idly on her shin, thumb tracing absent circles. The television flickered, a silent parade of images, as Ava lazily clicked through channels with the remote.

“How’s your dissertation coming along?”, Ava asked, her gaze fixed on a cooking show she had no intention of watching.

Beatrice’s fingers stilled on her leg. “Finished it.”, she replied, her voice casual. “Handed the final draft to my advisor for his last round of revisions last Monday.”

Ava’s head snapped around. The remote was forgotten in her hand. “You finished it? Why haven’t you told me?”

A smile touched Beatrice’s lips and she shrugged, “Well… I’m telling you now.”

Ava’s expression morphed from shock to radiant pride. She shifted, drawing her legs back and sitting up straighter, facing Beatrice fully. “When do you defend? Do you have a date?”

“Tentatively.”, Beatrice said, trying to maintain her academic detachment and failing miserably under the force of Ava’s attention. “Mid-October. The 18th, if all goes to schedule.”

Ava’s face took on a look of immediate, fierce calculation. Her eyes lost focus for a second, mentally scanning calendars and work timelines. Then she nodded, once, a decision made. “I’ll take off a week. I’ll come. I want to be there for you.”

The simplicity of it. The lack of fanfare or questioning. I want to be there for you. Not Can I come? or Would you want me there? Just a statement of intent, of support, of presence. It was a promise that bypassed Beatrice’s intellect and went straight to her core, dissolving the last remnants of her carefully maintained composure.

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t offer a polite deflection. Instead, she leaned forward, cupped Ava’s face in her hands, and kissed her. It was deep, heartfelt, and full of a gratitude too profound for words.

When she pulled back, Ava was smiling, a little dazed, “You’re very affectionate today.”, she murmured, her voice warm with amusement and pleasure. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I missed you.”, Beatrice replied, the truth easy and insufficient. But the larger truth hummed beneath it, unspoken. Every kiss she’d initiated since arriving was a silent, fervent I love you. They were placeholders, rehearsals, a way to pour the feeling into Ava, before she found the courage to shape it into sound. She was savouring them, banking them like treasure, for the moment when the words would finally, inevitably, come.

*

The morning light was soft. Ava lay curled around Beatrice, her front pressed to Beatrice’s back, one arm draped over her waist. She nuzzled into the warm skin of Beatrice’s shoulder blade, placing a kiss there, before making a move to disentangle herself and start the day.

A strong hand clamped over her wrist, holding her in place.

“Five more minutes.”, Beatrice mumbled, her voice gravelly with sleep. She didn’t turn, just pulled Ava’s arm more securely around herself, snuggling back into the embrace.

Ava smiled against her skin, her heart doing a slow, joyous somersault in her chest. She relaxed instantly, moulding her body back against Beatrice’s. “Okay…”, she whispered, her lips brushing the same spot. “Just five.”

She held her, breathing in the scent of her hair. After a moment of peaceful quiet, Ava murmured into the space between Beatrice’s shoulder blades, “I’ll do half-day today. Antoine can handle the floor boards by himself. There’s plenty of food in the kitchen. I’ll be back by one.”

Beatrice just nodded, a sleepy movement. She let out a long, contented yawn that shook her whole frame. “I love waking up with you.”, she sighed, the words slipping out unguarded, muffled by the pillow.

Ava’s breath caught. Her heart didn’t just swell; it felt too large for her chest, brimming with a warmth that was almost painful in its sweetness. She pressed another, firmer kiss to Beatrice’s shoulder, hiding the overwhelming surge of emotion it triggered.

She’d noticed the change, of course. A subtle, but seismic shift since Beatrice’s surprise arrival. The woman who had once met every vulnerability with a deflection, every tender moment with a retreat into logic or sarcasm, was different. The walls weren’t just down; they seemed to have been dismantled. She said things now -simple, heartfelt things like I love waking up with you- without the armour of irony or the shield of a subsequent joke. She initiated touch freely. She allowed herself to be held, to be soft.

Ava filed it all silently away, each moment a precious data point in the new, breathtaking reality she was living. She didn’t comment on it, didn’t draw attention to the transformation, afraid to spook the beautiful, trusting creature Beatrice had become.

*

The sun on the following weekend was a benevolent, drowsy gold. They sat at a worn teak table in Ava’s garden, condensation from their glasses of iced tea forming perfect rings on the wood. Beatrice was in the middle of explaining a particularly thorny critique from her thesis advisor, her hands sketching shapes in the warm air.

Ava listened, but her focus was divided. Her gaze kept dropping to the line of Beatrice’s bare forearm resting on the table. Slowly, almost absently, she let her fingers drift over the sun-warmed skin, tracing the almost invisible fine hairs, the subtle shift of tendon as Beatrice gestured. It was a touch of pure, unconscious adoration.

Beatrice felt it- the electric tingle, the profound tenderness in the simple caress. Her sentence trailed off. She looked from her own arm to Ava’s face. Ava was watching her with an expression so open, so full of a feeling too large for the sunny garden, that it made Beatrice’s breath catch.

“What?” Beatrice asked softly, though she knew. She knew exactly what was in Ava’s eyes.

Ava’s fingers stilled. She seemed to gather herself, pulling the overwhelming truth back behind a safer, more practical question. “When do you have to go back?”, she asked, her voice a little rough.

Beatrice leaned in closer over the table, the space between them shrinking. She kissed Ava’s cheek, a soft, lingering press. “Why?”, she murmured, her lips brushing Ava’s skin. “You want to be rid of me?”

Ava leaned back just enough to meet her gaze, her expression solemn. “No.”, she said, the word simple and definitive. “Of course not. I’m just… wondering.”

Beatrice held her look for a moment longer, then sat back, taking a casual sip of her tea. “I don’t have a return flight booked yet.”

Ava blinked. Once, twice. She set her own glass down. “Dr. Lee. Dr. Beatrice Lee.”, she started, a note of playful disbelief in her voice, “Has not meticulously planned her summer? Colour me shocked.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. “I don’t have the academic title yet.”

Ava stood up. She leaned over the table, cradled Beatrice’s face in her hands, and kissed her. “Just formalities.”, she whispered against her mouth. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words, the kiss, the uncomplicated joy in Ava’s face… it sent a wave of… a complicated feeling through Beatrice. It was a warmth that started in her chest and spread outward, melting the last, frozen reservations she didn’t even know she was holding. It was too much. It was everything.

She pulled back, her own heart hammering. “It’s awfully hot out here.”, she said, her voice slightly unsteady. She stood, her chair scraping on the flagstones. “Do you want to go inside? Into the air-conditioned house?”

Ava’s smile was slow and radiant. “Yes.”, she said, taking Beatrice’s offered hand.

Inside, the cool, dim silence of the house enveloped them. The moment the terrace door shut, Beatrice turned. She didn’t say a word. She simply pushed Ava back against it and kissed her, pouring all the overwhelming warmth, the pride, the dizzying love she hadn’t yet voiced into the contact. Ava kissed her back, a hum of pleasure vibrating in her throat, her hands coming to rest on Beatrice’s hips.

But Beatrice wasn’t waiting. She led Ava toward the staircase, never breaking the kiss. Ava followed, a soft, surprised laugh escaping her as she realised their trajectory. “Oh, I see it now. That’s why you wanted to come in.” She let herself be led, smiling into Beatrice’s demanding mouth, her own desire a sharp, answering pull.

On the staircase, halfway up, Beatrice broke the kiss abruptly. Her eyes held Ava’s for a charged second. Then, with an agility that belied her usual composure, she turned and ran up the remaining few steps, her laughter echoing in the stone-floored hall, while simultaneously shedding the t-shirt she was wearing.

Ava stood, frozen for a heartbeat, then followed.

At the top of the stairs, Beatrice was waiting. She had turned to face her, and in the dim hall light, Ava saw it. The plum lace. The same set from the shop, the one that had started a fight and ended a war. The bralette cupped her breasts, leaving little to imagination. She was a vision of deliberate, breathtaking seduction, leaning against the wall with a smile that was both triumphant and vulnerable.

Ava’s mouth fell open, a smile forming.

Without a word, Beatrice pushed off the wall and walked, with a deliberate sway, the few paces to the open door of Ava’s bedroom. She paused on the threshold, looked back over her shoulder -a silent, undeniable command- and then disappeared inside.

Ava didn’t need a second invitation. She crossed the hall and followed her in, closing the door softly behind them.

Beatrice was on her, before Ava could even process it. Her hands, urgent and sure, went to the button of Ava’s denim shorts. A quick flick, the rasp of a zipper, and Ava was stepping out of them, kicked carelessly to the side. Beatrice guided her backward with a firm pressure on her hips until the backs of Ava’s knees hit the edge of the mattress.

Ava sat, looking up, utterly enthralled.

Beatrice stood before her, a silhouette against the slatted light from the blinds. Her own hands went to the tie of her linen trousers. She undid it with a slow, deliberate pull, her eyes never leaving Ava’s. The fabric whispered as it pooled at her feet, leaving her in just the devastating lace set. She stepped out of the puddle of cloth.

Ava’s throat worked, as she swallowed. Beatrice moved forward, placing a knee on the mattress on either side of Ava’s thighs, straddling her. She didn’t lower herself. She just hovered, her gaze sweeping over Ava’s face, down her torso, and back up. A slow, wicked smile touched her lips.

“Are the visuals…”, she asked, her voice a low, husky thing, “Still as enticing as they were before?”

Ava’s breath hitched. She managed a smile, breathless and utterly sincere. “Much, much better than the fantasy I’ve had to work with for the last three weeks.”

That seemed to be all the confirmation Beatrice needed. Her hands came up, palms pressing firmly against Ava’s shoulders. She pushed, gently, until Ava was lying flat on her back on the cool duvet, looking up at her.

Beatrice didn’t follow her down. She stayed kneeling over her, a goddess in lace. The silence stretched, charged and heavy. Ava lay perfectly still, allowing herself to be seen, to be devoured by that dark, intense gaze.

Then, slowly, Beatrice leaned forward. Her fingers hooked under the hem of Ava’s tank top. She lifted it, and Ava raised her arms in silent cooperation, letting Beatrice pull it up and over her head, tossing it aside. Ava wasn’t wearing a bra, the peaks of her breasts already taut.

Beatrice’s gaze dropped, and her expression shifted from predatory to something more patient. She lowered her head, her mouth finding the skin of Ava’s chest. She kissed the space above her heart, her tongue tasting the faint, clean sweat of the summer day.

As her lips traveled, her eyes caught on the subtle evidence of Ava’s life in France: faint tan lines, pale stripes against golden skin, marking the shape of work shirts and tank tops. Her fingers followed, tracing the borders between sun-kissed and untouched with a feather-light graze that made Ava shiver.

Ava’s own hand came up, tangling in the soft, dark silk of Beatrice’s hair, who closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her, at the delicate scratch of Ava’s fingernails against her scalp.

Beatrice’s journey paused. Her eyes met Ava’s, dark and gleaming with an emotion too complex to name. She shifted, leaning up to find Ava’s mouth. Their lips met in a kiss that was less frantic energy and more profound recognition. It was deep, and slow, and when they parted just enough to breathe, both of them were smiling into the shared space.

Beatrice matched Ava’s gaze, and for a split second, she saw it all reflected back at her: the devotion, the joy, the infinite, patient love. The magnitude of what she felt in return rose up like a physical wave, threatening to choke her. She was momentarily thrown, suspended in the vertigo of it.

Ava’s hand came up, stroking her cheek, her brow furrowing with gentle concern. “Hey.”, she whispered, her voice a soft anchor. “Are you okay?”

Beatrice blinked, forcing herself back into her body. She shook her head slightly, a breathless laugh escaping, as she plastered a smile on her face. “Yes, yes. Just... the heat getting to me.”

Ava’s expression softened into something knowing, smug, and unbearably fond. She shifted their positions with easy strength, rolling, until Beatrice was lying on her back and Ava was propped on an elbow beside her. “I’m used to it.”, Ava commented, her fingers tracing idle patterns on Beatrice’s bare shoulder. “São Paulo is no joke. French summers are nothing in comparison. You poor Brits melt at twenty-five degrees.”

Beatrice gasped in mock shock, the familiar rhythm of their banter a welcome lifeline. “The audacity.”

Ava’s smile turned soft, contemplative. She moved, swinging a leg over Beatrice’s hips to straddle her. She looked down at Beatrice, her gaze serious. “I would...”, she began, her thumb stroking Beatrice’s jaw. “I would love for you to come with me to São Paulo next year. During the winter months.” She paused, then added, a playful glint returning, “Though... it might also be too hot for you there. You might spontaneously combust.”

Beatrice was stunned. I would love for you to come with me. It was an invitation woven seamlessly into a discussion of Ava’s real, tangible life. It wasn’t abstract. It was a plan. A future that included Beatrice in it. The woman in question stared up at her, all pretence of composure gone, her breath caught in her throat. The casual, certain way Ava had just included her -in her travels, in her family, in her life- was overwhelming. Beatrice had to tell her. All her defences were down.

Seeing the stunned, vulnerable look on Beatrice’s face, Ava’s expression melted into pure tenderness. Her index finger came up, tracing the lace and the sensitive skin beneath it, along the sharp crest of Beatrice’s hip. “I still didn’t get to take this off of you…” she murmured, but the heat in her voice was now fused with a profound, promise-laden softness.

Ava leaned down, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on Beatrice’s stomach. Beatrice’s muscles jumped under her lips. 

“Remember what I told you last week?”, Ava whispered, her voice a dark, seductive thrum against Beatrice’s skin. “On the phone? About what I would do?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her mouth moved lower, another kiss pressed just below her navel.

Then lower still. Her teeth grazed the lace where it hugged Beatrice’s core, a teasing scrape that made Beatrice jolt with a sharp, involuntary gasp.

Ava didn’t relent. She used her index finger to gently tug the fabric to the side, exposing her. Then her tongue was there- a slow, deliberate, devastating stroke from bottom to top.

Beatrice’s legs fell open wider of their own accord, a silent, pleading invitation. Her hands flew down, fingers tangling in the scrap of lace. “Take it off.”, she breathed urgently.

Ava pulled back just enough to look up the length of her body, a smug, triumphant smile on her glistening lips. “Hey…”, she said, her voice thick with satisfaction. “This is exactly as I thought this would go.”

Beatrice stared down at her and the expression on her face wasn’t one Ava could decipher. It was raw, unguarded, and full of something so immense, it stole the smugness from Ava’s smile, replacing it with a flicker of questioning wonder.

Before Ava could ask, Beatrice was moving. With a frantic urgency, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of the lace briefs and pushed them down her own hips. Ava helped, tugging them the rest of the way off and tossing them aside. Beatrice’s hands then flew to the clasp of the bralette at her back.

“Don’t.”, Ava said, the word a soft command. She stilled Beatrice’s hands. “Leave it.”

She moved back up Beatrice’s body, her own knee settling with deliberate pressure between Beatrice’s thighs. With practiced ease, she pushed the cups of the lace bra down, exposing Beatrice’s breasts, while leaving the delicate straps and frame in place- a beautiful, frustrating constraint. Ava lowered her mouth, sucking a nipple deep into the heat of her mouth, her tongue working it relentlessly, as her knee pressed up, providing a firm, delicious counterpoint.

Beatrice’s head fell back against the pillows, a broken moan tearing from her throat. Ava’s mouth was everywhere -suckling, biting, laving- a relentless assault on Beatrice’s senses that stripped away every last shred of her control. She was dissolving, coming apart under Ava’s hands and mouth.

Ava quickly shimmied out of her own underwear, the last barrier gone. She crawled back up Beatrice’s body, capturing her mouth in a kiss. Beatrice was panting into it, her hips rolling helplessly against Ava’s thigh.

“Ava.”, she gasped, breaking the kiss, her eyes wild. “I really need you to…" Her sentence died, as her gaze dropped desperately down the length of their joined bodies.

Ava nodded, understanding instantly. “Okay.”, she whispered.

She shifted, gently moving one of Beatrice’s legs further apart, opening her completely. Ava looked down for a moment, a reverent pause, before she lowered her head.

Her tongue found Beatrice’s entrance, and she licked into her, deep and sure. Her arms encircled Beatrice’s thighs, holding her firmly in place, anchoring her to the bed, as Ava devoted herself entirely to pleasuring her with her mouth. The sensation was so intense, so perfectly focused, that Beatrice’s eyes screwed shut with a force that was almost painful. It was too good, too all-consuming.

Ava’s tongue swirled, probed, retreated, then returned in a broad, lavish stroke over Beatrice’s swollen, aching clit.

It undid her completely.

Beatrice arched off the bed with a silent cry, her body bowing in Ava’s firm grasp. Ava held her down, relentless. She moved one hand, placing it flat on Beatrice’s abdomen, applying a subtle, grounding pressure. She offered the other hand to Beatrice, who seized it instantly, her grip bone-crushing.

“Just a reminder: I need that hand for my work.”, Ava joked, her voice a muffled vibration against Beatrice’s skin, before she returned to her task with renewed fervour.

Then, through the roaring in her ears, Ava heard it.

“Ava…” A whisper, choked and strained.

Ava paused, lifting her head just enough. “Hmm?”

“Ava…” It was louder this time, ragged, but it didn’t sound like the cresting cry of release Ava was expecting. It sounded like a struggle.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”, Ava murmured reassuringly, and dove back in, her tongue delving deep, wanting to give her everything.

Beatrice’s breathing grew shallower, her moans more frequent, a frantic, rising rhythm. “I… I…”

Ava didn’t stop this time. She worked her through it, her mouth a miracle of skill and love, until she felt the telltale clench and tremble, saw the muscles of Beatrice’s stomach contract violently under her hand. Beatrice came with a shattered, gasping cry, her body convulsing in Ava’s hold.

Ava gentled her, softening her strokes, letting her ride the waves until the tremors subsided into shaky aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, she disentangled herself. She kissed her way up Beatrice’s trembling body -over her stomach, between her breasts, along her collarbone- before finally settling her full weight on top of her, seeking her mouth.

When their lips met, Beatrice’s eyes flew open.

Ava saw it instantly. The face beneath hers was tear-streaked, and etched with a look of such profound, gut-wrenching sorrow that it froze the blood in Ava’s veins. Her own expression shifted from desire to pure, alarmed care.

“Hey… hey. What’s wrong?”, Ava breathed, her voice laced with fear.

Beatrice looked up at her, through the blur of her own tears, and the dam holding back the sun inside her finally, completely, broke.

“I love you.”

The words were a whisper, raw and waterlogged, but they landed in the room with the force of a detonation.

Ava’s expression blanked with shock. She pulled back just enough to see Beatrice’s face clearly, her own mind scrambling to process. “You… what?”

Beatrice closed her eyes, a slow sigh shuddering out of her, carrying the weight of their years apart. Then she opened them again, the tears making them luminous, unbearably honest. “I love you.”, she repeated, stronger this time, the truth of it anchoring the words.

Ava blinked rapidly, her mind reeling. The silence that followed was charged with the echo of the confession. Beatrice, unable to bear the weight of Ava’s stunned gaze, turned her head upwards, fixing her eyes on the ceiling, her jaw tight with a vulnerability that looked like pain.

Seeing her retreat, Ava moved. She shuffled up on the bed, bracing herself on her forearms, framing Beatrice’s face with her body. She gently turned Beatrice’s head back, forcing their eyes to meet. And when Beatrice looked, she saw Ava was smirking.

“That…”, Ava said, her voice tender, but teasing, “Is a really cheesy thing to say during sex, Beatrice.”

A fresh wave of heat flooded Beatrice’s cheeks. She closed her eyes again, this time in sheer, overwhelming embarrassment, a soft, mortified groan escaping her.

Ava watched her, the smile softening into something unbearably fond. She waited, giving Beatrice a moment in the dark behind her eyelids. Then she dipped her head, her lips brushing Beatrice’s ear.

“Say it again.”, she urged, her whisper a velvet command. Not a tease.

Beatrice’s eyes opened. She searched Ava’s face, looking for mockery, for hesitation, for anything but the pure, radiant acceptance she found there. Seeing only that tender, waiting smile, her own fear melted away. Her hand cradled Ava’s cheek. Ava instantly leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a second, before opening again, clear and full of love.

“I love you.”, Beatrice said, the words now firm, a vow released into the space between them. She brushed her thumb over Ava’s cheekbone. “And I knew I loved you, when you kissed me for the very first time.”

Ava’s breath caught. Her mind flew back to that day, to the throb of a party inside, the taste of alcohol, and Beatrice’s furious confession. I like you. And then, the kiss that had followed in Beatrice’s dorm room- desperate, clumsy, world-altering.

Beatrice continued, the words flowing now, a river finally finding its course. “And I felt it too. On our first time. I loved you then too.” She swallowed, her gaze steady. “I loved you all the weeks after. And also after you left. After I sent that text. Even though I blocked you, Ava. I loved you. For a long time.”

Ava listened, her head resting on her hand, her other tracing slow circles on Beatrice’s hip. She didn’t interrupt, just nodded, absorbing each painful, beautiful admission.

“Until I couldn’t anymore.”, Beatrice whispered, the confession a sharp ache. “It would have destroyed me, if I kept holding on to that. On to you. Because I thought I would never see you again.” She straightened a little, her movements unconsciously protective, as she adjusted the flimsy cups of the bralette she was still wearing- seeking order, a barrier, even a symbolic one, in the midst of emotional chaos. “This is why it was so hard for me to accept it. To accept your love. I’m sorry, I pushed you away so many times.” She looked back at Ava, her eyes clear now, shining with a hard-won truth. “But I’m infinitely glad that some things didn’t change. You say you’re not the Ava from my past, but you are her. You’re the girl who would try again and again and again. And I’m grateful that you did it this time as well.”

Ava’s eyes glazed over with unshed tears, a mirror to Beatrice’s own. She still didn’t speak, letting the words settle in the space between them, sacred and immense.

“I don’t know what it means for our future.”, Beatrice said, her voice gaining strength. She gestured vaguely around them, at the rumpled sheets, the room in a rented mansion, the reality of their tangled bodies. “But I want to be with you, too.” Her gaze found Ava’s again, fierce and sure. “I don’t just want this. I want all of it. I want you.”

Ava drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, as if she’d been underwater. “Okay... okay.”, she breathed, the words a fierce promise. She lowered her head until their foreheads touched, a point of grounding heat. “We will figure it out.”

Beatrice let out a watery, relieved laugh. She brought both hands up, wiping the remnants of her tears from her cheeks with an efficient, almost brusque motion. “Sorry…”, she murmured, a hint of awkwardness returning. “Sorry I ruined the mood. Do you want me to…” She trailed off, a faint, questioning gesture toward Ava’s body, an offer to redirect, to fix the moment with physicality.

Ava shook her head immediately, a firm, definitive movement. “No.”, she said, her voice thick. “I- no. I don’t care about that. This…”, she pressed her forehead more firmly against Beatrice’s, “This is the best thing you could have said to me. I’m so happy, Beatrice. If I had known that an orgasm was all you needed to confess all of this…”, she trailed off.

That broke the last of Beatrice’s tension. A real smile, radiant and unguarded, spread across her face. Ava leaned in and kissed it, a short, sweet press of lips.

Then, without another word, Ava shifted, letting her full weight settle gently on top of Beatrice. She wrapped her arms around her, burying her face in the curve of Beatrice’s neck, and just held her. Beatrice’s arms came up around her in turn, one hand sliding into Ava’s hair, the other splayed across her back.

“I love you, too.”, Ava spoke against Beatrice’s neck and the woman in question just tightly squeezed her frame in return.

*

The confession became a new beginning, written in the quiet accumulation of days.

Beatrice spent the next three weeks in France, a stolen interlude that felt both fleeting and eternal. They existed in a bubble of heat and hard work and soft mornings. She left only when a terse email from her thesis advisor summoned her back to Oxford for the final, critical revisions.

In August, it was Ava who crossed the Channel. She appeared at Beatrice’s Oxford flat with a duffel bag and a dramatic shiver, complaining about the “Siberian” summer drizzle with such genuine, comical horror that Beatrice couldn’t stop laughing. For two weeks, Ava colonised her space, her vibrant presence making the grey stone city seem brighter, her warmth fighting off the chill.

September saw Beatrice return to France for a full month. This time, it wasn’t just about watching. Ava, with infinite patience, pulled her into the world of the villa. She taught her about the subtle art of staining, how different woods drank colour. One afternoon, under Ava’s watchful eye, Beatrice was even allowed to handle a chisel on a scrap piece of oak. Ava stood behind her, her front pressed to Beatrice’s back, her hands covering Beatrice’s to guide the angle and pressure. For the rest of the day, Beatrice could think of nothing but the low, focused murmur in her ear, the heat of Ava’s body, the scent of her skin mixed with cedar- a lesson in craft that felt like the most intimate act of trust.

And then, October. The defence.

Ava was there, sitting in the back of the small, intimidating lecture hall, a calm, proud presence. Beatrice, in her sharpest suit, dissected 14th-century mortar compositions with a clinical brilliance that left her examiners nodding in approval. Her eyes found Ava’s only once, mid-argument, and the steady, unwavering faith she saw there anchored her completely.

Afterwards, Ava took her to a restaurant so fancy it felt like a dream. Over wine that tasted like victory, Ava didn’t talk about the thesis. She just looked at Beatrice across the candlelit table, her gaze so full of awe and love that Beatrice felt like the most magnificent, accomplished person who had ever lived. It was a look that celebrated not just Dr. Beatrice Lee, scholar, but Beatrice, the woman she loved. It was the look of a future, wide open and waiting, and for the first time, Beatrice looked back without a trace of fear.

*


November arrived, bringing a crispness to the French air and a new, unspoken gravity with it. Beatrice found herself at Ava’s house more often than her own Oxford apartment, the stone manor feeling less like a visit and more like a base.

They were in the living room one evening, the fireplace crackling, some forgotten film running on the television. Ava was curled at one end of the sofa, a large sketchpad balanced on her knees. She was refining the final, intricate details of the villa’s wood stucco- flourishes on a vine, the delicate eyelid of a cherub. The end of the French project was a tangible presence in the room.

Beatrice was pacing with a restless energy that finally made Ava set down her pencil. She watched Beatrice trace the same path on the rug for the third time.

“Bea.”, Ava said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Beatrice stopped. She turned, her expression a mix of resolve and apprehension. “I’ve deliberately not applied for any permanent posts yet.”, she began, her words careful. “I wanted… I wanted to be flexible. To spend as much time here with you as possible, while you were still in Europe.”

Ava’s heart squeezed with a tender ache. “I know. And I’ve loved every second of it.”

“But…”, Beatrice continued, taking a steadying breath, “There’s an opening now. A significant one. My professor recommended me for it. With my languages and my specialisation… it’s a very good fit.” She paused, her gaze steady on Ava’s. “It’s in Spain. A UNESCO World Heritage site- the Monastery of Santa María la Real. A 12th-century Cistercian abbey. The stonework is largely intact, but the interior… the carved wooden altar is almost fully destroyed. Fire and neglect. But there are sketches. Detailed engravings from the 18th century.”

Ava nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “Okay. So… Spain. It’s also manageable from here. And I’ll only be here another two months anyway. If you’re asking me whether or not to take the job… take it.” She said it logically, already mentally mapping the new geography.

Beatrice moved then, sitting on the coffee table in front of Ava, closing the distance. She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “No. It’s not about that. I am taking it. But I’ve been looking at the documentation. The altar… it’s a masterpiece of Romanesque carving, or it was. The scale of the damage is catastrophic, but the archival record is surprisingly good.” She reached for her laptop on the table, opened it, and turned the screen toward Ava. “Look.”

Ava took the laptop, her professional curiosity instantly engaged. She scrolled through high-resolution scans of faded engravings, detailed photographs of the scorched, skeletal remains of the altar. Her brow furrowed in concentration. She zoomed in, her eyes tracing the potential joinery, the density of the figurative work. Minutes passed in silence, filled only with the pop of the fire.

Finally, she looked up, her expression one of sober assessment. “It’s a mammoth undertaking. To reconstruct this faithfully, using period techniques… it would need months. More than a year. Possibly two.”

Beatrice nodded, a spark of hope lighting her eyes. “But it could be done?”

“Yes.”, Ava said without hesitation. “If someone with the right skill, the right patience, and a deep respect for the material took it on… yes. It could be brought back. It would be a legacy project.”

Beatrice smiled then, a slow, beautiful thing. She closed the laptop lid. “Is the ‘someone with the right skill’ sitting opposite me right now?”

Ava froze. She fixed Beatrice with a searching stare. “What are you implying, Beatrice?”

Beatrice placed her hands on Ava’s thighs, a grounding, claiming touch. “I want you to take this job with me. After France. I want you to come to Nájera with me. I will be the project lead- I’ll oversee the broader conservation, the stone, the site management. Technically, I’d be your boss.” A faint, wry smile touched her lips. “But you would have a completely free hand with the altar. Full artistic and technical control. I trust you with it. Implicitly.”

Ava blinked, her mind racing over the practicalities. Beatrice then continued, “I… I don’t know what the budget for a conservator-artisan would be on a project like that. The pay might not be…”

Ava laughed then, a bright, incredulous sound that cut through the tension. “Do you really think I do this for the money? Beatrice, I have a master’s in Financial Engineering. The fortune I inherited… it’s all in trusts, bonds, doing whatever fortunes do. And even if not- you don’t wanna know how much my childhood home is worth... I am fine. I would do this for minimum wage, if it meant I could be with you. Are you… are you being serious? You want me to come to Spain? With you?”

Beatrice inhaled deeply, her eyes holding Ava’s, letting her see the absolute certainty there. “Yes. I want to undertake this with you. As my partner.”

Ava surged forward, capturing Beatrice’s lips in a hard, jubilant kiss. “Okay.”, she breathed against her mouth, the word a promise and an acceptance all at once. “I will accept the job offer… boss.”

Beatrice kissed her back, a laugh of pure relief and joy escaping her. “Really?”

“Really.”

 

---

 

The silence of a beginning was a beautiful thing.

The entrance hall was a canyon of stacked cardboard boxes, a topographic map of two merged lives. Boxes labeled in Beatrice’s precise, architectural script: BEATRICE - THESIS ARCHIVES / ACADEMIC TEXTS / KITCHENWARE. Others scrawled in Ava’s energetic hand: A - TOOLS / SKETCHBOOKS / MISC. SHIT.

Beatrice stood amidst the chaos, surveying. This was not a visit. Her entire Oxford existence was contained in these towers of cardboard, her past neatly packed and shipped to this new, uncertain future. She placed a hand on a box marked BOOKS, her fingers leaving faint prints in the dust.

She turned slowly, taking it all in. The scale of the place was… immense. Through an arched doorway, she saw a living room with a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. Sunlight flooded a kitchen with a long, battered farmhouse table and views that stretched to a hazy blue line of distant mountains.

“Ava…”, she said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space. It was calm, but it held the specific, focused tone she used when a structural calculation wasn’t adding up. “How many bedrooms does this house have?”

Ava emerged from what looked like a pantry, her hair tied up in a messy knot, a streak of grime across her forehead. She blew a stray curl from her eye. “Oh.”, she said, following Beatrice’s gaze upward as if seeing it for the first time herself. “Three. Upstairs. One down here off the study. There’s a proper wine cellar, too. And a storeroom out back that could be a workshop.”

Beatrice absorbed the information. She had trusted Ava to find them a home. A sensible, joint home. This was a statement. “The monthly rent…?”, she asked tentatively.

Ava walked towards her, weaving through the boxes. She stopped a few feet away, her expression a blend of pride and slight apprehension. She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Don’t worry about it. I handled it. Paid for the year. Upfront.”

The air in the vast hall seemed to grow still. Beatrice’s eyes, usually so quick to assess and categorise, fixed on Ava’s. The move wasn’t just a logistical challenge she was managing; it was a financial chasm she had just discovered Ava had leaped across without her.

“You handled it?”, Beatrice’s voice was low, a controlled voltage. “Ava, we are partners. We discuss major expenditures. We share them. This…” She gestured at the vaulted ceiling, the sweeping staircase. “This isn’t a discussion. This is a fait accompli. You did not even consult me.”

Ava closed the distance, her hands cradling Beatrice’s elbows. Her touch was grounding, an anchor in the storm of Beatrice’s rising practicality. “I know what we said.”, she began, her thumbs stroking the soft linen of Beatrice’s sleeves. “But look at it, Bea. Really look. The light for your reading. The outbuilding for my workshop. The walls that won’t feel like they’re closing in after a long day.” Her gaze was earnest, pleading for understanding. “Let me give us this foundation. You can manage everything else. The utilities, the groceries, the car, the… the obscenely expensive internet we’re going to need. All of it. Just let me take care of the house.”

The fight began to seep out of Beatrice, “We cannot breathe a word of this to anyone at the site. I am the project lead on a publicly funded conservation grant. My salary is a matter of record. I am supposed to be in a small apartment in Nájera, not a… a hacienda in the hills.”

A slow, knowing smile touched Ava’s lips. She leaned her forehead against Beatrice’s. “We can’t really tell anyone we’re together either, can we? Officially?”

Beatrice sighed, the warmth of Ava’s skin a comfort. “The protocols are vague. You’re a contracted specialist. I’m the site manager. It’s a grey area.”

“Exactly…”, Ava whispered, her breath fanning over Beatrice’s lips. “So, in the eyes of the 12th-century abbey, you are not my boss. Not in the ways that truly count.”

Beatrice pulled back just enough to see her face. “I will not pull rank on you at work. I promise.”

Ava’s smile turned wicked, her eyes darkening. She slid her hands down to Beatrice’s hips, pulling her firmly against her. “You can pull whatever rank you need to on site, Dr. Lee.”, she said, her voice a low, thrilling vibration. “But in our home… in our bedroom… I’m in charge.”

This time, Beatrice didn’t gasp. A slow, defiant spark lit in her own eyes. Her mouth curved into a challenging smile. “Is that so?”

Ava’s answer was a deep, claiming kiss. When they parted, Ava searched her face, the teasing fading into genuine concern. “Are you really angry with me? About the house?”

Beatrice looked past her, through the arched window to the gnarled olive trees in the garden, their silver leaves shimmering. Her whole life was in boxes around her. Her future was standing before her, covered in dust and hope.

“It has a library.”, Beatrice said quietly, pointing to a room they hadn’t yet entered. “A dedicated room. Why do two people need a library, a workshop, and four bedrooms?”

“Because we’re not just any two people.”, Ava said, her voice equally soft. She brushed a smudge of dust from Beatrice’s cheek. “We’re Beatrice and Ava. And we need room to grow.”

Beatrice held her gaze for a long moment. She saw the ghost of the lonely heiress, now using her inheritance to build a fortress of shared abundance. She saw the woman who had carved a life from grief, now offering its richest spoils to her.

She finally let out a long, slow breath, the last of her pragmatic resistance flowing out with it. She leaned in and kissed Ava, a gentle, yielding press of lips. “Okay.”

“Okay.”, Ava echoed, relief smoothing her features. She gave Beatrice a swift, final kiss and stepped back, clapping her hands together. “Right. Enough diplomacy. We have a life to unpack. We can’t live with our history in boxes forever.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Beatrice’s face. She looked at the mountain of boxes containing her books, her papers, her past. She looked at Ava, her present and her dizzying, expansive future.

“Aye aye, boss.”, she said, her tone dry, but her eyes shining.

Ava’s grin was instantaneous, brilliant. She swooped in for one more quick, hard kiss. “I really like the sound of that.”, she breathed, her voice full of delight and love.

And together, surrounded by the tangible weight of their shared and separate pasts, in the echoing, sun-filled shell of their improbable new home, they began the long, good work of unpacking.