Ancient History

by standoutinacrowd

Summary:

“you were my first love.” / “you were my first heartache.”

OR:

A story of first love, heartbreak, and the breathtaking risk of a second beginning.

Chapter 1: Act I

Summary:

>> She took a shaky breath and went for the safer, tragic truth. “Do you not miss me? Do you not miss our friendship?”

The silence that followed was cold, but Beatrice’s answer was colder, “Was it ever a friendship?” <<

The noise was a disruption in the quiet wing. Ava paused her music, pulling her headphones down. She knew the routine. New student.

She opened her door. The commotion was directly opposite. A girl her age stood stiffly beside an open doorway. Two men with the bearing of stone pillars manoeuvred a sleek trunk inside. A petite woman dressed impeccably supervised.

She crossed the hall. “Hey. I’m Ava Silva. I live just across.” She thumbed back at her own door.

The girl turned. Her gaze was assessing, devoid of welcome. “Beatrice. As you can see, I am just moving in.”

“Awesome. You speak English.”

“It is a common language.”, Beatrice replied, her accent clearly British.

“Tell that to the girls down the hall. They rip on my accented Spanish all day. It’s brutal.”

A flicker in Beatrice’s dark eyes. Not quite humour. “Well…”, she contemplated for a second, “I shall have to make fun of your American-English accent, then.”

“Beatrice!”, the older woman interjected, “Comport yourself.”

But Ava’s grin only widened. She liked the challenge. “Looking forward to it.”

She retreated to her room, shutting the door behind her. She didn’t move from it for a moment. The polished silence from across the hall felt heavier than the noise had.

Interesting. Very interesting.

 

*




The school  -a Catholic school run by the Order of the Cruciform Sword- was a converted palace, all cold marble and echoing cloisters. Nuns in black habits glided through the halls like silent, watchful shadows. Their rosary beads clicked a soft, constant rhythm of discipline.

For three days, the girl across the hall was a ghost. A very quiet, very present ghost.

Ava saw her in History of European Art, and in Advanced French. Beatrice didn’t slouch. She didn’t fidget. She sat with a spine so straight, it seemed to reject the very concept of chairs. She answered questions with terrifying accuracy, in multiple languages. With her sixteen years, she already was a statue of competence.

Everyone here was rich. It was that kind of place. But Beatrice’s wealth felt different. It wasn’t in loud logos or careless spending. It was in the cut of her uniform blazer, the worn, but expensive leather of her satchel, the way she held her Montblanc fountain pen. It was an ancient, assured kind of money. It whispered that she was better. Not louder, just better.

And Ava, perpetually in trouble for slouching and talking back, was fascinated.

The information came in whispers and notices on the bulletin board. Beatrice was in the fencing club. Of course. She was on the equestrian team. Naturally. She took private lessons in classical piano. It was all the fancy shit, the kind of training that built an impregnable person.

Ava watched her walk to the stables one afternoon, stride long and purposeful, unlike the giggling clusters of other girls. She didn’t seem lonely. She seemed complete. A finished thing in a world of drafts.

Ava found herself straightening her own shoulders, when Beatrice passed in the hall. She didn’t know why. She just wanted to see, if she could hold that much stillness, even for a second. (She couldn’t.)

*


It was a Tuesday. Ava cornered Beatrice by her locker after Latin. 

“Hey. A few of us are sneaking out to the village on Friday. Yas, Cam, Lilith. Getting drunk. You in?”

Beatrice slowly closed her locker. She didn’t look at Ava. “Why would you ask me? Do I look like the sort who does that?”

Ava’s eyes went wide, her mouth opening in immediate, genuine offence. “I just thought-”

“God…”, Beatrice cut in, a short, sharp sound escaping her. A snort. “You’re entirely too easy to rile up.”

Ava blinked, the offence melting into realisation. She’d been played.

“Fine.”, Beatrice said curtly, finally turning to face her. Her expression was cool, considering. “I wouldn’t mind getting away from here for a while.”


Ava’s smile returned, triumphant. “Cool. It’ll be fun. Some guys from the town usually meet us. My boyfriend, JC, he gets the booze.”

Beatrice’s eyebrow lifted. Just a fraction. “You entertain a boyfriend, while incarcerated in a Catholic boarding school?”

The challenge was back in Ava’s gaze. “What, you don’t have one waiting for you back home? Can’t imagine it. You’re pretty.” Ava was not sure, why she had said that.

For a second, nothing moved on Beatrice’s face. Then, she took a single, deliberate step forward. Into Ava’s space. Ava, stunned, held her ground, but her breath hitched.

Beatrice’s voice dropped, “I do not discuss my private life with people I barely know.”

The intensity was a physical thing. Ava rallied, leaning in a little herself, refusing to back down. “We won’t be barely knowing each other by the end of the night. Friends by dawn. You’ll see. On Friday.”

Beatrice’s eyes did something then. They dropped, a slow, deliberate scan from Ava’s face down her body and back up. It felt less like appreciation and more like an appraisal. A judgment of material and construction. When her gaze locked back with Ava’s, it was unreadable.

“Look forward to it, Ava Silva.”

She turned and walked away, her steps precise on the marble floor. Ava watched her go, a strange, warm thrill buzzing under her skin.

*

The villa was sprawling. Music thumped from a distant room. Beatrice found herself on a vast leather sofa, a drink she hadn’t touched in her hand, holding court without trying.

Lilith and Yasmine were interrogating her with a blunt curiosity the nuns would have condemned.

“So, London? What do your parents do?”, Lilith prompted.

“My mother is a diplomat.”, Beatrice said, her voice clear over the bass. “My father is her personal secretary.”

Yasmine’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s actually refreshing. Power couple.”

“It was... unusual.”, Beatrice conceded. “Having both parents as diplomatic personnel. The protocol followed you home.”

“And… do you also have a Diplomatic passport?”, Lilith asked, a glint of competitive recognition in her eye.

Beatrice gave a single, slight nod. “Yes.”

A shared, unspoken understanding passed between them: a recognition of a specific kind of privilege, one measured in border crossings and embassy receptions.

Camila, curled in an armchair, chimed in softly. “My mother was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physics. Twice. But it’s a secret. She says the attention is vulgar.”

Lilith waved a dismissive hand. “My parents are just rich. Probably fraud. Definitely something offshore and morally flexible.” She said it with such dry disdain that everyone, even Beatrice, let out a short laugh.

Yasmine sighed. “Oil. My family is in oil. The boring, evil kind of money.”

“See?”, Ava’s voice cut through from where she leaned against the doorway, a bottle dangling from her fingers. “What a bunch of rich kids.” Her grin was wide, but her eyes skipped over the group. “My parents are just normal people rich. Not the fraud or ‘destroying the planet’ kind.”

The others laughed, but Beatrice watched Ava’s face. The smile didn’t quite settle. There was a shield in her casual tone. Beatrice noted it, filed it away, and did not press.



Later, the crowd had thinned and blurred. Beatrice found Ava on a balcony, looking out at the dark shapes of cypress trees.

“The girls are lovely.”, Beatrice stated, joining her at the railing. She waited for a beat. “Why were you shipped across an ocean?”

Ava took a swig from her bottle. The question obviously not expected. “My parents were... in the process of a spectacularly bad divorce. Still are. They thought it would be ‘less ugly’, if I wasn’t there to see the dishes flying. So they picked a random, expensive school in Europe. Not that special.” She shrugged, a gesture meant to convey it meant nothing.

Beatrice stayed silent, letting the silence encourage more.

Ava glanced at her, then leaned in conspiratorially. “By the way…”, she whispered, her smile turning sharp. “I’m half Canadian. If you’re going to insult me, you have to properly insult me. None of that ‘American’ laziness.”

A genuine, surprised delight sparked in Beatrice’s chest. Her lips curved into a real smile. “Canadian.”, she repeated, “You’re Commonwealth. I can’t make fun of you now. The rules are very clear.”

Ava’s laugh was bright in the quiet dark. “That- yes! Damn right.”

Beatrice watched Ava’s laugh fade into the night. The silence felt easier now. Comfortable.

“Your boyfriend seems… nice.”, Beatrice offered, because it was something to say.

Ava’s eyebrows shot up. A playful, knowing look. “He’s really hot, right? And his little Spanish accent just does something for me.”

Beatrice made a noncommittal face, a slight shrug. She had registered his conventional attractiveness the way one might note a well-designed piece of furniture. It held no particular interest.

“I think…”, Ava leaned her elbows on the railing, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. “I think I’m going to sleep with him tonight.”

Beatrice stiffened. The shift was too abrupt, too intimate. “Okay. Thanks for sharing?”

“No, I mean…”, Ava turned to her, her bravado cracking to reveal a layer of genuine nerves. “For the first time. I’ve never…”

“Oh.” The syllable left Beatrice’s lips softly. Understanding settled, followed by an unexpected sense of responsibility. Her gaze drifted back through the glass doors. She found JC in the crowd, laughing too loudly, his arm slung around another boy’s neck. She assessed him with a cold, clinical eye. Was he careful? Was he kind? The evidence was inconclusive.

She turned back. Ava was watching her, waiting for something. A verdict, maybe.

“Did you ever…?”, Ava asked, the question tentative.

A sharp, quiet laugh escaped Beatrice. “You want to know a lot of personal details, Ava Silva.”

Ava’s eyes dropped to Beatrice’s mouth, then back up. A slow, curious smile spread. “I like the way you always say my full name.”

The words, the look, disarmed something in Beatrice’s usual defences. The whole night, the offer to join Ava’s close circle- it all conspired against her caution.

“Back in London…”, Beatrice heard herself say, the words precise and deliberate. “I had a… girlfriend. I’m into… girls.”

She watched the reaction unfold on Ava’s face. A flicker of shock, then a dawning, delighted astonishment. Beatrice couldn’t tell if it was the content of the revelation or the simple fact of the revelation itself that caused it.

“We were together for over a year.”, Beatrice continued, and then stopped. Abruptly. The sentence felt unfinished. Why had she said that? And to a near stranger? A familiar tension snapped back into her shoulders.

She fixed Ava with a look that was both a warning and a plea.

“I won’t tell anyone.”, Ava said quickly, her voice sincere.

“It isn’t a secret.”, Beatrice corrected, her tone regaining its usual control. “It is simply not something I share with just anyone.”

Ava nodded, the motion solemn. The understanding between them deepened, unspoken. Ava herself had always known she’d fancied both genders. Revealing that now felt like she would take away from Beatrice’s confession, so she didn’t.

They stood in the quiet for a long moment, the party’s pulse a distant throb.

Then Ava nudged Beatrice’s shoulder with her own, a gentle, playful bump. “See?”, she whispered, triumph soft in her voice. “We are becoming friends.”

Beatrice didn’t answer. She didn’t nudge back. But she didn’t move away from the point of contact, either. She just stared out at the dark, a small, private war of confusion and warmth battling behind her calm eyes.

*


Weeks passed.

Ava realised a pattern: Beatrice never made the first move. Ava was the one who slid into the empty seat next to her at lunch. Ava had been the one to invite her to the party. Beatrice was always polite, always present, but never seeking. It was like befriending a very elegant statue.

Curiosity finally drove Ava to the gymnasium on a Thursday afternoon. A fencing match. Or bout, or whatever they called it.

Mary, a formidable senior, was losing. Badly. The figure in white opposite her was a blur of controlled, lethal grace. A lunge, a parry, a strike. The electronic buzzer sounded. Point. Again.

The final touch was a thing of brutal elegance. Mary pulled off her mask, her face not angry, but split by a wide, delighted grin. She clapped her opponent on the shoulder. The other fencer removed her own mask.

Beatrice. Hair damp at her temples, expression utterly serene. She gave Mary a respectful nod, then turned and walked away, her posture perfect even in retreat. Ava was mesmerised.

She found the new girl in the empty changing area. Beatrice had her back to the door, pulling her sweat-damp undershirt over her head. She stood in her sports bra and briefs, reaching for her uniform blouse.

Ava froze in the doorway, startled. Her eyes caught on the defined muscles of Beatrice’s back, the strong line of her shoulders. “You were... wow. I’ve never seen anyone beat Mary.”

Beatrice didn’t jump. She simply finished buttoning her blouse, before turning. “She’s an excellent opponent. It was a good match.” Her voice was calm, as if discussing the weather.

Ava leaned against the lockers, crossing her arms. “You are like a total loner, huh? We share secrets on a balcony and then I don’t see you for three weeks?”

Beatrice fastened her skirt, not looking up. “You saw me in classes.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Ava’s exasperation bubbled over. “We live across from each other. And you... I thought we were becoming friends?”

Beatrice finally looked at her, then slung her bag over her shoulder and began walking out of the changing room. Ava fell into step beside her, their shoes echoing in the tiled corridor.

“Why do you want to become my friend so badly?”

The question was a cold splash of water. Ava stopped walking. Beatrice took two more steps, before stopping as well, turning to face her.

“I don’t…”, Ava floundered, heat rising to her cheeks. “I just wanted to be nice to the new girl. I know how shitty that is, arriving mid-term. I did it last year. Everyone’s already friends. Everyone’s a fucking brat about it.”

Beatrice considered this. “Actually, everyone has been perfectly civil to me so far.”

Ava stared at her. The dismissal was so complete, so sterile. The warmth she’d felt on the balcony felt foolish now. A one-sided illusion.

“You know what?”, Ava said, her voice flat. “Forget it. I don’t know why I tried.”

She turned and walked away, her steps quick and final down the long hall.

Beatrice stood frozen, watching her go. A sharp, unfamiliar twinge of annoyance -no, alarm- jolted through her chest. Ava’s retreating back felt wrong. It felt like a mistake, and the mistake was hers.

The realisation hit her, quite fast. The distance wasn’t just habit, wasn’t just a preference for solitude. It was a defence. A desperately needed barrier against the confusing, magnetic pull she felt toward Ava Silva. Against the way her name felt in Beatrice’s mouth. Against the way her laughter disrupted the quiet order of Beatrice’s world.

Distance was the logical, safe solution to prevent a mess. To prevent this exact, messy feeling now coiling in her gut.

Beatrice groaned, low and frustrated, the sound swallowed by the empty corridor.

She was never one to have a crush on a straight girl.

*



A few days after their last encounter, someone knocked on Ava’s door. She pulled it open.

The new girl stood there. Her expression was unreadable, but she held her school coat slightly open. A bottle of dark rum was tucked against her side.

Ava’s eyes widened.

“May I come in?”

Ava stepped aside without a word. Beatrice moved past her, and a scent followed. It was rich and unexpected. Tobacco leaf, sweet vanilla, something like old books. It was a deep, warm, adult fragrance. Weird for a sixteen-year-old girl. Intriguing. Ava hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because she had never been in such a small confined space with the other girl.

Beatrice’s gaze swept Ava’s room- the posters, the clothes on the chair, the general cheerful chaos. She didn’t comment. She simply walked to the centre of the room and sank onto the rug on the floor, her coat still on. She placed the bottle between them.

Ava closed the door and joined her, sitting cross-legged across from her. She took the offered bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a burning swig. She handed it back.

Beatrice took a long, practiced pull. No wincing.

“Didn’t think you drank.”, Ava said, wiping her mouth.

“I don’t.”, Beatrice replied, recapping the bottle for a moment. “If it’s cheap liquor.”

Ava gasped, a hand flying to her chest in mock offence. “The audacity. We will make sure to stock up properly next time, your highness.”

A faint, almost-smile touched Beatrice’s lips. It faded. She looked down at the bottle in her hands, turning it slowly. “I’m… I apologise. For the other day.”

Ava stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“I wasn’t actually sent here to make friends.”, Beatrice continued, her words deliberate. “I thought I would simply have to endure the next two and a half years. Keep my head down. Excel. Then go off to Oxford, or an Ivy League, or wherever my parents wanted to ship me off to next.” She shrugged, a small, stiff movement. “Making connections… it seemed like an unnecessary complication.”

Ava absorbed this. The strategy of it. The loneliness of it. “So why were you shipped off to Spain? London must have, like, a thousand fancy schools.”

Beatrice looked up from the bottle, her dark eyes meeting Ava’s. She seemed to be weighing something, deciding how much of the truth this strange, persistent Canadian girl was owed. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sound of a nun’s footsteps fading down the hall.

Finally, she took another drink, passed the bottle back, and held Ava’s gaze.

“It was… a disciplinary measure.”, she said, the words precise and cold.

Ava’s brows knitted together. “What did you do that made your parents want to discipline you?”

Beatrice took another long swig from the rum bottle. The liquid warmth was spreading, mixing with a nervous heat under her skin. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it pool behind her on the rug.

“They found out.”, she started, while focusing on a loose thread in the wool beneath her. “About my girlfriend- my ex, I suppose. The one I told you about. My parents are… very religious. And they thought a strict Catholic boarding school for girls was the perfect place to put their daughter back on the… correct path.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Ava burst out laughing- a loud, startled sound that filled the small room.

Beatrice flinched, looking up, bewildered.

“Oh my god!”, Ava wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Isn’t that, like, every lesbian’s dream? Being sent to an all-girls school? It’s practically a movie plot!”

A slow, reluctant smile tugged at Beatrice’s mouth. She hadn’t considered the irony from that angle. “I suppose it is a rather tragic cliché.”, she conceded, taking the bottle back from Ava’s shaking hand.

They drank in comfortable silence for a minute, the shared secret a tangible thing in the space between them.

Then Beatrice cleared her throat softly. Her gaze was fixed on the bottle’s label, but her question was deliberate. “How did… your night go? With your boyfriend.”

It took Ava a second. Then a deep flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. Embarrassment, liquor, something else. “Uh. We didn’t.”

Beatrice’s head snapped up, her composure slipping for a genuine second. “Oh. I thought-”

“Nope.” Ava cut in. She took the rum back, needing the burn. “I actually… I don’t know if it was a good idea in the first place…”

Beatrice said nothing, just watched her. Her silence was an open door.

Ava’s mind drifted back to that bedroom. The scratchy duvet, JC’s eager hands, his whispered “Ava” with that local accent that suddenly felt coarse and unfamiliar.

All she could think about, staring at the ceiling, was the crisp, cool sound of another voice in the dark. Ava Silva. The way the syllables had been shaped with such deliberate care. How it had felt like a secret, just for her. A name that sounded like a beginning, not a demand.

She shook her head slightly, bringing herself back to her own floor, to Beatrice’s patient, waiting eyes. “Turns out some things are better as ideas.”

Ava offered Beatrice the bottle again. This time, when their fingers brushed, neither of them pulled away.

The rum was making the room feel softer, the edges blurring. Ava leaned back on her hands.

“So, you and your girlfriend… did you break up because your parents found out?”

Beatrice swirled the dark liquid in the bottle. “No. We broke up, because I needed a clean cut. I was going to be here. It seemed cruel to string her along, when…” She paused, searching for the right, clinical words, but the rum betrayed her. “When she loved me enough that she would have waited. Tragically loyal. I didn’t want that for her.”

Ava was mesmerised. The idea of a love so potent, it had to be surgically removed to protect the other person was a foreign, romantic concept. It felt like something from a classic novel, not real life.

“I can imagine…” Ava said softly, her gaze distant. “I wouldn’t have let you go either.”

Ava’s eyes snapped back to Beatrice’s, wide with sudden clarity. She just said that. Out loud. “I mean- well, you know. You’re super educated. You dress well. You smell really nice- uh, you’re not ugly. You’re the whole package. I would guess. For a girl. Who is also into girls.” It got worse by the minute.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Beatrice’s face. “You’ve only ever seen me in school uniform, and that one night we went out. How do you know I dress well?”

Ava raised an eyebrow, a challenge. “You arrived here in a Louis Vuitton trunk, Beatrice. I’m sure your wardrobe is full of Loro Piana or some other shit you rich folk wear.”

The smile on Beatrice’s face brightened, genuine and amused. “You rich folk? You said it yourself, your family is also wealthy.”

Ava chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but not ‘European, we-have-generations-of-wealth-in-a-Swiss-vault’ kind of money. There’s a difference.”

Beatrice nodded, conceding the point. The topic of comparative wealth bored her. It was a language she’d been forced to speak her whole life, and it was dull. She shifted, her fingers brushing Ava’s, as she recaptured the bottle. “So. JC and you. You haven’t had intercourse with him, because it seemed like a bad idea. Was it a bad idea in general, or just with him?”

Ava bit the inside of her cheek, the warmth in her face returning. “I don’t know. I just… I didn’t feel like it that night. And we haven’t really seen each other since. There’s no way I can sneak a boy into my bedroom, even if I wanted to.”

Beatrice cocked an eyebrow, a flicker of something playful -and maybe a little daring- in her dark eyes. “Would you want to? Here?” Her gaze drifted pointedly around Ava’s room, landing on the Chris Evans poster tacked to the wall. “Right next to your… very inspirational artwork?”

The question was a live wire in the cozy, rum-hazed space between them. It wasn’t just about JC anymore. It was about desire, about secrecy, about the charged possibility of this very room.

Ava felt the heat bloom even higher on her cheeks, a tell-tale fire she was sure Beatrice could see in the dim light. She deflected, grasping for a different thread.

“Was your ex... the only person you’ve ever slept with?”

Beatrice took a small, neat sip from the bottle. “Yes.”

Thanks to the liquor and the strange intimacy of their conversation so far, Ava pushed a little. “What was it like? The first time?”

Beatrice’s composure faltered for a second- a slight stiffening of her shoulders, a blink that lasted a fraction too long. She cleared her throat. “What do you want to know, exactly?”

Seeing the subtle shift, Ava immediately backpedaled, her bravado crumbling. “Sorry, sorry. That’s probably way too personal. Forget I asked.”

But Beatrice was watching her, reading the genuine, nervous curiosity beneath the question. Ava needed this information. Not for gossip, but as a map.

“It’s alright.”, Beatrice said, her voice softer. She looked at the carpet, choosing her words with care. “It wasn’t awkward. At least, not in the way everyone warns you about. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing, honestly, but… it was a shared, beautiful experience. Because she was the person I loved.”

Ava nodded slowly, the words settling deep. 

A shared, beautiful experience. Because she was the person I loved.

That was it. That was the hold-up. The missing piece. At least- that’s what Ava told herself.

Ava didn’t love JC. She didn’t even have a concept of being in love. She thought he was hot, and he was frankly the first boy who had shown a real, persistent interest in her since she’d arrived in this lonely, foreign place. He was a distraction. A trophy. A way to feel normal and wanted.

But he wasn’t a person she loved. And the idea of a first time without that love -without that shared, beautiful certainty Beatrice had just described- suddenly felt hollow. Like settling for a cheap print, when you could have the original painting.

“Yeah. That makes sense.”

*

Their friendship didn’t blossom so much as it took root in the fertile ground of that shared understanding that night. Beatrice stopped being a statue to admire from across the hall. She became a person who would linger in Ava’s doorway, a quiet, fragrant presence. They studied together- or rather, Ava attempted to study, while Beatrice effortlessly dissected Latin texts, occasionally tossing a translated answer Ava’s way without looking up. They sat together at lunch, Ava’s loud chatter a counterpoint to Beatrice’s serene silence. It was an understanding: Ava provided the noise and the initiative; Beatrice provided the unwavering presence. She still never made the first move, but she was always, unfailingly, there when Ava did.

Time slipped by, the grey Spanish winter giving way to a tentative spring. The week before spring break, Ava bounced into the common room, where Beatrice was reading.

“Weekend plan! Me, Cam, Lilith. Shopping spree in the city, then dinner, then a small party- just the four of us. Lilith’s parents are at some auction in Monaco. We have the winery to ourselves. You in or out?”

Beatrice looked up from her book, marking her place with a finger. She didn’t hesitate. “In.”



The trip was a whirlwind of snatched freedom. They tried on clothes they all could afford easily, but still didn’t buy, ate greasy food at a bustling tapas bar, and arrived at Lilith’s family winery as the sun set, painting the vineyards in gold and purple.

The vast, modern villa was empty. They raided the wine cellar- which quickly dissolved into giddy hedonism. Curled on a sofa, tipsy on a rich Tempranillo, Camila turned her big, curious eyes on Beatrice.

“So, Beatrice. Any love life to report? Anyone caught your eye here?”

Lilith snorted, swirling her glass. “Cam, you are failing the Bechdel test spectacularly.”

Beatrice chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a familiar thrill through Ava, who was watching the scene from a plush armchair. “For one…”, Beatrice said, her tone lightly academic, “Camila asked about a love life. Specifying no gender. And for another, she’d have to be asking about a girl. And then she wouldn’t have failed.” She took a deliberate sip. “And no. There is no one at the moment. I had a girlfriend in London, but we broke up, before I came here.”

The effect was instant. Camila’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. Lilith, who usually looked perpetually bored by human entanglements, arched a brow with genuine interest. Their heads all swivelled to Beatrice.

Ava just smirked, sinking deeper into her chair. A sweet, secret superiority warmed her chest. She knew. She’d known for weeks.

“Oh my god, tell us everything!”, Camila cooed, clapping her hands. “What was she like? Do you have pictures?”

Beatrice shifted, a rare flash of discomfort crossing her features. “That’s hardly necessary.”

“It’s entirely necessary!”, Camila insisted. Lilith nodded once, a gesture of dry support for the interrogation. Ava stayed quiet, but her eyes were fixed on Beatrice, her own curiosity a sharp, hungry thing.

With a resigned sigh, Beatrice pulled her phone from her pocket. She swiped and tapped for a moment, her face illuminated by the cool glow. She held it out.

Ava leaned forward. The photo showed two girls huddled under an umbrella. Beatrice’s smile softer, less guarded. And beside her, linked arm-in-arm, was a girl with a cascade of artfully messy blonde waves, a delicate, heart-shaped face, and a smile that was disarming. She was petite, gorgeous, and looked like she’d stepped from the pages of a glossy magazine.

“Wow, she’s stunning.”, Camila breathed.

Lilith gave a nod of approval. “Aesthetically pleasing.”

Ava said nothing. She just stared at the screen, her earlier smirk gone. A strange, sour weight settled in her stomach. The girl was beautiful. Obvious. Predictable. Everything about her- the blonde hair, the perfect smile, the way she clung to Beatrice’s arm- suddenly, irrationally, annoyed Ava. She didn’t know, why the sight of this very blonde, very pretty person felt like a personal slight. She just knew it did. Blonde is her type, apparently.

 

The guest room was quiet, the grandeur of the winery bled into there as well. Beatrice finished brushing her teeth and watched Ava, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

“You’ve been quiet.”, Beatrice said, leaning against the doorframe. “Regretting not inviting JC? I would have been a good sport. I’d have huddled with Camila and Lilith.”

Ava, who was already sitting on the edge of her bed, snapped her head up. “I don’t fucking care about JC…”

The vehemence was sharp, unexpected. Beatrice blinked, then said nothing. She turned away, pulling her soft cotton shirt over her head. She felt Ava’s gaze on her back as she reached for her sleep shirt.

As Beatrice slipped it on, Ava’s voice came again, quieter now, aimed at the floor.

“Your ex. She’s pretty.”

Beatrice didn’t reply.

“I didn’t know that was your type.”, Ava added, the words probing.

“What did you think was my type?”, Beatrice asked, her voice neutral. She kept her back to Ava, giving her space to speak.

“I don’t know. She’s all… blonde and blue-eyed.” Ava paused, the criticism poorly disguised as an observation. “But she is very pretty.”, she repeated, as if trying to convince herself. Or Beatrice. That she thought she was pretty. Which, objectively she was.

Beatrice finally turned. Ava was looking at her now, a confused, almost frustrated tension in her jaw. Beatrice still didn’t understand the source of the mood, but she stayed silent, letting it unfold.

They both slipped under their separate duvets in the large bed, the space between them feeling vast and charged.

Lying on their sides facing each other, Ava suddenly blurted it out, the words rushing into the quiet.

“I gave JC a handjob. Last week. We met up in town for a few hours. It was in a toilet stall.”

Ah.
The puzzle piece finally clicked into place. The weird mood, the snapping, the fixation on the ex-girlfriend. This was about that. About an unsatisfactory first sexual experience. Beatrice took a deep, slow breath. This topic was a minefield. She had worked so hard to redirect her own feelings into the safe channel of friendship. She could navigate this. She had to.

“I see.”, Beatrice said, her voice carefully measured. “And… how was that?”

Ava made a small, cringing noise in the dark. “Good? I think? Like, just going by… the end result of the whole thing? Mission accomplished?”

Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, parsing the deliberately awkward phrasing. He came. It was clinical. It was a report on a task completed, not an experience shared. When she opened her eyes again, she could see Ava watching her, waiting for a verdict she felt she wasn’t qualified to give.

“How do you feel about that?”

Ava sighed, the sound heavy in the dark. “I don’t know. JC is… he’s perfect, right? On paper. He’s hot, he’s into me, his parents are like super rich… he’s got the whole… thing. I don’t know why I feel like this. It’s just… all of a sudden, it feels wrong. Even though I’m like super attracted to him physically.”

She shifted, pulling the duvet tighter. “How did you know? With your… pretty, blonde supermodel ex.” The words tumbled out, sharp-edged. Ava winced, as soon as she said them. “No, don’t answer that. I know why. I’ve seen the picture. And heard the whole undying love thing.”

A quiet laugh escaped Beatrice, “You don’t know right away. You just… you know when you’re with the person. It feels right. You want to share everything with them.”

Ava looked at her then, really looked, her eyes searching Beatrice’s face in the dim light. “Like they’re your best friend.”

The observation hit Beatrice with a quiet, stunning force. It was so simple, so devastatingly accurate. It was the core of the loneliness she’d felt in every other interaction here, except for Ava. “Yes-sort of. You have to be friends with the person you’re dating. I actually believe that.”

Ava groaned, flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “Ugh. I can’t tolerate JC outside of our make-out sessions. He’s so pretentious. ‘My father’s Maserati this, my brother’s finance job that.’ It’s all he talks about. I just want to tell him to shut up and… I don’t know. Exist.”

Beatrice stayed on her side, watching the profile of Ava’s face. The confession, the frustration, was so painfully, wonderfully honest. It was the antithesis of efficiency.

“Then maybe…”, Beatrice started tentatively, “You have your answer.”

Ava turned her head back toward her. “Which is?”

“That he isn’t your friend. And if he can’t be that first…”, Beatrice let the sentence hang, the rest of the logic clear. Then he shouldn’t be anything else.

Ava held her gaze for a long moment, the truth of it settling between them. Then she gave a slow, definitive nod. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” A weight seemed to lift from her, replaced by a new, thoughtful tension. Her eyes stayed on Beatrice. “Thanks…”

“Anytime, Ava Silva.”

This time, when Ava smiled, it reached her eyes. And this time, Beatrice didn’t look away.

*


The crack appeared weeks later, at another sprawling villa, another sea of privileged anonymity.

Ava was floating on a pleasant buzz, orbiting the edges of the crowd, when she saw her.

Beatrice, leaning against a grand piano, deep in conversation with a girl Ava didn’t recognise. She wasn’t from their school, not from their usual circle.

Ava watched, her drink suddenly tasteless.

The girl said something, her laugh bright. She reached out, her hand resting comfortably on Beatrice’s shoulder. A casual, friendly touch. Beatrice didn’t stiffen. She laughed as well, a real, unguarded sound that carried across the room. Ava saw Beatrice’s gaze drop to the girl’s mouth once, twice… a third time.

Something hot and acidic surged in Ava’s chest. Before she could think, her feet were carrying her across the floor.

“Hey!”, Ava said, her voice brighter than she felt, slotting herself into their space. “I was looking for you... I’m Ava, hey.”

The girl smiled warmly. “Hi, I’m Dora. Beatrice was just telling me about the fencing team.”

“Yeah, she’s annoyingly good at it.”, Ava said, her eyes fixed on Beatrice, who was watching her with a carefully neutral expression.

“Well…”, Dora said, sensing the shift. She gave Beatrice’s arm a light squeeze. “It was lovely talking to you. Find me later?” Her gaze was pointed, hopeful.

Beatrice gave a small nod. “Perhaps.”

As Dora melted back into the party, Ava turned on Beatrice. “What was that?”

“A conversation.”, Beatrice replied, her tone even. “She’s a friend of the host’s sister. We were just talking.”

“Didn’t look like just talking.”

Beatrice’s composure faltered, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “What are you implying?”

The words tumbled out, petty and raw. “She’s not blonde and blue-eyed.”

Beatrice’s hand shot out, fingers closing around Ava’s elbow. Her grip was firm, insistent. Without a word, she steered Ava through the French doors and onto an empty terrace.

“What is wrong with you?”, Beatrice hissed, dropping her hand, as if burned.

“I’m just saying…”, Ava shot back, rubbing her arm, “She’s not your usual type.”

“Having a type is a superficial construct.”, Beatrice retorted, her voice low and tight. “People don’t choose partners based on a checklist of features. At least, I don’t. And for your information, we were simply getting to know each other.”

“I saw the way you looked at her.”

“And?” The challenge in Beatrice’s voice was cold, daring Ava to name what she’d seen.

Ava took the dare. “Would you sleep with her?”

Beatrice recoiled, as if struck. The controlled mask shattered, revealing pure, bewildered hurt. “Ava.”, she breathed, the name a question and an accusation. “Where is this coming from?”

Ava didn’t have an answer. The heat of her own jealousy horrified her. She shook her head, her throat tight, and turned on her heel. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She fled back into the house, taking the stairs two at a time, needing to be anywhere Beatrice wasn’t.

From the terrace, Beatrice watched her go, the cold air doing nothing to douse the fire of confusion in her gut. A moment later, she saw JC break from a group, his face etched with genuine concern, as he glanced toward the stairs Ava had taken. He hesitated only a second, before following Ava up.

For thirty minutes, Beatrice did nothing. The party’s pulse thrummed behind her, but the music was just noise now. The icy knot in her stomach tightened with each passing minute. Ava didn’t come back. JC hadn’t returned either.

Worry, sharp and acidic, eventually overrode the hurt and confusion. Something was wrong. Ava’s outburst, her flight… it wasn’t right.

Beatrice moved, her steps quick and purposeful. The upper floor was quieter, a labyrinth of closed doors and hushed hallways. She checked the first empty bedroom, a library nook. Nothing.

Then, from behind the second door at the end of the hall, she heard it. A muffled gasp. A low groan. The unmistakable, rhythmic creak of a bed.

Her hand was on the doorknob, before she could stop herself. She pushed it open.

The scene was illuminated by a single bedside lamp. Clothing was strewn across the floor. On the rumpled duvet, Ava was on her back, her face turned towards the door. Her eyes, wide and glazed, locked instantly with Beatrice’s. JC was above her, his back to the door, oblivious.

For a fractured second, the world stopped. Beatrice saw the shock, then the dawning, profound horror in Ava’s eyes.

Beatrice didn’t make a sound. She took one step back, then another. Her face was a frozen mask of disgust- not at the act itself, but at the brutal, ugly timing of it. At the devastating contradiction of it all.

She pulled the door shut.

She didn’t run. She walked, her posture rigid, down the stairs, through the still-thriving party, and out into the night. She walked all the way back to school in the cold dark, the image seared behind her eyes: Ava’s horrified stare meeting hers over JC’s shoulder.

 

Ava pushed JC off her the second the door closed. “Get out.”

“Ava, what-”

“GET OUT!”

He scrambled, grabbing his clothes, his face a mask of confusion and wounded pride. The door slammed behind him.

Ava curled into a ball on the ruined bed, the heat of shame burning through her like a fever. She hadn’t wanted this. Not really. She’d just wanted the noise in her head to stop, the confusing storm of seeing Beatrice with someone else to quiet. She’d used the first, easiest distraction available. And Beatrice had seen it. Had seen her.

 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the term.

In the halls, their eyes never met. If they entered the same room, one would leave. Beatrice’s gaze, when it accidentally crossed Ava’s path, was no longer cool or curious. It was empty. A fortified wall.

Ava’s attempts -a hesitant look, a half-step in her direction- were met with absolute, impenetrable silence. The friendship that had taken root was frost-killed, buried under a layer of mutual, devastating betrayal and shame.

The girl across the hall was a ghost again. This time, by choice.





*

The first real conversation happened in September of their junior year. The joint French coursework was a punishment from a universe with a cruel sense of irony. When the teacher announced the pairings, Beatrice’s hand was the first to rise, her voice cool, as she requested a reassignment. The request was denied. The universe, it seemed, was not done with them.

They met in the library, a neutral, nun-patrolled territory. Not the intimacy of a dorm room. Beatrice arrived exactly on time, laid out a meticulously completed project -research, structure, verb conjugations- on the oak table between them, and slid it towards Ava.

“It’s finished. You can copy it verbatim or adjust it, as you see fit. I don’t care.”

Then she opened her Latin textbook and began her own work, effectively ending the required collaboration, before it had begun.

Ava watched her for a long minute, the silent dismissal more painful than any shouted insult. The summer had been a void, and this was the void made flesh, sitting across from her, smelling of vanilla and tobacco and indifference.

“How was your summer?”, Ava ventured, her voice too loud for the hushed library.

Beatrice turned a page. “Uneventful.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine.”

Ava’s control snapped. She leaned forward, “Beatrice, are you never going to speak to me again?”

“I’m speaking to you now.”

“No, you’re giving me answers to questions I’ve been asking. You’re not even looking at me.”

Slowly, deliberately, Beatrice closed her Latin book. She placed her hands flat on the cover and finally lifted her gaze. It was like being examined by a frost-covered window. One eyebrow arched, a silent, challenging ‘well?’.

“Listen…”, Ava started, the words tripping over themselves. “What happened- before the break-”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”, Beatrice interrupted, her voice devoid of inflection.

“I feel like we do. I don’t know what happened, to be honest. I felt… I… he was there, and he was being nice, and…”

“He was being nice.”, Beatrice cut in, her tone sharpening into something deadly quiet, “So you thought, ‘I want to fuck you now’.”

Ava flinched. The vulgarity from Beatrice’s mouth was a shock.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”, Beatrice shrugged, “It’s your life. And your choice. I’m happy you finally made one. It was painful having to listen to your ‘will I, won’t I’ act. It’s just sex. Not some life-altering thing that warranted your endless philosophical musings about it.”

The blow landed with precision, striking the exact memory of Ava’s confessions about JC. Ava’s breath hitched. She knew Beatrice didn’t believe that. Knew she believed the opposite. 

Swallowing the hurt, Ava tried a different door. “Have you dated? Anyone?”

“No.”

Ava pressed on, desperation seeping in. “JC and I… we broke things off. Right after. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. I don’t know, why I did it.” The confession was raw, honest. She truly didn’t understand the chaotic storm of feelings that had led her to that bed, only the hollow, sickening clarity that followed. And she still wasn’t sure, why Beatrice was so offended by it. She’d decided it was the argument that had preceded the moment.

Beatrice said nothing for a long moment. She just looked at Ava, and for a second, the frost in her eyes seemed to waver, revealing a glimpse of the same profound confusion Ava felt. Then she picked up her pen.

“Your motivations are your own concern. The French project is due Thursday. I suggest you familiarise yourself with it.”

She reopened her Latin book. The conversation, such as it was, was over. The wall was back, thicker than before. But for a second, Ava had seen a crack. And she knew, with a sinking, hopeful dread, that she would spend the rest of the term trying to pry it open.

*

The following weeks were a desperate observation (or obsession, however one might see it). Ava, who had once sought Beatrice out with cheerful noise, now studied her from a distance. It was a cruel education.

She watched Beatrice in the courtyard, her posture a straight, unyielding line against the grey stone. She watched her in the gym, a blur of controlled fury during fencing practice. She listened, hidden behind a bookshelf, as Beatrice conversed fluently with the French literature professor, the language flowing from her like a native melody, and later, heard her speaking to their peers with a Madrid accent so flawless, it erased her British origins.

It was in the small things: the precise flick of her wrist to toss her dark hair over a shoulder, the way her brows -always so perfectly shaped- drew into a faint, frustrated crease, as she solved a complex calculus problem at the library table, the tip of her tongue just visible at the corner of her mouth.

What the fuck.

It was a revelation. She had known she liked girls, too. But now she was devastatingly, hopelessly attracted to this girl. The evidence had been there, written in the tension of her own jealousy, the way Beatrice’s laughter had always felt like a private victory, the way her full name in that crisp accent had sparked something low in Ava’s belly. She’d just been too busy trying to be casual about it, trying to want JC, to see it.

And she had blown it. Spectacularly.

The memory of that night was a blur of confusion and bad decisions. She’d let JC touch her, wanting to feel something -anything- other than the image of Beatrice looking at Dora. It had been fumbling, awkward, and ultimately empty. They hadn’t even really spoken after.

She’d traded the possibility of something real, something terrifying and beautiful she didn’t even fully understand, for a grubby, meaningless non-event with a boy whose conversation bored her.

She hadn’t just broken their friendship. She’d defiled the very possibility of what could have been, and in doing so, had proven herself unworthy of the quiet, magnificent person Beatrice was.



*

The trip to Camila’s family home outside Madrid was supposed to be a thaw. A Christmas respite. It was, instead, a mobile icebox.

Camila was driving, the radio filling the silence her friends wouldn’t. Yasmine rode shotgun, casting frequent, worried glances into the backseat.

In the back, Ava and Beatrice were the epitome of polarised tension. Ava sat behind Camila, pressed against the door, staring out at the speeding Spanish countryside. Beatrice sat behind Yasmine, a textbook open on her lap, unread, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window.

Camila and Yasmine knew a cataclysm had occurred. The easy rhythm of the group had shattered after the party last term. They’d remained loyal to both, a delicate diplomatic operation, but neither Ava, nor Beatrice had offered an explanation. The silence was its own heavy confession.

“So, Beatrice…”, Yasmine began, twisting in her seat to spear the quiet. “No Christmas at home in London? I thought your parents would want you back for the holidays.”

Beatrice didn’t look away from the window. “I didn’t go home for the summer, either. I stayed with a close relative in Austria. My parents’ postings keep them… mobile. Seeing them is logistically complicated. And not particularly desired.”

The clinical detachment in her voice was absolute. Ava’s head turned sharply from her window. She stared at the profile of Beatrice’s face. Austria? All summer? She’d pictured Beatrice in London museums, or at some Scottish estate. Not alone in Austria. And the phrase ‘not particularly desired’ echoed in the car’s quiet. Ava had seen the poised diplomat mother, had imagined a life of stiff, formal love. But this sounded like something colder. A deliberate distancing.

Ava felt a fresh wave of shame, hotter and more complicated than before. She’d been so wrapped up in her own drama, her own confusing heart, that she’d never really asked. She’d accepted the ‘disciplinary measure’ story and built a whole narrative of stern-but-loving parents around it. She’d missed the bleak reality beneath.

Beatrice had been exiled, first by her family, then by Ava. And she’d spent her summer in silent isolation because of it.

The car filled with a new kind of quiet. Yasmine, sensing she’d stumbled into a minefield, turned back around slowly. 

Ava looked down at her own hands, the truth settling into her bones with a heavy, cold clarity. She hadn’t just broken a friendship. She’d abandoned someone who was already alone. The realisation made her infinitely sad.

 

Camila’s family home was a balm of warmth and chaos. Her parents embraced them all with an enthusiasm that made the arctic car ride feel like a distant dream. The house was large enough that Ava and Beatrice were given separate rooms at opposite ends of a long, tiled hallway. Yasmine, whose family didn’t celebrate Christmas, had bunked in with Camila, a practical and friendly solution that only highlighted the separation of the other two.

Dinner was a loud, joyful affair. Camila’s mother, Dr. Elena Rosales, was a theoretical physicist with a laugh that could shake the cutlery. Her keen eyes, used to probing the mysteries of the universe, immediately focused on Beatrice, detecting the quiet, analytical mind beneath the polished exterior. They fell into a rapid, flowing conversation in Spanish about the inherent symmetries in particle physics and their unexpected echoes in Renaissance architectural principles. Beatrice’s answers were sharp and insightful, her Spanish accent impeccable, and a genuine, engaged smile touched her lips for the first time in months. Ava watched, poking at her polvorones, feeling a pang of something that was both admiration and a deep, lonely ache.


Afterwards, they retreated to a cozy upstairs living room. The easy comfort of the space, the residual warmth from the family dinner, began to work on the group’s frozen dynamic. Yasmine launched into a hilarious story about her younger siblings attempting to build a fort that collapsed on their nanny.

“I’m an only child.”, Beatrice said when the laughter died down, swirling the hot chocolate Camila’s mother had brought up. “It has its advantages. No one to collapse a fort on you.”

“Me too.”, Ava added quietly, from her corner of a large armchair.

“Lucky you both.”, Camila sighed dramatically. “My older brother, Diego, is descending tomorrow for the 24th. Prepare for relentless teasing and him eating all the turrón.”

The conversation drifted, lighter now, a fragile bridge built over the silent chasm between two of its members. When yawns began to overtake them, they parted for the night with murmured goodnights.

Ava walked to her room at one end of the hall. She paused at her door, watching, as Beatrice, without a backward glance, opened her own door at the far end and disappeared inside.

The distance felt both immense and suffocating. 

Ava waited a full ten minutes, then she walked out of her own room, staring at the closed door. Then, before she could think better of it, she crossed the space and knocked softly.

A beat of silence. “Yes?”, Beatrice’s voice was muffled through the wood.

“Are you already sleeping?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

Ava rolled her eyes, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

Beatrice was sitting up in bed, the blankets pooled around her waist. She wore a grey tank top. No bra. The soft light from the bedside lamp caught the vague, undeniable outline of her body. Ava’s gaze snapped away, fixing on the floor.

“I need us to stop fighting.”, Ava said, the words rushing out.

Beatrice’s shoulders slumped. “I’m really not in the mood to have this conversation now.”

“When will you ever?”, Ava’s voice broke.

Beatrice looked at her, a deep weariness in her eyes. It was a look of defeat. Ava, her courage faltering, walked further into the room and sank onto the floor at the foot of the bed, her back to Beatrice.

“Why do you care, if I speak to you or not? You have enough friends.”

“Because…”, Ava trailed off. The real reason stuck in her throat, terrifying and impossible. Because I think about you all the time. Because seeing you with someone else felt like dying. Because I’m an idiot who didn’t know what she had until she ruined it. The words wouldn’t come.

She took a shaky breath and went for the safer, tragic truth. “Do you not miss me? Do you not miss our friendship?”

The silence that followed was cold, but Beatrice’s answer was colder, “Was it ever a friendship?”

The blow was physical. Ava flinched. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes searching Beatrice’s face. “I… I thought we…” Her voice was small. “So you’re totally fine with us never speaking again? You’re not interested in me or my life at all?”

Beatrice said nothing. She just held Ava’s gaze, her expression an impenetrable mask.

Ava’s eyes glazed over, a sheen of unshed tears. Beatrice saw it, saw the way Ava’s jaw tightened, the painful swallow. A muscle in Beatrice’s own jaw flickered.

“Okay.”, Ava whispered, the sound shattered. “I will back off.”

She stood up silently, turned before the first tear could fall in front of Beatrice, and walked out.

*



Ava truly vanished.

Not physically, but in every way that mattered. At Camila’s, she became a ghost in the opposite wing. She didn’t ask Beatrice to pass the salt. She didn’t glance her way during board games. If Beatrice entered a room, Ava would find a reason to leave, her exit smooth and utterly final. It was a masterclass in erasure.

Back at school after the break, the operation became military in its precision. Beatrice, out of habit born of months of painful observation, kept track.

Ava switched out of their shared Art History seminar. She dropped the optional Astronomy module Beatrice took. She changed her free period to the opposite block. It was a systematic dismantling of every accidental point of contact. The only class she couldn’t escape was Advanced French- a required credit, a cage they shared three times a week.

It was in that class that Beatrice’s own carefully constructed fortress began to crack. She would feel Ava’s presence like a physical ache two rows back and to the left. She’d hear her fumble a subjunctive tense and her own hand would twitch with the old, automatic urge to whisper the correction.

But Ava never looked her way. Not once. When called upon to dialogue, Ava’s responses to Beatrice were grammatically perfect, tonally neutral, and utterly devoid of any recognition beyond that of a classmate. A stranger.

The pointed avoidance, the absolute silence where there had once been so much relentless, sunny noise, was a vacuum. And in that vacuum, Beatrice’s suppressed feelings didn’t die; they mutated, growing thorns and claws.

The anger she’d nursed -at the betrayal, the carelessness- curdled into something else. It transformed into a raw, agonizing want that shocked her with its persistence. Every averted glance felt like a slap, and each one made Beatrice’s fingers curl with the insane, vivid impulse to reach out, to grab Ava Silva by the shoulders, to make her see, why it hurt so much. To kiss that stubborn, downturned mouth, until the polite indifference shattered and Ava forgot how to be anyone but the girl who grinned on balconies and whispered secrets on dorm room floors. To kiss her, until she forgot her own name and only remembered the feel of Beatrice’s mouth against hers.

It was an infuriating, self-destructive thing- all of it. She had pushed Ava away to kill this exact feeling. She had built walls to be safe. And now, faced with Ava’s complete and utter retreat, Beatrice realised that the walls were the prison, and the silence was the torture.

Ava’s absence wasn’t a relief; it was the only thing she could think about.

*

The party Camila and Ava had planned, was a ritual. Ava was sitting on her dorm room floor, as she slowly brushed out her long hair. Camila lounged on the bed, scrolling through her phone.

“So, we’re taking my car…”, Camila started apprehensively. “Should we ask Beatrice, if she wants a ride? Save her getting a taxi.”

Ava’s brushing slowed. She kept her eyes on the worn carpet. “She’s coming?”

“Yeah. She seemed… eager, actually. For once.”

Ava let out a short, humourless breath. “Well, I doubt she’ll want to be in a car with me… but you can ask her.”

“I will!”, Camila exclaimed and walked to the doorway. Before Ava could protest, Camila was across the hall, knocking on Beatrice’s door.

Ava froze, the brush hovering mid-stroke. She didn’t turn.

The door opened. From her peripheral vision, Ava could see Beatrice’s frame in the doorway. And then she felt it- the weight of a gaze. Beatrice wasn’t looking at Camila. She was looking past her, into Ava’s room, at Ava sitting on the floor.

Ava felt the stare, a slow heat crawling up her neck. She kept her eyes down, pretending profound interest in the hairbrush in her hand.

“Party starts at eight, we need to be there earlier to set up.”, Camila was saying, her voice cheerful. “Want to join us? Ride together?”

There was a beat of silence. Ava’s heart hammered against her ribs.

“Yes.”, Beatrice said, the word coming out a bit too quickly. “That would be… nice of you guys.”

Nice of you guys.

At the sound of her voice, so… agreeing, Ava’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch in surprise. She couldn’t help it. Her head turned and her gaze flicked up -just for a second- looking through the veil of her own lashes to meet Beatrice’s across the hall.

Beatrice swallowed, hard. The direct eye contact, however brief, was a jolt.

Ava immediately broke it. She stood up in one fluid motion, turning her back to the doorway, moving out of Beatrice’s line of sight, as if burned. She busied herself at her dresser.

“Great!”, Camila said, blissfully unaware of the silent lightning strike that had just occurred. “Half an hour. Go, get ready.”

Beatrice nodded, a little frantically, and closed her door. Camila bounced back into Ava’s room. Ava didn’t turn around. She just stared at her own wide eyes in the mirror, the ghost of Beatrice’s arrested stare still imprinted on her skin.

The bungalow belonged to their friend Chanel, whose family was conveniently in Marbella for the holidays. Ava had the keys. She was allowed to do whatever to the house, as long as it was pristine afterwards. 

She practically jumped out of Camila’s car, before it had fully stopped, a nervous energy propelling her toward the trunk. Beatrice got out more slowly, her eyes tracking Ava’s movements.

They met at the back, a silent agreement passing between them to unload the supplies. As Beatrice lifted a crate, her gaze caught on the bottles within. Among the standard fare was a premium vodka, its label expensive.

“You splurged.”, Beatrice observed, her voice low, as she hefted the crate. “Chopin. A significant upgrade from gutter vodka.”

Ava didn’t look at her, focusing on balancing another box. “I have connections. I hoped, it would be to your taste.”

The words were polite, but delivered with a clinical detachment that left no room for the old teasing. It was a statement of fact, not a challenge. Beatrice felt the sting of it but said nothing.

However, she could not ignore the fact that Ava had gone out of her way to please Beatrice. And Beatrice also felt a sting because of that.

They worked in a wordless, efficient tandem, carrying everything inside. They set up the kitchen island with snacks, arranged bottles, filled ice buckets. It was a familiar dance, but performed in complete silence. As the first guests began to trickle in, Ava shifted seamlessly into host mode, her clinical tone melting into bright, easy warmth for everyone else.

Beatrice retreated to the periphery, a drink in her hand, and just watched. She followed Ava with her gaze, as she moved through the growing crowd, laughing, touching arms, guiding people to the drinks. She was a natural, a sun around which people orbited.

The party found its rhythm, the noise settling into a steady hum. Ava finally had a moment, leaning against a doorframe, catching her breath. Her eyes scanned the room and landed, inevitably, on Beatrice.

Beatrice didn’t look away. She held Ava’s gaze captive, her dark eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep of the outfit she’d been trying not to stare at all night. The red heart-shaped crop top that drew every eye in the room. The low-slung jeans that hugged the sharp curve of her hips and revealed the tempting dimples at the base of her spine. Beatrice had known Ava was pretty in an energetic, messy way. But this… this was a different kind of awareness. A sharp, visceral punch of attraction that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with the clean line of her waist, the smooth skin of her stomach, the confident way she inhabited the clothes.

With a jolt of self-directed disdain, Beatrice realised it. She didn’t just like Ava Silva’s voice or her reckless courage. She was physically, undeniably drawn to her. To the whole maddening, beautiful package.

The realisation was a fuse, lit and sputtering. She waited, patient as a predator, until she saw Ava slip into the now-empty kitchen, likely for a reprieve.

Beatrice set her drink down and followed.

The kitchen was bright and quiet compared to the dim roar of the party. Ava was there, rummaging in a low cabinet, her back to the door, bent over at the waist, as she searched for more plastic cups. The posture pulled the fabric of her low-slung jeans even tighter, emphasising the graceful arc of her spine and those two, maddening dimples at its base. The sliver of skin between her crop top and jeans was a taunt.

Beatrice closed the kitchen door behind her. The sound of it announcing her arrival.

Ava straightened up instantly, a stack of cups in her hand. She turned, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Beatrice alone in the doorway, at the closed door. She took a small, instinctive step back.

“Did you need something?”, Ava asked, her voice carefully neutral, but a flicker of wariness in her eyes.

Beatrice didn’t answer. She just looked at her, drinking in the sight- the defiant outfit, the guarded expression, the way she held the flimsy plastic cups like a shield. 

The fuse reached its end.

“Yes.”, Beatrice said, the word a low, rough admission in the quiet room. She took a step forward, eliminating the safe distance. “I do.”


Ava inhaled a sharp, shaky breath. The air in the closed kitchen felt thin, charged. “Well, uhm…”, she stammered, setting the plastic cups down on the counter, “How can I help?”

Beatrice’s eyes gaze intensified, becoming something focused and intense. Ava saw the shift and confusion flickered across her face, mingling with the wariness.

“I’ve been meaning to-”, Beatrice began, but the sentence was cut off.

The kitchen door burst open, letting in a blast of music and laughter. It was Sofia, a friend of Ava’s from her art class. “Ava! There you are! The cups? Did you find them? We’re doing waterfall shots and Carlos already spilled the first one!”

Ava’s relief was palpable, a visible loosening of her shoulders. “Yes! Here.”, she said, too eagerly, thrusting the stack into Sofia’s hands. She practically fled the scene, “I’ll, uh, I’ll help you prepare the drinks.”, she announced to Sofia, not looking back at Beatrice.

She was gone, swallowed back into the party, leaving Beatrice alone in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

Beatrice didn’t move. She stared at the space where Ava had been, the ghost of her warmth. The interruption was a bucket of cold reality. The iciness between them was a tangible force now. 

But then, the memory surfaced: Ava on the floor, tears glazing her eyes, whispering “Do you not miss me?” Ava knocking on her door in the dark. Ava trying, again and again, until she’d finally given up.

It was Beatrice’s turn. She wanted Ava Silva back in her life, even if just as a friend. Especially as a friend.

Beatrice smoothed her hands over her trousers, took a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the nerves, and pushed open the kitchen door. The noise of the party hit her like a wave. Her eyes scanned the crowd, finding Ava almost immediately, laughing too brightly by the makeshift bar, helping Sofia pour drinks.

Beatrice didn’t approach. Not yet. She just watched. Waiting for an opening.



The plan to try dissolved in the acid of watching Ava drink. It wasn’t social sipping; it was a determined, reckless consumption that Beatrice tracked with a sinking heart. As the night wore on, the bright hostess melted into a loose-limbed, tactile version of herself. She was all careless touches and loud laughter, her hands landing on arms, shoulders. One of the boys from the neighbouring town, a guy named Mateo, seemed to take her every gesture as an engraved invitation.

Beatrice’s patience was growing thin, but she still stayed put.

Later, when she finally couldn’t stand the sight of Mateo’s hovering presence any longer, she went looking. She found Ava not with Mateo, but perched on Juan’s lap in a shadowy corner of the living room. Juan’s hands were large and possessive on her bare waist, his mouth close to her ear. Ava’s laugh in response was high, unmoored, the laugh of someone entirely separated from their own good sense.

That was the line.

Beatrice crossed the room to where they were seated. “Do you have any sense of propriety, or do you only set your sights on girls who are too drunk to know better?”

Juan’s head snapped up, his expression shifting from smug to irked. 

“Vete a la mierda.”, he spat back. Fuck off.

Her reply in Spanish was low, venomous, and anatomically specific enough to make his eyes widen. Without breaking his glare, she reached down, her fingers closing firmly around Ava’s wrist. She pulled and pried her off Juan’s lap.

Ava stumbled, confused, her balance shot. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting you some air.”, Beatrice didn’t let go, steering her through the crowd, out the front door, and into the shock of the cool night. She released her then, crossing her arms over her own chest, as if to contain her fury.

“Can you please just take care of yourself more?” The words were clipped, laced with a worry that sounded like anger.

Ava wobbled, rolling her eyes with exaggerated slowness. “Fuck off, Beatrice.”

“We’re going back to school. Now.”

“I said, fuck you. Leave me alone.”

Beatrice’s control snapped. She grabbed Ava’s wrist again. “You’re not going back in there.”

“Why not?”, Ava challenged, trying to yank her arm free.

“Because I don’t care if you hate me…”, Beatrice hissed, leaning in, “But I’m absolutely not letting that guy touch you when you’re so fucking drunk you don’t even know the concept of consent.”

“Why do you care so much?”, Ava shouted back, the words slurring.

“Because I care about you!”

“You don’t! You just don’t like seeing me happy!”

The accusation was so wrong, so painfully backwards, it broke something loose in Beatrice. 

“Did it make you happy? When he touched you here?”, she shot back, her voice dropping dangerously. Her free hand came up, her thumb pressing into the bare, warm skin of Ava’s hip, just above the waistband of her jeans. Ava jolted at the contact. “Would you like it, if he took off your clothes? If his paws were all over you?”

Ava yanked herself back, out of Beatrice’s grasp, her breath coming fast. “Maybe I would!”

Beatrice set her jaw, the final thread of hope snapping. “Fine. Do what you want.”

She turned and walked away, down the gravel drive, away from the lights and the noise.

“Hey!”, Ava’s shout followed her. Then the crunch of gravel, as Ava stumbled after her. “Why did you even come here? Seriously? To play chaperone? Be the buzzkill?”

Beatrice whirled around so suddenly, Ava almost collided with her. They were close, too close, breathing the same sharp, cold air. “I came, because I wanted to be close to you.”, Beatrice erupted, the truth torn from her. “I came, because you have been ignoring me for the last five weeks and I hated it, and I came here to change that.”

Ava swallowed, her drunken bravado evaporating into stunned silence. They stood there, chests heaving.

“But you hate me…”, Ava whispered, confusion clouding her eyes.

“I don’t hate you, you fucking moron!”, Beatrice was on the verge of tears, “I like you. And I’ve liked you for over a year now, and-” Her hands came up, an aborted, furious gesture, as if she wanted to shake Ava or pull her close. Instead, they fell helplessly to her sides. The confession hung, naked and terrifying, in the space between them.

Beatrice couldn’t bear it. She turned on her heel and walked away, into the dark, leaving Ava standing alone on the gravel drive, her mind reeling with what had just happened between them.

But the night was not over.

Just when Beatrice had returned from brushing her teeth, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, the scent of mint and cold water clinging to her skin, she heard the knock. It was soft, hesitant, and it came well past midnight.

She opened the door.

Ava stood on the other side. Her eyes, still glassy but clearer now, found Beatrice’s. There was a heartbeat of silence, a silent question hanging in the air. Then Ava moved.

Her mouth was on Beatrice’s, sudden and demanding. The taste of vodka and lime flooded Beatrice’s senses. Ava’s tongue sought entry, her hands coming up to frame Beatrice’s jaw, her fingers tangling in the hair at her nape, pulling her down to close the height difference. It was all heat and desperation.

Beatrice, acting on pure instinct, managed to kick the door shut behind them, before the part of her brain screaming sobriety could fully engage. She disengaged gently, to create a breath of space between their mouths.

“Wait.”, she whispered against her lips.

Ava followed, seeking her mouth again, the word not registering. This time, Beatrice let her. The kiss softened, slowed. It was still Ava leading, her tongue a sweet, searching pressure, but the frantic edge was gone. It was chaste, almost questioning. Beatrice kissed her back, letting herself feel the dizzying rightness of it- the softness of Ava’s lips, the little sigh she made, the way her body seemed to melt forward. The butterflies were a riot in her stomach, a joyful, terrified fluttering.

But beneath the joy, a cold, persistent truth remained. The taste of alcohol was still there, a taint on the perfection.

After a long, breathless moment, Beatrice broke the kiss again, resting her forehead against Ava’s. Ava blinked rapidly, her confidence faltering.

“You do like me like that, right?”, Ava’s voice was small, vulnerable.

“Yes.”, Beatrice answered instantly, “I do. Yes.”

Ava stood there, swaying slightly, the unspoken question clear in her hazy eyes: Then why are you stopping?

Beatrice took a steadying breath, her hands still cradling Ava’s face. “I can’t do this when you’re drunk. Because I’m not sure how much you’ll remember tomorrow. And I want… I need your head to be clear for this conversation.”

Ava laughed, a soft, dreamy sound. She leaned in, nuzzling Beatrice’s cheek. “I will for sure remember our first kiss.” She pulled back, a mock-offended pout on her lips. “And the second one. And hey…”, she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Just so you know… I’ve had a crush on you too. For like… also a long time.”

Beatrice inhaled sharply, the confession making her almost break the restraints. The desire to kiss her again, to seal that admission with every part of herself, was almost overwhelming. But she doused it. This was too important. She would ask about all of it, when Ava’s head was clearer.

Ava’s eyes drifted past her, toward the single bed. “Can I… stay? Here?”

Beatrice looked at her own narrow bed, then back at Ava’s hopeful, intoxicated face. The war between want and principle raged for a second. Principle, edged with care, won.

She nodded slowly. “You can stay. But just to sleep, Ava.”

Ava’s answering smile was beatific, as if that was all she’d wanted to hear. She toed off her shoes and stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. Beatrice watched her for a moment, her heart a tangled, aching mess of longing and protectiveness, before turning off the light and climbing in beside her.


*




Ava woke to a low, relentless thrumming behind her eyes. She groaned, the sound harsh in the quiet room.

Instantly, Beatrice was there, leaning over her. In one hand was a glass of water, in the other, a single painkiller. Her expression was carefully neutral.

“Here.”, Beatrice said, her voice morning-rough.

Ava accepted both with a grateful murmur, swallowing the pill and draining half the glass, before flopping back onto the pillow. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, the events of the night assembling themselves in her aching head like scattered puzzle pieces. Slowly, she turned her head to regard Beatrice, who had settled back onto her own pillow, watching her.

“Why am I in your bed?”, Ava asked, her voice tinged with innocent confusion.

Beatrice’s face did something complicated- a flicker of hope extinguished, replaced by a swift, practiced blankness. She blinked rapidly, looking away. “You don’t-”

Ava burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that made her wince and clutch her head. “I’m kidding! I remember everything. Well, except some parts from the party. That was peak Drunk Ava. The taxi ride back here is… fuzzy.”

The relief that washed over Beatrice left her dizzy. She tried to scowl, but it felt weak.

Ava fumbled in the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a stick of gum. She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, chewed vigorously for a moment, then -to Beatrice’s utter bewilderment- spat the gum neatly into her own palm and re-wrapped it in the foil. Before Beatrice could question the bizarre hygiene, Ava’s hand was on the back of her neck, pulling her down.

The kiss was a surprise. It was minty and warm and sure. Beatrice hummed softly into it, her initial shock melting away. One of Ava’s legs hooked around Beatrice’s, tugging her closer, shifting their bodies, until Beatrice was half-sprawled on top of her, the weight and heat of her a perfect, new reality.

They kissed for a long time, a slow, explorative discovery. It was Ava, who finally broke it, breathless, a smug little smile on her swollen lips.

“Tell me again…”, she whispered, her fingers tracing Beatrice’s jaw. “How you were pining and crushing on me.”

Beatrice groaned, burying her face in Ava’s neck to hide her flush. She pressed a kiss there instead. “You were really annoying. You still are…”, she muttered against her skin. “And persistent. It’s actually very endearing.” She lifted her head, meeting Ava’s gaze. “What about you? When did you know you liked girls too?”

Ava smiled. “I’ve always known. You just… never asked.”

Beatrice blinked, the revelation tugging at her chest. All of the theatrics of the past year could have been avoided easily, if she hadn’t been so scared of telling Ava -who she presumed to be straight- about her feelings.

“Alright… then, what made you…”, Beatrice swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly very dry, “Why me?”

“Okay, at first I just thought you were just really hot… and unapproachable. Sue me, that kinda did it for me. Anything you did fascinated me, to be honest… I even grew to like your annoying ‘I’m British, and I know everything better’ attitude, and-” 

Beatrice covered her mouth with her own, swallowing the rest of the sentence. Her ego needed the answer, but she decided, it didn’t matter now. The whys and the hows, the confusion and the jealousy. None of it mattered. Not when Ava was here, in her bed, kissing her back, her hands gripping her shirt, like she belonged to her, and no one else.

*


Their new reality was a secret, electric and confined. In a Catholic boarding school, under the watchful eyes of nuns and peers, their relationship became a series of stolen moments.

It was a dangerous game.

It was Beatrice who would cross the silent hall after lights-out, a ghost in slippers and pyjamas, slipping into Ava’s room. The door shut behind her, and the world would shrink to the space of Ava’s narrow bed. There were no profound declarations in the dark, just the frantic, grateful press of lips, the slide of nervous hands under cotton. They learned each other in fragments- the feel of a racing heartbeat under a palm; the specific sigh Ava made, when Beatrice’s thumb brushed the corner of her jaw; the way Beatrice’s hand would always stop Ava’s eager ones, when they wandered a bit too far.

But the daytime thefts were always orchestrated by Ava. She learned Beatrice’s fencing schedule. Afterwards, while the others showered and chattered, Ava would find an excuse to seek out Beatrice -a French project or help with calculus- and linger in the changing room.

Ava would watch from a bench, as Beatrice, still humming with the focused energy of a bout, peeled off her damp undershirt. Ava’s gaze would trace the lines of her body. She’d avert her gaze, as Beatrice would step out of her briefs. Everything was done with athletic grace. Even the motion of her pulling on her school uniform -the tights, the pleated skirt, the crisp white blouse- was a private ritual Ava felt privileged to witness, a thrill coiling low in her stomach. It was those times, she’d even think about what it would feel like to take off that uniform.

She’d wait until the last of the other girls had left, until the only sounds were the distant drip of a shower and the rustle of Beatrice’s bag.

Then, and only then, would Ava move.

She’d rise from the bench and cross the tiled floor.

Beatrice would sense her, turning, just as Ava reached her. No words were needed. Ava would crowd her back against the cold metal of the lockers.

She’d kiss her, deep and lingering, tasting the ghost of salt and effort on her skin.

The starched collar of Beatrice’s newly donned uniform would brush against Ava’s chin.


*

The knock on her door one Friday evening was impatient. Beatrice opened it, her phone pressed to her ear, a tense frown marring her features.

“I understand.”, she said into the receiver, her voice clipped. She saw Ava and stepped aside, without breaking her conversation, her eyes darting past the other girl to scan the empty hall, before she closed the door.

Ava hovered just inside, watching, as Beatrice paced the small space between her bed and the desk.

“Yes, well, my plans were rather contingent on yours, but it’s fine. I’ll stay at school. No, don’t bother making other arrangements.” The hurt beneath the icy politeness was palpable. She ended the call and stared furiously at the darkened screen, her jaw tight.

“Everything okay?”, Ava asked softly.

Beatrice took a sharp breath, as if remembering she wasn’t alone. “My family. I was supposed to go home for the Easter recess. They’ve… had a change of plans. Something came up with my mother’s posting. So, I’ll be staying here. It’s fine.”

Ava tilted her head. “Why are you so mad? I thought you didn’t really like spending time with them anyway.”

Beatrice turned to look at her, and the rawness in her eyes was startling. “That… is something I said in a group of almost-strangers.” She gestured vaguely, a rare display of helpless agitation. “They shipped me off to Spain and haven’t bothered to act like they want me back. I saw them for two days last summer, when they deigned to visit me in Austria. Two days. That’s it.”

The reality of it hit Ava like a punch. She’d known it was bad, but the specifics painted a picture of a loneliness far deeper than she’d imagined. Guilt prickled at her for her flippant question, followed by a wave of helpless empathy. She had no script for this. No relationship experience to draw from (not that this was a relationship, her brain hastily corrected, even as her heart rebelled).

Wordlessly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Beatrice. For a second, Beatrice remained rigid, then she melted into the embrace, her chin coming to rest on Ava’s shoulder. A heavy, shuddering sigh escaped her.

“I’m sorry, love.”, Beatrice murmured into the fabric of Ava’s shirt, her voice thick. “I didn’t mean to go off on you.”

Love.


The simple, casual endearment sent Ava’s heart into a wild, fluttering spin. It was just a Britishism, she told herself. A figure of speech. But the way it had sounded, soft and weary against her neck, felt so utterly right. And in that moment, holding Beatrice, as she let her guard down, feeling the weight of her disappointment and the trust in her surrender, the last of Ava’s internal denials crumbled. She didn’t just have a crush. She didn’t just want to sneak around and make out.

She wanted this. The comfort in each other. The shared hurt. The right to call Beatrice hers and to be called love in return, in earnest. She wanted them to be in a relationship.

Ava made a resolve: she would ask Beatrice about it- at a better time.

There was just one more hiccup: she just had no idea how to make it real in a world designed to keep it a secret.

*





The library was quiet, as usually, broken only by the rustle of pages and the scratch of pens. Sunlight streamed in dusty beams across the long oak table, where they sat side-by-side, a respectable foot of polished wood between them.

Beatrice was a picture of concentration, her brow slightly furrowed, as she annotated a dense passage of French philosophy. Ava had ostensibly opened her own French notebook. It was blank.

She watched Beatrice for a full minute- the way she bit her lower lip in thought, the elegant slant of her cursive, the focused stillness of her posture. A slow, warm mischief bloomed in Ava’s chest.

She leaned forward, just a little, her voice a low murmur meant for Beatrice’s ear alone. “Bea?”

“Hmm?”, Beatrice didn’t look up, her pen still moving.

“I need help with my French.”

That got her attention. Beatrice’s pen stopped. She glanced at Ava’s open notebook, its pristine emptiness, then up at Ava’s face. Her brows drew together in pure, uncomprehending bewilderment.

Ava held her gaze. Slowly, deliberately, she caught her own lower lip between her teeth, letting her smile bloom around it. She arched one eyebrow, a silent, blatant question.

For a breathtaking second, Beatrice’s perfect composure shattered. Her eyes widened, her lips parted on a silent inhale. She looked adorably flustered. She cleared her throat, a harsh sound in the quiet, and her gaze dropped violently back to her own textbook, as if the words might shield her.

She said nothing. For a long, tense minute, the only movement was the rise and fall of her ribcage, as she drew in and released breath after breath. Beatrice didn’t write another word. She just stared, unseeing, at the page.

Ava watched, her own heart hammering, the power of the effect heady and sweet.

Then, so quiet, it was almost a trick of the air, Beatrice spoke. Her eyes remained fixed on her book, but the words were clear, a whispered command.

“Meet me in my room in ten minutes.” A pause. A slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. “Don’t follow me now.”

She closed her book, gathered her things, and stood. Without a single glance at Ava, she walked away, her steps measured, but quick. She disappeared between the towering bookshelves.

Ava was left alone at the table. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She counted the seconds.

 

Ten minutes later Ava slipped into Beatrice’s room. It was a collision. Beatrice, still in her uniform, barely had time to turn from placing her books on the desk, before Ava was on her, kissing her feverishly. They stumbled backward, falling onto the narrow bed with Ava ending up on top, her knees bracketing Beatrice’s hips, her hands cradling the other girl’s face, as she kissed her, deep and searching.

When she finally broke for air, her eyes were dark with intent. Her fingers found the knot of Beatrice’s school tie, loosening it with a series of quick, sure tugs, before sliding the silk completely free and letting it drop to the floor. She didn’t stop there. Her hands went to the buttons of Beatrice’s crisp white shirt, popping the first one, then the second, exposing the hollow of her throat and a glimpse of her collarbone. Beatrice arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her, her hands gripped Ava’s hips, granting permission for every bold advance.

Ava drew back, just enough to look Beatrice in the eyes. Her chest was heaving. The words tumbled out, without warning, “I think, I want to have sex with you.” Beatrice’s eyes flew wide. 


“Wow. Okay.” A beat of stunned processing. “Now?”


Ava shook her head quickly, her cheeks flushing. “No- like, in general.”


The shift in the air was immediate. The heat of the moment cooled into something more vulnerable, more serious. Beatrice’s expression grew thoughtful, a hint of panic flickering behind her eyes.

She gently nudged Ava, creating enough space to shuffle up into a sitting position, her back resting against the cool wall at the head of the bed. She pulled the edges of her unbuttoned shirt a little tighter, a subconscious gesture of seeking cover.


Ava knelt on the mattress before her, suddenly nervous under Beatrice’s assessing gaze. “I mean... you’ve already done it. I’ve... already done it.” She winced at her own phrasing, at the clumsy reference to the distant memory with JC. “That- that has nothing to do with the fact that I really want to. With you.”

Beatrice regarded her, her mind racing. It wasn’t that she’d never thought about it. The opposite was true. She’d thought about it constantly, in vivid, aching detail. But thinking and planning were different. Thinking was safe. This was a precipice.


The first thing that emerged from the whirlwind in her mind was the most practical, immediate barrier. “Our doors don’t lock.”, she said, her voice oddly flat, as if this were the only logistical problem to overcome.


Ava nodded, her eyes never leaving Beatrice’s face, watching the subtle play of conflict and desire.


She waited.


Beatrice cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. She looked down at her own hands, then back up, meeting Ava’s hopeful, anxious gaze. The honesty was terrifying, but necessary. “I want to, too.”, she offered.

Ava’s face lit up with pure joy. “Yeah?”


Beatrice just nodded, her gaze steady, despite the storm inside.


Ava mirrored the nod, her mind visibly whirring. She bit her lip, her eyes scanning the space between them, as if looking for a solution. “I... I’ll figure something out…”, she promised.


Beatrice watched her, the fierce determination on Ava’s face both terrifying and exhilarating.


Then Ava’s expression softened, shifting back to the playful warmth from moments before. She scooted closer on the mattress, until their knees touched. “Can we… continue making out?”


A laugh -a real, surprised chuckle- escaped Beatrice. The tension in the room broke, replaced by a giddy, intimate warmth. Her hands came up to the parted edges of her own shirt. “Yes.”, she said, her voice laced with fond amusement. “But my shirt stays like this. You don’t go further than this.”

Ava’s face flickered with a mixture of understanding and a hint of a pout. The pout, ridiculous and endearing, was Beatrice’s undoing. Her expression softened. She reached down with one hand and undid a third button, revealing a subtle swell of her chest, the edge of her bra. “No further than this.”, she clarified, her voice scraping and raw.


Ava’s eyes darkened with desire, and she nodded eagerly, solemnly.


They moved together, fluidly finding their earlier position: Ava settling over Beatrice’s hips, the weight familiar and welcome. Ava dipped her head, planting a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses along Beatrice’s neck. Her hand, tentative at first, slid up Beatrice’s stomach and came to rest over her heart, the heat of her palm searing through the thin cotton of the shirt and bra. Her thumb brushed a slow, exploratory circle.


Beatrice’s head fell back against the pillow, her eyes drifting shut, before she forced them open to look at the ceiling, a soft, dazed smile on her lips. One of her hands came up to tangle in Ava’s long, dark hair, her fingers gently combing through the strands, anchoring herself in the sensation.

Ava’s mouth traveled upward, until she found Beatrice’s lips again. This kiss was different, deep and savouring. Ava’s tongue swept into her mouth, with a slow, tentative exploration, as if learning a new, beloved terrain. Beatrice met her stroke for stroke, her other hand coming to rest on Ava’s back, holding her close.



They stayed like that for a long time. Kissing, touching within the agreed boundaries.





*





Their friends found out about them soon.

It was during the study weekend at Camila’s house. Her parents were abroad, leaving them the run of the place for a final cram session, before the spring recess exams. The primary goal was academic survival. The secondary, unstated goal for everyone was to see, if the ceasefire between Ava and Beatrice would hold.

It did more than hold. A new dynamic had taken root, subtle, but unmistakable. It was in the quiet understanding that replaced the need for words, in the way their solitude as the only two staying at school over the break had become a shared, unspoken “us” instead of a lonely coincidence. They weren’t just not fighting; they were orbiting each other with a gentle, magnetic pull their friends couldn’t help but notice.

 

In their shared guest room -the same one Beatrice had occupied over Christmas- they lay side by side on the bed, the faint glow from the hallway light seeping under the door. Beatrice’s mouth was soft on Ava’s, a slow, deepening exploration that had Ava’s hands clutching at her shoulders. Beatrice’s own hand slid under the hem of Ava’s t-shirt, her palm smoothing over the warm, flat plane of her stomach.

Beatrice shifted, moving to hover over her, bracing her weight on one forearm, as she kissed her again, deeper this time. But after a moment, she felt it- a slight stiffness in Ava’s response, her mind clearly somewhere else. Beatrice broke the kiss, nudging Ava’s nose with her own.

“You’re awfully distracted.”, she murmured, her voice a low vibration against Ava’s lips. “Considering we are quartered in a wing far from the others, and I am, in fact, kissing you.”

Ava’s eyes, which had been staring vaguely at the ceiling, focused on Beatrice’s face. She bit her lip. “Should we tell the others?”

Beatrice blinked, pulling back just enough to see her better. “Tell them what, exactly?”

“That we’re…”, Ava floundered, the words elusive. She waved a hand between their bodies. “A thing.” She settled on the term. It was better than saying they were dating. Because she didn’t know, if they were.

Beatrice considered it. She thought of Lilith’s knowing looks, Camila’s warm, questioning smiles, Yasmine’s curious glances. The secret wasn’t as opaque as they’d thought.

“Alright.”, she said, surprising herself with how little fear the idea conjured. “I don’t mind telling them.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Sure. They’re our friends. It’s not a state secret.”

A slow, brilliant smile spread across Ava’s face, the distraction gone, replaced by pure, luminous relief. She leaned in, kissing Beatrice again, who met her easily. Her hand settled on Ava’s hip, its warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts, her touch tender.

Ava’s own hand came down to rest over Beatrice’s. She didn’t move it, just felt the solid weight, the gentle heat of Beatrice’s palm against her skin. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, and a thought unfurled in Ava’s mind: I want this hand everywhere.

“This door locks, you know…”, Ava murmured suggestively.

Beatrice pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “Yes. And?”

Ava drew in a sharp, quiet breath. In response, she rolled her hips, a slow, subtle press into Beatrice’s thigh, where it rested against her- a movement so slight it was almost unconscious, a pure physical echo of the thought in her mind. But Beatrice felt it. The shift of pressure, the unspoken request. She understood the language of that movement perfectly.

A slow, knowing smile touched Beatrice’s lips, but her expression remained otherwise unimpressed. She raised one eyebrow, a picture of arch composure. “I am not sleeping with you in Camila’s guest room, Ava.”

The fantasy dissolved, replaced by the firm, gentle reality of Beatrice’s boundary. Ava’s face instantly bunched up in a comical, exaggerated pout. “Okay. Fine.”, she huffed, the word dripping with mock indignation, though the spark of understanding -and respect- flickered in her eyes. She collapsed back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh, but her fingers laced through Beatrice’s, holding on tight.

“You’re like a teenage boy.” Beatrice leaned back in, aiming for her mouth, but Ava dodged the kiss, a playful glint in her eye.

“Well, I am a teenage girl.”, she retorted, grinning. “And it’s not my fault you’re all…” Her hands made a vague, appreciative gesture up and down Beatrice’s form, perched above her. “That.”




The next morning, they were all seated in Camila’s bright kitchen. The easy camaraderie of the night before lingered, but a new, thin thread of tension vibrated from Ava’s end of the table.

She fidgeted with her spoon, clinking it against her cereal bowl. Beatrice sat beside her, calmly sipping her black coffee, a portrait of serene composure.

“So…”, Ava began, her voice a little too loud for the room. She cleared her throat. “I, uh… I need to tell you guys something.”

All movement ceased. Camila paused with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. Yasmine looked up from her phone. Lilith simply turned her head, her expression one of mild, analytical interest.

Ava’s eyes darted around the table, scanning their faces- curious, confused, patient. She looked to Beatrice for backup, for a sign. Beatrice took a slow sip of her coffee, set the mug down and said nothing. She just waited, her gaze calm and encouraging, leaving the floor entirely to Ava.

The silence stretched. Ava’s courage, so bold in the dark of their room, began to show a fracture. “Bea and I… we, uhm…” The words tangled on her tongue. Together? Seeing each other? A thing? None of them felt right.

Beatrice watched her struggle for another second. Then, with a simplicity that cut through Ava’s panic, she turned her head to address their friends directly.

“We’re dating.”, she stated. Her voice was clear, matter-of-fact, as if announcing a change in the weather.

There was no gasp, no dropped cutlery. Camila’s face broke into a slow, knowing smile. Yasmine’s eyes crinkled at the corners with warmth. Lilith gave a single, unsurprised nod.

It was Lilith who spoke, her tone dry. “Dating. As in, a couple?”

Beatrice turned her calm gaze on Lilith. “Yes.”

Ava’s head snapped towards her. Her eyes widened. She stared at Beatrice’s profile- the calm line of her jaw, the utter lack of hesitation. All of Ava’s internal struggle, her fear of being too much, of wanting too much, too early on, of defining them in a way that might make Beatrice bolt… and Beatrice had just said it. Like it was nothing. Like it was the easiest, most obvious truth in the world.

*

The break was a stolen season of sunlight and secrets. They went on timid, thrilling dates in town, holding hands under café tables. They spent hours talking, the words flowing easier than ever, and hours kissing, tangled on one of their single beds. The wanting was a constant, humming undercurrent, acknowledged in breathless pauses and flushed cheeks, but carefully contained by the ever-present risk of discovery.

It was towards the middle of the break, with the campus a ghost town, that Beatrice got daring. She’d checked the schedule. The Easter Vigil mass would command the attention of every nun and staff member for a solid four hours. The hallways would be deserted, silent as a tomb.

They were in Beatrice’s room. Ava was lying on her stomach on the bed, scrolling idly through her phone. Beatrice watched her for a long moment, the way the late afternoon light gilded the curve of her shoulder. Then, she moved.

She got up, drew the blinds closed, plunging the room into a soft, dim twilight. She put on a low, instrumental playlist from her phone. Then, with a quiet, determined focus that made Ava sit up and watch, Beatrice pushed the heavy wooden desk a few inches in front of her door, creating a solid barricade.

“What’s all this?”, Ava asked, her voice a whisper in the new quiet.

Beatrice turned. She was on the bed instantly, kneeling over Ava, and kissed her- short, deep, and full of intent. She pulled back just enough to speak.

“We have approximately four hours, before anyone will walk these halls. No one is expecting us anywhere.” Her dark eyes held Ava’s, blazing with a certainty, “We have these hours for ourselves.”

Ava’s mind, still catching up, processed the logistics, but not the implication. “Okay… so, more make-out time? Not that I’m complaining-”

Beatrice cocked an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at her, the heat in her gaze dropping to Ava’s mouth, then back up. Always with the non-verbal communication that one.

“Oh- oh…”, Ava breathed, the realisation dawning like a sunrise, warm and terrifying. “Now? You want to… now?”

Beatrice’s smile widened into something eager, beautiful, and she nodded.

Suddenly, Ava felt wildly exposed. She hadn’t planned for this. She’d imagined it in abstract, feverish daydreams, but the reality was here, with Beatrice looking at her like that. A wave of nervousness crested over her.

But then Beatrice kissed her again, and the nerves began to dissolve into anticipation. They kissed for a long time, slow and deep. Beatrice’s hands skated under the hem of Ava’s t-shirt, lifting it up and over her head. Her gaze dropped, taking in the sight, and a soft, wondrous smile touched her lips, before she recaptured Ava’s mouth. Encouraged, Ava mirrored her, fingers fumbling with Beatrice’s top, until it joined her own on the floor.

It was, as Beatrice had once described, a bit of an awkward mess. Ava was unsure of her touch, overthinking every movement. But she was with a person who talked her through it- not with clinical instructions, but with soft, breathless words.

“Here, like this.” A guiding hand.

“You’re perfect.” A whisper against her throat.

“Is this okay?” A pause, full of care.

Later, Ava would always remember this as her first time. Not the moment in a stranger’s villa, but this.

She would remember Beatrice’s infinite patience, the way she waited for every nod, listened for every sigh.

She would remember Beatrice’s encouraging smile, breaking through clouds of uncertainty.

She would remember the scent of Beatrice’s expensive perfume- on the pillow beneath her head, a scent that would forever be tied to the sixteen year old girl that moved in across from her in sophomore year.

She would remember the shared, stifled laughter, when they bumped noses, the desperate, mutual attempt to stay quiet and the breathless, silent laughter.

She would remember the exact pressure of Beatrice’s mouth on the pulse point at her wrist, a kiss meant to calm.

She would remember the way Beatrice’s hair fell around their faces like a curtain, creating a world that was only them.

She would remember the feeling of being truly, deeply known by a person she loved. She would remember, though she wouldn’t understand the full weight of it, until later, that she had been loved in return, right there in that quiet room. 

She would remember all of it -every touch, every whisper, every hesitant smile- with a clarity that time could not blur.

Years later, no matter where life took her, or who else she was with, Ava Silva would never forget that Beatrice was her first.

Not just her first lover, but the benchmark against which all other loves would quietly, inevitably, be measured.

*

They spent weeks in a cocoon of impossible bliss. It felt like a world built just for them, fragile and perfect.

Then, the news came.

Ava’s parents, in a rare moment of attempted reconciliation, had decided to travel together to surprise their daughter for a week-long visit, before the break, planning to fly back to Toronto with her. The plane carrying them went down over the Alps. There were no survivors.

The aftermath was a blur of numb formalities and distant, adult voices. The decision was made for her: she would finish the year and move to Brazil, extracted from her life for a senior year in a foreign country, living with her godmother in São Paulo. A person she barely remembered.

Now, three days after the news, the storm of initial tears had passed, leaving a flat, hollow sea in its wake. Ava was lying in Beatrice’s embrace on her bed. Camila and Lilith were there too, a silent vigil on the rug.

“We could go get those chocolate-covered almonds you like.”, Camila offered softly, “Or those sour lollipops from the kiosk.”

Lilith nodded. “Or both.”

Beatrice, her arms locked around Ava’s unresponsive form, just gave them a small, grateful nod. They slipped out, leaving the two of them alone.

Beatrice kissed Ava’s forehead, a press of her lips against cool skin. She tightened her hold, wishing she could squeeze the pain out, absorb it into her own bones. There were no words that fit the crater that had opened in Ava’s life.

After a long silence, Ava spoke, her voice stripped of all inflection, aimed at the opposite wall. “I move to São Paulo in four days.”

Beatrice exhaled, the air leaving her lungs like a defeat. She nodded against Ava’s hair.

Ava sat up suddenly, pulling out of Beatrice’s embrace. She turned to look at her, and the raw, devastated hurt in her eyes was a physical burn in Beatrice’s chest.

“We need to talk about the break up.”, Ava stated, the words clinical, final.

The pain sharpened, twisting into something new and terrifying. “Ava-”

Ava interrupted, her gaze unwavering. “The coming days... it will be torture for us both, knowing exactly where it ends.” She hugged her knees to her chest, a small, defensive ball. “A clean cut is what’s best for everyone, right? Why not do it now?”

The words were a precise, devastating echo. Beatrice flinched, as if struck. Her own rationale for ending things with her London girlfriend, thrown back at her now, in this context, was a cruelty she had never intended.

“Ava…”, Beatrice tried again, her voice breaking. She sat up straighter, reaching for her hands. “Ava, I love you. We can figure something out. Long distance, visits, I’ll come to Brazil, if I have to… we can-”

The declaration, sudden and profound, seemed to shatter Ava’s fragile resolve instead of bolstering it. She shook her head, a frantic, denying motion. “No. You can’t say that now. You can’t-” Her voice cracked. “You don’t get to say that now.”

Beatrice blinked, tears she’d been holding back spilling over. She couldn’t find the right argument, the magic words to bridge the chasm of grief that was already pulling Ava into another hemisphere. All she could do was whisper, “Just breathe. We don’t have to decide anything right now. Just… breathe.” She pulled Ava back against her, holding on, as if the act of holding alone could stop the inevitable from happening.

*

The day before Ava left for Brazil felt like the world had been wrapped in muffling cotton. They were in Beatrice’s room, a familiar, painful echo of so many other afternoons. A movie played on Beatrice’s laptop, but neither saw it. They were just holding hands on the bed, fingers laced tightly, as if the pressure could fuse them together.

Ava paused the movie and closed the laptop lid. She took a deep, shuddering breath, steeling herself.

“Bea… I love you.”

Beatrice’s breath hitched. It was the first time Ava had said it back since Beatrice’s own desperate confession a few days ago, in the midst of shattering grief. The words were a gift and a blade, all at once.

“And because I love you…”, Ava continued, forcing her gaze to meet Beatrice’s, “I want what’s best for you. I know you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. There’s a super slim chance anyone’s gonna compare.” She tried for a smile. It was a wobbly, heartbreaking thing.

Beatrice listened, her heart sinking with every word, already knowing the destination.

“But we have to be realistic. We’re seventeen. A long-distance relationship… it’s not something I can offer. Not now. Not while I’m still just… getting used to the fact that my parents are gone.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed on. “I can’t be your supporting girlfriend across an ocean. I can’t even support myself right now.”

“You don’t have to be anything for me.” Beatrice cut in, her own voice thick. She squeezed Ava’s hand. “I don’t need you to be anything. I just need you.” Beatrice didn’t care, how toxic she’d just sounded, it was her truth.

Ava gently pulled her hand free and pressed her fingertips to Beatrice’s lips, a soft, silencing touch. “Let me finish.” Her eyes were glistening, but resolute. “I can’t be over there, in a new country with practically a stranger, thinking about you every second. I need to… move on. And you need to move on. For the sake of both of us.” She took another sharp breath. “Tomorrow, when I leave… it will be the last time you see me. I won’t text. And while you’re free to… to rip open my heart, I would encourage you not to text me either. I’ll let the others know, when I land. They’ll give you updates. But we… we need distance. For the first few weeks, at least.”

The finality of it was chilling. Beatrice looked at her girlfriend, at the fierce, terrible love in Ava’s eyes that was choosing this brutal, surgical cut, and knew, she couldn’t fight it. Fighting would be selfish. Ava was carving out a chance to survive her own life, and she was asking Beatrice to let her.

Beatrice nodded slowly, the movement costing her everything. She didn’t trust her voice. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Ava’s, closing her eyes, memorising the feel of her skin, the scent of her, the shaky rhythm of her breath. It wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a silent surrender to Ava’s terms, a heartbreaking agreement to disappear from each other’s lives, all in the name of a love that was too young to survive the weight of the world that had just fallen on them.

Chapter 2: Act II

Summary:

>> “It feels like I’m sixteen all over again.” <<

The silence was a living thing.

It wasn’t the quiet of an empty house- Beatrice’s aunt’s Austrian chalet was never truly quiet, with its groaning timbers and the distant rush of a mountain stream. This was a silence that lived in her pocket, in the hollow of her chest. It was the absence of a vibration, a notification, a name lighting up her screen.

It had been two weeks since she’d left. Two weeks since Beatrice had watched Ava, pale and hollow-eyed, walk through security without looking back. The memory was a physical ache, a twist behind her ribs every time she breathed.

Beatrice had tried. She’d thrown herself into books, into long, punishing hikes that left her muscles screaming. She’d catalogued her aunt’s library, organised the spice rack, anything to outrun the quiet. But the quiet was inside her.

It found her at 2:17 AM on a Wednesday, in the dark of her room. The grief and the loneliness, held at bay by sheer force of will all day, rose up like a tide and swallowed her whole.

She was seventeen. The person she loved was gone. The person she was with that person was gone.

Her phone was a cold, smooth rectangle in her hand. Before thought could catch up with the wave of feeling, her thumbs were moving.

I love you.

She pressed send.

The three words appeared in the bubble, a naked confession in the blue light. For three seconds, there was only the hammering of her own heart.

Then, the terror hit.

She asked for distance. She asked for space. You promised her space.

The panic was immediate, visceral, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin. What had she done? She’d broken the one rule, violated the only request Ava had made in her devastation. It was selfish. It was cruel. It was the act of someone who couldn’t bear the silence, who was forcing her noise into Ava’s grief.

What if Ava saw it? What if it hurt her more? What if she replied with anger, or worse, with pity?

What if she didn’t reply at all?

The latter possibility was what made her act. The thought of that message hanging there, read and ignored, a monument to her own weakness… it was unbearable.

Her fingers flew over the screen, clumsy with fear. She didn’t go to the message. She went straight to Ava’s contact. Her thumb hovered over the name -Ava Silva- that had been her secret solace for so long.

She pressed Block Contact.

A confirmation prompt appeared. ‘You will not receive messages, FaceTime, or phone calls from this contact.’

She pressed Block.

She threw the phone onto the bedside table, as if it had burned her. It clattered against the wood. In the sudden, deeper quiet, she drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She didn’t cry. She just stared into the dark, the ghost of the screen burned onto her retinas, the words I love you now a permanent, silent scream in the vault of her own mind.


*




Beatrice did not break. She crystallised.

She returned to school for her final year as a force of focused intent. She was a blade, sharpened by loss. She took on a double course load, acing Advanced Physics and Latin Literature with the same detached perfection. She captained the fencing team to a national championship, her bouts becoming clinics in ruthless efficiency, her celebratory smile a brief, polite press of lips. The rumour mill, which had once churned with speculation about her and Ava, found no purchase.

She was a monolith.

She attended no parties. She declined invitations to cafés in town. Her social circle shrank to a precise, functional point: her study group, her teammates, Camila, Yasmine and, increasingly, Lilith.

Lilith, with her dry wit and disinterest in emotional spectacle, was the only one who didn’t try to pierce the armour. She didn’t offer sympathy or ask prying questions. She simply was. They studied in near-perfect silence in the library, their focus a shared language. A mutual, unspoken respect solidified into the closest thing Beatrice had to a friendship- a partnership based on competence and a shared understanding that some things were best left unexamined.

It was during one of these silent study sessions, the spring of their final year, that Lilith finally breached the unbreachable topic. She didn’t look up from her economics textbook.

“Ava got into Brown. In Rhode Island. She starts in fall.”

Beatrice’s pen, moving in a steady line of annotations, did not falter. The name was a ghost in the room, a draft from a closed door.

Lilith waited a beat, then ventured, her tone carefully neutral, testing the perimeter. “I wasn’t sure if you… kept a line open. Or wanted one.”

Beatrice finished her sentence, placed the pen neatly parallel to her notebook, and looked up. Her expression was serene, wiped clean of any reaction. It was the face she wore for dissecting frogs in biology or discussing treaty clauses in history.

“Please pass on my congratulations to her.”, she said, her voice even, pleasant, and utterly final. “I’m sure, she’ll excel.”

She did not ask what Ava would study. She did not ask, how she was. She did not ask for the address, or the new phone number, or if Ava had ever asked about her. The door was not just closed; it was bricked over, plastered, and painted to match the wall.

She picked up her pen and returned to her work. The subject was closed.

Lilith watched her for a long moment, then gave a single, slight nod. She understood. There would be no more tests.

The history between Beatrice and Ava was, as far as Beatrice was concerned, archived. A completed, closed volume.

And Beatrice had already moved on to writing new, more rigorous texts.

*

Beatrice’s acceptance to Oxford was a foregone conclusion, a line item on a pre-ordained checklist. She chose Worcester College for its quieter quad, and immersed herself in History of Art, with a specialisation in architectural preservation. The ancient stones of the university became her new cloister. She learned to date mortar by its composition, to identify structural stress from the faintest crack in a keystone, to hear the whispers of centuries in the grain of water-damaged wood.

She was brilliant. Her tutors used words like “formidable”, “incisive”, and, once, in a moment of unguarded admiration, “frighteningly thorough”. Her thesis on the use of light as a structural metaphor in Gothic cathedrals won a prestigious award. She graduated with a double first, her future a straight, gleaming line toward a PhD and a curatorship at a major institution.

Her personal life was a series of elegantly managed experiments. There were lovers- intelligent, attractive women she met at lectures or through the university’s LGBTQ+ society. A post-grad from Magdalen who was an expert in Byzantine icons. A composer from the Royal Academy. Each was, for a time, fascinating.

But the pattern was immutable. By the third month, Beatrice would find the flaw. Not in them, but in the architecture of the relationship itself. The composer’s need for chaotic inspiration clashed with Beatrice’s need for order. The post-grad’s passion was too possessive, her curiosity about Beatrice’s past too probing. Beatrice’s excuses were always logical, impeccable: their life goals were misaligned; the timing was poor due to her research trip to Chartres; she needed to focus entirely on her dissertation.

The truth, which she never examined too closely, was simpler: no one made her feel reckless. No one disrupted her careful inner world. No one’s laughter echoed in quiet quads after they were gone. The silence they left was the same, as the silence before they arrived- manageable, clean.

She kept her friends like curated exhibits, each in their own wing of her life.


Camila, who had returned to Madrid to study aerospace engineering at Universidad Politécnica, was a source of relentless, warm noise from a distance. Their video calls were bursts of laughter. She sent Beatrice pictures of chaotic tapas bars, her abuela’s sprawling garden, and sunsets over the Guadarrama mountains. The gentle, un-ignorable probing about Beatrice’s lack of a “special someone” was always punctuated by a fond, exasperated, “Bea, por el amor de Dios, even a satellite needs to come down to earth sometimes.” She was Beatrice’s tether to a life that was vibrant, messy, and grounded in a place that held the ghost of a different, younger version of herself.

Yasmine -having attended a similarly prestigious school, as the rest- was at the Sorbonne studying political science. She was elegance and sharp insight. Their conversations were in rapid, fluid French, dissecting European policy over glasses of wine during Beatrice’s research trips to Paris. Yasmine never asked about Ava; her discretion was a weapon she wielded with grace.

And Lilith. Lilith, at the London School of Economics, was her true anchor. They had shared a cold, modern flat in Bloomsbury for two years, efficiently coexisting. They’d debated economic theory versus aesthetic value over takeaway, attended gallery openings with detached professionalism, and provided a silent, solid presence for each other during the strange limbo of early adulthood. Lilith was the only one who never asked about her love life, who understood that Beatrice’s work was not a distraction, but the central pillar.

Over five years, through degrees earned, careers launched, the group chat remained. Photos of Camila’s chaotic lab, Yasmine in front of the EU parliament, Lilith in a power suit, Beatrice silhouetted against the rose window of Notre Dame. The updates were full of achievements, filtered through the bright lens of their chosen personas. The past was a country they no longer visited.

Beatrice, at twenty-three, stood in the hall of the Ashmolean Museum, overseeing the delicate cleaning of a 14th-century alabaster statue. Her hands were steady in their white cotton gloves, her focus absolute. Her life was a masterpiece of preservation. Every element was catalogued, its significance understood, its deterioration carefully managed.

She was an expert at preventing cracks. 

She just never built anything new.

*




The FaceTime window was a triptych of their adulthood. Lilith, in her starkly elegant London apartment, glass of mineral water in hand. Beatrice, in her Oxford digs, surrounded by books and architectural prints. And Yasmine, glowing, the elegant stone arch of a French doorway visible behind her.

“The date is set.”, Yasmine announced, her smile wide enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. “May fifteenth. At a chalet, near Annecy. They have guest rooms. It’s perfect. You’re both coming. No professional excuses.”

Lilith gave a curt, definitive nod. “I’ll clear my calendar.”

Beatrice felt a genuine warmth spread through her chest. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

They fell into the pleasant logistics- travel, dates, the promise of a long weekend in the spring Alpine air. For a moment, it was just the three of them, friends charting a milestone.

Beatrice shook her head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping her. “I can’t believe you’re getting married. We’re so… young.”

Yasmine’s expression turned playfully smug. “Well, we can’t all be married to our dissertations, chérie. Arman and I… it just feels right. The time is right.”

“No.”, Beatrice said, her smile softening into something utterly sincere. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m happy for you. Truly.”

The conversation flowed for a few more minutes- details about the ceremony, the food, Yasmine’s mother’s inevitable interference. Then Yasmine’s face shifted. The bridal glow dimmed, replaced by a careful, solemn neutrality.

“Beatrice.”, she began, her voice lowering a fraction. “I know you probably… won’t care. But I wanted to tell you myself. I’ve invited Ava.”

The name.


It landed in the quiet of Beatrice’s room like a physical object. A book dropped from a high shelf. Six years of silence condensed into two syllables. Beatrice’s expression didn’t fracture -years of discipline held it in place- but everything inside her went very still.

She managed a slight, indifferent shrug, a masterpiece of nonchalance. “Of course. She’s also your friend. It’s your wedding.”

Yasmine drew a quick, fortifying breath, her eyes locked on Beatrice’s through the screen. “Yes. And… as it so happens, she’s in France right now. For work. So… she will be attending.”

The clarification was a second blow, turning a vague possibility into an imminent reality. 

In France. For work. Will be attending.

Beatrice held Yasmine’s gaze. She could feel Lilith’s silent, watchful presence in the other window. The air in her bedroom suddenly felt thin.

“I see.”, Beatrice said, her voice miraculously even, the same tone she used to correct a misattributed date on a slide. “Well. It will be good to see old friends.”

She said it, as if it were nothing. As if the mention of Ava Silva hadn’t just sent a seismic tremor through the perfectly preserved foundations of her present.

The wedding in the French Alps was no longer just a joyful obligation.

It had become a carefully plotted excavation site, and Beatrice had just been told what -or who- she would be digging up.

*


Beatrice stared out the small window in the plane. Beside her, Lilith scrolled through emails on her phone, the glow illuminating her sharp features.

Without looking up, Lilith broke the quiet. “Nervous?”

Beatrice turned from the window, a faint, professional smile touching her lips. “About the speech? Hardly. I’m perfectly capable of delivering a short, heartfelt anecdote about Yasmine. I speak in front of intimidating boards and stuffy academics rather often.”

Lilith finally glanced over, a slow, amused smile spreading. “No, Beatrice. I meant because you’ll be seeing Ava in approximately…”, she checked her watch, “Five hours.”

Beatrice smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her trousers. “Why on earth would I be nervous about that?”

“Oh, come on!”, Lilith said, her voice dropping to the low, dry register reserved for cutting through Beatrice’s bullshit. She locked her phone and set it aside. “It’s me.”

Beatrice met her gaze. Lilith’s eyes were knowing, patient, and utterly unforgiving of pretence. Beatrice held the look for a while, before sighing, the sound barely audible over the engine’s drone.

She looked back out the window.

“Look, I do not care to revisit the past. It’s… ancient history. Irrelevant.”

Lilith arched a single, elegant eyebrow. “Isn’t ancient history rather your entire professional specialty? You make a living of revisiting the past.”

Beatrice didn’t respond, pointedly still looking out the window, at the quilt of clouds.

“So what’s the plan, then? For this irrelevant piece of ancient history who will be standing across the champagne fountain from you?”, Lilith asked then.

“The plan… is civility. I will see her for a weekend. I will be polite, congratulate her on her life, and then it will be done. We are both adults. It’s a wedding, not a summit.”

“A summit might be easier.”, Lilith murmured, almost to herself, turning back to her phone. “They usually have prepared talking points and clear exit strategies.”

Beatrice stayed still. She just watched the endless white of the clouds, her reflection a pale, determined ghost superimposed on the void. Her plan was logical. Sound. It accounted for every variable except the one she refused to name: the six-year silence, and the girl who had been the cause of it, were no longer an abstract concept. They had a location, a time, and were now hurtling toward her at five hundred miles per hour.

*

The chalet was a vision of rustic elegance. Beatrice stood before the full-length mirror in her room, a final assessment. The red dress was simple, perfectly cut, and expensive in a way that whispered rather than shouted. A single pearl pendant rested at the hollow of her throat. Her makeup was light, just enough to accentuate the sharp line of her cheekbones and the depth of her eyes. She looked polished, untouchable, a woman in complete command of her surroundings.

She took one last, shuddering breath, held it, and released it slowly, willing the slight tremor in her hands to still. Then she turned and walked out into the corridor, her heels clicking a firm, deliberate rhythm on the wooden floor.



The dinner was set in a long, vaulted room, a fire crackling at one end. She was greeted warmly by Yasmine’s younger brother, who directed her to a seat midway down the long table, nestled between a cousin from Lyon and an uncle who bred Charolais cattle. She exchanged pleasant, practiced words with Yasmine’s mother, complimenting the breathtaking venue and the bride’s radiance. It was a familiar social dance, and Beatrice performed it flawlessly.

Spotting Camila waving enthusiastically from across the room, Beatrice felt a genuine surge of relief. She excused herself and made her way over, letting herself be pulled into Camila’s orbit of bright chatter about the Spanish space agency. For a few minutes, anchored by Camila’s familiar warmth, the coiled tension in her spine began to ease. She laughed at a joke, her smile feeling almost real.

They were deep in a debate about the aerodynamic properties of wedding confetti, when the air behind Beatrice changed.

It wasn’t a sound first. It was a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle current that raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

Then, the voice reached her.

It was the same, yet utterly transformed. The girlish cadence was gone, replaced by a lower, smoother timbre, rich with a confidence that hadn’t been there at seventeen. It held a faint, complex accent, with the polished finish of someone, who moved in professional circles. It cut through the ambient chatter and landed directly between Beatrice’s shoulder blades.

“Beatrice... at last…”

 

---

The air in São Paulo’s Guarulhos Airport was -for lack of a better word- wet. It was thick heat that soaked into the fabric of her t-shirt the moment the doors hissed open (even though it was winter in the southern hemisphere in July). Ava stood, adrift, clutching the handles of two impossibly heavy suitcases. They contained the hastily-packed sum of her old life.

The world had ended ten days ago.

A woman emerged from the throng- Ana. Her godmother. Not a stranger, but a face from faded holiday photos, now lined with a concern so profound, it looked like pain. She didn’t smile. She just walked up, her eyes drinking in Ava’s shattered stillness, and placed a firm, warm hand on her cheek.

“Você chegou.”, she said softly. You’re here.

No hug. Just the anchoring touch.

The car ride was a blur of unfamiliar vegetation. The house was not quiet, but its noises were foreign- the shriek of unfamiliar birds, the rapid-fire Portuguese of a radio host, the rhythmic noise of a neighbour’s laundry being beaten clean. Ana spoke to her in slow Portuguese. Ava responded in monosyllables, the language a clumsy shield.





*




Bea: I love you.

It broke Ava’s newly-shattered heart all over again. She stared at the words through a film of tears, a sob lodged in her throat.

She typed a frantic, jumbled reply, a plea for connection, only to see the message turn grey. Not delivered. She tried again. Same result. The devastating truth settled in: Beatrice had thrown her a lifeline and then instantly cut the rope, blocking her out.

The “I love you” became a ghost, haunting a sealed tomb.




*

The video call window was a pixelated square of normalcy. Camila’s face, full of gentle concern, glowed on Ava’s laptop in her São Paulo bedroom.

“So, the International School? Is it… okay?”, Camila asked.

“It’s fine.”, Ava said, the word flat. “Everyone’s just passing through.” She forced a thin smile. “How’s it over there?”

They exchanged brittle pleasantries, the chasm of the unsaid widening between them.

Finally, Ava’s eyes dropped. “How is she?”

Camila’s cheerful facade melted into pained sympathy. “How do you think, Ava?”

Ava flinched.

Camila leaned closer. “How are you, though? With… everything.”

Ava let out a short, humourless laugh. “I lost the three most important people in my life in a span of ten days. I’m fantastic, Cam.”

The silence was heavy. Ava stared at her clenched hands. “She blocked me.”, she whispered, the words raw. “I tried to reply. I tried to send my new number. Nothing gets through.” Her voice cracked.


On the screen, Camila’s expression softened with a painful understanding. “She’s doing exactly what you asked for, Ava.”


Camila’s words were a final, brutal verdict. Ava looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. That was the truth, wasn’t it? She had dictated the terms of their ending with the authority of someone who believed she was making the only choice possible. She had demanded a clean cut, no contact, a wall of silence to protect her shattered self.

And in that moment, Ava hated herself for it. A violent longing surged- to book a flight, to fall to her knees and beg Beatrice to take her back, to offer her everything. She would say yes to the impossible distance, yes to the pain, yes to anything. If it meant she could have Beatrice again, she would say yes. 

But the wall was built. The bridge was burned.


And she was after all, only seventeen.

*

Her sanctuary was the workshop. Ana’s husband, Tiago, was a luthier. A compact, silent man with hands that looked carved from the same wood he shaped. His workspace was a cathedral of quiet industry, filled with the amber glow of unfinished instruments and the fragrant ghosts of forests.

Ava didn’t ask to enter. She just appeared at the open doorway one afternoon, a silent shadow. Tiago glanced up from the guitar neck he was carving, his chisel pausing mid-curve. He didn’t tell her to come in. He didn’t tell her to go away. He gave a single, slow nod towards an empty stool in the corner.

She took it.

For days, then weeks, she sat. She watched the curl of wood shavings, as they fell from his plane like blonde confetti.

She learned the sounds: the crisp scrape of shaping, the soft whisper of sanding, the decisive tap of a joint being tested.

The air was steeped in the smells of linseed oil, shellac, and the earthy sweetness of aged mahogany.

He never asked. He never offered empty words. He simply let her presence be part of the workshop’s ecology. Her grief was a vast, silent thing, and in the face of it, his silent, creating hands were the only kind of conversation she could bear. He was rebuilding beautiful things out of broken pieces. She, encased in the numbness of shock, could only watch and try to remember what it felt like to be whole.

*


Ava received the call two weeks after her eighteenth birthday. She was in Tiago’s workshop, sanding the curved side of a guitar with a hypnotic, rhythmic motion that had become her meditation.

Her phone buzzed, an unknown number with a Canadian area code. She answered, her English feeling foreign and put the call on speaker.

“Miss Silva? Ava Silva?” A man’s voice, courteous, professional. “This is Robert Gagnon, from Gagnon, Lefebvre & Associates in Toronto. I was your parents’ counsel. First, let me extend my deepest condolences, again.”

Ava’s hand stilled on the sandpaper. “Thank you.”, she murmured, stiffly.

“The purpose of my call is to inform you that as of your eighteenth birthday, you are now the sole beneficiary of your parents’ primary estate. The probate process is complete. The funds have been transferred to the accounts designated in the will.”

He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. Ava said nothing. The scent of sawdust was suddenly overwhelming.

“The principal sum is 42.9 million Canadian dollars. This is separate from the educational trust your father established, which will cover all tuition, reasonable living expenses, and associated costs for your undergraduate and postgraduate studies. That trust is already active. The 42.9 million is… yours. To manage, as you see fit. There is also the family home in Toronto’s Bridle Path, which is now in your name. The property management company we engaged will continue its upkeep, pending your instructions.”

The number was overwhelming. Forty-two point nine million. It wasn’t a figure. It was a surreal, abstract concept, a string of digits that had no connection to the girl in jeans covered in wood dust, to the simple room in her godmother’s house, to the weight of the grief she carried.

“I understand this is a lot to process…”, the lawyer continued, his voice gentle. “We can arrange a video conference to go over everything in detail, discuss fiduciary advisors, wealth management…”

“Yeah.”, Ava interrupted, her voice distant. “Okay. Send me an email.”

She ended the call looked at her hands- the smudges of glue, the fine layer of pale cedar dust. She looked around at the modest workshop, at the rows of clamps and jars of nails, at the humble, beautiful things being made by hand.

Forty-two point nine million dollars. A mansion in one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in the world.

And all she felt was a deeper, more profound dislocation. The money was a monument to the life that was gone, a life of discreet wealth she’d never fully understood. It had nothing to do with her. It was a ghost inheritance.

She picked up the sandpaper again. The rough grit bit into her thumb. She resumed her rhythmic, back-and-forth motion on the guitar’s side. She would keep living simply, in São Paulo, with Ana and Tiago. The fortune was a sealed vault, a parallel universe. For now, the only thing that felt real was the wood taking shape under her hands.

*

Ava clutched the acceptance Letter to Brown like a talisman. “I got in.”, she said, the words feeling hollow, despite the achievement.

“Congratulations.” Lilith replied, her voice its usual dry flatline. “An Ivy League… look at you.”

“What about you?”

“LSE. I applied. Waiting to hear.” A beat of silence, filled only with the faint static of the connection. Lilith’s emotional radar, pinged. “What is it?”

“Has Beatrice... has she…”

“Asked about you? Mentioned you? No, Ava. Beatrice doesn’t talk about you with us. She took your directive and engraved it in stone.” Lilith watched the emotions flicker on Ava’s face, despite the grainy video call, “The decision for the ‘clean cut’ came from you.”

“Because I thought it would be easier!”, Ava’s voice broke, the frustration and grief of the last year boiling over.

“Is it easier?” Lilith’s question was a blade. “Because Beatrice has shut everyone out. We barely see her. I think… I think I’m her best friend. Me, Ava. And she’s all coursework and fencing and I don’t even think that girl eats anymore. She’s a ghost in a blazer. So, you tell me, was it easier?”

The image tore at Ava’s heart. A Beatrice reduced to a silent, self-punishing machine. “Do you know where she applied? For university?”

Lilith sighed, the sound crackling down the line. “A couple of Ivies. Oxford and Cambridge here.”

“Which Ivies?”, Ava pressed, a desperate hope flickering.

“Ava, no.”

“Just ask her.”, Ava pleaded, the words tumbling out. “Ask her if she’s planning on going to the US. The deadlines for some schools are still open. I don’t have to go to Brown, I could-”

“Ava.” Lilith’s voice cut through, sharp with finality. “Give her the same courtesy you demanded. Leave it in the past.”

The rebuke was deserved. Ava fell silent, the devastation clear on her face.

Lilith watched her, the stern set of her own jaw softening a fraction. She saw the shattered girl left in its aftermath, still clinging to shards of a broken world. She let out a long, slow breath.

“Fine…”, Lilith conceded, the word heavy with reluctance. “I will… ascertain her general geographic intentions for next year. But that is all. And if there is any possibility -any at all- that she might want to reconnect… would you want to know?”

Ava’s answer was immediate, a whisper. “Yes.”

“Even if the answer is no?”

Ava closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path on her cheek. “Even then.”

*

The air in the workshop was heavy with the scent of cedar and linseed oil. Ava packed her few tools into a cloth roll, her movements deliberate.

She looked at Tiago, who watched her from his workbench, his hands still. She thanked him, in the Portuguese that now came easily to her. She told him that his workshop, the rhythm of sanding and shaping, had saved her. That without the wood to anchor her hands, the grief would have swallowed her whole.

Tiago listened, then slowly wiped his hands on a rag. He finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. He told her she had a good hand. A steady, intuitive touch. That she felt the grain, understood the material’s spirit. She would have made a fine apprentice, he said. She could have taken over this place one day.

Ava’s eyes widened, surprised by the depth of the compliment, by the future he had quietly considered for her.

But then he shook his head, just once. A child like her was made for school. To learn real things. To be a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. Not a carpenter.

Ava just nodded, looking down at her hands- hands that had found a kind of peace in calluses and dust. She didn’t argue. The fortune in her bank account, the mansion in Toronto, the Ivy League acceptance letter in her bag- they were the “real things” the world had planned for her. The workshop, his approval, the simple truth of creation she’d found here… that was the beautiful, impossible dream. She finished tying the roll, the conversation settling into the quiet between them, another layer of dust on the sunlit floor.

*

Ava’s life at Brown was a study in polished, purposeful motion. She majored in Economics, finding a cold, clean logic in graphs and theories that offered no surprises. It was manageable. She rented a small, tasteful apartment off-campus, decorated with a few pieces she’d shipped from Tiago’s workshop- a sleek, modern bowl he’d helped her turn, a sanded slab of spalted maple as a coffee table. They were her anchors.

She saw Tiago and Ana, but on her new terms. She flew them to Providence for painfully quiet Thanksgivings, where Ana would fill the silence with cooking. She sent them on vacations -a cruise, a resort in Bahia- tickets arriving in their inbox with a note that it was non-negotiable. They went, always gracious, always slightly bewildered. 

When she once, tentatively, broached the subject of a gift, of buying them a new house or setting up a trust, Ana had simply taken her face in both hands. “Nós não queremos o dinheiro, minha filha. Nós te queremos.” We don’t want the money, my daughter. We want you. The love was unconditional, and it somehow made the fortune she carried feel more like a burden than a blessing.

The years stacked neatly. She graduated, slid seamlessly into a prestigious master’s program in Financial Engineering in Boston. She was formidable in her own right- sharp, intuitive with risk models, quietly ambitious.

She dated. There was a PhD candidate in poli-sci with a sharp mind and a kind smile. It lasted eight months. There was a woman, a sculptor, whose passion was thrilling and whose instability was exhausting. It lasted five.

Then came David. The one she moved to Boston for. He was, by every objective metric, perfect. Handsome in a clean-cut, reliable way. A rising star at a consulting firm. He remembered anniversaries, loved his mother, was supportive of her career, and found her “fascinatingly independent”. He was safe, and kind, and wanted to build a sensible, beautiful life.

And it was fine. It was more than fine; it was what she was supposed to want.

But in quiet moments -when he laughed a little too loudly at a party, when his touch felt practiced, rather than desperate, when he planned a future that looked like a spreadsheet- her mind would treacherously drift. Not to a person, but to a feeling. The feeling of cold locker room tiles against her back. The specific scent of vanilla and tobacco on a school uniform. The electric, world-narrowing intensity of a challenge in a dark hallway.

The way a single, clipped “Ava Silva” could sound like a secret and a revolution.

David was perfect. He just… didn’t measure up. Not to a person, but to a ghost. To the seismic, formative fault line of a first love that had ended with a tectonic, world-breaking shift. Compared to that, even perfection felt like a quiet, gilded cage. She ended it with a gentle, unshakeable finality he never understood, citing her focus on her thesis. She moved into a sleek, empty apartment in Back Bay, Boston, and the silence there felt more honest than his perfect, measured love ever had.

*



The disruption came as a slurred word over the phone. Ana’s voice, usually so steady, was frayed with panic. “Ele caiu. A boca dele está torta.” He fell. His mouth is crooked.

Tiago had had a stroke.

Ava was in the final, gruelling stretch of her master’s thesis in Boston. She hung up the phone, stared at the lines of econometric code blurring on her screen, and booked the next flight to São Paulo.

She did not abandon her degree. Instead, she brought it with her. Her life bifurcated with brutal efficiency. Her days were spent in the hushed, antiseptic light of the hospital room, then in the quiet chaos of the workshop, managing clients and supplies with a forced, calm authority. Her nights were spent at the small desk in her old bedroom, the glow of her laptop the only light, as she wrestled with her thesis on sovereign debt volatility. She wrote chapters between physiotherapy exercises, ran statistical models while waiting for pharmacy orders, defended her proposal via a shaky video call from Tiago’s quiet house while Ana cooked soup in the next room.

It was a feat of sheer, stubborn will. She finished it. The email confirming her Master of Science in Financial Engineering landed in her inbox one humid Tuesday morning. She read it standing in Tiago’s workshop. There was no ceremony, no cap and gown. Just the quiet ping of validation, and the immediate, pressing reality of Tiago’s next doctor’s appointment.

The degree was done. A checkmark on a list. And in that moment, holding the phone with the official confirmation, surrounded by the tangible reality of wood and struggle and love, she knew with absolute certainty she would never use it in the way they’d intended.

The abstract world of high finance held no pull. The concrete world of her family’s recovery demanded everything. She used her knowledge to restructure the workshop’s debts, to create a sustainable business model for Tiago’s art. Her thesis on financial fragility had been an academic exercise. Here, in São Paulo, she was applying its deepest lessons to the only institution that mattered to her now.

For three months, she lived in the small house again. She handled Tiago’s anxious clients with a calm she didn’t feel, reassuring them their instruments were safe. She paid every medical bill without a second thought, the vast, abstract fortune finally finding a purpose that felt real.

And in the quiet hours by his bedside, or while managing the workshop’s shambolic ledger, an idea began to form. It wasn’t a lightning bolt, but a slow, sure crystallisation.

She saw the chaos of his genius- the misplaced orders, the undervalued work, the inefficiency of a craftsperson who spoke only the language of wood, not of commerce. One afternoon, she showed him a simple spreadsheet, a projection for a line of limited-edition, signed instruments. His eyes, one still slightly drooping, widened at the vision.

“I’m not going back.”, she told him one evening, her Portuguese firm. “I want to do this with you.”

He started to protest, to talk about her future, about being a lawyer or a banker.

“This is my future.”, she said, gesturing to the workshop. “You taught me to feel the grain. Let me help you build the table it sits on.”

It was a partnership forged in crisis. Ava brought order, strategy, and a ruthless eye for value. She used her economics to sustainably price art. She found new suppliers, negotiated better terms, created a sleek website that showcased their work as the art it was. Tiago, his hands regaining their strength and surety under her watchful eye, remained the undisputed master of the craft. They became Silva & Co. Artesanal.

Their reputation grew, first across Brazil, then throughout South America. They became the secret whispered among musicians and collectors- the duo who combined timeless mastery with impeccable, modern reliability.

The offer that changed everything came via a beautifully formal email, written in slightly stilted Portuguese. It was from a Frenchman, a caretaker for a historic villa in the Loire Valley. The 18th-century wood stucco work in the grand salon was crumbling; it was a delicate, near-impossible restoration. He had heard of their work from a guitarist in Paris. Would they consider coming to France?

Ava’s first instinct was a hard no. She couldn’t leave Tiago. Not now.

She showed him the email. He read it slowly, his finger tracing the pictures of the intricate, damaged carvings- cherubs, vines, flowers frozen in wood.

He was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the photographs of the crumbled, exquisite carvings. Finally, he looked up at her, his eyes clear and insistent. He saw her immediate refusal, the protective wall she’d built around him and this place.

With a slow, deliberate gesture, he tapped a gnarled finger against the image of a damaged cherub. His meaning was unmistakable. She had come here, to this workshop, to sand away her own ruin. Now, he was telling her, she had to go out and use what she had rebuilt herself to preserve beauty in the world. This was their chance -her chance- to move from being a local secret to a global standard.

He saw the deeper fear flicker in her eyes, the one that had nothing to do with wood or clients, and everything to do with oceans separating them. He made a dismissive sound, a gruff assurance of his own resilience. He had Ana. He had his care. She would not be abandoning him; she would be extending their reach. He was not giving her permission to leave. He was charging her with a mission.

It was a master conferring a final, crucial task upon his most promising apprentice. The villa in France transformed from a job offer into a proving ground, a destiny.

And for the first time since she was seventeen, Ava felt like she had something to offer the world.

*

Ava smiled, as Yasmine approached her table in the café in Lyon, the two women embracing in a cloud of citrus perfume and expensive wool. They both sat and just smiled at each other for a while.

“Your hair.”, Yasmine said, pulling back to appraise her. “I love it. It suits you.”

Ava ran a self-conscious hand through her shorter hair. “Thanks. Less to get caught in a bandsaw.” She reached for Yasmine’s left hand, turning it to catch the light on the elegant diamond. “Arman is a good man.”, she said, a soft, approving whistle escaping her. “He did well.”

Yasmine beamed, then recited the wedding date for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Yes, I told you.”, Ava chuckled, squeezing her friend’s hand before releasing it. “I’ve cleared the weekend and the whole week after. I’ll be there. I promise.”

Yasmine’s smile faltered, replaced by a sudden, solemn intensity. She leaned forward. “You can’t back down now, Ava. Promise me.”

Ava’s intuition, knew instantly. The pleasant warmth of the coffee turned to acid in her stomach. “Beatrice will be there.”

It wasn’t a question. Yasmine simply held her gaze, nodding, confirming it.

Ava drew in a slow breath. The first wave was a familiar, bitter curdling. “Wow. I thought she’d be buried in some Oxford library, executing her ten-year plan. Lilith makes it sound like she’s scheduling bathroom breaks in her thesis timetable. Didn’t think she’d actually halt the master plan for a wedding.”

Yasmine’s look was pointed, wordlessly urging her past the sarcasm.

“I will be there.”, Ava assured her, forcing her shoulders to relax, her voice to smooth into something more composed. She took a deliberate sip of her coffee. “It’s fine. Also, it’s like… ancient history, right?”

Yasmine’s expression remained apprehensive. She gave a slight, noncommittal shrug. “She has said something similar.”

The words landed with a quiet thud. She has said something similar. Ava’s composure flickered. “She knows, I’m coming?”

“Of course.”, Yasmine said, a small, diplomatic smile on her lips. “I warned you both. No ambushes.”

Ava nodded, looking down into the dark swirl of her cup. The information settled, a new, unpredictable variable in an already emotionally fraught equation.

“I promise…”, she said again, her voice quieter, more sincere this time. “The weekend is going to be just about you.” She meant it.

*

The pre-wedding dinner hummed with the warm, anticipatory buzz of old friends and family. Ava hovered in the arched doorway of the rustic-chic dining room, her gaze sweeping the crowd. And there she saw her. Instantly.

Beatrice was turned away, speaking with Camila. The sight was a physical jolt. Ava had cut her hair short, practical, modern. Beatrice’s in contrast was now a cascade of long, wavy and tamed chestnut, with subtle highlights that caught the candlelight, yet falling with a deliberate, unruly grace Ava didn’t remember. It was different. Softer, yet somehow more formidable.

Yasmine’s brother guided her to her seat, a blessedly distant corner. She sat, a silent observer, gathering the shattered pieces of her composure. She watched Beatrice’s elegant gestures, the line of her spine, the way she nodded, as Camila spoke. She watched for what felt like an eternity, until the noise of the party faded to a distant roar in her ears, and the only path forward was through the eye of this particular storm.

She stood. Her legs carried her across the room, past laughing groups, the sound of her own heartbeat a deafening drum in her ears. She stopped, just behind Beatrice’s left shoulder.


Then, the scent hit her. Vanilla and tobacco. That exact, expensive, deeply personal composition. Six years. Six years, and she hadn’t changed it. The familiarity of it was a sucker punch to the solar plexus, unlocking a vault of memory with a fragrance. Camila’s eyes found hers over Beatrice’s shoulder and widened, a silent oh.

Ava drew one more breath, filled with the scent of her past.

“Beatrice... at last…”

Her voice was lower than she intended, smoothed by time and a confidence she’d carved out for herself, but it held an echo of the old challenge.

Beatrice turned.

Slowly. So slowly.

And Ava’s carefully reconstructed world tilted off its axis.

The girl was gone. In her place was a woman of breathtaking, sharp-edged beauty. The soft roundness of her face had been refined into elegant, pronounced cheekbones and a defined jaw. Her eyes, the same dark, intelligent pools, held a new depth, a gravity that hadn’t been there at seventeen. She was wearing a simple, devastatingly cut dress, and she looked like she’d stepped out of a portrait from the Renaissance- regal, untouchable, and utterly real.

Time fell away. The six years of silence, the separate lives, the fortune, the degrees- none of it mattered in the face of this tangible reality. 



And Ava, Ava was seventeen all over again.

Beatrice’s lips curved into a perfect, polite smile. “Ava. It is so very good to see you.”

The warmth of the greeting, the utter composure, left Ava momentarily unbalanced. She’d braced for ice, for a clipped nod, for anything but this seamless social grace. Before the silence could stretch into awkwardness, Ava leaned in. She pressed a swift, firm kiss to Beatrice’s cheek, her lips brushing skin that was as soft as she remembered. The whisper was for her alone, a breath against her ear.

“You look stunning.”

Ava felt the minute jolt that went through Beatrice, saw the rapid flutter of her dark lashes, as she blinked.

The compliment was too direct, too intimate, bypassing all the unspoken rules Beatrice had just established. It left her, for a glorious second, speechless.

Then Ava was turning away, moving into Camila’s open arms with a bright, easy laugh. They hugged tightly, a burst of genuine noise and affection that highlighted the charged quiet Ava had just left behind.

“Please excuse me.”, Beatrice murmured, her voice regaining its even tone, as she retreated toward the long table to find her seat.

Lilith slipped into the chair opposite her a moment later. “Where the hell were you?”, Beatrice hissed, the perfect mask cracking for a fraction of a second.

“Wardrobe malfunction. A button versus a buttonhole. It was a dramatic standoff.” Lilith’s dry reply did nothing to soothe her.

It was then Beatrice felt it- a specific, unwavering pressure. A gaze. She turned her head slowly to the left.

Ava was looking directly at her from across the room. Not a glancing look, but a steady, considering appraisal. It was Beatrice’s turn to truly see. The shorter haircut that highlighted the elegant line of her neck and made her hazel eyes seem larger, more knowing. Her skin was kissed by a warmer sun than Oxford ever offered, a healthy tan that spoke of a different life. She looked both younger and more assured, a paradox that was entirely, infuriatingly Ava.

Someone announced that dinner would be served shortly. As people began to move toward their seats, Ava started across the room. Her path took her directly behind Beatrice’s chair. She didn’t touch her. She didn’t slow. But she passed close enough that Beatrice could feel the displacement of air, could catch another faint trace of citrus and bergamot- a new scent, entirely Ava’s own. It was a deliberate move, a phantom touch designed to irk. To deny Beatrice the control of seeing her approach, of meeting her eyes again.

To remind her that some things, even after six years, remained fundamentally, thrillingly unpredictable.

The gentle ting of a knife against a crystal flute cut through the hum of conversation. All eyes turned to where Beatrice had risen.

She began to speak, and the language was French, obviously- fluent, melodic, and perfectly accented. She spoke of Yasmine’s grace under pressure, recalling a specific weekend in Geneva, where Yasmine, then just twenty, had effortlessly smoothed over a diplomatic faux pas that had left seasoned aides flustered. “She negotiated peace between quarrelling dignitaries and secured the last bottle of Sancerre at the hotel bar.”, Beatrice said, her lips curving into a genuine smile. “A true dual victory.”

Ava watched, utterly charmed.

This was Beatrice, and yet it was a Beatrice she had never seen. The girl she’d known carried her elegance like armour, a stiff, impeccable uniform against the world. This woman wore it as a second skin. There was a relaxed authority in the set of her shoulders, a gentle sway in her stance, as she gestured. The sharp intellect was there, but it was softened by a warm, affectionate humour directed at their friend. The rigidity had melted into a breathtaking poise.

It was the perfect, heartbreaking equilibrium. Here was the familiar, fierce brilliance, the unmistakable core of her Beatrice. But it was fused seamlessly with the confidence of a woman who had shed all uncertainty, who moved through the world knowing exactly her place in it, and owning that space with quiet, undeniable grace.

The girl had been a promise. This woman was the fulfilment. And as Beatrice raised her glass, her eyes sparkling, as she met Yasmine’s touched gaze, Ava felt a profound, aching sense of loss for the years that had shaped her, and a terrifying, overwhelming pull toward the stunning reality she had become.







The dinner was winding down, a comfortable murmur replacing the earlier lively chatter. Ava spotted her, a solitary figure at the now mostly empty long table. Beatrice was typing furiously into her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration. The seats on either side of her were vacant; Lilith across from her had vanished, likely for a strategic breather outside.

Ava hesitated for only a second, a lifetime of caution overridden by a more powerful, reckless current. She slid into the chair directly next to Beatrice.

“Hi, again.”

Beatrice didn’t look up. Her fingers continued their rapid dance across the screen for a few more seconds, finishing a thought. She finally glanced over, her gaze cool and assessing, before returning to her phone to type a final line. She hit send with a decisive tap and slipped the phone into her small clutch. Only then did she turn fully to face Ava, her expression a mask of polite inquiry.

“Look, I’m not going to make a scene.”, Beatrice said, her voice low and even. “I promised Yasmine, I would be civil. I hold no grudge. I hold no anger.” It was a statement of policy, clean and absolute.

Ava was transfixed by the directness, by the sheer, polished wall of it. “No grudge.”, she echoed softly. She leaned back slightly, studying the woman before her. “How have you been?”

“I’m in grad school and doing really well on my research. Oxford has been-”

“No.”, Ava interrupted, “You. How have you been?”

The question seemed to be too broad, too personal. Beatrice averted her gaze to the table cloth. She shook her head slightly, as if dismissing a frivolous line of inquiry. “Fine.”  The word was a full stop. She shifted the focus like redirecting a misplaced beam of light. “How have you been, Ava?”

There was a beat of silence.

Ava gave her own short, deflective answer. “Busy. Building a business.” 

The encounter was less satisfying than Ava’d hoped for. This wasn’t the fiery, passionate Beatrice she remembered. This was an empty, polite shell, a diplomat at a summit. Ava would have preferred to have her head bitten off than to be faced with this impeccable, untouchable stranger.

“Beatrice…”, Ava’s voice dropped, losing its casual edge. She scooted her chair a fraction closer, the wood scraping softly on the stone floor. Her eyes held a plea, raw and open, and for a fleeting second, it seemed to fracture the resolve.

Beatrice met her gaze. She didn’t speak, but she allowed the mask to slip, just enough. Ava saw it- a flash of profound, ancient hurt, deep and sharp, swimming in the depths of her eyes, before it was ruthlessly submerged again.

In that same vulnerable moment, Yasmine’s mother swept over, a whirl of silk and maternal efficiency. She hooked her arm through Beatrice’s, chattering in rapid, affectionate French about a cousin Beatrice simply had to meet, and deftly pulled her from the chair and away from the table.

Beatrice went without protest, throwing a final, unreadable glance over her shoulder, as she was guided into the crowd.

Ava was left alone, the ghost of that wounded look seared into her mind. She let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. The polished shell was a lie.

 

True to her nature -persistent, unable to leave a charged silence hanging- Ava went looking. She found her outside, on a stone terrace that overlooked the dark, rolling shapes of the vineyards. Some other wedding guests were scattered there, smoking. Beatrice stood perfectly still, in a secluded corner, a silhouette against the night sky, her hands resting on the cool balustrade. She seemed carved from the same ancient stone, a part of the quiet landscape.

Ava walked up and stood beside her, not too close. For a long moment, they just listened to the crickets and the distant murmur of the party inside.

Then Ava spoke, “It feels like I’m sixteen all over again.”

The words were pure nostalgia, a surrender to the memory of countless other nights where she’d sought out Beatrice’s solitary presence, drawn like a moth to a quiet, compelling flame. It was an admission of regression, of the helpless pull this woman still had on her, even after all the years and all the hurt.

Beatrice regarded her for a long moment, then sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet dark. “If you are trying to get some sort of closure from me, Ava, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Ava turned fully toward her, the movement decisive. “I’m not.”

Beatrice contemplated this, her profile sharp against the night. “Good.”

“Good.” The word curdled in Ava’s mouth, and a spark of anger, hot and familiar, flared to life. “Actually, no. This is childish. This is exactly why it feels like I’m sixteen again. We’re adults, or supposedly adults. You can’t even look me in the eye and hold a real conversation with me?”

Beatrice scoffed, a short, sharp sound. “What do you want me to say?”, she challenged, finally turning to face her, the moonlight catching the fire in her eyes. “Ava, what do you want me to say to you?”

Ava swallowed, the anger dissipating into a raw ache. “I fucked up. Back then. I fucked up. And I spent a long time regretting it- but I can’t change it now. I just want you to know, I always wanted what was best for you. I never wished you ill.”

Beatrice’s eyes instantly glazed over with unshed tears, the hurt she’d locked away for years threatening to spill over. “I never wished you ill either, Ava. But I can’t- don’t you understand?” Her voice broke, all her polished guards crumbling at once. “It’s unbearable for me to even be in the same room with you. Can’t you see?”

Ava’s instinct was to reach out, to gather her in her arms and make the pain disappear, but she held herself still.

Beatrice continued, the hurt spilling out, just like her tears, “And I can’t even be angry at you. Because I understand, just like seventeen-year-old me understood. You’d just lost your parents, and it was horrible. All of it was horrible. But I had to lock away my own grief so you could survive. And you survived… because a part of me died.”

Ava stepped forward, closing the small distance between them, her voice a whisper. “I died as well. There was so much death and loss around me that I might as well have been dead.”

The words landed differently this time. Beatrice didn’t just hear the pain; she truly saw Ava. Not the polished woman before her now, but the ghost of the seventeen-year-old girl she’d been. A child, orphaned in an instant, ripped from the life she knew, shipped across an ocean to live with strangers, carrying a weight no one should have to bear. That girl had been drowning, surrounded by a void, where her family, her home, her future should have been.

In that moment, looking at the woman Ava had become, Beatrice forgave the girl she had been. 

The tight, ancient knot of resentment in her chest loosened, dissolved by a wave of aching compassion.

Beatrice nodded, a single tear escaping again, before she wiped her face with a swift, elegant gesture. “I’m sorry.”, she said, her voice regaining a shred of composure, but now laced with a new, profound gentleness. “For… losing my temper.”

Ava smiled, a sad, tender curve of her lips, and shook her head. “Don’t ever be sorry for that.” Her voice was soft, full of a truth she hadn’t meant to voice. “That’s the person I love.”

Both women froze, their eyes locked, equally shocked by the admission Ava had just let slip.

Beatrice’s expression tightened into one of profound pain. She inhaled a sharp, steadying breath, visibly choosing to sidestep the declaration. “It was wonderful to see you again, Ava.”, she said, her voice regaining its polished sheen, “And I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding.” She gave Ava’s hand a quick squeeze and tried to step past her.

But Ava’s fingers tightened, holding her fast. She anchored her there. Her voice dropped to a whisper, meant for Beatrice alone. “I haven’t forgotten about you... you were my first love. And I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Beatrice turned back, her eyes flashing with a hurt so old, it had crystallised. “That’s funny.”, she said, her voice low and brittle, “Because all I remember is that you were my first heartache.”

The shared gaze was electric, a current of six years of longing, anger, and unspeakable loss between them.

Beatrice’s eyes scanned Ava’s face, searching, and for a moment, her resolve fractured completely. Her voice, when it came, was a raw, betraying whisper, stripped of all pretence.

“What room are you staying in?”

Ava’s breath caught. “108.”

Beatrice didn’t nod. She didn’t acknowledge the answer. She just pulled her hand free from Ava’s grasp, turned, and walked away back into the commotion.

Ava paced the soft carpet of her room, the silence of the chalet pressing in on her. What room are you staying in? The question looped in her mind. Was it a threat? A promise? Was Beatrice coming to finally, truly scream at her? To lay out, in forensic detail, every way Ava had ruined her life? Ava braced for a confrontation, for the icy wrath she’d seen glimpses of all evening.

She mechanically went through her bedtime routine- brushing her teeth, washing her face, the cool water doing nothing to calm the feverish anticipation under her skin. She had changed out of her elegant jumpsuit into soft, conservative pyjamas: a long-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, a feeble shield against whatever was coming.

Then she waited. Minutes stretched like hours. She almost convinced herself it had been a cruel parting shot, meant to unsettle her.

The knock, when it came, was firm. Two precise raps.

Ava crossed the room, her heart frantically beating. She opened the door.

Beatrice stood there, still in her dress, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she stepped inside, forcing Ava to step back. She was even taller than Ava with her heels on. She turned, engaged the deadbolt, sealing them in. Then she turned to face Ava, the full force of her gaze finally unleashed in the private quiet.

“I hate you.”, Beatrice whispered, the words venomous and raw. “I hate you for making me feel this way.”

Ava looked at her, utterly helpless. “Feel what way?”

Instead of answering, Beatrice closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It was nothing like Ava remembered. There was no tentative sweetness, no exploratory gentleness. This was a kiss of pure, distilled fury- sharp, demanding, almost punishing. It was an accusation.

Beatrice pulled back as abruptly as she’d begun, a hand flying up to press trembling fingertips to her own temple, as if the contact had caused her physical pain. Her eyes were screwed shut.

Ava just stared, dumbfounded. She’d braced for a verbal evisceration, perhaps even a slap. She had not braced for this.

Then Beatrice kissed her again, a brief, desperate press of lips before breaking away, her breath coming in short gasps. “Do you have a partner?” The question was clipped, practical, slicing through the emotional chaos.

Ava could only shake her head, mute.

Beatrice nodded, as if this was the final piece of data she needed. She stepped out of her heels. Then she was on her again, kissing her with a frantic, consuming intensity.

This time, Ava moved from passive shock to active response. A surge of her own long-buried want broke through the dam. She kissed back, meeting Beatrice’s fury with a fervent answer. Her hands, which had hung uselessly at her sides, cradled Beatrice’s face, then slid to the intricate fastening at the back of her dress. Her fingers fumbling, her movements clumsy with urgency, as she began to guide them both backward toward the bed.

“I hate you.”, Beatrice gasped again, as they stumbled, the words shuddering through her. It didn’t sound like a warning anymore. It sounded like a plea, a broken confession.

Ava kissed her, deep and slow, trying to pour every ounce of her own regret and longing into it. She pulled back just enough to meet Beatrice’s glassy, tormented eyes. “I know.”, she breathed, the words a soft surrender. She kissed her again, a benediction. “I know.”

Sleeping with adult Ava was different. She was sure of her touch, confident in a way the fumbling, eager girl had never been. Even after six years, her hands seemed to remember the map of Beatrice’s body, reading a slight tension here, a soft gasp there, as if they’d never been separated. At one point, Ava bent and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to a small, familiar mole on Beatrice’s left ribcage.

Beatrice watched her, her short hair thoroughly mussed from Beatrice’s desperate, anchoring grips. As Ava leaned over to kiss her lips again, Beatrice’s hand came up, to close gently around her jaw, turning her face away. It wasn’t a rejection of the act, but of the intimacy that threatened to follow. Ava fell back beside her, trying to hide the sting. The entire encounter had been charged, frantic, and beneath it all, strangely mournful- like a final, angry purging, before a permanent goodbye. Except the goodbye wasn’t now. The wedding was tomorrow. They were trapped here for at least thirty-six more hours.

The silence in the dim room grew heavy. Ava finally broke it, her voice quiet. “Do you want to talk about this?”

Beatrice stared at the ceiling. “What’s there to talk about?”

Ava scoffed, turning on her side to face her. “Beatrice, we just had sex. I just want to know-”

“My God, get over it.”, Beatrice cut in, her voice flat. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her underwear from the floor. “It was a moment of weakness for me.”

Ava sat up too, mirroring her posture, the sheet pooling around her waist. “What, so I was just some random fuck for you?”

Beatrice turned her head, “Yes.”

The word was a slap. Ava didn’t try to hide the hurt that flashed across her face this time. “Beatrice-”

“Don’t ‘Beatrice’ me.”, she snapped, standing and pulling on her ruined underwear with efficient, angry motions. “I apologise for my mistake. I thought-”

“What?”, Ava demanded, her own temper rising to meet the chill. “What did you think? That you still held that power over me? That I’d still just do whatever the fuck you wanted?”

Beatrice turned fully then, still just in her underwear, a devilish, bitter smile twisting her lips. “Go on then. Say what you really want to say.”

“You tell me, what to think, Beatrice!”, Ava shot back, pushing herself up to kneel on the bed, the sheet falling away. “You see me after six years, can’t even be bothered to talk about things that matter with me, but you can get into bed with me? Did you just do that to make yourself feel better?”

The smile on Beatrice’s face faltered, replaced by a flicker of something more honest- frustration, shame. “If it helps, it didn’t make me feel better.”, she said, her voice losing some of its icy edge, betraying a tremor.

“Why did you do it then? Closure? Revenge? A test?”, Ava demanded, her voice cracking with frustration.

Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “Why did you?”

The question, thrown back with such sharpness, made Ava blink. The righteous anger deflated, leaving a hollow confusion. “I… I don’t know.” The truth was that yes, Beatrice still had that kind of power over her. But she couldn’t admit that to her now.

“Well…”, Beatrice said, her shoulders lifting in a defeated shrug, as she turned to find her dress, “I don’t know either. There you have it.”

But the truth was a scream in her silent mind: she saw Ava and every defence she’d spent six years building just crumbled. She’d tried to forget everything, and all she did was remember it in perfect, painful detail. And she hated that she remembered. She hated that her ex from six years ago -who was a teenage fling, really- could waltz into her life, and unravel her, when she was a goddamn PhD candidate who should be worrying about mortar samples and stratigraphic dating.


She couldn’t say that. The vulnerability was too vast. So she went for the half-truth, the clinical explanation, as she stepped into her dress, her back to Ava. “I thought if I could just… prove, you were just a memory. A teenage fantasy. Then I could lock you away properly this time. For good.”

Ava sat back on her heels on the bed, watching the other woman get dressed with a mix of hurt and defiance. “And? Did it work? Did you fuck me out of your system?”

Beatrice’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. She closed her eyes, the answer so visceral and obvious, it was a physical ache. No. It did the opposite. You’re under my skin more than ever.

“I need to get back to my room.”, Beatrice said instead, her voice carefully neutral again, as she finished fastening the dress. She found her heels. “I need to be up early. I promised to help Lilith with the floral arrangements. You should get some sleep.”

She was fully dressed now, a composed stranger once more, standing in the wreckage of their intimacy. Ava remained naked on the bed, a contrast to Beatrice’s hurried retreat to propriety.

Beatrice walked to the door, her hand on the deadbolt. She paused, but didn’t look back.

“I will see you at the wedding… good night, Ava.”

She unlocked the door, slipped out, and closed it softly behind her.

The room was suddenly, profoundly empty.

Ava flopped back onto the mattress, her head hitting the pillow and it engulfed her immediately- the scent. Not the clean linen, not her own citrus shampoo, but her. Vanilla and tobacco. Beatrice’s perfume, woven into the cotton from where her hair had been, clinging to the sheets from where their bodies had been. The entire bed smelled of her. It was an inescapable, intimate haunting.

Ava groaned, a long, frustrated sound muffled by the pillow. She dragged another pillow over her face, trying to block it out, but it was useless. It was everywhere. She was lying in the ghost of Beatrice, and the ghost was laughing at her. Or crying. She couldn’t tell anymore. All she knew was that sleep was now an impossibility, and the next thirty-six hours stretched before her like a minefield scented with expensive regret.

*




The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear. Beatrice stood like a statue amidst the controlled chaos of the chalet’s main room, holding a bundle of white peonies with a grip so tight, one may have worried about the stems breaking. Her face was a perfect, serene mask.

Lilith materialised beside her. She took in Beatrice’s rigid posture, the slightly hollow look in her eyes that no amount of expertly applied concealer could fully hide.

“Everything alright?” Lilith asked, her voice low.

“Perfectly!”, Beatrice replied, her tone clipped and final. She began arranging the peonies in a crystal vase.

Lilith watched her for a moment, the silence between them heavy with understanding. “Is this about seeing Ava last night?”

The question was a jolt of pure ice water. Beatrice’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with a flash of genuine alarm. “What about her last night?” The words came out too fast, too sharp. Had Ava said something? Told Camila? Told Yasmine?

Lilith’s eyebrow arched, a silent commentary on the overreaction. She kept her voice mild, almost bored. “Well… you saw each other. After six years of radio silence. It’s a significant emotional event. I assumed that was the source of the…” She gestured vaguely at Beatrice’s entire being. “Unusual tension.”

The realisation that Lilith meant the dinner, not what happened after, washed over Beatrice, leaving a cold sweat in its wake. She had almost given herself away. She forced her shoulders to relax, adopting a more contemplative frown.

“Right. Yes.”, she said, her voice forcibly smoothing out. She turned back to the flowers, her movements slower now. “That… left me a bit unmoored. It’s strange...”

Lilith made a soft, noncommittal sound, picking up a spool of silk ribbon. She began winding it, her gaze never leaving Beatrice’s profile. “You don’t say…”, she murmured, the words loaded with skepticism.

Ava’s approach was silent- a warm hand settled on Beatrice’s shoulder, and she startled, turning to find her ex-girlfriend right there, a little too close, a knowing glint in her hazel eyes.

Before Beatrice could form a protest, Ava leaned in and placed a swift, firm kiss on her cheek. “How are the flowers coming along? Need any help?”

The casual intimacy of the gesture, performed so openly under Lilith’s watchful gaze, made Beatrice freeze. She blinked rapidly, her cheeks flushing.

Lilith observed the whole exchange, her expression unreadable. “Sure, Silva.”, she said, placing her ribbon down. “You can take over for me. I’ll fetch more supplies from the cellar.” She vanished with a purposeful stride, leaving them alone in a cloud of peony-scented tension.

The second Lilith was gone, Beatrice rounded on her, keeping her voice a furious whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ava just picked up the spool of ribbon Lilith had abandoned, her face a picture of innocent helpfulness. “I wanted to help. It’s a big job.” She began winding the silk around a bouquet, her fingers brushing deliberately against Beatrice’s, as she reached for a stem.

Beatrice snatched her hand back, retreating to the opposite side of the large farmhouse table.

Ava didn’t seem to notice the retreat. Instead, she focused on the task, her movements becoming swift, efficient, and oddly graceful. The silk ribbon flowed under her fingers, forming a perfect, intricate knot around the stems in seconds, something that had taken Beatrice minutes of fumbling. She held up the finished bouquet with a slight, knowing smile.

“I’ve had some time to train my dexterity... I’m very good with my hands now.”, she said, her tone conversational.

Beatrice watched, a reluctant fascination warring with her irritation. The Ava she’d known was all chaotic energy. This precision, this quiet mastery, was new. Disarming.

Then Ava leaned forward slightly, just enough to bridge the space between them. Her voice dropped to a velvet whisper meant for Beatrice’s ears alone.

“But you would know that from last night.”



Beatrice froze. The words landed as a direct, visceral trigger.

Ava’s casual demonstration of skill, the confident flex of her fingers around the stems- it wasn’t just about flowers. It was a blatant, unspoken reminder. A replay. Beatrice’s mind, which had been fighting a losing battle for control all morning, was suddenly and completely flooded with the sensory memory of last night: those same hands, sure and demanding, mapping her skin, pulling her closer, touching her with a confidence that had left her breathless.

Heat, sharp and unwanted, bloomed low in her stomach. The polite chatter of the other wedding helpers in the room faded to a distant hum. All she could see was the faint, smug curve of Ava’s lips. All she could feel was the echo of that touch.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. Ava’s presence didn’t just distract her; it consumed her, leaving no room for thoughts of floral symmetry, wedding schedules, or her own meticulously guarded composure. There was only the memory of the proficiency of Ava Silva’s hands, now casually tying a perfect bow around a bundle of flowers, as if she owned the very air between them.

Beatrice couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. She just stared, her own hands going limp at her sides, utterly defeated by the overwhelming want that Ava had just effortlessly reignited with a single, whispered sentence.

Then Lilith reappeared, arms laden with more glass vases. “Ava, these are done. Could you start placing them around the ceremony arch? Space them evenly.”

“Of course.” Ava gave Beatrice one last, unreadable look, then gathered an armful of finished arrangements and walked away.

The moment she was out of earshot, Lilith turned. Her gaze was no longer dryly amused. It was piercing.

“You slept with her.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a cold conclusion. A deduction. An observation.

Beatrice made a choked, strangled sound in the back of her throat, the vase in her hand slipping. She fumbled to catch it, her face burning. She felt caught.

Lilith’s eyes widened in dawning horror. “Beatrice…”, she breathed, stepping closer. “Did you really sleep with her?”

“Shhh!”, Beatrice hissed, casting a frantic glance toward the ceremony arch. “Yes. But it was… it was a mistake. We’re trying to forget about it. It’s over.”

Lilith stared at her, then slowly looked over to where Ava was gracefully positioning a vase, her movements sure and calm. She looked back at Beatrice, who was practically vibrating with nervous energy, her cheeks still flushed.

“Beatrice.”, Lilith said, her voice dangerously quiet. “That…” She nodded toward Ava, then back at Beatrice’s disheveled state. “Does not look like ‘it’s over’. That looks like the preface to a very complicated sequel.”

“All done!”, Ava announced, brushing her hands together, as she walked back from the ceremony arch. She surveyed her work with a satisfied nod, then turned her attention to the two women by the table.

Beatrice looked from the perfectly spaced vases to Ava, and a too-bright smile stretched across her face. “Perfect! Thank you. I, um… I really need to go and get ready now. So…”

“Yes, me too.”, Ava said smoothly, falling into step beside her, as Beatrice tried to make her escape. “Big day. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Lilith, who had been watching the entire exchange with the focused intensity of a chess master, cleared her throat. The sound was not subtle. It was loud and pointed.

Beatrice stopped in her tracks, her shoulders tensing. She glanced back and gave a tiny, frantic shake of her head that was meant to convey it’s not what it looks like, which only made it look exactly like what it looked like, and then practically fled the room, the sound of Ava’s light, following footsteps a maddening addition to it all.

So, Lilith was right, after all.

Beatrice thought that, as she fell back against her pillows with a shuddering gasp, the word torn from her. “Fuck.” 

Ava, buried deep between her legs, paused. She didn’t pull back, but the rhythm stilled, replaced by a waiting, vibrating tension. She lifted her head just enough to be heard, her voice a dark, smoky command.

“Beg for it.”

Beatrice’s mind, already swimming in sensation, struggled to form a coherent thought. 

“For what?”, she managed, the question breathless.


“I want you to beg for it. Ask me to make you come.”



Beatrice’s eyes flew wide. She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking down the length of her own body to where Ava was fixed on her, a challenge blazing in her eyes.


“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Beatrice’s thoughts whirled. This was... different. A power play. Ava’s form of revenge for the cold dismissal of the night before. For the ‘random fuck’ comment. And while the part of Beatrice that still very much hated her, bristled at the demand, another part, a much louder, more urgent part, couldn’t deny the simple truth: Ava had become a fantastic lover in the last six years. The skill was undeniable, the focused attention maddeningly effective. It was pride against defeat. Pride against a desire. Pride against...

Ava moved then, sliding up her body with a predatory grace. She didn’t make the mistake of trying to kiss Beatrice again, just hovered above her, close enough that Beatrice could feel her heat. 

The air of cool, knowing superiority in Ava’s eyes, as she looked down was the final straw. It made the fury and the want combust into something irresistible.


What happened next felt like a brutal, beautiful echo of their fumbling first time. Beatrice’s hand shot out, her fingers closing around Ava’s wrist with a desperate strength. She guided Ava’s hand back down, pressing her palm firmly against the aching, soaked heat between her own legs.


“Make me come.”, Beatrice demanded, just as Ava had asked of her.

Ava’s smile was a flash of smug victory. “Please. Make me come, please. Where are your manners?”, she said, insistently.


But Beatrice’s patience, worn thin by the tension and the exquisite torture of the last several minutes, finally snapped. She didn’t say please. A low, frustrated groan was her only answer.

Ava rolled her eyes, a gesture so familiarly, infuriatingly Ava that it made Beatrice hate her even more. Then she was moving again, dipping her head, her mouth finding Beatrice’s breast. The flick of her tongue was sure, the pressure just right, her hand picked up its -exquisite- work between her legs.


Beatrice arched off the bed, a silent scream trapped in her throat. The logic was desperate, insane, but it crystallised in her overheating mind: she really, really needed to get Ava out of her system.

And to get something truly addictive out of your system... the only way was to overdose on it. To create such a surplus of the sensation, the memory, the person, that the very thought of them would become sickening.


It was a terrible plan. It was the only plan she had. And as Ava’s teeth grazed a pebbled nipple, sending lightning straight to her core, Beatrice decided to surrender to the overdose.

Beatrice lay on the bed, utterly spent. The scent of their coupling was heavy in the air. She stared at the ceiling, her mind a blissful, empty static.

Ava, already half dressed, moved efficiently. She pulled on her trousers, fastened her bra. “You should shower.”, she said, her voice practical, breaking the spell. “The ceremony starts in an hour.”

Beatrice just blinked slowly, not moving. The concept of time, of a wedding, of moving her limbs, felt absurd.

“I live in France now.”, Ava continued, filling the silence, as she sat on the edge of the bed to tie her shoes. “In Chalonnes-sur-Loire. For work. Will continue to do so for the next six months. Maybe longer.”

Beatrice hummed, a non-committal sound, her focus still on the fine crack in the plaster above her. The information was just data, floating in the post-coital haze. She had no idea, where this was going, and that vague sense of impending unknown was beginning to pierce the fog.

“Why are you telling me this?”, Beatrice asked, her voice hoarse.

“I took the whole week off.”, Ava said, standing up and smoothing her shirt. She looked down at Beatrice, her expression unreadable. “Not just this weekend.”

Beatrice let out a short, breathless laugh that held no humour. “And? You want me to… what? Leave my life behind and come to wherever Chalonnes is?”

“It’s close to Nantes.”, Ava let her know, her tone calm. “And yes. It’s just one week.”

The simplicity of it was audacious. Beatrice finally turned her head to look at her. “What would I do there?”

Ava finished adjusting her cuff, then fixed her with an intense, unwavering gaze. Her bravado from moments before softened into something more earnest, more vulnerable. “It’s beautiful there.”, she said quietly. “You should come see.”

She paused, letting the invitation hang. Beatrice waited, a skeptical eyebrow raised, silently urging her to continue, to state the real reason.

Ava’s lips quirked in a shy smile. “And… I’m there.”

 

The wedding was, by all objective measures, beautiful. The ceremony took place under the flower-decked arch Ava had helped arrange. Yasmine looked radiant in her gown, a vision of pure joy. Everything was civil, elegant, and smooth- a perfect day.

Beatrice moved through the reception hall with ease, exchanging pleasant, superficial words with Yasmine’s relatives and the other guests she’d met the night before. She was the picture of a supportive, polished friend. Then, a presence materialised at her elbow, a familiar warmth against her arm.

Ava stood beside her, wearing a stunning dress of deep navy that made her tan glow and her eyes look impossibly bright. She smiled politely at a passing aunt, before turning her attention to Beatrice.

“Will you torment me all day?”, Beatrice asked, her tone deceptively light, almost playful. The words themselves were a complaint, but the faint, unwilling curl at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. Maybe she was starting to like the torment.

Ava kept her gaze forward, a small, serene smile on her lips, as she nodded at another guest. 


“Just say yes.”, she said, her voice low and casual, as if suggesting they share a taxi. “Come with me. I’ll rebook your flight back.” She paused, then added with offhanded extravagance, “I’ll even book you first class.”

Beatrice scoffed softly, still facing the room. “That’s hardly necessary for such a short flight. Nantes to London is barely over an hour.”

The response was automatic, logistical. But it was a response. It engaged with the premise.

Ava turned her head then, her smile deepening into something knowing and triumphant. “You have thought about it.”

Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, as if pained by the accuracy of the observation. When she opened them, she met Ava’s gaze, her own resolve visibly wavering. “No, Ava. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?” Ava’s voice dropped to an intimate murmur. Her hand, resting at her side, shifted. Her index finger traced a slow, deliberate line down the bare skin of Beatrice’s forearm, a feather-light touch that burned.

A shiver ran through Beatrice. “My research-”, she began, the protest weak, even to her own ears.

“Conduct your research online.”, Ava countered, her tone practical, problem-solving. “The house I live in has excellent Wi-Fi.” She said it, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world, as if the only thing standing between Beatrice and a week in the French countryside was a connectivity issue.

Beatrice searched Ava’s face, looking for the hidden agenda, the emotional landmine. “What do you want that week to mean?”

Ava shrugged, a gesture of maddening nonchalance. “It can mean whatever it wants to mean. I just know…”, she whispered, leaning in so close, her breath ghosted over Beatrice’s ear, “That ever since I tasted you last night, I can’t get you out of my head.” Her voice was a low, honest thrum. “And I want more. It’s that simple. Just come with me.”

“To have sex with you.”, Beatrice concluded, her own voice barely audible. It sounded like a question.

“To have sex with me.”, Ava agreed, nodding, as if they were confirming dinner plans. As if it were just a fling. As if they could be two casual, worldly people who shared an intense physical connection and nothing more.

Ava leaned in even closer, their shoulders now touching. To anyone watching, it might look like an intimate conversation between friends. To anyone who knew their history, it would be a blazing red flag. “Tell me, you don’t want me to touch you.”, she challenged, her voice a velvet threat. “Tell me, you don’t think of me non-stop. Tell me, you can just fly back to London tomorrow and never think of me again.”

Beatrice, looking into Ava’s determined eyes, knew she could not truthfully accept a single one of these dares. 



The silence that stretched between them was her confession.

*





The reception was in full swing, a swirl of laughter, music, and clinking glasses under strings of fairy lights. Beatrice stood at the periphery, a glass of rosé in hand, her expression softened by the evening’s warmth. Her gaze was fixed on the dance floor.

There, Ava and Camila were caught in a whirl of their own making, laughing as they attempted some complicated, entirely invented dance move. Ava’s head was thrown back, her shorter hair swinging, her face alight with unfiltered joy. The sight sent a familiar, complicated pang through Beatrice’s chest.

Yasmine appeared at her side, radiant in her gown. “Thank you for coming, Bea. And… for keeping everything so civil. I saw you and Ava almost looked friendly earlier. It means a lot.”

Beatrice tore her eyes from the dance floor and offered Yasmine a genuine smile. “It’s your day. The only drama should be over which cousin catches the bouquet.” She squeezed Yasmine’s hand. “You were a stunning bride.”

After a few more exchanged pleasantries, Yasmine was swept away by other well-wishers. Lilith materialised beside Beatrice, her presence as silent and solid as a shadow. Together, they watched the joyful chaos on the dance floor for a moment.

Then, without looking at her, Beatrice spoke, her voice low and clear. “I will not be flying back to London with you tomorrow.”

Lilith didn’t miss a beat. “Are you staying in France?” Her tone was flat, but the question was loaded. She already knew the answer, and more importantly, the why.

“Yes.”

A beat of silence passed between them, filled by the distant pulse of the music. Lilith finally turned her head to study Beatrice’s profile. 

“I hope, you know what you’re doing.”

Beatrice’s gaze remained on the dancing figures, on Ava’s laughing face. For a woman who built her life on certainty, on research and rational next steps, the honesty that came out was startling, even to herself.

“I don’t.”


*

It was unspoken, inevitable. After the last goodbyes were said and the wedding guests began to drift to their rooms, Ava found herself at Beatrice’s instead of her own. No words were needed. The door closed, and they were on each other.

The kiss was immediate, a collision after a long, civil day. But as Ava backed Beatrice toward the bed, as the kissing deepened with the promise of what was to come, she noticed something curious. Beatrice’s mouth was always fervent against hers in the beginning, but there was a boundary. 

The moment the intent shifted from pure, desperate connection to something softer, more exploratory, Beatrice would subtly redirect- a firmer press, a shift of angle, a hand guiding Ava’s focus elsewhere. She didn’t like to be kissed, it seemed, outside of the specific, purposeful context of foreplay. The kiss was reserved for the path to the bed, not the space within it.

Ava slowed, forcing her own racing heart to steady. She gentled the kiss, trying to root them both in the moment, in something more than the acute need. Beatrice’s fingers found the delicate chain at the back of Ava’s dress and let it slide down, parting the fabric. She pulled back, her gaze dropping, as she used one finger to tug the left side of the dress down, baring Ava’s shoulder. She bent and pressed her lips to the newly exposed skin.

That single touch was igniting a fire. Beatrice guided her backwards until the backs of Ava’s knees hit the bed. The dress, now loose, slid down her body in a whisper of fabric and pooled on the floor. Ava sat on the edge of the mattress, momentarily stunned by the focused intensity. Beatrice, ever practical, picked up the dress, shook it out, and draped it neatly over the chair in the corner- a bizarre, domestic gesture in the midst of the storm.

When she returned, Ava was waiting. Beatrice stood before her, still mostly dressed. Ava leaned forward, gathering the hem of Beatrice’s slip dress in her hands and pulling it up. She pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the smooth skin of Beatrice’s upper thigh.

“Take it off.”, Beatrice said, her voice low.

Ava laughed, the sound breathy. “Did you only bring me to your room to do this?”

Beatrice looked down at her, unimpressed. She moved then, crowding forward, until Ava had to lie back, and then followed her down, covering her body with her own across the width of the mattress. Her weight was a delicious anchor. “You’re taking me to your house in the French countryside to only do this.”, she countered, her tone dry, but her eyes dark with intent.

Ava opened her mouth to protest, to say that no, it was about more, about time, about seeing, if the ghost between them could live in the light. But the words died, as her hands found the straps of Beatrice’s dress. The protest was irrelevant. The answer, for now, was in the slide of silk over skin, in the unspoken agreement that whatever this was, it started here, in the physical truth they couldn’t deny. She began to undress her, her movements slow and full of a promise she wasn’t yet allowed to voice.






After, in the quiet dark, they lay facing each other. The frantic energy had bled away, replaced by a heavy, sated stillness. Ava stayed. Beatrice let her. It was a new, fragile truce.

Ava’s fingers traced the fine, almost invisible hairs at the nape of Beatrice’s neck, a touch so light, it was more suggestion than contact.

“So… you’re coming with me tomorrow…”, Ava said. It wasn’t quite a question.

Beatrice only watched her, her eyes unreadable in the low light. She stayed silent, but she didn’t move away.

“We need to be at the airport sometime around noon.”

“In Geneva?”, Beatrice finally murmured, her voice quiet.

Ava smiled and shook her head, her cheek brushing the pillow. “Annecy has a small airport.”

Beatrice’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lilith and I flew into Geneva. Annecy isn’t a destination for commercial flights.”

“We’re not flying commercial.”

A curious smile touched Beatrice’s lips, the first real expression since they’d collapsed into the bed. “So… you own a private jet?”

Ava made a vague, dismissive gesture with her free hand. “Dead parents here. You have an heiress in your bed.” The words were flippant, but then her expression softened, melting into something almost shy. “I flew in through Geneva as well. But this is a bit more convenient, as we fly non-stop and it saves us the trouble of getting to Geneva. And no, I don’t own a private jet. I chartered one for tomorrow.”

The information landed softly, a new piece of the Ava-puzzle clicking into place. Beatrice filed it away. Ava was rich. That kind of rich. Of course, the logical part of her brain had known her inheritance was likely substantial. But knowing a fact and having it demonstrated so casually were different things. The Ava of their youth had been self-conscious about her family’s wealth, brushing it off, trying to downplay it. This Ava stated it as a simple, logistical fact.

It didn’t repulse Beatrice. It didn’t impress her. It just was. Another layer of the complicated, formidable woman she was agreeing to follow into the unknown. She watched Ava’s face, the flicker of vulnerability beneath the statement, and found that the money mattered less than the fact that Ava had thought of the convenience, had planned this step to make the leap comfortable for her.

Beatrice closed the small distance between them, silencing any further talk with a slow, deep kiss that spoke of surrender. As Beatrice pulled back, Ava filed the moment away with crystalline clarity. It was a crack in the façade. A small, deliberate allowance. In that gentle kiss, Beatrice had let a part of Ava in- not just into her bed, but past the first gate of her walls. 


Chapter 3: Act III

Summary:

>> “I’ve been here for two days. And I haven’t even seen the inside of your bedroom yet.” <<

The test began the moment the jet’s engines whined into silence.

They had crossed an ocean of history in a flight of less than an hour.

Ava led Beatrice from the small aircraft across the tarmac of the regional airport to a waiting car- chauffeured. Beatrice noted it, another data point in the new, unflinching reality of Ava’s wealth. They drove in silence through the rolling, green-gold landscape of the Loire Valley, past vineyards and stone farmhouses, until they turned down a gravel drive lined with ancient chestnut trees.

The house at the end was a maison de maître, a small, perfect 18th-century manor house built of pale stone, its slate roof gleaming in the sun. Wisteria climbed its façade. It was the kind of place that spoke of quiet money, not flashy, but deeply rooted and exquisitely maintained.

“Your home for the week.”, Ava said, her voice oddly casual, as she shouldered her bag and unlocked the oversized oak door.

Beatrice stepped inside. The interior was… simply elegant. Wide-plank oak floors, exposed beams, walls the colour of old cream. The furniture was a mix of genuine antiques and modern, comfortable pieces in neutral linens. Vases held simple, dramatic arrangements of dried grasses and branches. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating the space. It was beautiful, serene, and intimidatingly perfect.

Ava moved through the space with easy familiarity, dropping her keys on a heavy console table. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Your room. The words were polite, a host’s consideration. They also carved out a necessary distance in this intimate space. Beatrice followed her up a curved stone staircase, her fingers brushing the smooth, worn limestone of the banister. Ava pushed open a door at the end of a hallway.

The room was spacious, airy, with a large bed draped in white linen and a view over a walled garden. It was, like everything else, impeccable.

“The bathroom’s through there.”, Ava said, gesturing. “Make yourself at home. I’ve got the whole week off, so… I’m here. But no pressure. There’s food in the kitchen, wine in the cellar. Help yourself to anything.” She gave a small, uncertain smile, the shadow of the wedding weekend finally fading into the reality of their situation. “I’ll be… around.”

She was giving Beatrice space. An out. A whole, beautiful house to hide in, with the vague, open-ended promise of her presence.

Beatrice stood in the centre of the room, her small suitcase at her feet, feeling profoundly displaced.

*

 

There was no advance on Ava’s side on the first night. She was perfectly -almost formally- respectful, when she wished Beatrice a good night from the doorway of her own bedroom down the hall. The charged silence of the chalet, the desperate, stolen urgency, was gone. The unspoken pretence of this week being a long, luxurious hookup evaporated the moment they were left alone in the vast, quiet house.

During breakfast the next day Beatrice realised that they had never simply inhabited a space together. The Catholic boarding school had imposed strict borders- separate rooms, communal areas, the constant watch of nuns. Their intimacy had been built in stolen moments, always against a clock. The wedding weekend had been a pressure cooker of old feelings and new audiences.

They had never had a kitchen to share in the morning, a living room to sit in quietly, a stretch of hours with nothing to do but be in each other’s presence.

Ava watched Beatrice with a patient stillness that felt entirely new. Beatrice, feeling the weight of the inevitable, knew they had to talk about their lives at some point. Beatrice hadn’t asked before. In the chaotic aftermath of the last forty-eight hours, she had deliberately avoided asking for specifics about her ex’s life. She had told herself that the less she knew about Ava’s present, the easier it was to rationalise her as a spectre from the past, a complication to be managed and then left behind. But it didn’t hold anymore. So she settled on the easiest question.

“What drew you to France?”

Ava’s smile faltered for a second, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. She set her coffee cup down slowly. “At the wedding...”, she started, her voice careful, “You said, you were proud of the woman I’d become. But… you don’t actually know what I do?”

Beatrice blinked, taken aback by the directness of the question. Her gaze dropped, a faint tinge of colour rising on her cheeks. “No.”, she admitted, the word stiff. “Lilith told me you went to Brown. That’s the last update I have. And obviously that you live in France now. That you work here.” She gestured vaguely, as if the geographic fact explained everything.

Ava scoffed softly, a brief, incredulous sound. But she recovered quickly, the initial sting melting into a kind of wry resignation. She took a steadying sip of her coffee, gathering the threads of a story Beatrice had never heard.

“It’s a long story...” Ava began, her smile returning and she started telling it. She spoke of Tiago, the luthier, she described how a silent apprenticeship had become a partnership, how she had used her economics degree to build a sustainable business model around her tio’s genius, turning a humble workshop into ‘Silva & Co. Artesanal’ a name now whispered among connoisseurs. She explained the delicate, focused skill of marquetry and wood restoration she’d learned from him- actual manual labour. She spoke about the contract in France being the latest, most prestigious validation of that path.



“So… in short: I’m a restoration artisan.”, Ava finally settled, after having given Beatrice a greater part of her history. 

Beatrice listened, cataloguing the information with a scholar’s detachment that couldn’t quite mask her dawning awe. She saw the beautiful, frustrating paradox unfold: a wealthy heiress, who chose calluses over comfort, who used a master’s degree to painstakingly preserve the beauty others had left behind. It was a path of purpose, not privilege. Against her will, a profound respect settled in Beatrice’s chest.

“It’s interesting, how similar our fields of work are.” Beatrice remarked, picking crust off a half-eaten croissant absentmindedly. She took a steadying breath, focusing on the safest ground she knew. “I’ve acquired degrees in History of Art, am currently doing my PhD on-”

“Beatrice…”, Ava interrupted softly, her voice cutting through the clinical description. “I know.” She met Beatrice’s startled gaze across the table, her own expression earnest, stripped of any pretence. “I’ve read your publications. I’ve kept track.”

Beatrice’s rehearsed explanation died in her throat. The professional distance she’d been trying to establish crumbled in an instant. Ava hadn’t just moved on into a separate world. She had looked for Beatrice in the one place she could be found- in the meticulous, published record of her intellect. 

The admission was too much. It pierced the careful, academic detachment Beatrice was clinging to, revealing a connection that felt more intimate than any physical touch they’d shared that weekend.

Beatrice deflected, her voice a notch too high. “Right. Well. I should… I need to check in on some data. What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

Ava looked momentarily thrown by the abrupt segue, but recovered quickly. “It’s on the router. ‘Tuffeau_1723’.” She recited it, her eyes still holding a question Beatrice couldn’t answer.

 

Beatrice retreated to the sanctuary of her assigned bedroom, laptop open. But the lines of research notes blurred. Her focus was trapped in the kitchen, on the earnest look in Ava’s eyes when she’d said, I’ve kept track. The quiet devotion in that statement was a seismic force, shaking the foundations of Beatrice’s carefully maintained distance. By noon, work was impossible. She abandoned the computer.

She found Ava in the living room, standing before a large window that overlooked the walled garden. Drenched in sunlight, she looked ethereal and grounded all at once. Her profile was soft, her gaze distant and pensive, lost in some private thought. The sight stole Beatrice’s breath.

Ava sensed her presence and turned. Her question -a gentle “Everything okay?”- died on her lips, as she caught the look on Beatrice’s face. It wasn’t composed or polite. It was raw, focused, and entirely centred on her.

Before Ava could speak, Beatrice crossed the remaining space between them. One of her hands fisted the soft fabric of Ava’s sweatshirt. She didn’t say a word. She just drew her in and kissed her.

When she finally broke away, Ava’s eyes were wide. Her gaze dropped to Beatrice’s swollen lips. 

A beat of charged silence pulsed between them.

Then Ava moved. She leaned in this time, her own kiss a softer echo. One hand found Beatrice’s bent elbow, drawing her in again, urging her closer, until there was no space left.

“Do you still hate me?” The question, whispered against Beatrice’s lips was fragile, stripped bare. It was the core of everything.

Beatrice drew back again, the words a brand against her heart. Because every time she had spat I hate you at Ava over the chaotic weekend, it had been a shield. A furious, constructed barrier against a truth so much more terrifying.

The truth was that Ava had a hold on her -a deep, gravitational pull that had survived six years of silence- and Beatrice hated her for it. She hated that the chaotic girl had become this frustratingly self-possessed, charming woman. She hated that Ava’s beauty now had a depth and a confidence that was utterly mesmerising. She hated that some broken, loyal part of her was still, and would always be, enthralled. She hated that she had once loved her so completely, so youthfully, that the echo of it had the power to unravel her even now.

The hatred wasn’t for Ava’s actions, not really. It was for the power Ava still wielded over her soul. It was a hatred born of love.

“Yes.”

The word was a lie, but Ava didn’t call her on it. Ava saw it in the way Beatrice’s eyes held hers- with a scorching, helpless anguish.

Ava closed the distance Beatrice had created. Her hands guiding her, until Beatrice’s back was pressed against the cool glass of the window. Caging her in the light.

Then she kissed her again. Not with the question’s fragility, but with a deep, consuming certainty.

Beatrice’s hands, which had been frozen at her sides, were on Ava’s shoulders in an instance. The pretence of hatred, the last fragile defence, dissolved under the relentless, tender pressure of Ava’s mouth. 

It was then that Beatrice forgot, for a glorious, breathless moment, that she was supposed to hate her at all.

*

The next day, Ava slid behind the wheel of a canary-yellow vintage VW Beetle, its convertible top already down. “Our chariot.”, she said with a grin, gesturing for Beatrice to get in.

Beatrice, to her own surprise, loved it immediately. The wind whipping through her hair, the smell of old leather and gasoline, the ridiculous brightness of the car- it was the antithesis of everything staid and controlled in her life. It was unapologetically Ava.

Ava drove them through winding country lanes, her hands confident on the thin steering wheel. She seemed genuinely surprised, and quietly pleased, when Beatrice asked to see the villa she was restoring. “Really? It’s a mess…”, she’d warned, but the spark in her eyes betrayed her pride.

As they approached the property, Beatrice’s historian’s gaze swept over the façade. It was a beautiful structure, elegant even in its state of disrepair. “It’s magnificent.”, she breathed, the professional appraisal instinctive and sincere.

Inside the grand rooms the original parquet floors were covered in thick, clear sheeting- for protection. Ava explained the process, as they walked, her voice dropping in the empty space. She was not just a contractor here; she was the guardian. The workers, she said, were only permitted on-site under her direct supervision. She didn’t just execute the most delicate marquetry herself; she oversaw every other aspect, from the sourcing of period-accurate wood for replacement floorboards to the mixing of historically appropriate stains.

Then they entered the grand salon. The room was scaffolded, but one section of the ornate wood stucco was complete. Beatrice stopped dead.

It was a breathtaking panorama of carved cherubs, vines, and flowers, frozen in wood. The restoration was flawless. She could see where the new, paler wood seamlessly met the aged original, the carving so precise, it was impossible to tell where history ended and Ava’s intervention began. The level of skill was humbling, a kind of magic performed with patience and a chisel. 

Beatrice listened, her initial awe deepening into something more profound. This wasn’t a hobby or a vanity project. It was a massive, complex undertaking, and Ava commanded it with an authority that was mesmerising. 

In that moment Beatrice hated Ava a little more.

Later that evening, Ava took her to a Michelin-starred restaurant tucked into a stone village nearby. Over an exquisite, multi-course meal, Beatrice found herself loosening. The weight of their shared history the previous day, the professional interlude, faded into the background of good wine and easy conversation. She was in the middle of an anecdote about a disastrously pompous visiting lecturer at Oxford, her hands sketching emphatic shapes in the air, her expression animated in a way it hadn’t been in years.

She caught Ava watching her, a soft, unwavering intensity in her gaze. Beatrice faltered mid-sentence, her hands dropping to the tablecloth. Self-conscious, she ran her tongue over her front teeth. “What? Do I have bok choy stuck in my teeth?”

Ava laughed, a warm, rich sound. She shook her head, her eyes not leaving Beatrice’s face. “No… you’re fine. I just-” She paused, her smile softening. “You’ve gotten more beautiful by age.”

Beatrice made a face, a reflexive deflection against the directness of the compliment. “Ava, I’m twenty-four, not eighty.”

Ava leaned forward over the table, her voice dropping. “You know what I mean.” Her gaze was specific, a look that spoke directly to the memory of the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become. It was simple admiration, pure and potent.

And Beatrice, her heart doing a clumsy, familiar somersault in her chest, hated Ava for that, too. 

She hated that a single, sincere look from Ava Silva could still make her feel like she was sixteen.

 

The sommelier had just poured the last of a stunning white wine, the final act of a symphony of dishes that had left Beatrice feeling pleasantly untethered. The restaurant’s warmth, the meal, the unexpected ease of Ava’s company- it had lulled her into a rare state of unguarded relaxation. She’d been gesturing, laughing even, telling a story.

Then the bill arrived.

Beatrice reached for her clutch, but Ava’s hand was already there, her fingers closing over the leather folder with a casual, unquestioning ownership. She didn’t look at the total. She simply extracted her card, placed it on the tray, and gave the hovering waiter a small, definitive nod.

The waiter vanished to get a card machine. Ava signed the slip with a flourish, threw in a 20€ bill as a tip, thanked him in flawless, unaccented French, and handed it all back.

The entire transaction took less than thirty seconds. It was efficient, effortless, and it sent a cold splash of reality through Beatrice’s wine-warmed veins. She watched, her earlier animation cooling into quiet observation. 

Ava slid her card back into her wallet. “Ready to go?”

Beatrice didn’t move. She tilted her head, a slow, considering smile touching her lips- the kind she used in tutorial debates. “Are you trying to impress me with your money?”

Ava snorted, a genuine, unfiltered sound of amusement. She leaned back in her chair, the picture of relaxed confidence. “Why would I do that? I will never be able to impress you with that.” She said it, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. Beatrice’s regard, her real regard, had always been currency of a different, far rarer kind.

“Well…”, Beatrice countered, her voice light, but her eyes sharp, “You flew us here in a private jet… you’re seizing every bill. You wouldn’t even let me pay to refuel that sunshine-coloured menace of a car earlier.”

“Because you’re my guest.”, Ava said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The simplicity of it was a trap.

Beatrice leaned forward then, resting her elbows on the table, closing the intimate space between them. The candlelight flickered in her dark eyes. “So this week…”, she began, her voice a low, deliberate murmur, “We’re just going to drive around the countryside, and you’re going to show me French restaurants in the area? Is that why I came?”

She let the question hang, a challenge.

Ava held her gaze, the smug, knowing smile returning to her lips. She gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug. “Why? What else did you expect?”

The challenge was thrown back, direct and daring. Say it, Ava’s eyes seemed to glint. Admit what you thought this was.

And Beatrice, who had boarded the plane with a theory of controlled overdose, who had braced for a week of ruthless, wordless sex and food delivery, felt the flimsy architecture of that expectation collapse. This -the conversation, the professionalism, the respect, the dating- was infinitely more unsettling. And Beatrice didn’t like not being in control. Not being in control of her emotions.

Beatrice leaned back, putting deliberate distance between them once more, her posture regaining its familiar, elegant composure. She gathered her napkin, placed it neatly onto the table, and met Ava’s waiting gaze.

“I’m ready to go.” Beatrice finally answered the initial question.

“Okay.” Ava replied simply and raised a hand for the waiter to bring their coats.





The house seemed to hold its breath around them.

“Can I get you a nightcap?” Ava’s voice was carefully neutral, a host’s polite inquiry. “Or… hot cocoa?”

Beatrice turned from arranging her shoes by the wall. “Hot cocoa.” Beatrice mocked and shook her head, the movement sharp. “No.” She took a step closer, the space between them shrinking from polite to intimate. Her voice dropped, losing all pretence of social grace. It was low, direct, a blade finally unsheathed. “I’ve been here for two days. And I haven’t even seen the inside of your bedroom yet.”

Ava’s gaze flickered upward, following the curve of the stone staircase almost instinctively, before snapping back to lock with Beatrice’s. The air in the entryway grew thin.

“If that’s what you want.”, she said, her voice a low rasp.

“Is that not what you want?” Beatrice pressed, the words a challenge. “Is that not why you brought me here?”

Ava didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out, her fingers closing around Beatrice’s with a firm, undeniable grip. Without a word, she turned and led the way, pulling Beatrice behind her, as she started up the stairs.

Ava stopped before the open doorway of her bedroom, flicking the light on, which spilled onto the worn runner. She gestured inside with a sharp, almost dismissive flick of her wrist.

“See? That’s my bedroom… are you satisfied?”

It was a statement, a bare fact. But the tension in her arm, the way she didn’t turn to look at Beatrice, betrayed it as something else- a line drawn, a dare issued. She was waging a war. 

Beatrice tugged back, gently, a counter-pressure. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, one that didn’t need words to translate. You know what I meant.

And Ava did know. Of course she did. The electricity that had crackled between them since the wedding, the ruthless sex in the chalet- it was a language they were both fluent in.

But something had shifted. In the charged chaos of the wedding weekend, surrounded by the ghosts of their past, it had been easy to lose herself in the physical. It was an exorcism.

Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her own home the calculus was different. This house was her present. It was her peace. To bring Beatrice into this space, into her private sanctuary, and reduce it to another forgettable transaction… it felt like a violation. Not of Beatrice, but of herself.

She didn’t just want to have sex with Beatrice in her bedroom. She wanted to wake up with her. To see her hair on the pillow in the morning light. To argue over the coffee maker. To share the quiet of this space, not just the heat of the sheets.

She wanted to overwrite the lonely memories of this house with new ones. Memories of her past lover, the one she had never gotten over, the one who still, after everything, held her fragile heart in the palm of her hand.

Beatrice felt the subtle shift in Ava’s posture, the way the defiant offering of the room had curdled into something more hesitant, more sacred.

Slowly, Beatrice stepped past her, crossing the threshold. She let go of Ava’s hand, the separation feeling significant. Her eyes moved around the space, not with the predatory scan of a conquest, but with the watchful eyes of an archivist entering a private collection. It was orderly, beautiful, and felt strangely unlived-in.

Ava followed, hovering just inside the doorway, her hands finding uneasy purchase in the back pockets of her jeans, a nervous gesture that betrayed the woman of poised confidence from the restaurant.

Beatrice’s gaze landed on a neat row of leather-bound volumes on a shelf. “Are these just decorative?”

Ava blinked, as if seeing them for the first time. “I… honestly haven’t even paid attention to them, so- yes.”, she admitted, the confession making the room feel more like a showpiece, a stage set for a life not fully inhabited.

Beatrice’s fingers trailed away from the books, skimming over the surface of a small, elegant box on a side table. It was simple, its beauty in the clean lines and the visible, smooth grain of the wood.

“I made that.”, Ava said, the words leaving her in a rush, filling the quiet with something real.

Beatrice turned, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you made that?”

“Carved it. From a single piece of cherrywood.” Ava’s voice was low, almost shy. “It holds candles.”

Beatrice’s gaze dropped from the box to Ava’s hands, which had fallen to her sides. She looked at them- the strong, capable fingers, the faint, pale lines of old nicks and the subtle, earned callouses. They were the hands of a restorer, an artisan. The hands that had held her with such desperation just days before.

Wordlessly, Beatrice closed the space between them. She reached out, her movements deliberate and gentle, and took Ava’s hands into her own. She turned them palm-up, cradling them, as if they were a fragile artefact. Her thumbs traced the roughened pads at the base of her fingers, the story of dedicated work written there. Then, slowly, she brushed the sensitive, fluttering pulse point on Ava’s inner wrist.

Ava’s breath hitched. Their eyes locked, and in that shared gaze, the last of Ava’s defences dissolved. In this moment Beatrice held a piece of her, and she didn’t know, how to take it back- it was too much. It threatened to spill out of her in words she was terrified to say.

So she acted. Her hands, which had been passive in Beatrice’s hold, suddenly gripped back. She pulled, drawing Beatrice firmly toward her, erasing the careful distance. Their lips met in a kiss that was a desperate translation of everything she couldn’t voice.

They halted, lips still connected, breaths mingling, eyes open. The world narrowed to the points of contact: their joined hands, their pressed mouths. Ava could see the storm in Beatrice’s dark eyes, could feel the eager hum of response vibrating in her own throat. It was too much, and not enough.

With a soft, broken sound, Ava’s tongue swept into Beatrice’s mouth. Beatrice answered with a welcoming hum, her fingers tightening around Ava’s. The kiss deepened, losing its initial shock and becoming a slow foreboding to what was to come after. Ava didn’t let go of Beatrice’s hands. She simply turned, still holding them, and led Beatrice the few remaining steps across the room, while still being connected to her lips.

At last, Ava showed Beatrice her bed, and the dizzying, intimate view of her bedroom from within it- all while she was lying utterly at the mercy of Ava’s devotional, artisanal touch.

The room was bathed in silver and shadow, the deep quiet of the countryside pressing against the windows. Beatrice lay on her side, propped on an elbow, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Ava’s bare back. She was turned away, asleep, the sharp line of her shoulder softened by slumber.

In the unconscious dark, she was not so scary. The challenging glint in her eye, the confident set of her jaw, the entire frustratingly enticing personality that made Beatrice’s chest ache with a feeling too close to hatred- it was all muted. Stripped away, she was just this shell. Albeit a breathtaking one.

Beatrice’s gaze traced the constellation of faint moles scattered across Ava’s shoulder blade. Tentatively, her fingertips followed, skimming the warm skin. She touched the ends of Ava’s shorter hair, the strands surprisingly soft. Her palm slid down, a slow, sweeping caress over the smooth, powerful length of Ava’s spine.

Ava stirred. A soft, sleepy sound escaped her, as she turned over, the movement fluid and unguarded.

Beatrice snatched her hand back, feeling a hot flush of being caught in a moment of naked vulnerability.

But Ava’s eyes, blinking open in the dark, held no smugness, no triumphant gleam. They were just soft, hazy with sleep. A slow, uncomplicated smile touched her lips, and she leaned in, pressing a kiss to Beatrice’s shoulder. Then she seemed to have a striking thought and turned away, fumbling in the drawer of her bedside table. Her hand emerged with a strip of gum. She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, and chewed with a few focused crunches.

Then, and only then, she turned back, her gaze finding Beatrice’s in the gloom, and leaned in again for a kiss.

The entire, bizarre ritual threw Beatrice back through years, to a narrow dorm room bed, to a different Ava who’d had the same self-conscious habit, born from a teenage worry about morning breath. The gesture was so unchanged that for a dizzying second, the woman and the girl superimposed, and the six years of silence between them collapsed into nothing.

While Beatrice was reeling from the temporal whiplash, Ava’s own mind was piecing together a different revelation. She had registered the gentle, almost exploratory touch of the night before in contrast to their weekend hookups. She noted, with a quiet, seismic shock, that Beatrice was still here. In her bed. And she was letting Ava kiss her. Accepting the ridiculous, gum-chewing advance without protest.

The realisation was a warm, expanding thing in Ava’s chest, fragile and hopeful. Until she felt Beatrice shift. Not away, but over. Beatrice hoisted herself up, one knee sliding over Ava’s hips, settling her weight atop her. Ava’s breath caught. She instinctively glanced at her phone on the nightstand, the screen blindingly bright in the dark: 4:32 AM.

Beatrice leaned down, her hair a dark curtain around their faces. Her eyes searched Ava’s, a mix of exasperation and a fondness she couldn’t quite mask. “Are you going to keep the gum in your mouth?”

Ava, pinned and utterly disarmed, could only nod, a slow, stupid grin spreading across her face.

Beatrice rolled her eyes and captured her mouth.

Afterwards, spent and tangled in the rumpled sheets, Ava noted with a quiet thrill that Beatrice did not get up. Yet again. She did not retreat to the solitary sanctum of the guest room. Ava’s arm, which had been resting loosely over Beatrice’s waist, tightened. She shifted carefully, drawing Beatrice more firmly against her, guiding her head to rest on the steady beat of her chest. Beatrice, in the deep, boneless exhaustion that followed, offered no resistance, her body moulding to Ava’s with a trusting heaviness.

In the perfect, vulnerable quiet, Ava stared at the ceiling. The first pale hints of dawn were just beginning to dilute the dark. She could feel the soft puff of Beatrice’s breath against her skin, the complete surrender of sleep.

“Beatrice?”, she whispered, the name a secret in the silent room.

There was no answer, only the deep, even rhythm of sleep.

Ava closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of her- realising once again that her bed would smell like her for days.

The words, locked away for six years, slipped out on an exhale, so quiet they were almost just a shape her lips made against Beatrice’s hair.

“I still love you.”

*

The morning light was a liar.

Beatrice was different in the sun. The raw vulnerability of the pre-dawn hours had receded behind a familiar, polite distance. When Ava’s hand brushed hers, as she passed a coffee mug, Beatrice accepted the cup, but her fingers withdrew quickly, avoiding the lingering touch. When Ava leaned in, to point out a detail in a village map spread on the kitchen table, Beatrice subtly shifted her weight, creating an inch of crucial space. The easy physicality of the night was gone, locked away with the darkness.

It was a careful curation. Beatrice would still accept Ava’s invitations. A simple drive to the coast with the top down, the wind doing the talking for them. A stroll through a tiny, immaculate Breton town, their footsteps echoing on cobblestones as they window-shopped for pottery they didn’t need. She was the perfect, engaging companion- intelligent, observant, capable of making Ava laugh with a dry remark about a particularly pompous garden gnome.

And that was the exquisite torture of it for Ava. It was so easy. The conversation flowed without force. Their silences were comfortable. They liked the same ceramics; they both gravitated toward the same secluded bench with a view of the harbour. They bickered playfully over the best route back to the car, their debate a rapid-fire exchange of logic and instinct that ended in a draw and a shared, reluctant smile.

It was easy because, despite the six years and the divergent paths, they were, at their core, shockingly compatible. Their minds worked in complementary, challenging ways. Their values, though expressed differently, were aligned. They were, as they had always been, magnets. The pull was still there, undeniably so.

For Beatrice, the ease was also the hardest part. Each effortless agreement, each synchronised pause, each moment of wordless understanding was a tiny, devastating proof. It proved that the foundation of them- the amicability, the intellectual spark, the fundamental alignment of souls that had existed before the love and the loss, was not only intact, but had matured. The sex was a wildfire- terrifying and consuming. But this? This easy companionship? This was the deep, fertile soil that had allowed that first love to take root and grow so strong it had nearly broken her. 

And Beatrice hated it. 

*



The guest room was the same, yet everything had shifted. 

The pale sheets of the bed were tangled around them. Beatrice sat up, the duvet pooling around her waist, gloriously naked in the soft lamplight.

“I definitely didn’t pack enough clothes.”, she announced to the room, her voice laced with genuine annoyance. “I packed for a weekend in the Alps. Not a… ten-day French sojourn.”

Ava, propped on an elbow, watched her with unabashed delight. She laughed, a warm, rich sound. “And you still brought seven pairs of underwear.”

Beatrice shot her a look over her shoulder, as she swung her legs out of bed. “You can never be too sure.”, she stated, as if it were a universal truth. She padded, gloriously unselfconscious, toward the ensuite bathroom. She didn’t close the door fully, leaving it ajar. The sound of her peeing was followed by her voice, conversational through the gap. “I will have to go commando for the last three days. Or I’ll have to buy new ones tomorrow. The village probably sells ‘Bretagne’ thongs with little sailor knots. Horrifying.”

Ava just listened, a slow smile spreading across her face. The mundane intimacy, the lack of performance- it was so startlingly easy. It felt more intimate than anything that had happened before.

The toilet flushed. The faucet ran. Beatrice reappeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel. She tossed it back onto the counter and walked toward the bed, her expression turning playfully serious.

“You would tell me, if I started giving off a bad odour, right?”

Ava’s laugh was immediate. “Trust me, you don’t smell bad. Your clothes smell like you’ve bathed them in your perfume. It’s… everywhere. It’s even in my bed.”

A slow, feline grin spread across Beatrice’s face. She approached the bed and, with deliberate grace, straddled Ava’s hips, settling her weight. She leaned down, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “Do you like how I smell?” She craned her neck, offering the sensitive curve of it to Ava’s face, an invitation and a challenge.

Ava’s hands came up to span her ribcage, her grip strong, possessive. She buried her nose in the offered skin, breathing deeply. “I love it.”

Beatrice drew back, the seductive mask slipping for a second. She paused, looking down at Ava. Her next words were an attempt to be deceptively light, a throwaway line to reset the boundaries that were dissolving too fast. The word love was Beatrice’s kryptonite. 

“Out of my bed now.”, she said, her tone airy. “Get to your own room.”

Ava’s smile vanished. Her hands stilled on Beatrice’s ribs. “Are you serious?”

And because Beatrice hated her -hated, how a single flicker of hurt in Ava’s eyes could make her feel instantly, cruelly sorry for the words- she relented. “No…”, she sighed, the fight leaving her in a soft exhale.

She shifted off Ava and settled beside her, both of them on their sides now, facing each other. Ava reached out, her fingers threading through Beatrice’s. She lifted Beatrice’s hand and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles.

Beatrice watched the gesture, her expression unreadable. It was another thing she permitted, another inch of tender ground ceded, even as she felt the internal limit of what she could withstand straining, almost to its breaking point. And she hated all of it.

*

On Friday they wandered through the aisles of a small, upscale boutique in the nearest market town. Beatrice moved with efficient purpose to the back, where neat stacks of neutral basics were displayed. She selected a five-pack of plain cotton briefs, her expression one of solving a practical problem.

Ava lingered a few steps away, her attention caught by a different display. Delicate lace, sleek satin, straps that promised more than function. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics with a curious, appreciative eye.

Beatrice found her there, the packet of briefs held loosely in one hand. “Got them.”

Ava didn’t look up, instead holding out a specific set: a bralette and matching briefs in a deep, smoky plum lace, simple in cut but undeniably sensual. “How do you like this?”, she asked, her tone casual, as if inquiring about the weather.

Beatrice’s eyebrow arched. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s fine. I’m sure it will suit you.” The words were light, but the instant, involuntary image of Ava in that exact lace flashed behind her eyes. She forced it away, a mental erasure performed with ruthless speed.

Ava shook her head. She met Beatrice’s gaze, her own steady. “No. It’s for you.”

Beatrice’s breath caught audibly. A surprised, almost offended sound. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”, Ava said, her smile widening. She turned back to the rack, her fingers brushing the tags. “Tell me your size.”

The request, so blunt in the middle of the quiet store, broke something in Beatrice’s carefully maintained composure. She glanced around, her gaze darting to ensure no other shopper was within earshot. Then she stepped dangerously close, closing the space between them, until Ava could feel the heat from her body. Her voice dropped, laced with a sharp, crude challenge.

“You’ve had my tits in your palm just last night. And you don’t know my size?”

Ava froze. Her eyes widened at the shocking vulgarity. The crudeness of the statement, delivered in Beatrice’s cultured tone, was… something. It left her momentarily speechless, her mind blank, except for the memory of the very weight and shape Beatrice was so clinically referencing.

Before Ava could form a single syllable in response, Beatrice reached past her. Her movements were devoid of any lingering seduction. She plucked the correct size of the bralette and its matching briefs from the rack with unerring accuracy and pressed them into Ava’s stunned hands.

Then, without another word, she turned on her heel, the packet of plain cotton briefs still clutched in her other hand, and walked toward the cash desk.

The cashier, a young woman with a bored expression, began scanning the items. The sensible cotton pack beeped first, followed by the lace set being placed on the counter. Ava stepped up beside Beatrice.

“Tout cela ensemble, s’il vous plaît.”, Ava gestured and reached for the black card in her wallet. Beatrice’s hand shot out, covering hers. She gently pushed Ava’s hand down and away.

“Ava, I am absolutely not going to let you pay for my unmentionables.” She retrieved her own card holder from her bag. “I already feel bad enough for you picking up every bill.”

Ava’s eyebrows quirked upward, a mischievous, knowing glint in her eye. She leaned in slightly, her voice only meant for Beatrice. “Don’t feel bad. I’m getting more than enough in return.”

The words landed awkwardly. It wasn’t the implication of a transaction that stung- Beatrice had told herself that was precisely what this week was: a series of meaningless physical exchanges to finally burn out the obsession. No, the hurt was in the flippancy. The casual, crass reduction of their complicated, charged history to a crude quid pro quo. Ava was saying the quiet part out loud, and it made the whole careful fiction Beatrice had constructed feel cheap.

Her expression remained a mask of cool composure. She turned back to the cashier, tapping her card on the terminal. As she waited for the receipt, her voice was icy.

“So… the fancy dinners, your attempt to buy me lingerie…”, Beatrice started, not looking at Ava. “Am I your whore now?”

Ava -momentarily thrown by the crudeness of the question- saw the frost in her gaze and instantly regretted the joke. The cashier handed her the slip and the bag. Beatrice took it, finally turning to face Ava, her eyes hard.

It had been meant as a flirtation, an acknowledgment of their mutual desire, but Ava’d misjudged the ledge Beatrice was standing on. She met Beatrice’s stare, her own smile fading into seriousness.

“No, Beatrice… I would never think that of you.”, Ava said, her voice softer. She reached out and took the bag from Beatrice’s hand, to hold it for her, an act of service. “I didn’t mean it like that. At all. I’m sorry.”

Beatrice watched the bag change hands, her expression shifting. The hard frost melted into something more calculating, more pensive. She was turning the words over in her mind, analysing the intent behind them, the correction. She didn’t snap back or accept the apology. 

*



The afternoon sun was dappling through the leaves of an ancient oak tree that shaded their picnic blanket. They’d driven to a high bluff overlooking a quilt-work of vineyards and patchwork fields that rolled down to a distant, silver sliver of sea. The air smelled of warm grass, wild thyme, and the ripe, pungent cheese from the wicker basket between them.

Ava had chosen the spot with deliberate care, an unspoken apology woven into the landscape. As they settled, she finally gave it voice, her tone tentative. “About earlier, in the shop. I’m sorry again. That was… clumsy of me.”

Beatrice, in the middle of tearing a piece of crusty baguette with her hands, waved it off with the same casual motion. “Don’t be. It was nothing. I was being overly sensitive.” She deftly smeared a generous portion of Camembert onto the torn bread. “We both agreed what this week was, after all.” She said it easily, as if reaffirming a business contract.

Ava bit the inside of her cheek, watching her. She waited a beat, her eyes tracking the simple, sensual act- the ripping of the bread, the spreading of the soft cheese. “Are you enjoying yourself at least?”, she asked, the question almost shy, probing for something real beneath the easy agreement.

Beatrice, who had managed to get a dollop of cheese onto the pad of her thumb, lifted her hand. Her eyes met Ava’s, as she deliberately licked it off, her tongue cleaning the digit with slow thoroughness. Then she smiled, a slow curve of her lips.

“I’m enjoying you.”, she said, her voice a low purr. She raised an eyebrow, a perfect, playful echo of Ava’s own earlier innuendo- a deliberate volley of the same transactional language, weaponised and thrown back.

Ava’s lips twitched in response, a smile that formed but didn’t travel to her eyes. It was a mask of acknowledgment. Her gaze drifted away from Beatrice, out over the sprawling, serene view of the vineyards, as if seeking anchor in something less complicated.

From there, the conversation found a different, easier flow. They talked of the geology that formed the cliffs, the history of the local wine, the absurdity of a particular cloud shape. It was comfortable, intellectually engaging. At some point, as Ava elaborated on soil composition, her hand -resting on the blanket between them- found Beatrice’s forearm. Her fingers began to move, tracing. They drew idle, absent-minded paths along the sensitive skin of Beatrice’s inner arm, following veins, circling the delicate bone of her wrist.

Beatrice fell silent, listening to the words about mineral deposits and sun exposure, but her entire awareness was on that point of contact. She watched Ava’s fingers -the same capable, fingers that carved wood and knew the grain of things- moving with feather-light precision over her skin. The touch was neither insistent nor sexual; it was simply there, a constant, gentle claim.

And Beatrice hated her for it. She hated Ava for how such a simple, thoughtless gesture could evoke a sensation so intense, it threatened to unmoor her completely. And she hated the fact that the familiarity, the tenderness, and the sense of rightness was infinitely more dangerous than any blatant proposition. 

It made the idea of a simple, meaningless week full of exchanged physicalities feel like a pathetic lie she was telling herself.




Ava emerged from the steamy sanctuary of her bathroom, a cloud of bergamot-scented air following her. She was wrapped in a silk robe, her skin still flushed and damp. Padding barefoot into her bedroom, she froze mid-step.

The soft light of her bedside lamp spilled across her bed, illuminating a figure reclining against her pillows.

Beatrice.

She was propped up, one arm bent behind her head, the picture of indolent ownership. And she was wearing it- the smoky plum lace. The bralette cupped her breasts, the delicate straps a beautiful contrast against her skin. The matching briefs were a dark band low on her hips.

Ava’s breath caught in her throat, a sharp, silent intake.

Beatrice, seeing her stunned stillness, only seemed to grow more comfortable. She arched her back slightly, settling deeper into the pillows, a slow, deliberate display. Her eyes, dark and knowing, held Ava’s. Then she lifted her hand in a slow, unmistakable gesture- a queen summoning a subject. The command was clear: Come here.

“This…”, Ava said, her voice strangely hoarse, finding its way around the shock, “Is not your bed.” It was a weak protest, a last-ditch attempt to cling to the boundaries that had just spectacularly evaporated.

Beatrice’s lips curved in a slow, triumphant smile. “I know.”, she purred, her voice a low, velvety thing. “I thought the lines were blurring ever since… you invited me into your bedroom.” Her outstretched hand didn’t waver, the command still implicit.

Ava moved, as if pulled by a string. She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She didn’t lie down, but sat across from Beatrice. Her gaze was a physical caress, sweeping from Beatrice’s throat, down over the lace, tracing the length of her legs. It was pure, rapt appreciation.

Beatrice watched her looking at her. Slowly, she drove a hand through her own hair, lifting the heavy fall of it and letting it cascade back over her shoulder with a slight, theatrical flick. “Do you like it on me?”, she asked, though the answer was obvious in Ava’s arrested expression.

Ava inhaled, a deep, shaky breath. “Yes… this- yes.”, she responded, the words full of genuine awe. “The visuals… wow.” But she made no move to touch. She just sat there, a hands-breadth away, drinking in the sight, as if committing it to memory.

A beat of charged silence passed. The air grew taut.

Then Beatrice shifted, leaning forward just a fraction. Her whisper was a ghost of sound, a challenge and a surrender rolled into one.

“So take it off of me.”

Ava wet her lips, leaning forward until her shadow fell across Beatrice’s body. A soft, incredulous chuckle escaped her. “I hope you know…”, she murmured, her voice thick, “That this was not my intention at all, when I suggested buying this.”

Beatrice’s eyes flashed. Her expression turned dismissive, but a playful, knowing smirk played on her lips. “Sure it was not your intention.”, she parroted, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “You just wanted me to own this colour. Hmm?”

Ava gulped, her throat tight. This mood -the sharp, almost defiant playfulness, the bold ownership of the space and the moment- it reminded her viscerally of the Beatrice from the first night at Yasmine’s wedding. The one who had kissed her with furious, punishing intent. It was thrilling and slightly terrifying.

Finally, Ava let her hand move. It inched up Beatrice’s leg, the silk of her robe brushing against skin, until her fingers stroked over the delicate lace stretched taut across Beatrice’s hipbone. She watched Beatrice’s face, searching for the truth behind the bravado. Then her hand slid higher, cupping the full weight of a breast through the lace.

Beatrice’s eyes fluttered shut. A low, helpless moan escaped her, as she let her head fall back against the pillows, her body arching into the touch, all pretence of challenge melting into pure sensation.

Encouraged, Ava shifted closer. One hand continued its appreciative exploration, mapping the curve of a waist, the skin on her stomach, while the other tangled in Beatrice’s dark hair, cradling her skull, as she leaned in to kiss her.

Beatrice met her with a fervour that left Ava momentarily breathless. It was intense from the beginning, all tongue and teeth. Ava kissed back, surrendering to the storm, but a small, analytical part of her mind wondered- was this a kind of revenge for her comment in the shop? Or was it something else, something darker and more desperate clawing its way to the surface?

Frustration seemed to crackle through Beatrice, as the kiss deepened, yet the pace remained, in her mind, too slow. With a sudden, fluid motion that took Ava by complete surprise, Beatrice reversed their positions. One minute Ava was leaning over her, the next she was on her back, the breath knocked softly from her lungs, looking up at Beatrice straddling her hips.

Beatrice’s hands went to the tie of Ava’s robe. With a sharp, efficient pull, she undid the knot and parted the dark silk, letting it fall open. Ava lay exposed beneath her. Beatrice didn’t pause. She dipped down, capturing Ava’s mouth again in a kiss that was incendiary, all-consuming in its intensity. A hand was palming Ava’s breast, while Beatrice’s tongue licked into her mouth relentlessly.

Ava’s head swam. The heat, the weight, the pace- it was too much, too fast, a wave threatening to pull her under, before she could even find her bearings. She broke the kiss, turning her head to the side with a ragged gasp for air.

“Can we…”, she panted, her voice trembling, “Slow down a little?”

“Slow down? What…?” Beatrice pulled back slightly, her brows knitting in genuine confusion. The seductive mask slipped, revealing raw vulnerability beneath. “You don’t want to have sex with me?”

The question was so redundant it was almost painful. Of course Ava wanted to. The desire was a physical ache. But she didn’t want this. Not this performative version, hyper-charged with the day’s transactional tension and the unspoken fear that it was all just a meaningless fling. She wanted the woman, not the spectre of revenge.

“Just… come lie down.”, Ava said softly, patting the space beside her. “Next to me.”

For a long moment, Beatrice hovered above her, her expression warring between defiance and something else. Then, with a shaky exhale, she complied. She shifted off Ava and settled onto her side, facing her, putting a few careful inches of cool sheet between them.

They lay facing each other. Ava reached out, her fingers gently disentangling a strand of Beatrice’s hair that was caught beneath her. She pulled her robe closed over her chest, a flimsy shield for the sudden emotional nakedness. The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of their breathing.

“I’ll be here all summer and fall.”, Ava began, her voice tentative, testing the waters of a future she had no right to map. “Probably even winter.”

Beatrice stayed perfectly still, a statue in lace, but Ava felt the faint tension coiling in the air between them.

“Nantes to London is a short plane ride…”, Ava continued, pushing the idea into the space between them.

At this, Beatrice’s composure, so carefully rebuilt, began to show fine hairline fractures. She could feel the old, familiar shape of commitment -of hope, of complication- beginning to form, and it terrified her. She didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.

“I want to keep seeing you.”, Ava finished, the admission simple and devastating.

“Why?” The word was a bullet, cold and direct.

“Because I enjoy your company,” Ava said, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

A brittle, humourless sound escaped Beatrice. “I’m pretty sure, if you went looking in any charming village within a fifty-mile radius, you’d find a perfectly suitable summer fling.”

Ava’s eyes flashed with sudden, sharp annoyance. That Beatrice would even suggest it, would reduce what was between them to something so replaceable, felt like a fresh betrayal. “They are not you.”, she shot back, her voice gaining strength.

“And what am I, then?” Beatrice challenged, her own voice rising, the walls she’d spent years building, trembling.

“You’re Beatrice. The woman in my bed.” Ava said, her gaze unwavering, intense. “The one I love.”

The words landed like a final, shattering blow. Beatrice finally broke. A sob, harsh and involuntary, caught in her throat. 

And that’s what Beatrice hated Ava the most for.

“That’s precisely the point, Ava!”, she couldn’t contain it any longer, “You love a seventeen-year-old version of me! The ghost you never got over! You don’t love me. You love the idea of me being that girl, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You don’t know me anymore. I’m not her.”

Ava’s brow furrowed in pained confusion. “I don’t know you anymore?”, she echoed. Then, softly, devastatingly: “Do you know me?”

“No.”, Beatrice whispered. “And I like it that way. I don’t want to revisit the emotional turmoil of the past. This week wasn’t meant for that.” She clung to it, a last desperate defence.

A single tear traced a hot path down her cheek, a stark betrayal of her words. But Ava was there. Her hand came up, cupping Beatrice’s jaw with infinite tenderness. Her thumb swept over the wet track, wiping it away.

“Don’t lie to me, Beatrice.”, Ava whispered, her voice thick with her own unshed tears. Her eyes held Beatrice’s, seeing through every crack, every deflection. “You know me. You know all of me.” Ava’s thumb stilled on Beatrice’s cheek, her gaze piercing through the tear-streaked facade. “And I think, some part of you loves me too.”, she said certainly, “Otherwise… it wouldn’t be this easy. Being with me wouldn’t be so easy for you, if you didn’t love me. You wouldn’t have come here with me.”

Beatrice’s breath hitched. The warmth of Ava’s palm against her skin felt like a brand, searing through her lies. She rallied, grasping for the coldest, crudest defence she had left.

“It’s easy…”, she forced out, “Because the sex is good.” It was another lie, and her own voice betrayed her, growing quieter, weaker with every syllable. “This week was supposed to be just that. Meaningless sex…” The words faded to a whisper, dying in the charged air between them.

Ava’s expression didn’t harden; it softened with a profound, aching sadness. “How could you think this was meaningless sex to me?”, she asked, the question a gentle devastation. “How could it ever be, when you mean so much to me?” She leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching Beatrice’s, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “Tell me, you don’t love me. Tell me, you feel nothing for me.”

The challenge hung in the space between their lips. Beatrice closed her eyes, as if shutting out the sight of Ava could make the words true. She summoned every shred of will, every defensive instinct honed over six long years.

“I don’t love you…”, she whispered, the words ghosting against Ava’s mouth. She opened her eyes, matching her gaze with Ava’s, “I hate you.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Beatrice saw it- Ava was smiling, a small, sad, knowing smile that held no triumph, only infinite understanding. Her eyes searched Beatrice’s, seeing the turmoil, the fear, the desperate self-deception.

“Are you still trying to convince yourself of that?”, she inquired, the question so soft, almost inaudible. It wasn’t an argument. It was an observation. A recognition of the war Beatrice was waging within her own heart, a war Ava knew, with absolute certainty, was already lost.

The charged look lasted a lifetime- Ava’s dark eyes dropping to Beatrice’s mouth, the air between them pulling taut with the weight of their history. And that was it. The last fragile thread of Beatrice’s resistance snapped.

She surged forward, crashing her mouth against Ava’s in a kiss, a furious attempt to outrun the words still hanging in the air. It was consuming, a storm seeking to drown out reason.

Ava kissed her back, but her pace was different. Where Beatrice was a wildfire, Ava was the deep, steady earth. Her mouth was patient, softening the frantic edges, absorbing the fury and gentling it. Her hand, which had been cradling Beatrice’s face, skated down her side, coming to rest firmly on her waist. The pressure was grounding, not restraining. Then her fingers sought Beatrice’s, threading through them, lacing them together against the sheets- an anchor in the storm.

When Ava finally broke the kiss, it was just far enough to speak. Her breath fanned over Beatrice’s wet lips, her eyes holding hers with an unbearable tenderness.

“I love you.”, she confessed again, the words a simple truth.

Beatrice shook her head, a frantic, denying motion, as if she could physically dislodge the words. The intimacy of the intertwined fingers, the solemn certainty in her eyes- it was too much. The fortress was crumbling, and the only defence left now was flight.

She tore her hand from Ava’s grip. The separation felt violent. In one abrupt, fluid motion, she pushed herself up and off the bed, standing in the delicate lace picked out for her and trembling in the centre of the room.

“I can’t do this.”, she choked out, the words barely audible.

Then she turned, and without another glance, walked out of Ava’s bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.

The guest room door closed down the hall. The sound was a period at the end of a sentence Beatrice had spent six years trying to write in her head.

Ava fell back against the pillows, her body sinking into the sudden, immense quiet. The sheets still held the ghost of Beatrice’s warmth, the scent of her perfume, the impression of her weight. Ava stared at the ceiling, at the subtle texture of the plaster in the lamplight, her mind eerily calm.

The truth was out there now. It wasn’t coiled in her chest anymore, a silent, screaming secret. It was loose in the world, hanging in the air of this room, lying in the empty space beside her. I love you. She had said it. To Beatrice’s face, in the light, with her hands in hers.

There was no taking it back. No retreat into polite distance or academic detachment. The foundational lie of the week -that this could be meaningless- was incinerated.

All that remained was the truth: she was in love with Beatrice, and Beatrice was so terrified of that love she had fled from it.

*

The next morning, the house held its breath. Ava was at the kitchen counter, the quiet gurgle of the coffee maker the only sound. She watched the rich stream pour into a mug, when the soft pad of footsteps on the stairs announced Beatrice’s arrival.

Ava didn’t turn, but her shoulders stiffened almost immediately. She heard Beatrice stop behind her, a hesitant presence. When the mug was full, Ava finally turned. She took in Beatrice’s appearance- dressed, composed, eyes guarded, but shadowed. Without a word, she held out the mug.

Beatrice looked at the steam curling from the dark surface, then at Ava’s face, which was softer than she deserved. And she hated her for it. She hated this specific, quiet kindness, because she knew, with a sickening certainty, that it wasn’t just politeness. It was Ava’s love for her, distilled into a morning ritual. It was the love that had survived six years of silence, that had whispered in the dark last night, now silently offering her her own coffee, as if her heart hadn’t just been ripped out and laid bare on the floor between them.

She took the mug, her fingers brushing Ava’s briefly. “Thank you.”

Ava just nodded and turned back to make a second cup for herself, her movements methodical.

Beatrice carried her mug to the island and sat on a bar stool, watching the tense line of Ava’s back. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. She had to break it. She had to be the one to define the ending, since she had so clearly failed to define anything else.

“I’ve looked at flights.”, she began, her voice unnaturally steady in the quiet room.

Ava’s hands stilled on the counter. She didn’t turn, but her posture became one of absolute, listening stillness.

“There is a direct one at 4 PM tomorrow.”, Beatrice continued, staring at the dark liquid in her mug. She took a shallow breath. “Or there is another one today… I could fly back in the evening. Then you’d have tomorrow for yourself. Before work on Monday.” She laid the options on the table like cards, giving Ava the choice of a swift cut or a delayed one.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the new coffee dripping. Then Ava turned around, her own mug now in hand. She regarded Beatrice, “I’ll drive you to the airport after we have brunch tomorrow.”

The statement was a verdict. It refused the hastier escape, forcing one more day, a formal, drawn-out closure. It accepted the end, but on its own, deliberate terms.

Beatrice blinked, thrown by the quiet authority of it. She searched Ava’s face for a sign -regret, anger, pain- but found only a resolute certainty.

“Thank you.” Beatrice said again, the words feeling even more inadequate this time.

Ava just nodded, her eyes holding Beatrice’s for a weighted second over the rim of her mug, before she took a slow, deliberate sip.

The air after lunch was soft, carrying the scent of cut grass and a distant sea. They walked without a destination, side by side along a gravel path that wound through a park at the edge of town, their steps falling into a slow, synchronised rhythm. The tension of the morning had mellowed into a kind of weary truce.

“Tiago and Ana came to visit a few weeks ago.”, Ava said, her voice quiet against the backdrop of chirping birds. She kept her gaze forward, on the dappled shade ahead. “They stayed for a week. I showed them the villa. Tiago just… stood in the grand salon for twenty minutes, not saying a word. Just looking at the wood.” A soft, fond smile touched her lips. “Ana cried. She... said my father would have been proud.”

Beatrice listened, the story painting a picture of a life Ava had built- a life of chosen family, of hard-won respect, of a home that was more than a beautiful house. It was the opposite of the rootless, academic austerity Beatrice had constructed for herself. It was warm, and real, and it made something ache deep in Beatrice’s chest.

They rounded a bend and the path opened up to a stunning vista: a wide, green valley dotted with stone farmhouses, and beyond, the slate-grey shimmer of the Atlantic under a vast, cloud-dappled sky. A simple wooden bench, silvered by weather, faced the view.

Wordlessly, they moved toward it and sat. The space between them on the bench was careful, but not cold. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Ava’s hand, resting on wood between them, shifted. Her fingers tentatively brushed against Beatrice’s, then, with a quiet resolve, she laced their hands together.

Beatrice didn’t pull away. She let her hand lie in Ava’s, a passive acceptance that felt more intimate than any kiss they’d shared that week. She stared out at the breathtaking landscape, but her awareness was narrowed to the familiar warmth, the slight roughness of Ava’s calloused palm, the gentle, steadfast pressure.

And she noticed, with a devastating clarity, how easy it truly was. To sit here. To listen to Ava’s stories about São Paulo, about Ana’s homemade food, about the master luthier. To simply be beside her, without the armour of anger or the distraction of desire. It was shockingly, peacefully easy.

She hated it. She hated how Ava was right. All her protests, her walls, her insistence on a meaningless fling- they crumbled to dust in the face of this simple, profound compatibility. There was something there, something deep and solid and terrifying beneath the physical pull, beneath the electric sexual chemistry. It was the foundation she’d spent six years trying to bury, and it was still there, as strong as ever.

She voiced none of this. No confession, no surrender. She just sat in the sunlight, her hand in Ava’s, staring at a beautiful view she would never see again, and accepted the final, irrevocable truth in the silence of her own heart: She really, truly hated Ava for still loving her. She hated Ava, because she still loved her as well.

And that love made a lie of every defence she had left, and it made the act of walking away feel like amputation.

 

The evening of their last night settled over the house like a soft, blue blanket. They sat on the large sofa in the living room, a respectable distance between them, each holding a glass of wine like a shield. The fire Ava had lit crackled softly, painting dancing shadows on the walls. It was a scene of domestic tranquility that felt like a beautifully staged lie.

Beatrice broke the quiet, her voice measured, as if reading from a prepared statement. “I’m very busy. I plan on finishing my degree in the foreseeable future. I cannot afford distraction.” She took a sip of wine, not looking at Ava.

Ava set her glass down on the low table. She regarded Beatrice, the firelight flickering in her dark eyes. “I’m also busy.”, she conceded, “But you know how the French are. They value their weekends.” She seemed to come to a decision, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t have a single weekend that you use to unwind?”

“And you think I want to unwind with you?”, Beatrice’s retort was sharp, but lacked its usual defensive heat. It sounded almost like a genuine question.

Ava considered it. Her arm, which had been draped along the back of the sofa, moved. Her hand came to rest on Beatrice’s shoulder, resting there, a warm, heavy weight. “Can’t you…?”, she asked, her voice softening, the sentence trailing off.

Beatrice turned her head, meeting the touch with a slight, reserved smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “What do you expect from me, Ava?”

“I expect you to think about this.”

“About what, exactly?”

Ava was silent for a long moment, her gaze searching Beatrice’s face. “I want you to think about having me in your life again.”

Beatrice took a slow sip of her wine, buying time. She set the glass down with deliberate care and turned her body to face Ava fully, tucking one leg beneath her. The movement brought them closer. “May I remind you…”, she said, her voice dangerously calm, “What you think of long-distance… romance?” The word relationship felt foreign to her.

Ava didn’t flinch. “I was seventeen. My parents had just died. I could have offered you nothing. We wouldn’t have lasted.” The words were clinical, a post-mortem analysis of their shared tragedy.

“And you think we would last now?”, Beatrice challenged, the old wound throbbing beneath the question.

“Wouldn’t you want to try and find out?”, Ava’s reply held the weight of the entire week, of the six years of silence that had preceded it.

Beatrice considered it. And frankly, no. A cold, logical part of her screamed that she would die, if she had to go through that particular brand of heartbreak again. It had taken years to rebuild from the ashes of the last one. But then the other part of her -the part that loved Ava so desperately, it had curdled into this potent, all-consuming hatred- couldn’t accept that she could simply walk away from this house, from this woman, and ever feel whole again. The week had changed the calculus. It had proven the ghost was still flesh, and the flesh was a siren’s call.

So she settled on something in between surrender and flight. A compromise with herself. “I should let you know...”, she began, her voice carefully neutral, as if discussing a colleague’s schedule. “My calendar opens up a bit more from mid-June.”

Ava’s breath caught. June. It was just a week away. Hope, bright and terrifying, flared in her chest, making her heart thump a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“I could consider…”, Beatrice continued, emphasising the word, “Taking some time off. To unwind.”

The ghost of a smile, the first real one all evening, touched Ava’s lips. It was small, but it lit her whole face. She leaned in, just a fraction, her hand still warm on Beatrice’s shoulder. 

“Just tell me when and where.”

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.