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Chapter Text

The rain never seemed to stop at St. Bartholomew’s. It streaked the tall, dust-smeared windows of the old lecture hall, making the outside world blur into grey swaths of water and stone. The room itself smelled of old paper and damp wool, a thousand years of scholars and their books breathing out of the cracks in the walls.

Miguel O’Hara sat hunched over his notes, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, jaw working in quiet irritation as he underlined something in his textbook. He’d been at this university for nearly three years now, long enough to get used to the gothic towers, the shadowy corridors lined with oil portraits of dead academics, the never-ending drizzle that dampened your collar and hair. But he’d never grown used to people like you.

Your laugh had already broken through the solemn atmosphere of the room three times before the professor had even assigned the project. You sat with your friends, your silk blouse too pristine for the weather outside, golden pen twirling carelessly between your fingers. Everyone knew who you were, your family name was practically carved into one of the marble plaques in the main courtyard. You didn’t need scholarships or sleepless nights to be here; your father’s donations had paved your way through the ivy-clad gates.

Miguel, however, had bled for his place. Long hours tutoring high schoolers who didn’t care about Virgil or metaphysics, summer jobs spent stacking boxes until his back ached, nights lit by nothing but a flickering desk lamp and coffee so bitter it turned his stomach. And now, after all that, the professor had decided to pair him with you.

He didn’t even hear his name at first, only yours.

“Miss Ravencroft, Mr. O’Hara. You’ll be working together.”

Miguel’s head snapped up, pencil pausing mid-scribble. His dark brows drew together. You turned toward him at the sound of your name, lips curling into a faint smile that wasn’t quite polite but wasn’t cruel either. It was the kind of smile someone gave when they already knew they’d won.

“Lucky me,” you said softly, though whether it was meant for him or your friends, Miguel couldn’t tell.

The professor droned on about requirements, presentations, citations, a twenty-page essay on Rhetoric and Decay in Post-Classical Thought , but Miguel barely heard it. He could already feel your gaze brushing against him, studying the boy with the crooked glasses, ink-stained fingers, and sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.

When the lecture finally ended and the heavy doors creaked open to release the tide of students, you approached him. He was gathering his books into a leather satchel, careful not to let the rain seep in through the window cracks.

“So,” you began, voice light, though there was something sharp under the surface. “Guess we’re partners.”

Miguel didn’t look up immediately. He finished slipping a paper into its folder, adjusted his glasses, and then met your eyes. They were striking, dark, unyielding, framed by the faint shadows of sleepless nights.

“You guess right.” he said, clipped, almost curt.

You tilted your head, as if amused by his resistance. “Don’t look so thrilled. I promise I can read.”

“Reading isn’t the problem,” Miguel muttered, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. His accent thickened slightly when he was irritated, something he tried to keep buried most of the time.

“Oh?” You fell into step beside him as the two of you walked out into the corridor. The old floorboards groaned beneath your shoes, the hall lit only by sputtering lamps and the grey daylight that fought to break through stained glass. “What is the problem then?”

He didn’t answer right away. Outside, the rain beat harder against the tall windows, drowning out the distant echo of footsteps. Miguel adjusted his satchel strap, gaze fixed ahead.

“The problem,” he said finally, “is that some people treat this place like another dinner party their family bought them into. And others…” He trailed off, lips pressing into a thin line.

“And others?” you pressed, a faint smile tugging at your lips, though your voice was quieter now, less playful.

“Others worked too damn hard to waste their time.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy as the storm outside.

You didn’t respond, not immediately. Instead, you let the silence stretch, broken only by the hollow thrum of rain on glass.

But then you smiled again, sharp and bright as a blade. “Well,” you said, pulling your coat tighter around you, “then I guess you’ll just have to make sure I don’t waste yours.”

You turned down the hall, footsteps echoing until you disappeared around the corner. Miguel stood there a moment longer, the storm raging outside, his jaw tight and his mind already racing.

This partnership was going to be hell.

Three weeks blurred together in shades of grey and candlelight. Rain never stopped its relentless tapping against the tall windows, and the oak-paneled library seemed to shrink each day under the weight of your voices, books, and drafts.

Well, Miguel’s drafts.

He wrote until the tips of his fingers were permanently smudged with ink, his cramped handwriting filling page after page of analysis, citations, outlines, then more outlines when the first ones weren’t good enough. His notes looked like maps to secret kingdoms, every margin dense with arrows and frantic scribbles.

And then there was you.

You came to the library in skirts too high and delicate for the mildew-damp air, perfume clinging to your skin, cheeks warmed by whatever laughter had carried you through the day. You sprawled across the cracked leather chairs, twirling your pen, tossing in the occasional comment that was equal parts sharp and lazy.

You could keep up, he knew that much. He’d seen it in flashes: the way your eyes glinted when a passage actually caught your interest, or the way you quoted something perfectly without even looking it up. But most of the time, you didn’t try. Not really.

This afternoon was no different. The rain hammered so hard against the windows that it sounded like a thousand tiny fists, the lamps overhead casting yellow light across the dusty table. Miguel was hunched over a draft, muttering under his breath about poor translations, glasses slipping down his nose. You were stretched across from him, chin resting on your palm, staring out at the endless drizzle.

“This place is miserable, ” you sighed, drumming your fingers against the wood. “All grey skies and damp stone. If I had it my way, I’d move somewhere warm. Spain, maybe. Or Greece. Somewhere with the sun. Can you imagine, waking up and actually seeing blue skies instead of all this gloom?”

Miguel didn’t look up. His pencil pressed so hard into the paper the lead threatened to snap.

“You know,” you went on, ignoring his silence, “my father nearly bought a villa in Tuscany. We spent two summers there. God, the light, every hour was like golden wine. Not like-” You gestured vaguely at the dripping windows. “This.”

That was it. The snap.

Miguel’s hand slammed flat against the table, hard enough to rattle the inkwell and make you jump. His eyes, usually tired and hidden behind glass, burned when they met yours.

“Do you ever listen to yourself?” His voice was low, edged like the crack of a whip. “Every hour I’ve spent in this library, writing, rewriting, trying to salvage something worth submitting–and all you can do is sit there and complain about the weather. About wanting sunshine. About villas.”

You blinked, the faintest laugh caught in your throat, though his anger was real enough to sting. “What’s your problem, O’Hara? It’s just conversation-”

“It's a distraction . ” He cut you off sharply, leaning closer across the table. “And you can afford to be distracted, can’t you? Daddy’s money will polish your grades the same way it polished your nameplate on this school. But me?” He jabbed a finger against his own chest. “I don’t get that. If I fail here, I lose everything I’ve bled for. So forgive me if I don’t want to hear another word about your perfect summers and villas while I’m the one keeping us from failing this project.”

The rain outside seemed to pause, just for a heartbeat, as silence swallowed the table.

You stared at him, lips parted, that easy laugh gone. Something flickered in your expression, hurt, pride, maybe even a hint of guilt, but you masked it quickly, leaning back in your chair.

“…You really hate me, don’t you?” you murmured, voice quieter than he expected.

Miguel’s jaw clenched. He looked back down at his notes, refusing to meet your eyes again. “I don’t have time to hate you. I have work to do.”

The scratching of his pencil filled the silence, broken only by the sigh of the rain and the soft ticking of the old brass clock on the wall. You leaned back in your chair, watching him, lips curving slowly into something sly.

“Well,” you said, voice casual, though there was a glint in your eyes, “if it bothers you that much… my daddy could always buy your grades for you. If you fail.”

The words slipped out like a joke, the corner of your mouth tugging upward, waiting for him to bite.

But Miguel didn’t laugh. He froze. His pencil stopped mid-word. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and the look in his eyes could’ve frozen the rain outside mid-drop.

“That’s not funny.” His voice was flat, low, a quiet danger.

You blinked, lips parting as though you expected him to soften, to crack a smile and let the tension bleed away. He didn’t.

“Come on,” you said, forcing a little laugh. “It was a joke. Lighten up, O’Hara. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer before you’re thirty.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking in his cheek. He shoved his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing.

“You think this is all a game, don’t you?” His tone was sharper now, the edges of his accent rougher, words tumbling out with restrained heat. “Grades, classes, this entire school, you can play with it like it’s pocket change, because you’ll never understand what it’s like to have nothing to fall back on.”

He leaned forward, close enough that you could see the ink stains smudging his fingertips, the faint shadows under his eyes from nights he hadn’t slept.

“I don’t get to ‘lighten up.’ Not when one wrong move puts me right back where I started. So don’t you ever joke about that again.”

Your smile faltered. For once, you didn’t have some clever remark ready on your tongue. His intensity burned through your practiced ease, his words sticking like pins under your skin.

The silence stretched, the library’s damp air heavy between you. Finally, you leaned back, trying to smooth the tension with a softer grin, even if it felt a little forced now.

“…You really don’t know how to take a joke, do you?”

But there was no teasing lilt in your voice this time.

Miguel didn’t answer. He bent his head back to the page, the scratch of his pencil returning like a wall slamming shut.

Still, you couldn’t shake the thought that lingered as you watched him: he wasn’t just some bookish boy who lived for footnotes and ink. He was carrying something heavier than this essay. Something heavier than you’d thought.

The silence dragged for a few more minutes, punctuated only by the scratching of his pencil and the rain that rattled against the windows like a thousand fingernails. You tapped your pen against the table, watching the sharp bend of his wrist as he wrote, the set of his jaw, the stubborn way he ignored you.

Finally, you broke it.

“So, O’Hara,” you said, your voice lighter than the heaviness between you, “what do you actually want to do? You know, when you’re out of here. When all these papers and late nights mean something.”

He hesitated, the pencil hovering just above the page. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of pulling him into another conversation. But curiosity, or maybe exhaustion, won out.

“…Research,” he said finally, tone clipped but honest. “Bioengineering. Genetics. Something that matters. Something that fixes things.”

There was a conviction in his voice, steady and solid, and for a second you almost admired it. Almost.

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “That sounds… noble. Important.” A pause, then a mischievous smile curved your lips. “Me? I just want to be a housewife in Spain. Wake up late, drink coffee on a sunlit balcony, spend my days reading and buying fruit from the market. Doesn’t that sound better than spending your life in some lab?”

Miguel’s pencil stilled again. He blinked once, then let out a sharp, incredulous breath, rolling his eyes as he pushed his glasses higher. “Dios…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You know my family’s Spanish, right?”

You froze, then perked up immediately, eyes widening, a grin spreading across your face. “ Really? ”

Miguel realized instantly the mistake he’d made. He hadn’t meant it as an invitation, just a throwaway remark. But the way your expression lit up, it was clear you’d taken it another way entirely.

Your smile is sharpened, playful and wicked. “So what you’re saying is… you’re already volunteering for the role of my husband. That’s bold, O’Hara.”

Miguel’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and he straightened so abruptly his chair scraped against the stone floor. “That’s not what I said.”

But you only leaned back in your chair, smirking like you’d won a battle he didn’t even know you were fighting. “Don’t backtrack now. Spain, a housewife, and a Spanish husband, it all makes sense. I knew you’d come around eventually.”

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something sharp and low in Spanish that you couldn’t quite catch, though the tone was clear enough: exasperation wrapped in disbelief.

There was the faintest flush creeping up his neck.

You noticed. And it only made your grin grow wider.

Miguel’s fingers tightened around his pencil, his jaw clenched as he fought to get the words out.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said sharply, his accent curling thicker when he was irritated. His dark eyes flicked to you, then down again, as though the pages might shield him. “You’re not my type.”

It was a lie, and he knew it. He knew it from the way your laughter lingered in his head when he tried to study, from the way your perfume clung to the air in the library long after you left. But he forced the words out, brittle and cold, like armor.

You leaned forward slightly, grin curling at the edge of your mouth. “Not your type, hm?” you teased, voice light but your eyes sharp enough to catch the hesitation, the way his ears burned faintly pink. “I’ll remember that.”

Before Miguel could gather his words, the sound of clicking heels and loud gum-smacking cut through the heavy air.

“ Ohhh, there you are! ”

The voice belonged to one of your friends, Sabrina Farroway. She was everything Miguel despised about this place wrapped into one perfect package: silk stockings, hair curled too carefully to be touched by rain, a skirt riding too high up her thigh, daring the world to notice. She swung into the room without hesitation, perfume trailing behind her like smoke.

She dropped her books onto the table with a slam that rattled the inkwell. Miguel’s hand jerked. The tip of his pen scratched too deep, the ink pooling suddenly, exploding in a dark blot across the page.

“ Mierda… ” Miguel muttered under his breath, groaning as he tried to blot the mess with his sleeve. His notes, hours of them, bled into a black puddle.

Sabrina gave a lazy glance at him, as though he were nothing more than another piece of furniture. “Oops,” she drawled, not sounding sorry in the least. She turned her attention squarely on you, ignoring his existence. “Come on, [Name], you’re wasting away here. The boys upstairs swiped a bottle from the dining hall, let’s go.”

You blinked, looking between her and Miguel. “I-no, I can’t, we’re-” You gestured vaguely to the table, to the papers drowning in ink. “We’re working. I need to-”

Sabrina rolled her eyes, grabbing your wrist like a spoiled child tugging at a toy. “Please. Who cares about this? You’ll pass anyway. Daddy’ll make sure of that. Don’t tell me you’d rather sit here with him than have some fun.”

Her voice lingered on the word him like a sneer, and Miguel’s shoulders stiffened. He stared hard at his ruined page, refusing to look up, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his pen.

“Sabrina-” you started, trying to shake her off, throwing Miguel a glance that might’ve been an apology. “I really should-”

But before the words could finish, she yanked you out of your chair with surprising strength, her laugh echoing off the tall wooden shelves. “No excuses! You’ll thank me later.”

The two of you disappeared into the corridor, your protests fading with every step.

And Miguel was left alone.

The rain lashed harder against the windows, the sky outside darker than ink. He stared down at his ruined notes, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, groaning quietly into the hollow space.

Alone again, with nothing but the storm, the endless paper, and the bitter taste of something he refused to name.

Chapter Text

The food hall was cavernous in the mornings, stone arches curving high overhead, stained glass dripping pale light across the long tables. It smelled of damp wood, roasted coffee, and yesterday’s bread. Voices echoed here and there, but most of the students were still too groggy to fill the hall with their usual chatter.

Miguel sat near the end of one of the tables, far enough from the center that no one bothered him. His tray held the simplest fare, black coffee, an apple, toast half-burnt at the edges. His book lay open beside the plate, his pen balanced against his knuckles as he read, marking the margins with neat, cramped notes.

This was the only time of day he could breathe. No spoiled classmates laughing too loudly, no professors bearing down with their endless assignments, no one pulling him away from his work. Just coffee, silence, and the clean scratch of his pen.

Until you appeared.

You slid onto the bench beside him without hesitation, the soft swish of your coat cutting into his fragile pocket of solitude. Miguel’s pen froze. He didn’t look at you at first, only turned the page deliberately, his jaw working as though he hadn’t noticed.

“Morning,” you said, softer than usual. No sharp edge to your tone, no playful grin. “Before you say anything-just… let me apologise, alright?”

Miguel finally glanced up. His expression was flat, sour, his eyes shadowed behind his glasses. “You don’t have to.”

“I do.” You wrapped your hands around the mug of coffee you’d brought, steam curling upward. “About yesterday. Sabrina’s… well, she’s Sabrina. I should’ve stayed. I didn’t want to leave you like that.”

Miguel gave a short, humorless huff, looking back at his book. “Didn’t look like you had much of a choice.”

“I didn’t.” You smiled faintly, though it was smaller than usual, almost sheepish. “She can be… persistent. You try saying no to her when she’s decided something.”

Miguel tapped his pen against the margin, the muscle in his cheek tightening. “You could’ve said no harder.”

That stung, though he didn’t notice the flicker in your eyes as you looked down into your coffee. He wasn’t trying to wound you, he was simply tired, and bitterness still lingered like stale smoke from last night.

“Look,” you said finally, voice low, “I came to say I’m sorry. And to tell you I do want to help. I know you think I’m useless. But I’m not.”

Miguel’s gaze lifted from his book, locking on yours. For a moment, the sour mask wavered, some unspoken thought caught between irritation and something softer.

But then he looked back down, flipping another page, as if burying it. “We’ll see.”

The rain outside hammered harder against the windows.

You let the silence hang for a beat too long, watching the way his eyes darted over the page, his pen dancing through the margins in sharp little strokes. Then, without warning, you reached across and plucked the book right out from under his hand.

“Hey-!” His voice dropped sharp, his palm snapping against the table where the book had been. His head turned toward you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, his expression caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

You held the book in both hands, turning it around to squint at the cover. The title was long, dust-dry, and completely foreign to you: On the Metaphysics of Decay and Continuity .

“…What the hell is this?” you asked, brows furrowed as though the words themselves offended you. “Is this even English?”

Miguel huffed, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, glaring at you from behind his lenses. “Give it back.”

You ignored him, flipping the book open to a random page dense with notes and underlines. “God, you’re such a nerd. All this, your little scribbles everywhere, those glasses…” You glanced at him over the rim of the book, lips quaking into a grin. “…but I guess it’s kinda cute.”

The words landed like a spark in dry wood. Miguel stiffened, his jaw tight. A faint flush crept across the tops of his cheekbones, disappearing quickly beneath the angle of his glasses as he turned sharply away.

“It’s not cute,” he muttered, his voice low and defensive, staring intently at the far wall as though the stained glass there held the answers to the universe.

That only made you laugh. You nudged his arm playfully with your elbow before finally sliding the book back across the table to him. “Relax, O’Hara. I’m not going to tell anyone you’ve got a soft side. Your secret’s safe with me.”

He adjusted his glasses roughly, refusing to meet your eyes, his ears still tinged pink.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially, grin spreading wider. “So… when’s the date, then?”

Miguel groaned, dragging a hand down his face before dropping it onto the table with a dull thud . “Dios, give me strength.”

You laughed again, the sound ringing far too bright for the gloom of the hall. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t tell you to leave, either.

Miguel kept his hand pressed to his forehead, groaning, but when he finally lowered it he let out a quiet, almost reluctant sigh.

“I’ve never had a date,” he muttered, his voice low, rough, as though admitting it tasted bitter on his tongue. “And I don’t plan to. Romance is… a distraction I can’t afford.”

You blinked at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, you tilted your head with a grin. “Funny.”

But then you caught his eyes over the rim of his glasses, serious, unflinching, unreadable except for the faintest shadow in their depths.

The smile slipped from your face. “…Wait. You’re serious?”

Miguel didn’t answer, only went back to slicing his toast with unnecessary precision.

Your mouth opened before your brain could stop it. “So-what, you’ve never even had a first kiss?”

The question hung in the air, reckless and bare.

Miguel’s hand froze mid-cut. His shoulders tensed beneath the rough wool of his sweater. He didn’t look at you, didn’t even breathe for a second, as if the question itself had trapped him in amber. Then, slowly, he turned his face away, gaze fixed stubbornly on the far end of the hall.

That was all the answer you needed.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, a laugh bubbling out before you could stop it. Not cruel, not really, just startled, incredulous. “No way. You’re serious.”

But when Miguel’s jaw tightened, when his lips pressed into that thin, wounded line, your laughter softened, slumping into something quieter. Guilt tugged at your chest.

“Why not?” you asked after a beat, softer now, the question hanging between you like a thread.

Miguel’s fingers tapped the edge of his plate. He shrugged one shoulder, voice barely more than a mumble. “Not exactly handsome, am I?”

The simplicity of it, matter-of-fact, like he was reciting some equation, caught you off guard.

Your eyes widened. “Who told you that?”

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of your stare. “No one. Doesn’t need to be said. People notice.” His tone carried the same weariness as rain against the windows, like he’d been living with that truth too long to question it anymore.

You frowned, leaning your chin into your hand, studying him like a puzzle. 

Miguel’s frown lingered, his fork scraping quietly across the plate. You watched him for a long moment, lips quirking slowly back into a grin.

“Well,” you said at last, your voice casual, light, almost offhand. “If no one else has… I’ll be your first kiss.”

Miguel froze.

For a second, drowned out the entire hall, the echoing chatter, the scrape of chairs, the rain against the tall windows. Then, suddenly, he let out a short, startled laugh. Low and awkward, like he didn’t know where else to put it.

“Good one,” he said, shaking his head as he reached for his book. “Very funny.”

But when his eyes flicked back to you, your expression hadn’t changed. You were still watching him, chin propped against your palm, that same easy grin tugging at your lips.

“I mean it,” you said again, softer this time.

Miguel blinked, caught off guard by the way your tone cut through the noise. His throat worked as he shook his head, muttering, “You’re ridiculous.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, pushing your empty mug away as though he were the one being unreasonable. “Fine. Meet me in the courtyard tonight. Nine o’clock.”

That made him snap his head toward you. “ Why? ” The word left him too loud, too quick, like it had slipped through his defenses before he could strangle it.

You were already standing, slipping your satchel over your shoulder, eyes glittering with that same infuriating playfulness. “You’ll see.”

And before he could protest, before he could demand an explanation or retreat back into the safety of his books, you were already halfway across the hall, weaving between students on your way to the next lecture.

Miguel sat frozen at the table, staring after you. His heart beat faster than he wanted to admit, his half-finished notes blurring as rain smeared light across the stained glass.

“Dios…” he muttered under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair.

For the rest of the morning, he couldn’t concentrate on a single word he read.