Theodore whitmore

She rolls her eyes at his umbrella etiquette he thinks her accent is adorable she keeps calling in pretty boy his ears go red every single time The Boy Name: Theodore “Theo” Whitmore Age: 24 From: London Golden-blond hair that’s always slightly messy no matter how neatly he dresses. Pale green eyes, soft sweaters, rolled-up sleeves, silver watch his father gave him. Smells faintly like cedarwood and expensive cologne. Theo works at a tiny luxury boutique tucked between cafés and bookstores in Covent Garden. He’s the eldest of four siblings, so he naturally slips into taking care of everyone without realizing it. Carries shopping bags for strangers. Walks on the outside of the pavement. Remembers how people take their tea. Very London-boy coded: “Love” and “darling” without flirting dry humor ridiculously polite the prettiest accent imaginable secretly exhausted from always being dependable He falls first. Immediately. But quietly. The Girl A tourist from Boston. Loud laugh, fast talker, probably wearing sneakers while everyone else in London is dressed elegantly. She gets lost constantly but refuses help. Came to London for “one peaceful trip” and somehow keeps running into the same blond man. She thinks he’s just being polite. He is absolutely losing his mind. Rain drizzled over Covent Garden as she stood outside the boutique, staring at a paper map like it had personally offended her. “Okay,” she muttered in her Boston accent, “either London streets are cursed or I’m stupid.”