The sound of the jet engines faded to a low thrum as the plane finally touched the tarmac. I gripped my armrests, not out of fear, but utter anticipation. Vancouver was a lifetime of damp predictability and polite, cold silence; London, however, was meant to be the electric shock that rewrote my script.
I'd spent my life in a beautiful cage. My parents, who were incredibly successful, were also emotionally distant. They barely spoke to me, and over the years, I had grown immune to the hurt of that familial vacuum. Now I was transferring to a new university in a different country and it wasn't just a relief for me but it was also one for them.
They had, however, done their due diligence and purchased a gorgeous apartment with an enviable view, just minutes from my new university campus, and also arranged my trip with the precision of a corporate merger. They weren't bad people, just closed systems. Leaving their city felt less like a "goodbye" and more like a "finally." I was now being given the launch codes to my own existence.
Stepping out of the airport and into the cool, sharp London air, I felt an actual, physical thrill. It was like trading a muted watercolour for a vibrant, chaotic oil painting. My driver, a cheerful man named Ohlin, drove me from the airport toward the apartment. It was a 45-minute drive, and throughout, I pressed my face to the window, absorbing the city as he drove. I was immediately struck by the city's breath-taking architecture, an intoxicating jumble of centuries: soaring modern glass next to magnificent, solemn Victorian stone. It was a city that wore its history with a shrug, and it was enticing. However, it wasn't just the architecture that intrigued me. It was the human landscape. The men, well, some were exactly the kind of tall, tailored, and impossibly handsome figures I'd only ever encountered on the pages of the literary novels I had read. It was a pleasant reminder that in this new city, anything was possible, and the leading man might just be waiting on the next corner.
We eventually got to the apartment, and it was stunning—top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view that turned the sprawling city lights into a million twinkling possibilities. My parents might have been emotionally absent, but they had certainly paid for a world-class view of my future.
While packing, I started wrestling one of my heaviest suitcases out of the elevator and down the short hall to my door—a battle of brute force versus gravity—when it happened. The suitcase tilted, its wheels spinning wildly, and before I could steady it, the handle snagged on the frame of my door, sending the whole thing lurching and blocking the hallway. "Shit! Freaking suitcase," I muttered, only to realize I wasn't alone.
A man was coming up the hallway, a book in his right hand. He seemed more like a guest than a resident. He was devastatingly handsome. His hair was a rich, dark brown colour. It wasn't perfectly styled or casually styled, but somewhere in between. He was six feet tall and wore a fine suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. He carried a sense of sophistication and sensuality—but also a cold indifference, like someone who did not want to be bothered. He moved with an almost unnerving coldness of motion, the kind of stillness that suggested intense focus. I bit my lower lip as I took in his appearance, and in the next instant, his cool gaze caught me. I quickly snapped myself out of the appraisal, forcing my attention back to the infuriating obstacle of the suitcase.
When he got close to me, he paused, his expression completely unreadable. His eyes, a cool, piercing grey, assessed the situation—and me—with stiff coldness. He didn't offer a clumsy joke or an over-eager greeting. "It's a two-person job," he stated, his voice a low, resonant baritone that held a distinctly crisp English cadence.
Before I could form a response, he was beside the bag. He bent at the knees—no dramatic grunting or flexing—and with an effortless grace that was entirely unnecessary for the task, he lifted the bottom of the suitcase. "Caught handle," he murmured. "Pull up and pivot."
I did as instructed, and the heavy suitcase was liberated. I felt the brief, accidental brush of his arm against mine—a fleeting spark that was gone before I could register it. He didn't linger. He simply straightened up and walked the final few steps to the door at the end of the hallway and knocked.
"Thank you," I called out, feeling a blush creep up my neck.
He paused and looked back before stepping into the door that had just been swung open. "Welcome," he said, and then disappeared inside, leaving me standing alone with my now-compliant luggage.
He was a complete stranger, yet, the brief, cool intensity of his grey eyes and the quiet authority of his voice left an unexpected mark, a subtle shift in the atmosphere of my new, empty hall.
Once inside the apartment, I collapsed onto the sleek, modern couch. The exhaustion from the long flight finally caught up to me, but the excitement was a buzzing undercurrent beneath the fatigue. I looked out at the city lights—a million stars on the ground—and smiled. The move from Vancouver was complete. I was here.
My life of boring routine was officially over, and the very first person I met was a gorgeous, silent, and incredibly helpful enigma. I couldn't wait to see what else London had waiting for me. I decided to unpack the next day. I needed to rest, and that I resorted to doing, dreaming of all the possibilities that lay beyond the familiar.
What would this new chapter of my life bring?