Room 1812
New York — December 2023
Leah barely remembered the flight.
Only fragments.
The pressure in her ears. Coffee that tasted burnt. The constant nervous energy sitting underneath her skin like static electricity.
By the time the car pulled into Manhattan that evening, the city glowed silver beneath winter rain.
New York.
Actual New York.
Leah sat back against the seat staring out at skyscrapers while her stomach twisted harder with every passing block.
"You alright?" the media coordinator beside her asked.
"Fine," Leah lied immediately.
The woman smiled knowingly. "You look terrified."
Leah laughed nervously. "Jet lag."
"Sure."
Leah looked back out the window before she embarrassed herself further.
Because the truth was humiliating.
She had played in front of ninety thousand people at Wembley.
And somehow meeting one woman made her infinitely more nervous.
Her phone buzzed in her lap.
Leah smiled instantly.
Just arrived.
Three dots appeared immediately.
And?
Leah glanced out at New York lights reflected against wet streets.
Feels exactly like your Instagram stories.
Elle reacted with a laughing emoji.
Then:
That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said about New York.
Leah hesitated briefly before typing again.
When do I get to see you?
The reply took longer this time.
Long enough that Leah could picture Elle rereading the message.
Then finally:
You asking me out properly, Williamson?
Leah bit back a grin.
Maybe.
Dangerous answer.
You like dangerous.
Another pause.
Then:
Hotel bar. One hour. Don't panic.
Leah stared at the message.
Then immediately panicked.
—
One hour later Leah stood in front of the hotel mirror changing tops for the fourth time.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself.
She eventually settled on black jeans and a dark knit jumper that looked effortless despite requiring far too much effort.
Her hair refused to cooperate.
Her knee ached slightly from travelling.
And underneath all of it was one overwhelming thought:
What if she doesn't look at me the same in person?
That was the terrifying thing about online connections.
Screens softened reality. Filled gaps. Made chemistry easier.
But in an hour Leah would know.
Either this thing between them was real.
Or it wasn't.
A message appeared.
Leah inhaled sharply once.
Then headed downstairs.
—
The hotel bar was warm and low-lit, full of quiet conversations and expensive wine glasses.
Leah spotted Elle instantly.
Of course she did.
She sat alone in the corner booth wearing black trousers and a fitted dark top beneath a long coat, curls loose around her shoulders. Gold hoops caught softly beneath amber lighting.
Beautiful didn't even begin covering it.
But worse than that—
She looked real.
Not Instagram Elle.
Not Miss America Elle.
Just Elle.
And somehow that hit harder.
Elle looked up.
Their eyes met immediately.
And for a second neither moved.
Leah actually forgot how to breathe.
Then Elle smiled.
Small at first.
Then wider when Leah started walking toward her.
"Well," Elle said softly when Leah finally reached the table, "you're real."
Leah laughed nervously. "Disappointing?"
"Unfortunately no."
The tension between them arrived instantly.
Not awkward.
Not uncertain.
Just... there.
Like something that had already existed for months and finally had room to breathe properly.
Leah slid into the booth opposite her, trying very hard not to stare.
Failed immediately.
"You're staring," Elle murmured.
"You're prettier in person."
The words slipped out before Leah could stop them.
Elle blinked once, clearly caught off guard.
Then a slow smile spread across her face.
"That was smooth."
"No it wasn't."
"No," Elle laughed quietly, "it really wasn't."
Leah groaned, covering her face briefly. "Great start."
"I liked it."
Their drinks arrived but neither touched them much.
Conversation flowed too easily.
That was the frightening part.
No awkward small talk. No forced questions. No pretending.
They slipped into each other naturally.
Leah told stories about rehab and Arsenal girls winding her up constantly. Elle talked about modelling campaigns that made her feel like a mannequin with WiFi.
"You know what people don't tell you about social media?" Elle said eventually, tracing condensation around her glass.
"What?"
"It's weird being looked at all the time."
Leah watched her quietly.
"Like," Elle continued softly, "millions of people think they know you because they've seen your face."
Leah nodded immediately.
God, she understood that.
"And then suddenly you start performing yourself without even realising," Elle admitted. "You become this polished version because it's easier than being real all the time."
The bar around them blurred softly into background noise.
Leah looked at her for a long moment.
"I think you're real with me."
Elle's eyes lifted slowly to hers.
The silence that followed felt heavier suddenly.
Warmer.
More dangerous.
Leah became intensely aware of how close they actually were inside the booth.
Elle smelled like vanilla and expensive perfume and winter air.
And when she smiled slightly again, Leah's chest tightened hard enough to hurt.
"You know," Elle murmured, "you flirt a lot more in person."
Leah leaned back slightly, smiling. "Thought Americans flirted aggressively."
"We do."
"Good."
Elle held her gaze for a second too long.
Then:
"You're trouble."
Leah laughed quietly. "That's rich coming from you."
"No," Elle said softly, eyes dropping briefly to Leah's mouth before returning to her eyes. "I knew I was in trouble the second you answered my message."
Leah's heartbeat stumbled.
Neither spoke.
The tension between them thickened slowly, beautifully.
Then Elle leaned closer across the table slightly.
"So," she said quietly, "are you finally going to admit this is a date?"