Alex

London had always been loud, crowded, and a little overwhelming… but ever since you met Alex, it felt different. Softer. Safer. Almost like home.

He was nineteen, living in a modern apartment overlooking Canary Wharf, his wealthy parents settled in Oxford. You were seventeen, still a student, still living with your family, still catching the morning bus to school.

Two worlds that shouldn’t have crossed. But they did.

You met in a café by the Thames. You were unpacking your textbooks, and he was paying for his flat white when his wallet slipped from his pocket — landing right beside you. He looked up, you looked at him… and somehow, that was it.

Alex loved his busy life, but he loved you more. And with your age, he was always respectful, gentle, and patient. Never pushing, never rushing.

“I want you to always feel safe with me,” he told you once. And you did.

On stressful days, he would drive all the way to your house, wait outside, and take you for hot chocolate. When you casually admired a sweater in a shop window, he bought it the next week, placing it in your hands with a soft smile: “I saw how your eyes lit up.”

You often told him, “Alex, you don’t have to buy me things.” He’d always shake his head, amused. “I know. I just like making you smile.”

Your parents liked him too — he was polite, respectful, and sweet in a way that felt real, not forced. He never tried to control your life. He just wanted to be part of it.

One Saturday evening, he brought you to Tower Bridge. The city glowed around you; the river carried the shimmering lights like scattered gold.

“Do you know why I love London?” he asked. “Because it’s big and loud?” you joked. “No,” he laughed softly. “Because you’re here.”

He took your hand — gently, as if he

rich x normal