Burn Me Like the Sun

I didn’t know it was even possible to have such a horrific hangover from just a dose of cough syrup and a single shot of whiskey. I took it well before I willed myself to sleep at a wonderfully boring half nine, and drank enough water, that if instead it was the lightest of beers, I’d have been pissed off my arse.

But apparently, the universe just had to knock me upside the head with every single thing that could possibly go wrong during my first day back at uni. As far as first days go, I’d wager that mine was probably the worst first day back in London, in the least. Come to think of it, maybe even England. Possibly Europe, too. Hell, I almost certainly now held the world record for “Worst First Day Back To Uni” ever.

As if my literally blinding hangover wasn’t proof enough of how bad my day was going already, my mobile went off right in the middle of my Digital Media lecture, even though I could have sworn I had turned it on silent. I could feel almost thirty pairs of eyes on me as I struggled to free my flip phone from its dedicated pocket in my rucksack, the familiar notes of the theme from Star Wars reverberating in the lecture hall.

“Miss...” Dr. Lassiter looked at his roll sheet, his glasses nearly hanging off the end of his nose. “Eaton. Correct?”

I nodded, my cheeks turning almost as deep a crimson as Lassiter’s tawdry, sleeveless jumper, and shut off my mobile completely, but not before glancing at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a London code. I shoved my mobile back into my bag and cursed under my breath.

“Please let Miss Eaton be an excellent example for all of you that I will not tolerate mobiles in the lecture hall. I hope I do make myself plain, but just for clarity’s sake, I, erm...” He paused, the look on his face changing from bored to almost psychotic. “I must ask you to leave for the remainder of the class, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The word bit almost as hard as the sunlight when it had seeped through my sunglasses on the walk from my flat to the Tower Building on campus. I could practically feel a hole being burned into my brain, as if some sadistic giant had a magnifying glass pointed at my head the entire walk to class. And the sour feeling that crept up my throat with Lassiter’s scolding didn’t help my headache, either.

With my cheeks practically bleeding with how thick my blush was, I packed up my things as quietly as possible. I hoped desperately that my classmates, who apparently had never seen someone get kicked out of a lecture before, would stop staring at me. Not that my silence would deter everyone from ogling me like I was the fucking queen herself.

I hiked up the steps out of the hall, pulling out the only pair of cheap sunglasses that I rummaged out of my desk, where I had stashed them last summer without a second thought under a stack of marked-up practice film reviews I’d submitted to my advisor. The second I shut the thick oak doors behind me, I slipped on the sunglasses before the light pouring through the tall glass windows – uncharacteristic for March in London – could aggravate my hangover. Really though, it wasn’t like the stabbing sensation behind my eyes and the faint flopping feeling in my stomach could have gotten any worse. I was running on empty.

That morning, I woke up with vomit on the edge of my throat and ended up spitting chunks in the toilet while Fran was brushing her teeth. I got sick again after I got dressed and had to change my shirt because my aim wasn’t all that great, as I was also dealing with a migraine straight from hell. I would have stayed in and slept it off, but I had learned from experience that skipping the first day of classes was an idiotic move. I tried skipping my first day my last term, but I just ended up with no study group for Media Theories and History and a depressing grade in Digital Culture.

I kept telling myself that I was just in a desperate need for a nice, large cup of coffee. I was already fantasizing about making myself a few cups when I got home. At that moment, just the idea of fresh coffee was the only thing keeping me sane.

I felt like nature had doubly fucked me over with the hangover just for laughs, especially after I got kicked out by Lassiter. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with a hangover that could knock out Satan himself, so being publicly shamed like that completely set me off. Whoever had called me was going to get their arse handed to them. I was too pissed off and sick to my stomach to even remember that it was partly my fault for leaving my mobile on during class. And it didn’t even matter that it was the uptight professor in the tacky jumper-vest combo who banished me from my first lecture to begin with, for no reason other than to get off at flexing whatever little power he had under his belt.

I flipped—yes, flipped—my mobile open and scanned the most recent caller again. I was right: it was a London number. I pushed open the front doors of the building and pressed the green button, effectively sealing the fate of whoever had decided to call me so damn early on a Monday, and in class, nonetheless.

“You know, I tried five other numbers before I actually got it right,” was this bloke’s brilliant opening line.

“At the risk of sounding like a prick... Ah, fuck it. Just tell me who the hell you are, you twat.” My words were short and snappy, and I could only hope that whoever had called would just hang up and leave me alone.

I was surprised to hear a breathy laugh on the other end. Apparently, my language didn’t scare off whoever had called me earlier. I must have resembled something close to a toothless shark, snarling sour words like that in what most would call the friendliest accent England had to offer.

I held onto my silence for a moment longer before the guy on the other end got the clue. “Oh. Wow. You really don’t remember?”

“No,” I snarled, finally making my way down the front steps. I clung to the side of the buildings along Holloway Road, struggling to stay under the negligible shade they offered in hopes of keeping the burning sensation behind my eyes to a minimum. “And for good reason. You know, if I ever find you, I’ll probably smack you until you’re black and blue, mate. You got me kicked out of my first summer term lecture! I’m damaged goods. No way am I gonna score a study group now, you righteous prick.”

He laughed again. I got even angrier, as it were possible.

“Blake.”

The way he said my name made me stop mid-step on the footpath. I blinked once, twice, then pressed the tips of my fingers to my temple, chastising myself for being so completely daft.

“Louis.”

“No, but seriously, could you write any more horribly?” He sighed, and I could just imagine him staring at the blue Post-It that I had given him a week ago as he held it in his hand. “It looks like my doctor wrote down your number, and even saying that is giving you more credit in the handwriting department than you deserve.”

“My mobile is especially Jurassic, so you’ll have to forgive me for not recognizing your squawky voice the second I heard it,” I told him, my patience still wound tight.

He chuckled again, the sound clipped and surprisingly musical. “Is that really the only thing that needs forgiving? I feel like someone just stabbed my ego in the gut about a dozen times.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to read you an article from your favorite gossip column about your band to make it all better?”

He whistled once. “Jesus Christ, Blake. If you’re going to be that snappy, I think I’ll just hang up.”

“Wait.” I flinched when the word came out, pleading and rushed and disgustingly needy. Not particularly the best combination when you were chatting with an almost complete stranger, especially after basically treating said complete stranger like a steamy pile of shit in the dog park.

“Wait?” he repeated, sounding unapologetically skeptical.

“Just... Never mind,” I muttered.

“Steady on,” he told me, sounding almost desperate. They were the first words I had heard Louis say, but now, over the phone, they sounded almost foreign to me.

“What, Louis?”

The breath hitched in his throat, and I could clearly hear the sound, no matter how tinny my phone tended to be. “Since, y’know, you don’t really have class now, do you think, maybe, you’d want to grab a coffee with me?”

I quirked an eyebrow and yanked my rucksack back up my shoulder. “What for?”

Now I was the one sounding skeptical—and for good reason, of course. Why did some semi-notable pop star want to grab a coffee with me of all people? He barely made a blip on my own radar. I’m sure he had someone else to talk to, someone like Kate Moss or Chris Martin on speed dial. In the least, I could only assume he was well-connected with all the flack I was getting from Fran for letting him leave the flat so easily last week. It wasn’t like he didn’t have four other best mates, either. And I’d probably wager that they all had places in London, too.

“You’re the one who gave me your number,” he cheekily pointed out. He was well chuffed with himself and it was driving me mad.

I scoffed, hoping he’d get the message: it was just an empty gesture designed to make me feel less like the terrible person I had the tendency to be.

“Just amuse me, babe.”

Babe. He called me babe. What was this saucy wanker on to?

“I’m sure the pet names work on every other girl.” I licked my lips and pressed my mobile to my other ear. “In fact, I’m sure just a single look in their direction works, too, so why don’t you experiment with you pick-up lines elsewhere? I have other classes, you know. And work, too.” That was a lie. I wasn’t scheduled for an event until Sunday because Margaret liked me well enough to let me have my first week of classes off. But I certainly didn’t feel like gallivanting across London just for a coffee that I could make at home, and for a lot cheaper, too.

But Louis didn’t skip a beat.

“I at least owe it to you. I got you kicked out of class. And... And you were nice enough to invite me in for tea last week.” He sighed again, this time heavier, like he was steadying himself before bungee jumping off a bridge. “I’ll even have a coffee waiting for you when you get there, if you like.”

“Louis, I mean it. I really don’t want to. I have... I have other things...” I trailed off, not really knowing what else to say. I didn’t want to go. I really didn’t. But he was making it harder for me to say no, mostly because he was appealing to my curiosity.

“Or tea,” he practically pleaded, his voice tight. “Do you, do you prefer tea? I just... Ugh.” He was starting to sound exasperated, his words turning into a mix between mumbled half-sentences and breathy sighs.

It was like a match cut, straight out of a movie. One moment, I was standing at the crosswalk, waiting for a green light so I could keep walking the five blocks back to my flat, just to collapse in a ball of rage and stomach aches on the couch for the rest of the morning, a cup of coffee in hand. But instead, what seemed not a second later, I was navigating my way to one of the many coffee bars that occupied the streets surrounding London Metropolitan.

I saw the photographers before anything else. There were four of them camped outside of Barker Brothers, their cameras poised at the ready. Some even had extras hanging around their necks. I knocked my head back and thanked the high heavens that they weren’t crowded at the entrance, or even around the front of the shop. One of them was actually set up across the street, leaning against the trunk of a young tree while she adjusted some settings on an expensive-looking camera.

They didn’t pay me much mind as I slid through the entrance to the shop, the bell ringing above me.

The heat from the vents above the doors wisped my hair around, and I reached up to brush my bangs off my forehead. I took a quick look around the shop for Louis, who told me he’d be waiting in black wayfarers and a snapback that he was going to steal from his housemate Harry, the one with the painfully slow voice and wicked curly hair.

I was already dreading the questions that would be shot my way when Fran would get home from class and not find me sprawled out on the settee, but instead plastered across her Twitter dashboard.

I spotted Louis in the corner of the shop, but it was only after a gaggle of girls left his table, giggling quietly to each other as they passed me. When he saw me inch my way towards his table, he waved his hand, but only barely, the tips of his fingers not even rising above his shoulder. Clearly, Louis didn’t want to be spotted with me. And I was confident in saying that the feeling was mutual.

I slid into the seat across from his quietly, already aware of the many pairs of eyes trained on the two of us. It was an odd sensation, one that sent my stomach hurtling again just out of pure nerves.

“Did you have to pick such a popular place? Even a fucking Starbucks would’ve been better,” I scolded, reaching for the coffee Louis had offered to buy for me. It was still warm, and I wrapped my fingers around it, bringing it to my lips. “This place is always crawling with Met students because there’s a discount and the coffee isn’t watered down like the union’s.”

“Cheers to you, too,” he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the cup of tea in his hands. He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, probably checking a text.

A few moments passed before Louis finally looked up longer than two seconds, his eyes carefully traveling over me.

“Well?” I bit out.

His eyebrows shot up above his sunglasses and he nodded before awkwardly shoving his mobile back into his jeans.

“I just...” He harrumphed and crossed his arms, resting them on the table. I could feel it lean towards him; even his tea swayed in his direction. “I know this is out of the blue. And I’m so sorry about getting you kicked out of class. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be back in uni already.”

I put down my coffee and swiped at my lips with my fingers. “Hmm. Well, you’ll find I’m just full of surprises, my friend.”

He smiled at that, the right side of his mouth picking up, like he already knew this for a fact. “I know...” He sighed and reached up to fan his plain black t-shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up, against his chest. “I know this is gonna sound weird, but can... Can I tell you about my ex-girlfriend?”

“Nothing’s really stopping you.” I took another sip of my coffee – just the right amount of milk and sugar – and let the caffeine buzz through me. I could almost feel my migraine slip away, but the tight feeling in my stomach hadn’t dissipated; in fact, it only got worse on my walk over. “I mean, unless you’re afraid I’d sell your story to some idiotic daily that’s worth nothing but its name just for cash.” I shook my head, mustering up the most serious look I could give him. “Really, though, they can shove it.”

“You must really have it out for the gossip mags, then,” he suggested, stirring his tea with a thin, red straw.

“Nah. They’re just rubbish. Chalk full of lies. And some people swear by ‘em, like they should be hung up along with the Bible. It’s kind of weird, no?”

I shook my head again and gave Louis a proper once over for the first time since I had walked in. His bangs were swept across the top of his forehead and the rest of his hair was tucked into a red snapback, the logo for some American sports team blazoned across the top. His stubble was nearly nonexistent along his jaw this week, making him seem younger than he had before. He actually looked like a proper 21 year-old. If I tried hard enough, I could probably imagine him in one of my classes.

But it was kind of hard to fully picture the setting, considering I was just kicked out of my first lecture for the term.

The anger I had held back once I realized who had rang me in the middle of class came back, practically lighting a fire under my chest. I could feel my cheeks changing color and I breathed slowly, fighting to keep my eyes off Louis. I couldn’t help it, I was still irrationally angry. It came with the territory.

After my mother left me with my step-dad, I lashed out. A lot. It came to the point where I almost got expelled in Year 7 after getting in a fist fight with a boy a year below me. When I came home with a black eye and my cheeks red from crying in the headmaster’s office, my dad had me see a therapist. Those three years with Dr. Carter were utter hell. Even my mum, for all her distaste of being an actual mother, would come by every so often so we could spend time together. She ended up inviting me to visit her in Wakefield the summer before Sixth Form and I helped her out at the teashop she had just opened. Honestly, it was the first time in years that I felt like I had my mum back, but that feeling faded away the second she stopped calling after I went back home and school started back up.

I guess I started to develop my confrontational attitude when my parents got divorced. I hated being dragged along, as though I couldn’t handle any truth that was aimed my way. In the very least, being painfully honest had served me quite well in the last decade or so. I hardly regretted saying something, and in the rare occasion I kept my mouth shut, I usually regretted it more than any of the number of harsh things that had gotten me into trouble in the past.

I focused on my breathing and counting up by even numbers as Louis took his time with his drink. But I was easily distracted by the man sitting in front of me, sipping tea as he kept his eyes down. When he brought the cup to his lips, his pinkie would stick out. When I asked, he told me that this was because he broke his little finger playing football when he was a student. He hadn’t taken it to a doctor for two weeks because his mum, a nurse, thought it was just sprained. Apparently, it had set that way on its own before he had a chance to get it wrapped in plaster.

A few more minutes of silence followed after that, and I became restless after calming down my anger. I took a pull of my coffee, carefully eyeing Louis, who had been just as distracted by his tea almost my entire time here.

“Are you just going to sit there or are you going to talk?”

“Hmmm?” Louis finally looked up, his face bleary. He reached up and pulled off his wayfarers, and I could finally see his eyes, all pink and oily as though he had just woken up from a day-long sleep marathon.

“Or have you been telling me your life story for the past five minutes through telepathy and I just haven’t noticed?” I ran my teeth over my bottom lip and twisted the lid on my coffee cup, my eyes glued on the tired man in front of me. “Because if that’s something they taught at Boot Camp, then hell, just sign me up for X Factor too, because reading minds would be the shit.”

He offered up a weak chuckle, his eyes still stuck on his tea as if it was the best-brewed cuppa he’d ever had in his entire life.

“Yeah, I know, I’m absolutely horrible at making jokes. But seriously mate, are you going to tell me or did you just drag me here because you felt like having some disgusting and ridiculously expensive tea?”

He smirked, the wrinkles near the side of his eyes crinkling just the slightest. “Yeah, tea’s never the same when it’s takeaway.” He licked his lips and looked up at me, finally, and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, is there any reason why you’re always so shirty with me? Or is this just the way you are around everyone?”

I shrugged, stealing a glance at the exposed tattoos scattered across his right arm. I could make out the bold sparrow and part of a compass; the rest of them, the ones that looked like a gaggle of children had attacked him with markers, disinterested me, and I summed them up to trinkets whose meanings Louis would never reveal to me – not that I thought he’d ever have the chance to. This was my first time seeing his tattoos, as all the pictures Fran had shoved under my nose in the time between the dentist and Louis’s stop for tea had been almost two years old. In those photos he was hardly an international pop star, still fresh-faced and innocent. There wasn’t a single smudge of ink on his skin.

“I tend to be snappy. Usually it wears off after I get used to someone. I mean, it’s not like I don’t try to be at least, I don’t know, agreeable? I do, but then I forget about it until I notice people running away from me like I’m The Thing every time I come ‘round.”

He had a good laugh at that one, and his eyes fully wrinkled at the corners. My stomach gave another involuntary jig, and for a moment I thought I was going to need to make a beeline to the washrooms.

“You okay?” Louis asked, his hand poised in mid-air as he stretched out the collar of his t-shirt.

I ignored his question, deciding to turn his attention back to himself. I didn’t like anyone focusing on me as much as it felt like Louis was. The feeling was unnerving, especially sitting across from him in the crowded teashop and pressed so close together. “Who’s Vic?”

A brief look passed over his face, and it was so swift that I didn’t even properly catch it before it was gone again, replaced only by a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anders-James. Victoria.” He said her name like he was trying to pull a splinter from his throat. “We were together for a year. But I was mostly gone on tour while we were dating, see?” He reached up and pinched the end of his nose, sniffing once. “But I always tried to visit London when I could, you know. Sometimes she’d fly out to me, because she could afford it. Honestly, she can afford to do loads of things.” One of his eyebrows perked up as he stared off in the distance just next to me, his eyes becoming shinier and less focused. “Anyway. Turns out she cheated on me, like the story usually goes. Some bloke that plays striker for her dad’s team.” He scoffed, taking a sip of his tea, his gaze still stuck on nothing. “I guess she wanted to test out the merchandise,” he bitterly muttered, two spots of pink forming on his cheeks.

“Her dad’s team?” I couldn’t help it; my interest piqued when he mentioned football.

“Arsenal.” His voice was curt and stoic.

I sat my elbow on the table and pinched my lip between my fingers. “How long ago was this?” I ventured.

“Two weeks, almost.”

He took a last swig from his cup, leaning back in his chair with his head tossed back. When he hunched over the table again, a few drops of tea hovered on the edge of his chin, and I gestured towards it. He quietly thanked me after wiping the back of his hand on his mouth.

“She told me she wanted to break up. It was completely, completely out of the blue,” he asserted, waving both his arms out in front of him like he was parting the Red Sea, his empty cup still clutched in one hand. “So, of course, I kept pressuring her to tell me why. So she did.” He laughed humorlessly. “God, I’m such an idiot, Blake.”

A pleasant hum came over my fingers when he said my name. Must’ve been his Yorkshire accent. It reminded me of my mum.

“And you’re telling me all of this because?”

He scoffed, pursing his lips before explaining himself. “Harry’s had enough of me. It’s come to the point where his eyes just glaze over like when he’s staring at Twitter on his phone.” He rolled his eyes, finally returning my gaze for the first time in minutes. “He won’t even respond anymore.”

“But there’s five of you.”

Louis looked almost offended for a moment, as if it was downright absurd how I could even suggest that the five lads in One Direction were practically carbon copies of one another. But he was quick to sling a comeback.

“None of them are girls.” He eyed me up and down, as if my cropped copper hair and my outfit of jeans and a cardigan – the standard for springtime in London – proved to the world that I could take down Beyoncé in a girl-off.

“You caught me. I have a vagina.” The corner of his mouth pulled up just the slightest as he tried to hide his discomfort, and I bit back a laugh at his reaction. “No, but seriously, I could just go to, like, the highest-paying bidder with this story. Lord knows I could use the money,” I muttered, twisting my cup in a circle on the table. “I’m pretty much just some random stranger that stole your mobile.”

“I don’t want you to be a...” He sighed, his voice becoming more gruff, though I would’ve thought it impossible upon first meeting him with the way his voice carried like a rusted garden gate. “But I don’t think you would sell me out.” He bit his lip and his forehead wrinkled easily as his eyebrows shot up. “I know you won’t,” he emphasized, eyeing me again.

I scoffed, giving him a doubtful look. “And what makes you say that, exactly?”

Louis shrugged and opened his mouth. He was about to respond, but his first word was cut short when a girl came up from behind me, almost scaring out the vomit that was waiting patiently at the back of my throat.

“Hi,” she greeted, her voice airy and casual. She stuck out like a sore thumb compared to most of the patrons around us with her crop top and plaid skirt. She couldn’t have been more than 16. “I’m a huge fan, Louis. Think I could get a quick picture with you? If it’s not too much of a bother, of course.”

I would’ve said yes with the way she sounded so innocent and polite, but Louis, practically the veteran celebrity, took a moment to consider the girl’s request, his eyebrows pinching together. But he ultimately gave in, smiling and nodding as he waved the girl over to his seat.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and brought her iPhone out in front of them, quickly snapping three pictures. Louis grinned for the first two photos and stuck out his tongue for the last one, resembling something close to a child trapped in an adult’s body with the way the corners of his mouth picked up and how his laughing lines seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Thank you so much, Lou,” the girl told him, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I bothered you two. Are you on a date, by any chance?”

My eyebrows shot up. Of course, I should’ve known she was too calm for her own good. Any 16 year-old that could recognize a member of One Direction from across a crowded teashop, or more likely, heard word that a member of One Direction was hanging out at a teashop and skipped class to catch him there, and could stay as cool and collected as this girl did, was definitely looking for more than just a quick photo to post on Twitter.

I could see Louis’s ears turn nearly purple with how hard he was trying to hold back a blush.

The girl, when left with nothing but stunned silence on Louis’s end, turned around and looked at me expectantly, her eyes wide and waiting.

I licked my lips and gave her something worth her moxie.

“I wonder how long it took you to sneak out of school just so you could ambush this poor man while he was having a cuppa with a friend.” I eyed her up and down, not even considering holding back in the least. “And I’m especially curious as to how long you’ve had that top hidden in your knapsack in hopes you’d intercept a fan sighting on Twitter and make it in time to snag a picture.”

“I’m sorry about her,” Louis interrupted the second I sat back in my seat, giving me a dark look. But he didn’t have to worry, as I was already starting to feel guilty about the way the words fluttered from my mouth, hot and spicy and sickeningly satisfying. “She’s just right pissed because her boyfriend just dumped her. Not particularly chatty or... or something, yeah?”

The girl’s jaw was set hard, and she gave me an even darker look than the one Louis had mustered up, which felt like ginger beer in comparison to her 90-proof stare. She left abruptly, her crop top billowing from the force of her walk as she made her way to the opposite end of the shop.

Louis sighed deeply, running his palm over his face. His hand brushed his eyebrows the wrong way, giving him a more haggard look than the one that he had hidden behind his Ray Bans.

“Management’s gonna wring my neck if that girl leaks this.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, eyeing him tentatively.

“It’s just...” He groaned and rolled his eyes. “While, yes, I agree that she could’ve, I don’t know, had better timing or whatever—”

“Or just not stuck her nose in your personal life.”

He immediately looked taken aback for a moment, which just confused me even more. I was seriously stumped why he hadn’t abandoned me in the shop already with the way I was acting around him. But then his face relaxed, and he folded his arms and jerked his chin at me. “You’re one to talk.”

I immediately steeled myself, my cheeks burning hotter than a whistling kettle. “That was different!” My voice hitched in my throat, and I suddenly found myself fighting to say what I wanted to say. That my reason was sound, that he looked like utter shit, and that I was just trying to be friendly. Lot of good that did me now, as I couldn’t even get a sound out. Louis looked at me curiously, like he was expecting me to smack him with some choice words again. But when I copied his pose and defensively folded my arms against my chest, he continued with his spiel.

“She just didn’t deserve that, you know?” He sighed again, shooting me an exhausted look. “She’s just another fan.”

“Hello?” I sang, pointing at my mouth with my thumb, finally able to speak up. “No filter, remember. I just... I just got angry.”

“So you took it out on her.”

“Well, yeah,” I feebly agreed, looking back at my coffee. I was fresh out of excuses.

Silence engulfed us again, and I couldn’t help but want to pop the tension like a bubble. It was a bug bite that I just had to scratch. But I couldn’t get a word out. For once, my throat clamped up on me like a verbal asthma attack. But Louis finally spoke a moment later, effectively tiptoeing around me with his tone. “Why not just... not say anything?”

I snorted, reaching up and brushing my bangs from my forehead. “That’s harder said than done.” I stared at my coffee, not wanting to feel like rubbish all over again with the look Louis was shooting me over his empty cup. “‘Sides, I already feel pretty shitty about it, so you can stop with the guilt trip you’re giving me. Save up your reserves for one of your band mates. I’m sure they’re not all the perfect little angels your songs make them out to be. Goes for the lot of you.”

Louis smirked and picked up his cup, tossing his head back. But not half a second later he leaned forward again, the corner of his mouth screwed up in disappointment, as he belatedly remembered that his cup was already empty.

“I’m out,” he announced, his face blank. He reached up and scratched the leftover stubble at the corner of his jaw, running his teeth over his bottom lip. “I reckon you’re almost done with your coffee, too?”

I nodded, lifting my gaze from some rather large tattoos that I’d just noticed peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had more. They kept popping up like the wild rabbits back in Newcastle during the summer.

“I want to offer you a ride home, but I don’t know how you’d like the idea of having to go through a wave of paps just to get to my car.” He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket, letting them crash onto the table. Behind Louis’s shoulder, I could see a few heads snap in our direction at the noise. “They tend to be quite harmless, though that’s not saying much.” He licked his lips and flicked the red straw in his plastic takeaway cup. “Or I could always pull ‘round to the back if you’re too put off by them. I mean, if you still want a ride.”

I shrugged. “As long as we’re quick, I don’t see the trouble.”

I was already betting that I wouldn’t be hanging out with Louis again, so four random strangers with cameras didn’t really daunt me. And they even turned out to be friendly enough; in the least, I didn’t feel like I was being ambushed. But after Louis dropped me off at my flat that afternoon, I was sure he would be done with me, even if I ended up wanting him to stick around.

The thing was, even though he seemed to have fans that practically followed his every move and hung on his every word, I was sure he was already scared off by my brash attitude, especially with the way I treated that random girl and how I was so snippy with him just over drinks. And I couldn’t fight the feeling that if given the choice between me and some takeaway tea or a dozen girls with magazines for him to sign and cheeks for him to kiss, he’d take door number two every time.