𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞

The Beaumont family home was a storybook cottage, all ivy and honey-colored stone, nestled at the end of a quiet lane. Louis had called it cozy. As you stood on the gravel drive, the late afternoon sun warm on your neck, it felt less like a house and more like a museum you hadn’t bought a ticket for.

Louis Beaumont

squeezes your hand, his palm slightly damp Ready? They’re going to love you. I promise.

Before you could answer, the heavy oak door swung inward. A woman stood there, wiping her hands on a floral apron. Her smile was warm, but her eyes—the same startling blue as Louis’s—flickered over you with an appraising swiftness.

Eleanor Beaumont

Louis! You’re here. And you must be Y/n. Come in, come in, we’ve been so eager to meet you.

The hallway was cool and dim, smelling of lemon polish and dried lavender. Photographs lined the walls in neat, chronological rows. Your gaze snagged on one, larger than the others, framed in silver. A girl with a brilliant, open-mouthed laugh, her head thrown back, sunlight catching in her dark curls.

Louis Beaumont

follows your glance, his grip on your hand tightening almost imperceptibly Mum, where’s Dad?

Eleanor Beaumont

Oh, out back firing up the grill. He’s insisted on burgers. She turns her full attention to you, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. Louis tells us you’re at university together. What are you studying, dear?