Page 20 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Doesn’t matter.” Jessie’s tone softened slightly, though her concern remained razor-sharp. “You know how this works. Your ‘single’ image is part of the brand, Myst. Whether we like it or not, this could blow up in ways we can’t control. You need to lay low for a bit. Maybe stop being seen with him in public altogether.”

“Of course. Just… hide him away somewhere, right?” Myst’s words dripped with bitterness even as she knew Jessie wasn’t wrong. The walls felt like they were closing in around her, and suddenly, all she wanted was to rewind to earlier that afternoon when things had felt so simple.

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Jessie urged, placing a hand on her arm. Her pale blue eyes, so much like Myst’s own, were filled with worry. “Just… think about it, okay?”

“Fine,” Myst muttered, though it felt anything but fine. She forced herself to nod, even as her heart sank under the weight of what she’d have to say next.

Dinner in the suite was quiet at first, the clinking of silverware filling the space as Myst pushed her food around her plate. George sat across from her, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as if he could feel the storm brewing between them. The tension was subtle but palpable, like the faint pressure in the air before a downpour.

“Alright,” he finally said, setting down his fork. “Out with it. What’s going on?”

Myst looked up sharply, startled by his bluntness, though she should’ve expected it. George wasn’t one to dance around things, part of what she liked about him, even if it made moments like these harder.

“Jessie saw some pictures of us online,” she began cautiously, each word feeling like it might tip the balance of their fragile peace. “She’s worried about how it’s going to affect… everything.”

“Everything?” George repeated, his accent curling around the word. There was no anger in his voice, but the hurt was there, threaded through his typically steady tone.

“She thinks we should avoid being seen together for a while,” Myst admitted, her voice barely above a whisper now. “At least until the attention dies down.”

“Right.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, careful. “So, what? We just pretend this,” he gestured between them, “isn’t happening whenever we’re outside these walls?”

“George, it’s not like that…”

“Isn’t it?” He let out a short breath, shaking his head. “Look, I get it. Your world’s complicated. But it’s hard not to feel like… like maybe I’m just something you’re trying to keep out of sight.”

“That’s not true,” she insisted, leaning forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Maybe not you,” he conceded quietly. “But this whole… machine around you. I get the feeling it’s going to grind me in the gears.”

She had no answer to that.

The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape, letting in the crisp London night air. Myst stepped out first, barefoot and wrapped in an oversized cardigan that swallowed her delicate frame. George followed quietly, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway as he ducked slightly to step outside. He carried two mugs of tea, steam curling upward into the chilly darkness.

“Figured this might help,” he said, handing one to her.

“Thanks.” Her fingers curled around the warm ceramic, grateful for the excuse to hold onto something steady. The tension from dinner still sat between them like an unwelcome guest, neither of them sure how to ask it to leave.

They settled onto the cushioned bench tucked against the railing, their knees brushing as they adjusted to fit. Below them, the Thames shimmered under the city lights, its surface restless and alive. For a moment, neither spoke. It was easier to focus on the world beyond, on the hum of distant traffic, the glow of passing boats, than on the fragile quiet growing between them.

“London’s pretty at night,” George said finally. “Makes you forget all the chaos for a bit.”

“Yeah,” Myst murmured, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. “If only it were that easy to forget everything else.”

His gaze shifted to her, searching her profile as she stared out at the water. Her long hair spilled over her shoulder, catching faint silver highlights from the moon above. She looked otherworldly, like someone who belonged to the stars rather than sitting beside him on a borrowed balcony chair. And yet, here she was. With him.

“Can I say something?” His tone was careful, almost too careful.

“Of course,” she said, turning toward him. The sincerity in her pale blue eyes made his chest tighten, though he wasn’t sure if it was from comfort or fear.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the tea forgotten in his hands. “I’m trying, Myst. I really am. But…” He hesitated, jaw working as he searched for the right words. “Your world, it’s just so... loud. Cameras, headlines, people constantly watching. It’s not like anything I’ve dealt with before. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m cut out for it.”

“George…” Her voice softened, but he shook his head gently, needing to finish.

“I don’t mean I want to walk away or anything,” he clarified quickly, his accent thickening with his urgency. “It’s just, I’ve spent my whole life on rugby pitches, where things are simple. You train hard, you play hard, and what matters is what you bring to the field. All this other stuff… I feel like I’m fumbling every day, and I hate it.”

“Fumbling?” A small smile tugged at her lips despite the weight of his confession. “That doesn’t sound like the George Dennis I know. You’re practically rugby royalty back home, remember?”

“Yeah, well,” he said dryly, “turns out being able to tackle blokes twice my size doesn’t help much when it comes to dodging paparazzi.”

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