Ophelia was going to murder the check-in assistant.

It wasn't that — Ophelia glanced at the woman's name-tag — Rebecca was doing anything wrong, exactly. She was right; Ophelia's bag was overweight. It was just that Rebecca insisted on smiling while she delivered the news, her candy red nails tapping away merrily on the keyboard.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "You'll have to pay extra."

"But it's half a kilogram!"

"I'm sorry."

"Please," Ophelia said desperately. "Surely you can waive the fee?"

She was down to her last thirty quid. She had planned to use it to buy an egg sandwich and a book before her flight, but alas — Rebecca was immovable.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." Her nails clicked some more. "Do you want to take a moment to think about it? Maybe just to the side, there?"

Her voice was pointed. Ophelia could see the line-up of angry passengers forming behind her, and heat flooded her cheeks. "How much will it cost?"

"That will be an additional forty pounds."

Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh, hell. Well Ophelia could hardly afford that, could she? She glanced down at her bulging black suitcase. She'd simply have to part with some of her books.

She tried to cheer herself up. Maybe her books would be picked up by some passing traveler. Yes; that would be fun. They could find new homes on the Italian coast, or an exotic beach somewhere—

"Ma'am?"

Rebecca was still smiling that infuriating smile. Ophelia gripped her baggage handle, trying to resist the urge to punch her in the face.

"Yes," she muttered. "Understood. Thanks."

She stepped to the side, and a harried-looking man charged forward, slapping his passport on the counter. He shot Ophelia a dirty look as she retreated.

She slumped in a chair, putting her face in her hands.

Oh, god.

Tears were coming now, hot and fast. She had that terrible choking sensation in her chest, and she pinched the skin on the back of her hand. No. No, no, no. She wasn't about to sob in this airport; she couldn't let Rebecca have the satisfaction.

Although it wasn't all Rebecca's fault.

Ophelia missed home. She missed who she was before London, before she gave up believing in love and happy endings. And most of all, she missed Andrew.

She swallowed. He had probably proposed to Eleanora, by now. The thought made her entire heart ache, as if someone had crushed the delicate organ between two blocks, like books packed too tightly on a shelf.

This was what heartbreak felt like; not the absence of love, but rather too much of it.

Not that there was any use dwelling on it, Ophelia thought firmly, swiping at her eyes. No. She needed to sort out her books, and then get on the plane. She unzipped her bag, rifling through them. She could leave Thackeray, maybe. And George Eliot. And—

"Attention! Can I have your attention, please?"

She froze, glancing around. Hang on. She knew that voice. It sounded almost exactly like—

"Ophelia! Where are you?"

She stood up, startled. "Andrew?"

Ophelia couldn't see him, though; several other passengers had stopped to stare as well, their gazes cast towards the ceiling, and it took a moment for her to understand. She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Dear god.

He was on the intercom system.

Andrew had gone certifiably mad.

He pressed a hand to the glass wall of the booth, staring down at all of the oblivious passengers, swarming like ants around the check-in kiosks. But not for long, he thought grimly. Not after he started spouting nonsense into a microphone.

Christ. He was actually going to do this.

"Attention!" Andrew called. "Can I have your attention, please?"

Hundreds of heads snapped towards him. A woman toting a yellow suitcase took out her phone, although it was impossible to say whether she recognized him from the tabloids or she was just eager to get a video of a mad man at Heathrow. Which, you know. Brilliant.

Andrew felt suddenly dizzy. Why the hell was he doing this again?

Oh, right.

Ophelia.

"Ophelia!" He glanced around desperately. "Where are you?"

And then he spotted her. She was sitting in a chair by the check-in counter, her red hair pulled up into a messy knot. A large black suitcase sat beside her — Christ, it really was enormous, Andrew thought distractedly, you could have fit a small horse in there — and she was wearing a green jumper. The same colour as that dress he loved.

She stood up. "Andrew?"

Their gazes locked. Ophelia must have been able to see him through the glass, too, because she inhaled sharply.

What the hell are you doing? she mouthed.

Andrew frowned. Right. Well. Not the best start to his grand declaration, but it could only go up from here. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, everyone." He waved a hand to the other passengers. "I'm kind of new at the whole romantic gesture thing, so you'll have to bear with me."

"You're doing great, sweetie!" an American passenger shouted.

Andrew wasn't sure if this was sarcasm.

"Look, I know about the book," Andrew said. "I know what Eleanora did. I broke up with her this morning; I should have done it ages ago."

Ophelia swayed slightly, gripping her suitcase. She looked surprised. Surprised, and slightly dazed, as if the words were a kick in the knee.

"And I saw Digby," Andrew continued. "He explained some things to me that I didn't understand before. But truthfully, it doesn't matter, because at the end of the day, I behaved like a complete and utter arsehole."

A well-dressed brunette woman clapped her hands over her son's ears, scowling up at him. Andrew paused.

"Er, a jerk," he amended. "I behaved like a jerk. And I'm sorry."

"I'm not a saint, Ophelia; I'm not one of those romantic heroes in your books. Lord knows I've done things I'm not proud of." He could feel his hands shaking. "But you make me want to be a better person. And if you let me, I swear to god I'll devote the rest of my life to becoming the sort of man that deserves you."

"So don't go to Canada," Andrew said, his voice breaking. "Don't get on that plane. Please, Ophelia, I'm begging you. Just stay."

He put down the microphone, holding his breath. He felt as if the entire airport was holding its breath, actually. One man was actually eating popcorn, the arsehole.

"Oh, give him a chance, love!" an elderly Scottish woman called.

Andrew made a mental note to send her flowers later.

Ophelia's small face was pinched. Her red hair was escaping its hold, cupping her chin, and she was running her thumb nervously over her opposite hand. Her black ellipsis tattoo. Andrew held his breath. This was it. This was his last shot, and if he didn't get it right— if he had screwed it up irreparably—

Well.

He didn't know what he'd do. His brain simply drew a blank.

Finally, Ophelia grinned.

"Well, get down here, then," she said. "I can hardly kiss you from up there, can I?"

Andrew threw down the microphone.

He had never run so fast in his entire life.

Ophelia couldn't stop talking.

She told Andrew everything during their car ride back into London: the way she felt after their first kiss, how he broke her heart in Scotland, Eleanora's threat after she burned her book, her disastrous relationship with Digby, and then the pain of realizing that Andrew was still planning to propose to Eleanora.

"When I saw you at the airport..." Ophelia shook her head. "I thought I was dreaming." She smiled at him. "A part of me still thinks I am."

"And now?"

Andrew pinched her shoulder, and she let out a yelp.

"Careful," she warned. "I've only just forgiven you."

Andrew smirked. "Too late; you've already missed your flight." He flipped on the left turn signal. "Thanks for staying, by the way."

"Oh, it wasn't all about you," Ophelia said airily. "My bag was overweight; I would have had to leave some of my books behind."

"Ah."

"So don't get a big head about it."

"Duly noted."

She pressed her face to the rainy glass. London was a blur of turquoise, butter yellow and vermilion; the wet pavement reflected the lights, like a canvas that someone had smudged with their fingers. Gas lamps seemed to glow in the grey fog, and shoppers clutching umbrellas rushed past, oblivious to the two people sat in the car.

They drove past a familiar café with pink, floral awnings.

"You know, I think I knew that very first day," Ophelia mused, turning away from the window. "In Lady Windermere's café."

"You did not."

"I did!" Ophelia turned to him, indignant. "Why do you think I spilled that coffee, genius?" She swatted his shoulder. "Because I found you—"

"Stunningly attractive?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

Andrew pulled up outside of his flat. He hopped out of the car, producing a clear plastic umbrella. Ophelia eagerly stepped into its safe shelter, shivering slightly. The rain had slowed to a patter, striking the umbrella in a discordant staccato, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. His wool coat was soft against her face.

"So what happens now?"

"Well," Andrew murmured, cupping her face. "I'm no expert, but I think all of the best love stories end with a kiss."

"They do?"

"Mmm." He smirked. "What do you say we try it?"

Andrew leaned down, brushing his lips against hers. He tasted like peppermint and honey chapstick, and she twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. All of their other kisses had been desperate. Frantic. But there was something lazy about this kiss, like drinking warm hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire.

And finally, Ophelia understood.

Love wasn't Darcy in the meadow, or Heathcliff digging up a grave; it was messy and complicated and often terribly painful, but that's what made it real. That's what made it better than fiction.

The man in her arms wasn't perfect; he had scars and bruises from stumbling through life, and he would undoubtedly gain more over the years.

But she wouldn't have traded him.

Not for the world.

A/N: Hello lovely readers!

I've been dying for you to read this scene since I wrote it in December, and I can't believe that we're finally here. Thanks to everyone that's still reading! Just the epilogue and one more postcard to go, now — look out for it on Tuesday :)

Affectionately,

J.K.