Crooked Heart

Fiona tugged on a loose thread from the cuff of her jumper as she waited by the entrance of 114 Gallery, watching as workers took down the temporary walls. The art had been removed already, and the large room was like a canvas being stripped clean in preparation for something new. They were doing some sort of workshop series next, according to Cassidy, where artists came in and used the space however they wanted, and visitors could observe or join in on the process, depending on what the artist wanted. They were having special sessions for the art students at the local universities, and apparently a group was coming all the way up from London too.

They’d agreed to meet when Fiona was done class for the day, but when she arrived Cassidy ran out and said she needed at least fifteen minutes to finish up a call with one of the artists they were hosting because he’d been very specific about how his workspace was arranged. Gallery organization being Cassidy’s primary job, she had a lot of work ahead of her, particularly when the artists were picky (which most of them were). But she’d called up Fiona that morning anyway, asking if she’d be interested in coming along to a presentation at Cassidy and Zayn’s old uni on interpretations of literature in art in a particular era of history. It seemed interesting enough, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember what historical period the lecture was focused on, and Fiona didn’t have any other plans.

After ten long minutes of waiting, Fiona was starting to get restless. Her wellies squeaked against the concrete floor whenever she moved her feet and seemed to echo through the whole building, and there was nowhere to sit down. Men in workwear gave her strange looks whenever they passed, wondering why some girl was loitering in the lobby of a closed art gallery.

The loose thread was nearly as long as her pinky finger. Fiona frowned at it, then picked at the rest of her cuff, cursing the wide-knit jumper for being so prone to fraying. She’d only bought it because the colour was nice, and had been regretting it ever since.

“Fiona?”

Fiona’s head whipped up, her lopsided bun flopping against her head, and she saw Joshua standing a few feet away. He wore all black again, save for the baby blue shirt underneath his jumper, and looked even nicer in the daytime than he had in the evening when she’d seen him at the exhibition. “Hey,” she said, quickly dropping her hands to her sides and trying a wide, friendly smile.

Maybe it was because she didn’t smile very often, but people always reacted well when she did, almost astoundingly so. Fiona had been told she had a nice smile, that her lips were made for it even. The compliments were fine, but being told she should smile more was completely another. Fiona smiled when she was happy, she smiled when she needed to, but it was never as simple as just smiling more. When you weren’t a naturally cheerful person, it was never that simple.

“What are you doing here?” Joshua asked, striding over.

“Waiting for Cassidy.”

“Oh, are you going to that lecture?”

“Yeah,” Fiona replied. “It sounds cool. I do English at uni, so I’m all for literature related things.”

“I was gonna go, but I’ve got to get on a train to London in a few hours. One of our investors is flying into Heathrow and spending a few days in London before she comes up. I’m being sent to play host.”

“Why does she need a host?”

Joshua scrubbed a hand over his buzzed head, looking a bit sheepish. “She’s French. Only speaks a few words of English.”

Fiona’s mouth curved into a smirk as she narrowed her eyes at him, and she slid a few paces closer. “You speak French?”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna do it now,” he said. “Seems like something someone would do just to show off, and I’m not about that.”

“Too bad, I’d be awfully impressed. Even if you were just showing off.”

Even grumpy people could be good at flirting. Fiona’s expansive dating history was evidence of this.

“Maybe another time.” Joshua bit his lip, regarding her with curious eyes. “Did you, ah, sort things out with the bloke from the show, then?”

Fiona’s eyes widened as she realized he was asking after Harry. “Oh! No, we…we’re not—we don’t have anything to work out.”

“Who’s he talking about?” Cassidy asked with interest, coming up from behind them.

When it was obvious Fiona wasn’t going to answer, Joshua filled in. “Tall bloke, long hair. Had loads of tattoos.”

“Harry?” Cassidy gaped at Fiona, clearly expecting an explanation. She didn’t think one was needed; it should have been obvious to Cassidy that it was just another one of her and Harry’s many rows.

“It’s not what it—Jesus Christ, he’s not even a friend of mine, just a massive pain in my arse.”

Joshua looked pleased. “Well, if that’s the case, d’you wanna get a drink some time?”

Relieved, Fiona gave him another wide smile. “Sounds brilliant. When do you get back from London?”

“Next week, I think. Why don’t we say Friday after next to be safe?”

Fiona nodded. “Have you ever been to The Gallery? It’s a pub on campus, there’s all this art hanging up. Seems like an appropriate place.”

Joshua grinned. They set a time, and Fiona managed to avoid giving him her phone number. She was going to hold off on that if she could. Once they’d said goodbye to Joshua, Fiona and Cassidy headed out of the building and toward the bus stop nearby.

“Joshua’s a nice boy, you’ll like him.”

“He seems nice,” Fiona agreed, twisting the strap of her bag. “But I don’t think he really...gets me.”

“Don’t go into this thinking it’ll end badly, or you’ll ruin it for yourself,” Cassidy advised. “And you’ve only just met.”

“I know. To be honest, even before Wren, I dunno if I would’ve said yes to drinks. I’ve always been shit at dating.”

Cassidy frowned over at her as the bus rolled into their stop. “You used to go on dates all the time when we first met!”

They got on, snagging two seats at the back. Fiona glanced around, saw that there was no one sitting near them, but lowered her voice anyway. “No, I had a lot of sex when we first met. With different people.”

The other girl rolled her eyes, smirking. “God knows why he thought you and Harry had something going on. You two are complete opposites.”

“Tell me about it.”

+++

Fiona hauled off her boots by the door and dragged her jumper over her head on her way into her room, where she discarded the wool material in a heap on her bed, along with her bag and keys. She swapped her black jeans — which were in desperate need of a wash, since they smelled of popcorn — for her favourite wine red velvet leggings, and sauntered out to put on the kettle.

She was midway through tying her hair into a ponytail when she entered the main room and spied Niall, Zayn, and Louis sprawled across the furniture while Harry worked in the kitchen, hair thrown into a bun and the sleeves of his long-sleeved white shirt hastily pushed to his elbows. Rather than putting the kettle on as she had planned, Fiona went over and slapped Zayn upside the head.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, rubbing the spot. “What was that for, Fiona?”

Hands on her hips and one brow raised in the most judgemental fashion she could muster (it was quite impressive), Fiona ignored the giggles coming from Niall and Louis’ general direction and kept her focus on Zayn. “Why didn’t you go to that lecture yesterday? Cassidy rang me in the morning asking if I’d go because you couldn’t be asked.”

“Sounded boring,” Zayn said, and upon glimpsing Fiona’s scowl, quickly backtracked. “Er, I mean, more your speed. Art in literature or whatever, it’s right up your alley.”

“Literature in art,” Fiona corrected. She forced him to make room on the ugly green couch and sat with her legs criss-crossed, catching Niall’s funny expression just before he composed himself. She stuck her tongue out at him, resulting in a gleeful cheer from the Irishman.

“Fiona’s in a good mood tonight, lads, aren’t we lucky!”

“Shut up, Niall,” she said, rolling her eyes. Without meaning to, Fiona glanced back toward the kitchen.

Harry was mixing something in a bowl, his back to them. Plugged in on the other side of the counter from where he was working was the kettle, already on its way to a boil. A mug sat in front of it, the string from the tea bag inside twisted around the handle. Harry’s journal was out too, sitting open near the kettle where it wouldn’t get splattered with food. Fiona wondered if he was following another hastily written recipe from work, or maybe one of his own creations. She had no idea if Harry made up his own recipes or not, because she’d never asked, but it seemed like something he might do.

The protective behaviour he showed toward the journal, hiding it whenever someone came into the room, always having it on hand, only made it more interesting to her. It suggested there was something more to Harry than meets the eye, and Fiona was more invested — or at least more curious — in him than she had been ever before. The idea of friendship between them was still a little fanciful to her, despite the strides they seemed to be taking in that direction, but that was mostly caused by her lingering animosity toward him. A year of teasing and arguing wasn’t easy to just let go of, regardless of how quickly Harry seemed to transition to whatever it was they were now.

“Zayn,” she whispered, suddenly thankful she’d sat with him rather than the other two. “What do you know about that notebook Harry’s always got on him?”

“Not a lot,” Zayn replied, not even asking why she was curious. It didn’t matter to him. “I think it’s just like a regular journal.”

“But why would Harry keep a journal?”

Zayn scratched his chin, eyes on the telly, his voice staying at a low volume that only she could hear. “I don’t think Harry’s the person you think he is,” he said, pensive. “He’s a lot more like us than he lets on — likes being by himself, thinks too much, that sort of stuff.”

The main reason Fiona and Zayn had clicked so easily was their similarities. Never had it occurred to her that Harry might be a kind of introvert too, just one who was less willing to admit it. The journal was starting to make a lot more sense, even if she still had no idea what he wrote in it.

“But he’s so…loud,” Fiona finished lamely.

Zayn jerked his chin at the two boys on the larger sofa. Louis swatted Niall in the head with a cushion and Niall responded with an elbow jab to Louis’ gut. “He’s not like those two, though, is he?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’ve been living with Harry for two years, Fiona,” Zayn said. “He doesn’t talk about himself, and he mostly just keeps to his room when he’s at home. But when he’s around other people, you wouldn’t think that about him, because he’s always on. I would’ve thought you’d notice with all the time he spends here.”

“I never paid him much attention until recently,” Fiona admitted softly.

“Well, Harry’s all about reciprocity. He does what he thinks people like, need, whatever word you choose. But most of it isn’t him, y’know?”

All of this was news to her, and yet at the same time, she’d known it all along. Fiona glanced back at Harry, who was stirring milk into the mug of tea. He grasped the handle and picked it up, turning toward them, his eyes meeting hers. She’d known since the second she saw it, but it was still a surprise when he came over with the mug and wordlessly handed it to her. When Fiona looked over at Zayn, he had a small smile on his face.

“The only thing you really need to know about Harry is that he’s passionate about his cooking and the people he cares about. You might not believe it, but you’re one of those people too.”

She was starting to believe it. Nobody has ever put in as much effort to maintaining a relationship with her (platonic, romantic, or otherwise) as Harry had. Even when she hated him through and through, there had been a sort of determination to him to prove to her that he wasn’t just going to stop hanging around and engaging with her just because she snapped at him all the time.

Dinner was surprisingly simple, given that Harry usually liked testing things out on them, and not French for once. Niall was just happy there was meat and that he could pronounce all the ingredients. But as they ate, whatever Harry had baking in the oven started to release a smell somehow tangy and sweet at the same time. Perhaps their days of dinner experimentation were done, and it was onto pastries.

When the dessert had cooled and Harry deemed it ready for consumption, what he brought over to the table was far too elegant to be eaten by a bunch of kids living in a cheap flat, and looked entirely out of place on the wobbly table with its mismatched cutlery, plates, and chairs. “Are you sure you want us to eat that, bro?” Zayn asked, voicing everyone else’s hesitance.

“Chill out, it’s only an apple tart,” Harry said, setting the tart down in the middle of the table and fetching a knife. “It’s a staple on our dessert menu, I’ve got to get it right.”

The apples were arranged in such a way that reminded Fiona of a flower, each slice like a petal, darker on the edge where the sugar sprinkled over top had browned. She wasn’t sure if he’d done it on purpose or if it just came out that way, but in either case:

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

While the others were surely wearing interesting expressions, the only one that mattered was Harry’s. This was his career, his life, and not once had she actually commented on the food. He’d made no attempt to conceal his expression that she could tell, and he stared at her in surprise and something else, something like wonder.

“Thanks, Fee,” he murmured, tucking his chin to his chest and grinning.

But the swell of happiness that came next, when she saw the dimples on his cheeks and his lip caught between his teeth, left Fiona with the sudden and acute desire to smile.

There are different kinds of smiles. They’re different depending on the person, the situation, who they’re focused on, and a dozen other things. The grin tugging at her lips wasn’t just in her mouth, but in her nose, her eyes, her cheeks, and connected by a fragile thread down to her heart, making it want to smile too. This wasn’t the smile she put on to please, or the one when Niall did something idiotic, or the one when Allison said something wonderful. This was the smile when you said something true, and it hurt, because happy truths where Harry was concerned were not ones Fiona encountered very often.

“Your face is all scrunched up, Fee, I think you’re putting too much thought into how beautiful this tart is,” Harry observed, putting a plate down in front of her. Niall was already halfway through his slice. “Best you stick to a neutral expression. If you try to show anymore positive emotion tonight you might give yourself an aneurysm.”

But he was still stupid, annoying Harry, so she kept the happy truth, and its smile, to herself.

“Do you even know what an aneurysm is?” Zayn asked. “I mean, I know it’s a turn of phrase or whatever, but it doesn’t actually happen like we think it happens, does it?”

Harry shot him a look. “It’s a build-up in a blood vessel,” he replied evenly. Zayn raised his eyebrows and looked at Fiona, who raised her eyebrows right back, both of them saying nothing.

After dessert, there was a great deal more telly and arguing (not just Fiona and Harry this time, either, since Zayn wouldn’t let Niall watch the evening news) before Zayn buggered off home and Niall announced he was going to bed. Fiona also retreated to her room, still feeling weird from the happy truth, and not wanting to be alone with Harry.

She started on her reading for next week, sat in the middle of her bed with her knees tucked to her chest and her book as close as to her face as possible without the words going blurry, pen between her teeth for annotating. Her mobile chimed a few minutes after she started reading; Fiona lifted her book above her head and peered over her knees at the screen, where a message notification had Harry’s name attached to it.

Rolling her eyes, Fiona set down her book using her pen as a bookmark and picked up her mobile, swiping the notification to see Harry’s text.

Still thinking about how beautiful my tart was?

Her reply was immediate, an instinct.

actually it tasted terrible

You liar

I never lie

Well you’re lying now. I was watching you. You thought it tasted just as beautiful as it looked.

tell yourself that if it makes you feel better

She tossed her mobile aside after switching it to silent, wanting to finish this chapter before she tried to get some sleep. But it ended up taking longer than she expected, because her mind was elsewhere, and just after one in the morning she was sliding off the mattress to go have a cigarette on the balcony.

Because it was undoubtedly cold and her crop top and leggings weren’t providing much insulation, Fiona slipped on the jumper she’d thrown onto the bed earlier before leaving her room.

Harry was curled up on the sofa with his hands tucked into his armpits and his mouth set in a frown. It was colder out here than in her room, and he was in one of his thin shirts and joggers. The idiot hadn’t even put on socks. Fiona spent a moment staring at him and wondering why he was sleeping there when he had a perfectly good bed back at his own house that came with blankets and pillows and everything else you might need. Maybe it was habit, or because the kitchen here didn’t smell like weed, or maybe it really was the proximity to his job.

Tucking her cigarette behind her ear, Fiona went back to her room, grabbed a blanket (not her quilt or the wool one her gran had made, but the fleece throw she bought at IKEA on a whim), and stomped back out again. She came to a halt in front of the sofa and dropped the blanket on him.

Harry made a noise somewhere between a groan and a yelp and dragged the blanket off his head. He blinked slowly at Fiona, his eyes adjusting in the semi-darkness, and thumbed the soft material she’d just tossed at him. “What’s this for?”

“You looked cold.”

“Seems that kindness isn’t as hard as you thought.” Harry smiled — a small, gentle sort of smile that she hadn’t seen before. But it quickly shifted into a smirk. “Do I get a cuddle too?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Like I’d subject myself to that level of torture.”

Harry adjusted the throw until it covered as much of his long body as possible, then ended up pulling it right to his chin and leaving his feet and ankles exposed. “Thanks, Fee.”

“Whatever.”

+++

"Frankie was way overthinking Pope," Fiona said as she and Liam came out of their seminar. At the beginning of term she thought it was rotten luck to have him in her section as well as the lectures, but now that they'd been spending more time together, she didn't mind so much. Liam had turned out to be less the presumptuous, thick headed boy she thought he was and more of a genuinely nice person.

How she managed to surround herself with kind people when she was definitely not one, Fiona didn't understand. At least she still had Harry, who almost always could be counted on to be a dick.

"How's that?" Liam asked, ever eager to hear Fiona's (often cynical) take on things.

"The Rape of the Lock is satire. You aren't supposed to take it seriously," she said. "It's all about style: how they write about the thing, not the thing itself. Nobody cares if some lady got a bit of hair chopped off, the point is the commentary on the aristocracy and the triviality of it all. And Frankie wouldn't shut up about the stupid hair, completely missing the point."

Liam frowned over at her. "Why didn't you say any of that?"

"Cos she looked like she was having a rough time of it, and she hates me enough already."

"I heard she got dumped last week," Liam said helpfully.

Fiona made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "There you go."

Loitering outside the building looking like a pair of miscreants were Louis and Niall. The latter had managed to convince Fiona into going to the pub with them after her class, but they'd said nothing about picking her up. Completely forgetting Liam was right behind her, Fiona strode right up to them and folded her arms over her chest. "Hi," Louis greeted cheerfully.

"What happened to meeting at the flat?"

They ignored her. "Well hello, Liam, how are you?"

Liam raised his eyebrows. He and Louis played football together on weekends and had a few mutual friends, but the only times all of them had been together was when Louis witnessed one of Liam's many attempts to ask Fiona out. "Fine," Liam replied.

"Care to join us for a drink?"

After a tentative glance at Fiona, who was too busy scowling at Louis to notice, Liam politely declined the offer. It was unlike him, because Liam never turned down a drink, but Fiona had a feeling he didn’t want to intrude. He bid them goodbye and told Fiona he'd see her on Monday, then headed for the bus shelter down the road.

"Are you seriously going to make me drag all my shit to the pub?" Fiona asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Niall replied. "We borrowed Harry's car."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "We're going to a pub, where we're going to get drunk, and Harry let you borrow his car?"

Louis swung the key around his finger. "I won't be drinking tonight, I've got an early train home. But I didn't want to deprive you of my company."

"Let's go!" Niall hollered. On their way to the car, he hooked his arm around Fiona's shoulders. "By the way, tonight's mission is to find you a nice lad — or lady — to go home with."

“Like fuck it is,” she replied, as they piled into Harry’s crap Mazda. It was weird being sat in the passenger’s seat without him fiddling with the radio until he found something appropriately indie to sing along loudly to, though she’d only ever witnessed that when Niall was in the car too. When it was just the two of them (which had only been the once, really), the indie shit was still blaring, but Harry sat silent or told her serious things. “I can get myself laid, thank you.”

“How long’s it been then?” Niall asked as Louis navigated out of the carpark.

She sent him a look over her shoulder. “You know how long.”

Niall looked sheepish. “Right. Sorry. Couldn’t remember if you got off with someone whenever we went out since then.”

“I haven’t been out much since then,” she reminded him.

“Right,” Niall said again.

“Fancy giving your friend Allison a ring?” Louis suggested. Fiona thought she saw him glance in the rearview mirror at Niall, but it was probably at the Hyundai tailing them. “See if she wants to join us?”

“She’s working,” Fiona replied, not needing to check. The second Niall and Louis had proposed taking her out she’d texted Allison and begged her to come along so she wouldn’t be stuck with a pair of idiots all night long.

The prospect was sort of making her want to get off with someone, more than she had in weeks. The last few times she’d gone out had just been a series of chances gone wrong, and she didn’t even want to think about Liam’s last party. If he threw another one, she would probably say no just on the off-chance that Harry would be there, knowing exactly what to say to make her go along with his ridiculous plans.

It wasn’t entirely him, though, he’d said he was just trying to figure out what to do. If she hadn’t already been in a terrible mood and angry and Wren then maybe nothing would have happened at all.

She stopped her train of thought there, because nothing had happened, and there was no reason for her to keep on thinking about it. Harry was still awful and she still wanted to smack him seventy-five percent of the time.

Only a month ago, it had been closer to ninety.

They got to The Butcher’s Arms way too early for Fiona’s liking. It was still busy of course, because this was one of Louis’ favourite pubs, and football fans were crowded inside even though it wasn’t a match day. Thanks to a stroke of luck, a group was vacating a table to get on their way to another pub, and Niall practically dove on top of it to stop anyone else from getting there first. Louis and Fiona both rolled their eyes and Louis went off to the bar to get the first round.

“Gonna be a good night, I can feel it,” Niall said, tapping on the table with restless fingers as Fiona shed her coat and fixed her collar.

“You say that literally every time we go out,” Fiona said.

“Cos it’s always true,” he replied, grinning.

“It’s, like, half past. We’re gonna be drunk before eight o’clock.”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Fiona rolled her eyes as Louis returned, setting down pints in front of them. He fell into his own chair, flicking the hair out of his eyes, and lifted his drink. “I thought you weren’t having any,” Fiona said, brows raised.

“Just the one,” Louis replied with a grin. They said cheers, beer spilling over their hands from the too-full glasses. After another drink or two she might not mind so much that it was only Louis and Niall here, because they’d at least go for a smoke with her, and even if they weren’t that good at conversation and knowing when to stop talking, they were here with the primary goal of having a good time. And she needed that, even if she was reluctant to admit it.

Louis actually stuck to his one drink, sipping it slowly while Fiona and Niall down theirs in the next ten minutes, then went for more. Niall insisted upon shots too, and while Fiona was normally against hard liquor before nine o’clock at least, she let him have his way, if only for the gleeful smile that lit up his face.

They did their shots at the bar, and Fiona felt good, better, lighter. Not tired, not like she hadn’t been sleeping all week and thinking about how the blanket she’d loaned Harry ended up folded at her door every single morning even though she put it right back on the couch for him to use the next night. Niall draped his arm over her shoulders as they ambled back to the table, and she let him, but the second pint was starting to settle in her stomach with the uneasy reminder of how she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Crisps!” she commanded of Niall, who promptly spun on his heel and went back to the bar.

+++

Fiona checked her phone when she decided she was very drunk, and was pleased to see that it was well past eight. Louis had gone over to argue with someone about football nearly twenty minutes ago, and Fiona could still hear his voice above the rest of the noise in the pub. Niall had also left, but it was because Fiona had given him the go ahead to chat up some girl near the bar. There had been mutual admiring over how good the bright lipstick she wore looked with her dark skin, but after seeing how intently she was watching the telly over the bar (it was a news segment in between the football highlights) Fiona decided Niall would have better luck than her.

But it was also because of the guy sat a few tables away, with the sort of hair she usually hated, all curly and sticking out around his head, which Fiona realized was exactly the sort of hair Harry used to have when she first met him, only blonde and wispier.

He was looking at her, and he had been for at least half an hour. Niall had completely skipped over him while they were analyzing the clientele for prospects, which Fiona thought was quite a terrible crime. He had a nice nose, nice eyes, everything nice. Fiona was going to try for nice, she’d decided, or maybe it had been suggested to her. It didn’t matter now, because this one looked nice, and that was what she wanted.

So she raised an eyebrow at him, which made him grin. He had dimples, sort of, or maybe they were more like laughter lines, she wasn’t sure. He still hadn’t moved, so she increased the arch of her eyebrow and tilted her head, a smirk curving its way onto her lips even though she’d wanted to remain mostly impassive. Smiles came in handy, sometimes.

Then he got up from his table, still grinning, and made his way over. He held onto the back of the chair across from her with one hand, while the other held his pint. Now that he was closer, Fiona could tell that he was older than she’d expected, but not old enough for her to care. She was drunk and he looked nice, the rest of it could give her a headache tomorrow.

“Hi,” he said. His voice was posh, which matched his jumper and his shoes. “I’m Oliver.”

“Fiona,” she replied. “Are you gonna sit down or what?”

He chuckled and took the seat to her left, tilting it towards her slightly. “You’re very straight forward, aren’t you?”

Fiona sipped her pint. “Forward, yeah. When I’ve had this much to drink, at least. Straight, no.”

Oliver choked on his drink, thumping his chest with a fist. “I’m sorry?”

“Believe me, if I could give you a more solid answer than that, I would,” she informed him, because she’d decided that the surprised look on his face was cute, and she wanted to keep it there a little bit longer. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, though.”

“And that means?”

“I did ask you to come over here, didn’t I?”

He nodded, raking his fingers through his hair. It stood up even further from his head, reminding her of waves, even though she’d only seen the ocean when she was small when they went on road trips to the coast on weekends.

“So, I’m not that much of an arsehole.”

“For most of the time I was looking at you from over there, you didn’t look like you’re enjoying yourself much, though,” he said. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “What?”

“Well, I would say just that this is the way my face is, because that’s true as well, but I really just don’t like footballers,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he replied conspiratorially, using the opportunity to slide his chair closer. He dropped an arm across the back of her chair and Fiona was pleased that she wouldn’t have to do all the work, because he was cute and she liked his crooked smile and the fact that he didn’t have any tattoos that she could see, and she didn’t want to have to ditch him because he wasn’t getting the idea. “See that girl near the snooker table? In the blue dress?”

“She’s hot,” Fiona said.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “She’s my sister,” he said, and Fiona bit her lip to stop from laughing. “And she happens to love footballers, but I said I wouldn’t let her go in here without someone to watch over her.”

“So you’re, what, her chaperone?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re doing a shit job of it, mate,” Fiona informed him. He managed to look both offended and more attracted to her at the same time, which she liked. “I mean, you’re over here with me and not making sure my friend Niall over there doesn’t try anything.”

“If he’s your friend I’m sure I can trust him,” said Oliver. Fiona figured the pretty black girl must’ve rejected Niall, because she was now talking to someone else at the bar while he laughed too loudly at something Louis said.

“Absolutely not. Niall’s horrible when it comes to women. He looks quite innocent, with those eyes and all the laughing, but he’ll never call her afterwards.”

Oliver stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Is this your way of getting rid of me?”

“Not in the least. But you should know now, I probably won’t call you either.”

“I see why you’re friends.”

“We’re terrible human beings, really. But whereas Niall pretends to be nice, I like to tell people beforehand that I’m not.”

Oliver’s lips brushed her ear when he spoke next. “I’m all right with that,” he said, then kissed her jaw.

Once Fiona had fetched her bag from Harry’s car and given the keys back to a smirking Louis, who was having a cigarette outside, she found herself leaning into Oliver on the sidewalk and dying for a smoke. “D’you mind?” she asked, retrieving the pack from the depths of her bag. It was buried beneath one of her books, which she shoved into Oliver’s grasp in the process. When she looked up at him, he was flipping through it with a small smile on his lips.

“Smoke if you like,” he told her, and continued to read her book. “You do English, then? At uni?”

“Yeah,” she said. He handed the book back after she lit her cigarette, and she stuffed it into her bag.

“So do I.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Fiona grinned, pleasantly surprised. If they could talk about books, the conversation possibilities were endless. She sidled even closer to him, running her thumb over the collar of his jumper, which was impossibly soft and apparently warm enough for him not to need a coat. “So, you’re sure you don’t need to stay and keep an eye on your sister?”

Oliver glanced back at the pub, his hand under her jacket sliding around to her back. “I think she’ll be all right.”

Fiona shook her head at him, then exhaled off to the side so the smoke wouldn’t go straight into his face. She noted that he stared at her lips the entire time. Their snog inside had been nice, just like everything else about him. It would’ve been better if Niall hadn’t given her a cheer from across the pub, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. “Terrible brother, you are.”

“To be honest, she’ll be happy I’ve gone,” he said. “Now she can go home with a footballer.”

Fiona grimaced, making him laugh. “Right, let’s get out of here then.”

“I’m quite far, actually,” Oliver said, as she started leading him down the road by the hand.

“We can go to mine,” Fiona replied. “We’ll have to catch a bus, though, if you’re all right with that.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Careful though, someone might make fun of those posh shoes of yours,” Fiona said, nodding at them. They were smooth Italian leather, definitely expensive, but well-worn.

Oliver looked down at them. “Are they posh?”

“God yeah. ‘S all right, though, they suit you. I can’t imagine what you’d look like in trainers.”

“Says the girl wearing trainers,” he replied.

Fiona put one of her Vans up against one of his wingtips. “Ridiculous,” she muttered. “Good thing you have a nice face.”

Nice.

They got on the bus, and Fiona had to pay extra attention in her intoxicated state so that they wouldn’t miss their stop. But Oliver seemed intent on distracting her, his arm around her and tracing patterns against her shoulder in a way that wouldn’t have been so consuming if she were more sober.

But she didn’t miss the stop, and they were going up the lift in her building soon afterward. Limbs tangled and mouths eager, almost not noticing when the doors opened and a lady was waiting to get on at Fiona’s floor. They kissed in the corridor, and his mouth strayed down to her neck while she tried to get the door open, with only a little bit of trouble. The flat was dark, but that didn’t mean no one was home. Fiona detached herself from Oliver and wandered further inside.

“You looking for something?”

There was no one asleep on the sofa, or banging around in the kitchen, or leaning against the railing on the balcony and being so fucking complicated and an absolute knobhead all at the same time. “No one—nothing. It’s nothing. Just wondered if my flatmate was in.”

Oliver was already behind her, hands on her shoulders, pulling her coat off. Fiona let him remove it, then left it on the floor and showed him to her room. Despite his interest in the book from her bag earlier, Oliver didn’t even notice the shelves stacked full of novels, anthologies, and poetry collections. To be fair, Fiona forgot they were there too.

Even his chest was nice. There weren’t any stupid tattoos; there weren’t any tattoos at all. Oliver chuckled at the crown on her foot and then again at the lightsaber on the inside of her finger when he asked if she had any other tattoos.

“I like this one,” he said, trailing a finger across the words on her bicep. They were on her bed, most of their clothing gone, and he straddled her hips. Fiona just wanted to get on with it already, but it seemed she was in for a bit of conversation first. She started undoing his belt, but he hardly even noticed. “You like The Tempest, huh?”

“One of my favourites,” she agreed, and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his. “Not why I got the tattoo, though.”

That caught his interest. “No?”

Fiona had undone the belt fully by then, and flicked open the button of his jeans. “No. Got it cos it’s true, innit?”

“‘All the devils are here’?” he asked, mouth grazing her collarbone.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Every fucking one of them.”

+++

When she woke up the next morning, Fiona knew that nice wasn’t what she wanted. A little bit of it, maybe, otherwise she’d go mad and be furious all the time and that wasn’t what she wanted either, but Oliver was just nice. Nice like Liam was nice (which she hadn’t figured out until she actually got to know him), nice like Allison was nice, and she wasn’t going to date them either.

The sound of the telly made anxiety sink to her stomach and settle there. It had been ages since she’d had someone stay the night that wasn’t Allison, even longer since she’d had a one night stand, and even longer still since she’d been with a boy.

The knot loosened a fraction when she saw that it was only Niall, sprawled out on the sofa with a bowl of frosted flakes in his lap. His head jerked toward her the second she entered the room, eyes trailing down to her bare legs, and he smirked. “Can I give you a congratulatory hug for having your first shag since summer holiday?”

“God, Niall,” Fiona groaned, and went to put on the kettle. He set down his cereal and ran over to hug her anyway, neither of them caring that she was only in a tank top and knickers and him in joggers.

“Uh, Fiona?”

Fiona and Niall split apart, both turning toward the corridor. Oliver had put on his jeans and the t-shirt he’d had on under his jumper, the thick material bunched in one of his hands. “Hi,” Fiona said, when the silence stretched too long. Oliver was still staring at Niall, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she could see that her flatmate wore something between confusion and fury on his face. She didn’t even want to know why. “Sorry, um, this is my flatmate, Niall. Niall, this is Oliver.”

Niall nodded, but folded his arms over his bare chest, making it clear he had no intention of shaking Oliver’s hand.

“I’ll, er,” Oliver smiled awkwardly. “I should go, yeah?”

After she’d elbowed Niall, Fiona went over and touched Oliver’s arm, gently leading him to the door. “Sorry about him. He’s got a protective side, apparently.”

“No, it’s — yeah, it’s fine. I get it. Random bloke comes out of your room, of course he’s not gonna invite me to have a cup of tea.”

Fiona leaned against the corner as Oliver put on his wingtips, biting down on her lip. “I’m sorry anyway, he’s being a dick for no reason. He brings home girls all the time.”

“It’s fine,” Oliver assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder and pulling her in, his other hand sliding under her vest to cup her hip. “I’ll give you a ring, yeah?”

“I never gave you my number,” she replied, one eyebrow quirked. “And I did warn you.”

Oliver nodded, disappointed. “You did at that. Well, maybe I’ll see you then.” When she frowned at him, he chuckled. “Uni, yeah? We’re both doing English?”

“Oh right, obviously.”

He gave her a short parting kiss, which was nice. But this time, she wasn’t satisfied with it. “See you.”

When she returned to the kitchen to make her brew, Niall was still standing there with his arms folded over his chest. “What the fuck was that?”

“Five minutes ago you were practically throwing me a party for fucking him,” Fiona answered, retrieving milk from the fridge. “Why were you so bloody rude?”

Niall was staring at her in utter disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me, Fiona? That guy was thirty, at least!”

“Chill out, no he wasn’t.”

“He had lines on his forehead,” Niall said, like this was concrete proof of Oliver’s age.

Fiona rolled her eyes, holding her tea in both hands. “He’s not fucking thirty, Niall, don’t be ridiculous. He’s not a proper adult or anything, he said he was still in school,” she informed him.

“He’s still older than you are, and you know the rules!”

“Those are your rules, Niall, and they’re bullshit.”

“Not the one about age, Fiona, that’s a fucking serious rule.”

They held each other’s gazes for a long moment, and Fiona didn’t think she’d ever seen Niall this angry before. “Look, I’m not gonna see him again, so let’s just forget it, yeah?”

“Promise me you won’t.”

“I promise, all right?” Fiona sighed, taking one hand away from her mug to push her hair back. Niall’s anxiety was making her anxious, and the knot in her stomach was starting to become a pit of nerves and worry. “Niall?”

“What is it?”

“Can we keep this a flatmates-only thing? I don’t need anyone else saying shit about my personal business unless I’ve decided to tell them.”

Niall looked hesitant, but nodded after a while. “Yeah, fine.”