*The engine hummed quietly as Oliver Drummond waited, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. His breath fogged the window—another London evening, another failed excuse to be here. But he knew, somehow, he’d see her again.*
A year ago, he’d spotted her while driving home from his IT internship. Just a glimpse—long enough to turn the car around, but by then, she’d vanished into the crowd. Now, whenever loneliness clawed at him, he came back to this street, replaying the moment he’d step out and say, *”Hi. Fancy running into you…”*
They’d been classmates. Just another girl then—quiet, studious, unremarkable. None of the girls had mattered to him back then; after years of shared classrooms and playgrounds, they felt like sisters. How do you fall for someone you’ve known since you were eleven?
Then GCSEs loomed. Oliver had never stressed over grades before, but now his mother’s expectations weighed heavy. She dreamed of him following his late father—a barrister, felled by a heart attack two winters prior.
Oliver hated the idea. He wanted to code, to build something with his hands. For that, he needed maths.
Mr. Phelps, their gaunt maths teacher, had announced a test that morning. *”However you score today, that’s your term grade. No second chances.”*
The problems came easily—until the last. Oliver’s pen hovered over the page, sweat pricking his neck. He nudged the broad back of Charlie Whittaker in front of him. No response.
Behind him sat Eleanor Whitmore—top of the class, never one to share answers. Beside him, his mate Liam scribbled furiously. *”Piss off, I’m drowning here,”* Liam muttered when Oliver slid his paper closer.
Across the aisle, Jessica Carver worked through the same set. He wouldn’t ask her. She’d fancied him for years—one word, and she’d orbit him like a satellite.
Mr. Phelps prowled the aisles, spine straight as a ruler. He paused behind Charlie, sighed, and moved on.
A light tap on Oliver’s shoulder. He turned. Eleanor’s lips shaped a silent *”Give it.”* He passed his paper beneath the desk, heart hammering.
*”Harrison, check your working. You’ve time yet,”* Mr. Phelps said, looming over another desk.
Then—a whisper of paper against his shoulder. Oliver snatched it. Scrawled at the bottom in pencil: the answer. He copied it frantically, erasing the evidence as Mr. Phelps’ shadow stretched across his desk. The bell rang.
*”Thank you,”* Oliver blurted in the hallway later. *”You saved me.”*
Eleanor adjusted her bag. *”Hardly. Same paper, wasn’t it?”*
He hadn’t expected help from her. Never once had she bent the rules.
After school, he waited by the gates.
*”How’d you know I was stuck?”* he asked, falling into step beside her.
*”You were sweating like a sinner in church.”*
*”Thought I’d flunk it.”*
*”Applying for law, then?”* she said, surprising him.
*”How’d you—? No. Mum wants it. I’m set on comp sci.”*
*”Our mums work at the same clinic. Didn’t you know?”*
He hadn’t.
Jessica’s stare burned into his back as they walked. *”She’s jealous,”* Eleanor said lightly. *”Still fancies you.”*
*”Tell me about it,”* Oliver groaned. *”What about you? Med school?”*
*”Paediatrics.”*
That stunned him. Sharp, silent Eleanor—who’d have guessed?
At her building, he stalled. *”Explain that problem again? GCSE’s coming.”*
She sighed but pulled out a notebook. They bent over it, her hair brushing his cheek—a spark where it touched. His stomach knotted. He hadn’t noticed before: the gold flecks in her dark eyes, how her lips moved…
*”Got it?”* she demanded.
He hadn’t heard a word.
*”No,”* he admitted. *”Listen—fancy the cinema?”*
She snapped her book shut. *”I just wasted ten minutes. Seriously?”*
Before he could reply, she vanished inside.
*”I’ll go,”* Jessica purred from the shadows. He’d forgotten she was there.
—
The next day, he waited again.
*”More maths?”* Eleanor teased.
*”No. I fancy you,”* Oliver blurted.
She studied him as kids shrieked around them. Then—*”Come on.”*
*”Where?”*
*”The cinema. You asked yesterday.”*
He nearly tripped over his own feet.
—
They met more often after that—until uni. He gotBut years later, when he finally stood on her doorstep again, the boy holding her hand wasn’t his—though the way her eyes softened when she saw him made Oliver dare to hope.
