Tyler coughs lightly, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“That sounds… intimate.”
“It is.” Peacock beams. “So much gazing. So many declarations. And… a very tasteful amount of touching.”
Before either of us can respond, he sweeps away, leaving us clutching our envelopes like they might self-destruct.
Tyler cracks his open first. I follow.
We read in silence, slowly, as though the words might change if we stare hard enough.
Then:
“Oh God,” I mutter.
“Yup,” Tyler says on an exhale.
Our eyes meet over the top of the parchment like we’ve just realised we’ve been cast as the leads in a very horny school play.
“This is definitely written for a married couple,” I say, flipping to the second page. “There’s a reconciliation kiss. A moment of shared longing. And apparently a stage direction where Henry ‘cups Anne’s face tenderly’ and ‘whispers his vow into the crook of her neck.’”
Tyler arches an eyebrow. “I’m not whispering anything into your crook.”
“I don’t even have a crook,” I hiss. “What even is a crook? And why is it always being whispered into?”
He smirks. “You’re asking the wrong earl.”
I look down at the script again. “This was not in the brief! I signed up for snacks and sarcasm, not Tudor foreplay with a script.”
Tyler folds his paper with the smug neatness of someone who always makes sure the group project gets finished, preferably with minimum effort on his part and maximum credit at the end.
“We could just… wing it?” he offers. “Edit as we go. Cut the crook bits.”
I snort. “Right. And what happens when we have to kiss?”
A pause.
He looks at me, not teasing. Not smirking.
Just… unreadable.
“I guess we’ll improvise.”
Tyler gestures vaguely in the direction of what I assume is the bar, and slips away before I can think of a comeback.
I stare down at my script, trying to focus on the words and not the fact my pulse is suddenly doing its own Pavane.
When I finally glance up, I spot him, not at a bar exactly, but at a makeshift ‘tavern’ set up with tankards and fake hay bales, and yes, they are actually serving mead. On the one occasion I desperately need wine.
Tyler’s standing with someone.
My stomach drops. It’s her.
The guillotine-laugh woman from the maze, inching close enough that she could steal his drink before he even picks it up.
Her hand brushes his sleeve, casual, over-familiar, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
His jaw tightens, just slightly. But he doesn’t pull away.
