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The first time George considered moving out of Portland Row, it was because of Lockwood and Lucy.
Not the ghosts. Not the cases. Not the lingering scent of burnt toast from Lucy’s failed attempts at cooking or Holly’s insistence on making him try things that always included the word kale or bran or heaven forbid, quinoa . No, it was them—being so utterly, disgustingly in love that it made the house practically unlivable.
George sat at the breakfast table one Saturday morning, shoveling toast into his mouth, when Lucy walked into the kitchen, still wearing Lockwood’s shirt from the night before. Lockwood followed a moment later, hair rumpled, grinning as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzled into her neck.
“Morning, love,” he murmured. Lucy, in a move that suggested she had no regard for public decency, twisted in his arms and kissed him full on the mouth.
George gagged loudly. “I beg you—just once—try acting like normal people.”
Lockwood, unbothered, pulled out Lucy’s chair for her before sitting beside her, draping an arm over her shoulder. “Good morning to you too, George,” he said pleasantly.
“I hope you both choke on your tea,” George muttered, stabbing at his eggs with unnecessary force.
Lockwood pressed a hand to his chest, looking deeply wounded. “That’s uncalled for.”
“What’s uncalled for,” Holly said as she walked in, barely glancing up from her dusting, “is whatever is going on with you two this morning.”
Lucy smirked, grabbing Lockwood’s toast off his plate. “What, you don’t find us charming?”
“No, I find you revolting,” George said. “There’s a difference.”
Holly poured herself a cup of tea, then finally looked up and groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lucy, is that his shirt?”
Lockwood grinned. “It is.”
“And you think that’s appropriate?”
“Why not?” Lucy shrugged. “We live together. And it’s a nice shirt.”
“It’s my nicest shirt,” Lockwood added proudly.
Holly sank into the chair across from them, rubbing her temples. “It’s eight in the morning, and I already have a headache.”
“You know I love a London boy,” Lucy said teasingly, nudging Lockwood’s knee with hers under the table.
Lockwood shot her a slow, delighted smile, fingers tracing patterns on her arm. “And I fancy you, my dear.”
George made a strangled noise. “Right. That’s it.” He stood up abruptly, grabbing his plate. “I’m eating in my room.”
“We should start charging them a PDA tax,” Holly muttered. Lockwood only smiled, utterly content.
George didn’t hate Lucy and Lockwood. No, he loved them very dearly. He was happy for them. He just…sometimes wished they weren’t quite so them. It was hard to be happy for them when they were busy defiling every surface in the household.
Case in point:
“I know where the files are, Lockwood.”
“I never said you didn’t, Lucy.”
“Then why are you hovering?”
“I wasn’t hovering, I was simply standing in close proximity—”
“Oh my God , you were breathing down my neck—”
“I was admiring your efficiency!”
George slammed his book shut. “Could you not?”
Both of them turned to look at him, blinking in unison.
“Not what?” Lockwood asked innocently.
George gestured vaguely. “This. The—” He waved a hand between them. “The unbearable flirting-disguised-as-arguing thing you do. It’s exhausting.”
Lucy scoffed. “We’re not flirting.”
George leveled her with a stare.
Lucy shifted. “…We’re not.”
“Lucy,” George said dryly, “he just followed you around for ten minutes purely so he could watch you flip through files.”
Lucy scowled. Lockwood beamed. George sighed and pointedly opens his book again.
Lockwood woke to the smell of toast burning. For a brief, blissful moment, he lay still, basking in the warmth of the blankets and the distant hum of Lucy singing under her breath in the kitchen. The house was unusually quiet—no George grumbling over tea, no Holly swanning about tidying things, no Kipps showing up just to insult him before promptly leaving.
Just Lucy, singing to herself, and the faint, acrid scent of charred bread.
The first part was slightly more concerning. With a groan, he pushed himself up and stumbled toward the kitchen. He found Lucy standing by the toaster, squinting down at the blackened remains of her breakfast like they had personally offended her.
“You do know the toaster has settings, right?” Lockwood asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Lucy startled, whirling around with wide eyes. “Jesus, Lockwood.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Are you sneaking?”
“Technically, this is just how I walk.”
“That’s deeply unsettling.”
Lockwood watched as she glared at the toast, as though she could will it back to life, before sighing and slapping some jam onto it anyway. He stepped forward, reaching around her to slide a clean piece of bread into the toaster.
“You want another one?” he asked.
Lucy eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you being nice?”
Lockwood gasped, affronted. “I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re charming. That’s not the same thing.”
He grinned, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You think I’m charming?” Lucy made a show of rolling her eyes but didn’t push him off.
Lockwood had always known how to make an entrance. He arrived in Lucy’s life with the dramatic ease of a boy who had never once considered failure, standing in the doorway of a dingy Fittes recruitment office with an easy smile and a tilt of his head, looking every inch the kind of person who could convince you to follow him anywhere. And for reasons Lucy still didn’t entirely understand, she had.
She hadn’t meant to love him. It had just—happened. Slowly, then all at once.
And now, standing in the kitchen of 35 Portland Row, watching him attempt to make her a new piece of toast and fixing a kettle of tea while arguing with George about how many times one person could possibly be stabbed in the course of a single case, Lucy realized, with a sort of weary fondness, that she was far too gone to do anything about it.
“Four is reasonable,” Lockwood was saying, stirring his tea with a little too much enthusiasm. “But seven? That’s excessive.”
George scowled over his book. “You say that like you’re the one who got stabbed.”
“I feel like I was,” Lockwood shot back. “By proximity.”
Lucy snorted. “That’s not how stabbing works.”
Lockwood turned to her, grinning. “And yet I was emotionally wounded.”
“You’re always emotionally wounded,” George muttered.
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Maybe if you were less emotionally wounded, you wouldn’t be so bad at making tea.”
Lockwood clutched his chest. “Betrayal.” Lucy stole his mug and took a sip.
Then promptly gagged. “What is that?”
George looked over. “Oh, he’s been putting cinnamon in it.”
Lucy stared at Lockwood in horror. “Why?”
He lifted his chin. “I think it adds a unique flair.”
“It tastes like regret.”
Lockwood gasped. “You wound me.”
“Good,” Lucy said, and took another sip.
They argued, sometimes. Not about anything important—just small things, things that didn’t really matter but felt like they did in the moment. Lucy liked the arguments, in her own way. She liked the way Lockwood’s eyes lit up when she challenged him, the way his lips twitched when he tried to hold back a smile. She liked knowing he would always fight back, never letting her win unless she actually deserved it. And she liked, most of all, that at the end of every argument, he was still Lockwood, and she was still Lucy, and nothing had really changed at all.
“I still think I should’ve been the one to go in first,” Lockwood said, tugging off his coat.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Yes, because obviously the person with a massive target painted on his back should’ve gone first.”
Lockwood scoffed. “I do not have a target on my back.” George snorted.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Then why do ghosts always go for you first?”
“That’s coincidence.”
“Or,” George said, flipping a page in his book, “it’s the universe taking pity on the rest of us.”
Lockwood gasped, scandalized. “Et tu, George?”
George didn’t even look up. “If only the ghosts would finish the job.”
Lucy laughed, and Lockwood turned to her, utterly betrayed. “You’re meant to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of logic,” she said. “And logic says maybe you shouldn’t always be the bait.”
Lockwood sighed dramatically. “You people have no sense of adventure.”
Lucy grinned. “No, we just have a sense of self-preservation.”
Lockwood pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Lucy.”
She smirked. “Maybe you should try putting cinnamon on it.”
The house was quiet. For once, there were no pressing cases, no urgent calls from clients, no ghosts clawing at the edges of their sanity, and most importantly, no disgruntled George to gag loudly if Lockwood and Lucy so much as glanced at each other. Just a rare, slow evening at Portland Row, the kind that neither of them ever truly knew what to do with.
Lockwood had fallen asleep first. Lucy could tell by the way his body had gone slack beside her on the couch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating off him as he all but melted into her side. She should move. She should. She had work to do, and god knows she could use some rapier practice, and Holly had been on her for days to make her bed.
But Lockwood’s head was resting against her shoulder, his arm curled loosely around her waist, and every time she so much as shifted, his grip tightened slightly, like even in sleep, he refused to let her go.
Lucy sighed, barely suppressing a fond smile. He’s impossible. And yet, she stayed.
She wasn’t even tired. Not really. But there was something about the quiet, about the way Lockwood had pressed so close without even thinking about it, that made her reluctant to leave. She shifted slightly, angling her head just enough to glance down at him.
And—God. He was beautiful like this. Soft. Unburdened. The usual tension in his jaw had faded, his long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. His hair had fallen into his eyes, hopelessly messy, and Lucy didn’t even think before reaching up to smooth it back.
Lockwood made a small sound, something content, and turned his face into her shoulder, his nose brushing against her collarbone. Lucy went still. Then—slowly, carefully—she let her fingers slip into his hair again, carding through it in slow, absentminded strokes. She wasn’t even sure if he was awake.
But then— “Mmm.” His voice was low, rough with sleep. “Feels nice.” Lucy’s breath caught. She didn’t respond. Didn’t trust herself to. Lockwood let out a sleepy hum, tilting his head into her touch like some insufferably pleased cat. “Y’know,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “you pretend you don’t like taking care of me, but you always do.”
Lucy scoffed, tugging lightly at his hair. “Shut up.” Lockwood just smiled against her shoulder. Silence settled between them again, warm and heavy. And Lockwood—grinning, impossibly content—sighed and pulled her even closer.
Lucy met Lockwood’s old school friends one drizzly afternoon at a pub in Highgate.
She hadn’t been nervous, exactly—just aware that Lockwood had a past she didn’t fully know. A life before her, people who’d known him before he ever picked up a rapier. But the moment they arrived, she realized she had nothing to worry about.
“Oh my God, is this her?” one of them—Freddie?—demanded the second they stepped inside.
Lockwood grinned, tugging Lucy closer. “It is.”
“She exists!” another one, Henry, said, looking absolutely delighted. “We thought you were making her up, mate.”
Lucy laughed. “You think Lockwood could make me up?”
“She’s quick,” Henry said approvingly.
“I like her already,” Freddie agreed.
The group had been friendly, welcoming, and infuriatingly eager to tell her every embarrassing story about Lockwood’s school days.
“You should’ve seen him in year nine,” Henry said, wiping a tear from his eye from laughing so hard. “He had this ridiculous hair—”
“It wasn’t ridiculous,” Lockwood said, affronted.
“Mate, you looked like if Ringo and Kurt Cobain had a love child.”
Lucy was practically in tears laughing. “Oh, please tell me you have pictures.” And just like that, they accepted her. Because she was Lucy Carlyle, the girl who had knocked Anthony Lockwood off his feet and made him look like a lovesick idiot every time she walked into a room.
Lockwood and Lucy had a standing date to watch rugby at the pub whenever a match was on. Lucy still didn’t entirely understand the rules, but Lockwood was extremely patient when explaining them. Or, he would have been, if Lucy ever actually listened.
“I don’t get it,” she said one evening, chin in her hand as she watched the screen.
Lockwood turned to her, ready to explain the play—only to find her staring at him instead. “You weren’t even looking,” he accused.
“No, but you look very cute when you get all passionate about it.” Lockwood rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
The rest of the pub didn’t seem to mind the way Lucy curled into Lockwood’s side or the way he kissed the top of her head when England scored. But their friends—George, Holly, and Kipps, who had, against all odds, become part of their circle—complained about it constantly.
“For the love of God, Lucy,” Kipps groaned, throwing a peanut at her. “Can you at least pretend to watch the game?”
Lucy grinned. “Nope.”
“Why is he here?” Lockwood muttered, dropping a kiss to her temple.
Lucy elbowed him in the ribs. “Because he works with us now, remember?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
Across the table, Kipps looked equally disgruntled, picking at his sandwich with the air of a man regretting his life choices. “Believe me, this arrangement is as painful for me as it is for you.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Lockwood said breezily, stealing one of Lucy’s chips.
“Oi,” she scolded, smacking his hand.
He just grinned and popped it into his mouth anyway. Lucy huffed but didn’t try to stop him when he went for another.
Kipps watched them with deep, horrified fascination. “You two make me sick,” he said flatly.
“Thank you,” Lockwood said.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’m choosing to take it as one.”
Lucy sighed and kicked Lockwood under the table. He feigned injury and then kissed her twice for good measure. Kipps rolled his eyes.
They spent lazy afternoons wandering Camden Market, Lockwood holding Lucy’s hand like she might disappear if he let go. He took her to the Heath on rainy mornings, watching her breathe in the damp air like she belonged here, in his city, in his life.
He knew, deep in his bones, that Lucy Carlyle could have left. Could have decided this wasn’t the life she wanted. But she stayed. She stayed, and she loved him, and she made his house a home.
“Happy?” she murmured one evening as they lay tangled on the couch, the sounds of London humming outside their window.
Lockwood pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Always.”
George, from across the room, made a noise of absolute despair. “I hate you both.”
Lockwood and Lucy just laughed.
Lockwood wasn’t good at saying things outright. But Lucy knew him well enough to hear the things he didn’t say. She heard it in the way he always waited for her to come home before going to bed, in the way he made her tea in the mornings even when he was still half-asleep. She heard it in the way he always reached for her first after a dangerous case, fingertips brushing against hers, checking that she was still there.
Lockwood loved her in all the quiet ways.
And Lucy—well. She supposed she did, too. Because when Lockwood collapsed onto the couch after a long day, looking at her expectantly, she didn’t even hesitate before dropping down beside him. When he sighed dramatically and rested his head against her shoulder, she only rolled her eyes and let him. When he murmured something soft and half-asleep against her hair, she pretended not to hear, because she knew he’d pretend he hadn’t said it in the morning. And when she found herself pressing a drowsy kiss to the top of his head, she told herself it didn’t mean anything.
(Later, when Lockwood tightened his grip around her waist and smiled against her shoulder, she told herself he hadn’t noticed.)
Lockwood and Lucy never said it. Not out loud. But they didn’t really need to.
Not when they were already saying it every single day.