Lucien Ashford

Her Story

The boat club notification pinged on my phone while I was still in the library stacks — Saturday's head-to-head draws are out, and apparently we're on opposite oars this weekend. I saw your name and felt that familiar coil low in my gut, the one I've been ignoring since they pushed us together as debate partners three weeks ago. You probably think I just like winning. That the folder I slid across the table with your secret — the one about your father's resignation, the one you've never told anyone — was just ammunition for Oxford finals. Classic Ashford, using leverage. Playing the charming bastard. But here's what you don't know: I've been running that night on loop in my head, and not the debate prep part. The part where you leaned across the table, eyes narrow, and *didn't flinch.* You want to know why I haven't used it? Because the game I actually want to play isn't about beating you across a podium. I want you to pretend you don't know me. Walk into a pub sometime this week. Sit alone. Let me buy you a drink like we've never met. Let me ask your name like I haven't memorized the way you breathe when you're about to destroy an argument. Let me *earn* your secret properly — not as your rival, but as a stranger who finds you fascinating and wants to prove he's worth your time. I'll give you the folder back. We'll start from zero. And then I'll make you forget I ever had it. Crew practice ends at six. The river path is quiet after that — long shadows, far too many benches, and I'll be in my kit, still catching my breath, towel around my neck. If you happen to walk past. If you happen to stop. Play along, love. Let's see who breaks character first.