“Where are we going?” she asks after a few minutes, her voice soft, curious.
“There’s somewhere I want to show you,” I say. “A place I found as a kid.”
Five minutes later, we turn a corner, and St. Pancras Station looms ahead — lit by the warm amber of old streetlights. I stop at a bench opposite the building.
“Here,” I say.
She looks around, brow furrowing. “Here?”
“Yes.” I gesture for her to sit. When she does, I take the seat beside her, hands clasped between my knees as I stare up at the gothic façade. “When I was ten, my mum passed away. What you don’t know is that, not long after, I ran away. I packed a bag, got on a bus, and ended up here — ready to take the next train to anywhere that didn’t remind me of her.”
Her voice catches, gentle and horrified. “Henry… you were just a kid.”
“I know,” I murmur. “Kids do stupid things. I wasn’t thinking about how it’d hurt my dad — I just wanted the pain to stop.But when I got here, when I saw this building for the first time, something shifted.”
I pause, tracing the intricate spires with my eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asks, her gaze fixed on me now. I can feel it, warm against my skin.
“I was in awe. For the first time in months, I felt small — but in a good way. Like there was still wonder left in the world. I didn’t have the words for it then, but it made me want to build something that could make peoplefeelthat. That’s when I fell in love with architecture.”
She smiles, soft and teasing. “You felt all that at ten years old?”
I laugh, the sound easing the tightness in my chest. “Maybe not quite as poetically, but yes. I sat right here for an hour, just looking at it. Then I went home and decided I’d be the best son I could be. Turns out Dad and I ended up taking care of each other.”
She reaches for my hand again, her thumb brushing lightly against mine. I turn toward her, my heart thudding harder than it should.
“Why are you showing me this?” she asks quietly.
“Because I want you to know me. The real me. Not the version you’ve had to put up with for the last four years.”
Her lips part slightly. “Why now? What’s changed?”
“You,” I say simply. “Me. Nothing and everything.”
I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and for a moment, I just look at her — the faint blush on her cheeks, the shimmer of light in her eyes. “I know I’ve been an arse,” I admit. “A spectacular one, actually. I used work as armour. It kept me from feeling anything real — and I built my walls so high that you got caught in the fallout. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes soften, glassy under the glow of the lamppost.
“I know you want to keep things professional, and maybe you’re right,” I continue, voice quieter now. “But these last few weeks… I’ve felt more alive than I have in years. Because of you. I want to let you in, Matilda. I want to learn everything about you.”
She swallows hard and looks down, and I feel that ache rise — the one that warns rejection’s coming.
“What if in pursuing this, we ruin everything?” she whispers.
“Ruin everything?”
“This,” she says, motioning between us. “We work well together. You drive me insane, but I love what I do — and I want to build my career, to be an architect someday. If this doesn’t work, I could lose it all.”
The words sting, more than I want to admit. “You think I’d let that happen? That I’d let your career suffer because of me?” My tone comes out too sharp, and she winces, reaching for my face.
“Of course not,” she says quickly. “But you might not have a choice. You own the company — people would talk. It would make things complicated.” She hesitates, then adds softly, “And I’ve really loved working with you these past few weeks. I don’t want to lose that.”
The fear in her voice melts the last of my restraint.
“Do you have feelings for me?” I ask quietly. I’ve spent weeks dancing around it — but I need to hear her say it.
Her cheeks flush. Her eyes flicker down. And God, I love how transparent she is — how her face always gives her away.
