[Lottie’s POV]
Saturday afternoon arrives with aggressive sunshine and an uninvited stepbrother at my door.
Oliver stands in my hallway looking unfairly composed. Same man who had his hand up my skirt forty-eight hours ago. Same man I fled from without explanation. Same man who apparently knows where I live now.
"How did you get my address?"
"Helen. She thought stepsiblings should know where each other live." His smile is wry. "In case of emergencies."
"Is this an emergency?"
"Possibly." He pauses. "Can I come in?"
I should say no. Should close the door. Should maintain the professional distance we've been spectacularly failing to maintain since that first wine bar encounter.
I step aside instead. Self-preservation has clearly emigrated to another continent without leaving a forwarding address.
He enters my flat like someone cataloguing evidence. Takes in the cramped kitchen with its mismatched mugs. The overflowing bookshelves I keep meaning to organize. The life I've built that suddenly feels too small for his presence.
"Cozy," he says. Not mockingly. Just observing.
"It's London. Cozy is a euphemism for expensive shoebox."
We settle on opposite ends of my couch. The distance feels calculated. Defensive. Approximately four feet of charged air separating us like a demilitarized zone neither dares cross.
Silence stretches uncomfortably. Oliver nervously—can you imagine?—fumbles with his watch, before unlocking the latch and setting it onto the coffee table. My clock ticks. A car passes outside. Normal sounds for an entirely abnormal situation.
"Friday terrified me," he says finally.
"The almost-discovery?"
"Not exactly." His green eyes find mine with uncomfortable directness. "How much I didn't want to stop. Patterson walked past and all I could think was that we'd wasted thirty seconds we could have spent doing something differently."
My chest tightens. The truth of it resonates somewhere deep. Somewhere dangerous.
"I felt the same," I admit quietly. "The terror came after. In the moment, I just wanted more."
He leans forward slightly. Elbows on knees. The medallion catches afternoon light through my window, throwing tiny reflections across my coffee table.
"What are we doing, Lottie?"
The question I've been avoiding for weeks. The question with no good answer. The question that haunts me at three in the morning when sleep refuses to cooperate.
"I don't know."
"Neither do I." He runs a hand through his hair with visible frustration. "I don't know how to do this. The secrecy. The risk. Performing normalcy at work while remembering how you sound when you—"
"Oliver."
"Sorry." He's not sorry. "But it's true. Every meeting. Every corridor passing. Every bloody email about quarterly projections. All I think about is you."
"This isn't sustainable."
"No," he agrees quietly. "It isn't."
The silence returns. Heavy. Weighted with everything we're not saying. My couch suddenly feels very small.
"So what do we do?" I ask. The question hangs between us like something fragile and breakable. "Where does this even go?"
"I don't have answers." His voice is quieter now. "I've never done this before. The complicated thing. The thing with actual stakes."
"Former gigolo, no experience with stakes. Noted."
"Transactions are simple. Clean. This is—" He gestures vaguely between us. "Not that."
We're leaning toward each other now. The distance shrinking. The demilitarized zone becoming contested territory with every passing second. Neither of us has answers but both of us keep moving closer anyway.
His hand reaches for mine—
The doorbell shatters everything.
I freeze. Check my phone with rising dread. A missed text from fifteen minutes ago glows accusingly on the screen.
Popping by with leftover lasagna, darling!
Horror floods my system like ice water dumped directly into my veins.
"My mother," I hiss. "Hide."
Oliver's eyes widen. "Where?"
"Bedroom. Closet. Anywhere not here."
He moves without argument. The instinct is automatic—we're not stepsiblings having innocent conversation. We're secret lovers about to be catastrophically exposed—but I don’t have time to finish that thought, let alone act on it.
He disappears down the hallway. The bedroom door clicks shut with damning finality.
I smooth my hair. Straighten my jumper. Attempt to rearrange my face into something that doesn't scream "guilty of crimes against family decency."
Deep breath. Open door.
Mum breezes in with Tupperware and maternal enthusiasm. "Darling! You look flushed. Are you feeling alright?"
"Fine." My voice pitches too high. "Just exercising. Cardio. Very vigorous cardio."
She doesn't question this obvious lie. Thank God for self-absorbed mothers with selective hearing.
"I brought lasagna! Richard made far too much and I know you never eat properly when you're alone."
She settles onto my couch—the exact spot Oliver occupied thirty seconds ago. My heart threatens immediate cardiac arrest.
"Don't forget family dinner tomorrow," she chirps. "Richard's making his famous roast. Oliver's coming too, of course."
"Of course." The word tastes like irony and suppressed hysteria.
Her gaze drifts around my flat with maternal inspection. Lands on something near the door.
"Are those men's shoes?"
I follow her eyes. Oliver's brogues. Sitting beside my trainers like evidence at a crime scene. Damning. Obvious. Catastrophic.
Panic spikes. "They're—a friend's."
"And this watch?" She picks up an expensive timepiece from my side table. Oliver's. Left behind like a forensic nightmare. "Darling, have you met someone?"
"Maybe." The lie forms desperately. "I've been seeing someone. It might be serious."
Mum's face transforms into pure maternal delight. "Charlotte! Why didn't you tell me? What's he like? What does he do?"
"He's—nice. Works in client relations. Very attentive."
"How wonderful!" She examines the watch more closely, turning it over in her hands with evident interest. "This is lovely quality. Just like Oliver's, actually. Same brand."
My blood pressure reaches unsurvivable levels. "Is it? When Oliver met him, they joked about having matching taste."
"Oliver's met him? How marvellous that they get along!"
"Marvellously," I agree weakly.
Twenty agonizing minutes follow. Mum discusses Richard's cholesterol. Her yoga instructor's divorce. The neighbour's new pergola that apparently violates several planning regulations.
I nod at appropriate intervals while Oliver presumably suffocates in my closet among winter coats and poor decisions.
Finally—blessedly—she stands to leave. Kisses both cheeks. Promises to call.
The door closes. I sag against it, heart pounding against my ribs.
Oliver emerges from the bedroom. His expression balances perfectly between amused and horrified.
We stare at each other.
The laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Hysterical. Tension-breaking. Completely inappropriate.
He joins immediately. Deep, genuine laughter that shakes his shoulders.
We collapse onto the couch together. The same couch where his watch sat thirty seconds ago, examined by his stepmother while he hid in my bedroom like a fugitive.
"I hid," he manages between laughs. "Like a teenage boyfriend. Not a stepbrother with every right to visit."
"You dove into my closet without question."
"The instinct was automatic." His laughter fades slightly. "What does that say about us?"
The question lands differently now. The humour draining away. The weight returning like it never left.
"It says we know exactly what this is," I answer quietly. "And it's not siblings having tea."
Silence settles over us. The afternoon light shifts through my window. We sit close enough to touch but don't.
"So where does that leave us?" he asks again.
The same impossible question. The same impossible answer.
I look at his face—still flushed from laughter—and feel the weight of what we're doing press down on both of us.
"Nowhere good," I repeat.
But neither of us moves away.