Felicity's POV.
The music from the party still pulsed faintly in my ears as Christopher and I stepped into the crisp Oxford night. My heels hurt. My cheeks ached from hours of fake smiling. And my brain? Completely fried—deep-fried, dipped in confusion, and served with a side of emotional exhaustion. The party was over, yet I was still spinning. My hand rested lightly on his arm, his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of my dress like a slow, steady burn.
Alex had vanished without a trace. Beside me, Chris walked in silence—one hand buried in his pocket, the other holding my heels, because halfway to my dorm, I'd surrendered and handed them over.
He looked good. Too good.
Suit jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long abandoned. His curls were just the right kind of messy—like he'd dragged a frustrated hand through them more than once…probably because of me. And gosh, everything about tonight felt heavier than it should.
"What are you thinking about?" His voice was low, almost gentle and careful, like he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
"You," I admitted before I could stop myself.
His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "What about me?"
I hesitated, biting my lip. "Just… how complicated tonight got."
His gaze softened, but there was something unreadable there. "Alex showing up. Yeah."
And Penelope. And Mia. And whatever the heck just happened between Alex and me at the bar. The look in his eyes—half anger, half heartbreak.
But right now? None of that mattered. Because the one beside me, holding my shoes and walking me home without being asked that was the one I'd chosen.
"You realise you're walking me home like some Victorian gentleman," I teased.
He shot me a sideways look. "Victorian gentlemen didn't think about doing what I'm thinking of doing right now."
That earned him a sharp inhale from me. "And what exactly are you thinking?"
"Don't tempt me, Felicity." His voice dipped so low it was practically a growl.
We turned a corner, the moonlight catching on his jawline in a way that made my knees regret being attached to the rest of me. My dorm building came into view—and so did Penelope, leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting to audition for the role of Nosy Best Friend Who Appears at the Worst Possible Moment.
"Finally," she said, eyes darting between us. "I was about to send out a search party."
Christopher's jaw ticked. "We were… talking."
Penelope smirked at me like she knew exactly how much "talking" we'd been doing with our eyes. "Mhm. Well, I'll just let you get back to that." She winked and sauntered off, whisper-singing, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
I buried my face in my hands. "I hate her."
"No, you don't," Christopher said, stepping closer. "You just wish she'd text next time instead of appearing like the Ghost of Cockblocks Past."
We made it halfway to my door before buzzing.
I groaned. "If that's her again—" It wasn't. It was Mia. Where r u? followed by, Is Christopher with u??? and then a suspiciously aggressive, Don't do anything stupid.
I shoved my phone into my clutch without replying. "Nope. Not dealing with that right now."
Christopher glanced at my expression. "Mia?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Block her."
"You're evil."
"Efficient," he corrected, sliding his hand down my back until it rested on my hip.
By the time we reached my dorm door, my pulse was pounding like a drum solo in my ears. I fumbled with my keys, hyperaware of how close he stood—close enough that his breath brushed my temple.
"Thanks," I murmured, clutching the keys. "For the shoes. And… for everything tonight."
He stepped closer. Much closer. My breath caught as his fingers grazed mine, gently taking the key from my hand.
"I'll do it," he said quietly.
He slid the key into the lock, slowly, deliberately—like he wasn't just opening the door, but testing the space between us.
I stepped inside. He followed. I didn't stop him.
The air shifted the second the door shut behind us. I should've said goodnight. But I didn't.
"Felicity," he murmured, his tone a warning and a promise all in one.
I looked up at him, and my last coherent thought was yes.
And then—BANG BANG BANG. We both jumped.
A male voice yelled, "Felicity, you left your—oh. Uh. Hi."
It was Tom from the debate club, holding a library book like it was evidence. His eyes flicked between us.
"Really, Tom?" I shot back, eyebrows arching.
"Sorry! Just… yeah, sorry." He scurried off, mumbling about due dates.
Christopher's eyes locked back on mine. "If one more person interrupts us…"
I smirked. "Then what?"
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. "Then I'm locking the door."
Because his eyes were locked on me—and suddenly, the silence between us felt heavier than the music from the party ever was.
"I hated seeing him look at you," Chris said, voice low, like it cost him to admit it.
"Alex?" I asked, even though I already knew.
He nodded. His jaw tightened. "Yeah. It was weird. The way he was looking at you, it was wrong."
"How so?" I asked, tilting my head. "Weird how?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Weird like…he was looking at something that wasn't his to look at. Like he thought he had a right. It made me want to punch him."
"But you didn't."
"Only because you were watching," he murmured, stepping a fraction closer.
I arched a brow. "Jealous?"
"Madly," he said—without hesitation, without shame—like it was the most natural thing in the world to want to claim me.
He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. My back pressed against the door. His eyes dropped to my lips.
"Say stop," he whispered.
I didn't. He kissed me. And the world tilted.
It wasn't soft—it was hungry, messy, desperate. Every bit of frustration, tension, and unsaid words between us crashed in like a tidal wave. His hands roamed—my waist, my back, my face—like he couldn't touch me fast enough.
My fingers tangled in his shirt as I pulled him closer. Clothes tugged. We bumped into walls, laughing breathlessly between kisses like drunk rom-com teenagers.
"I can't believe you wore this robe," he groaned against my skin.
"The Sub Fusc? Why?" I teased.
"Because it's evil."
I laughed. " Evil really? You like evil?"
"I like you."
My knees went weak. He lifted me effortlessly, and I wrapped my legs around him as he carried me to the bed like it was a royal command.
"I'm not breakable, Chris."
"I know," he said, grinning. "But I plan to take my time ruining you."
He kissed me again—slow, deep—his lips wandering from my neck, trailing down toward my stomach. My breath caught.
In my head, alarms blared: Oh my gosh… he's good. Really good. But I can't… not now. No way.
"Wait," I breathed, my hand pressing gently against his chest.
He froze instantly, as if my voice alone had flipped some switch. His gaze locked on mine—concern, care, and a flicker of something deeper swirling there.
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" His voice was low, almost fragile.
I swallowed hard. "I've never… kissed anyone except you. And I've never had sex. I'm not planning to. Not yet." The words tumbled out, my cheeks burning. "I just… wanted you to know. But… I want to wait. Until I'm married."
For a moment, he was silent. Then—slowly—he sat up, taking my face gently in his hands. His thumbs brushed along my cheekbones, as if I was something precious.
"You mean…" His voice cracked, just slightly. "You've saved all of that… for me?"
I nodded, my eyes stinging with something I couldn't quite name.
A slow, breathtaking smile broke across his face. "Sweetheart," he whispered, "that is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me. And I will never rush you." His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm. "If you want to wait until we're married… then I'll wait."
I laughed softly, still a little nervous. "You say that like marriage is a given."
"Oh, it is." His grin turned wicked and soft all at once. "Because I'm marrying the heck out of you."
I let out a startled laugh. "You did not just say that."
"Mm-hm," he teased, pulling me close again—but this time, it was just a warm, safe embrace.
We curled up together on the bed, tangled in each other's arms, and for the first time in my life, I felt the kind of love that didn't need rushing.
>>>>>
Christopher's POV.
Step one: Show up for her✓.
Step two: Try not to lose my mind.
Felicity Paddington was going to be the death of me. Not literally—though the way she walked into that party in that black-and-white dress… looking like she had no idea she was setting the whole room on fire—was dangerously close to stopping my heart.
I knew it when she flashed me that sarcastic smile, the one that says I'm ignoring you on purpose, and danced with every guy except me.
But now? This moment in her dorm room—her curled up next to me, warm and soft, her hair carrying that faint scent of wildflowers—yeah, I was done for. Now I knew it in my soul. I didn't just know it in my head; I felt it in my bones, deep in my chest. Felicity Paddington wasn't just in my life— she was carved into me. Branded there like her name had been stamped in permanent ink.
The dorm door clicked shut behind us, shutting out the rest of the world. It was just us. Her perfume lingered in the air, sweet and distracting, and she was looking at me like she'd been holding her breath since the party.
"You know," I said, stepping forward until her back met the wall, "I don't think we ever finished that conversation from earlier."
Her lips curved into that teasing smile. "What conversation?"
"The one where I tell you how hard it is to be near you without—"
Her hand slid up my chest, stopping me mid-sentence. Her eyes were locked on mine, dark and daring. "Then maybe," she whispered, "you shouldn't stop."
And just like that, interruptions be damned, the tension between us snapped into heat.
She wasn't just a girl I liked—she was it. The plot twist I never saw coming. The whole damn story I didn't know I was already in. She tasted like chaos—like stolen midnights and secrets whispered so close they branded themselves into your skin. She kissed like she had something to prove, and God help me, I wanted to be the one she proved it to.
But it wasn't just the heat I craved. She kissed like she was daring me to keep up—like every brush of her lips was a challenge, a warning, and a plea all at once. Like she was testing if I'd run…and terrified I might actually stay.
I wanted to give her everything. Not just the fire that left us breathless in the dark, but the soft, unshakable mornings after—her tangled in my sheets, where the world could fall apart, and she'd still be in my arms.
I wanted more than the rush. I wanted the bad days, the slammed doors, the messy, unpretty truth of her, complicated moments, the arguments we'd regret and the make-ups we'd replay in our heads for weeks. I wanted her storms and her sunlight. Her chaos and her calm. I wanted the beautifully flawed parts of real love. I wanted all of it—every last bit of her until there was nothing left she hadn't given me.
"You okay?" I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder.
She nodded, curling closer, like she'd been made to fit against me. Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing calm, but I could still feel the weight of everything unsaid between us.
I wanted to tell her she didn't have to be careful with me. That I'd wait, no matter how long it took. That I'd walk through every bit of drama and madness this year would throw at us, just to end up right here—with her.
And I meant it.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered.
She didn't answer with words. She didn't need to.
Instead, she kissed me—slow, certain. And in that kiss, there was no rush, no fear, no jealousy. Just trust.
It felt like the moment two people who had weathered every storm finally let their guards down for someone who just might be worth it.
Right then, I knew—waiting for her would never feel like waiting. It would feel like building something that could last forever.