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Chapter 25 : Good Decisions
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♔ CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ♔
At the slightest pressure of my fingertips on the nape of his neck, Oliver gives, eagerly. He turns and for a second his forehead rests against mine. His eyes aren’t quite shut—he’s heavy-lidded, waiting. But now I’m afraid to move, and if I even blink, he’s going to disappear. This isn’t really happening. These kinds of things don’t turn out for anyone. Maybe for Elizabeth and Darcy, but they’re yellowing inside the pages of Muggle books.
His lashes are resting on his cheekbones the way they did in the Muggle shop, months ago. I tilt my head, and I kiss him. It’s the tiniest of pecks, like two First-Years hiding in a corridor. I’m testing. When I pull back and study him, his eyes are closed. He could be sleeping, but his hand pulls me back to him. It’s warm and dry like a stone baking in the sun. This time it’s safe to close my eyes.
Oliver kisses me again, and again, and again, and again, and it’s the easiest most natural thing. Like taking to water—I was quick to learn. When my Mum first brought me to the lake I ran in headfirst, scaring her half to death, only to come up paddling and laughing wildly. With Oliver there is no stumbling; no uncertainty. Wherever I move he’s already there, with a hand on my waist or my neck, as calm and all-encompassing as the lake. He’s cautious, afraid I’ll bolt, like some forest creature.
That is most certainly not happening.
I don’t know how much time passes. At last I can’t take it anymore and will myself to pull away. His tongue feels like Firewhiskey—there’s dizziness in my head and warmth my belly, but I need to pace myself before I’m drunk off him. Our eyes open. Even though we’ve been pressed together, I’m startled by how close he is. We sit back and laugh in quiet embarrassment.
“Well,” is all I can manage. I search for my champagne, because it’s something to do. The glass is warm. We must have been at it for some time. I dare a glance. Oliver is leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. He’s squinting, but the sun is at our backs—I think he’s trying to keep from smiling too widely. Feebly, I loop a finger through his trouser pocket. I’m no good at these things, but still he returns my smile before we have to look away again.
A group of guests across the courtyard laughs at something. Apparently my wedding hormones are in full swing, as the sight makes me feel as bubbly as the drink in my hand. The little old couple…still laughing together after all of these years… Is the sun shining brighter? Did Oliver slip some acid in my drink, or is this how being in like feels?
His hand hovers in the air before resting on my knee, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Hope I didn’t disappoint.”
In response he leans over and very lightly kisses my collarbone. It’s the lightest of touches but he may as well have just ripped off my pants. Miraculously, I have worn a nicer pair tonight (read: no holes in them.) But that doesn’t matter, because I’ve just made an embarrassingly loud gasping sound. Forget taking like a fish to water—I’m drowning.
“Excellent,” I peep. “Capital.”
Oliver rights himself, “So… what now?”
What now? Well, we should probably find a remote tower where I can rip your trousers off like they’re on fire. Preferably a room with sturdy rafters.
“...probably tell Rose,” he’s saying, interrupting the nice visual. My stomach twists.
“Ah, right. There is the issue of sweet Rose Zeller.” I surprise myself, “Well, she deserves to be told in person, at least. It’s a fake relationship, but you at least owe her a fake dignified breakup.”
“I reckon you’re right,” he says. “So… does that mean that I just fake cheated on her?”
I grimace, “Didn’t really think about that.”
“I didn’t really think about anything, other than wanting to kiss you.”
Very, very sturdy rafters.
I clear my throat, “Should we maybe, just for her sake, take it easy for a bit? At least until you talk to her?”
Shut up shut up why are you even talking, stop moving your mouth, just go find a quiet room somewhere. She’d do the same thing to you.
Oliver runs his hands through his hair, “If that’s what you think is best.”
Clearly, neither one of us is behind the idea. Fighting the urge to punch myself in the face, I say, “I think it is.”
He nods, “I’ll tell her tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Can’t you just leave the wedding and come back? But I know it’s not possible. Once again, I’ve dug my own grave for Rose’s sake. First by practically blackmailing Blakeslee to keep Rose’s job, and now this. My eyes travel to Oliver’s lips, and when he catches me staring he breaks into a grin.
Is it too late for take-backsies?
He nods resolutely, as if delivering a locker room pep talk, “Right. We’ll just have to make do. We’ll just enjoy the wedding like two normal people. I’ll talk to Rose tomorrow, and we’ll… take it from there.”
I force a smile, “Brilliant.”
And then our eyes lock and we both physically tense, fighting the urge to spring at each other hungrily. So much for self control. Oliver says, “I would walk away right now, if you want to keep that promise.”
I clench fistfuls of my skirt, groaning in frustration. “Ugh, fine.” I move to stand up and pause, a smirk on my lips. Oliver watches me warily before I lean over, grabbing a fistful of hair and kissing him heavily on his jaw. “But you’d better tell her first thing tomorrow,” I say in his ear.
He blinks rapidly, heaving a breath, “You’re horrible.”
“I mean it! 12:01 in the morning, mate!”
“The absolute worst,” he calls to my retreating back, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
We return to the castle several minutes apart, just in case. Plus it’s more exciting this way. But it turns out that our caution is unnecessary. The hundreds of guests are too preoccupied with free alcohol and snacks to even notice we were gone. They mill about the large, roofless hall, or sit at the many white-linen tables. Our view of the sky has been charmed to look like a sunset, all bright oranges and pinks.
I snort again at the lavishness. Justin.
A string quartet and harp are magically playing themselves on a small stage. Above, bright tropical birds flit around. Once teacups, they are the result of elaborate transfiguration that took four adults an hour to complete, as we scratched our heads and tried to recall our NEWTs. Trays of champagne, grapes, cheeses, and Seamus’s coveted lobster puffs float through the crowd. I spot him strolling behind one tray, popping puffs into his mouth. Dean is most likely trying to blend in with the wall somewhere.
Leaning against a stone column, I try to compose myself. I’ve just snogged Oliver Wood. And he fancies me? And I wrote mean things about him. You’ll deal with that later. But now I can’t snog him again, at least until he fake-breaks up with Rose. Will she even care? Probably. I’ll be sleeping with one eye open, no doubt. Don’t think about that either.
Subconsciously I touch my lips. I want to kiss him again.
My breathing is almost back to normal when Oliver returns from the gardens. An astonished laugh bursts from me. Even though we were only kissing, he’s undone his outer shirt. He makes a show of buttoning it and fixing his tie, looking as if we’d just had a romp in the ruins. When we lock eyes he’s smirking. So much for secrecy. I shake my head at his joke, but it’s no use. I’m beaming again.
Oliver winks—actually winks at me—and disappears into the crowd. My eyes dart around the room, but again, nobody has given a second glance. How can everyone be so indifferent? Don’t they hear the bells and drums and trumpets be going off inside my head?
At that moment Claire Turpin points her wand at the sky, and the sunset turns inky blue, dusted with stars. She’s about to make some announcement, but the crowd is too busy Oooh-ing at the display. When they continue chattering, her sweet little spell turns into a flare of sparks. The room hushes under her icy blue eyes. I spot Lisa, who is visibly trying not to cringe.
In a voice that could pass for endearing, Claire thanks the guests for their attendance. I’m only halfway listening when someone comes to stand very close behind me.
“Lovely reception,” Oliver remarks under his breath.
I play along, “Oh yes, and the decor! So tasteful and understated.”
“Shhhh!” hisses an old woman to our left.
Claire’s speech ends, and I couldn’t tell you what was said. There is a smattering of applause as she gives a smile that looks more like bared teeth. The sky remains twinkling with stars, and the music picks up again. Oliver is holding two glasses of red wine, one of which he offers, “You must try the selection.”
“Are the grapes local?”
“I’m offended that you ask.”
“Edie!” Lisa is practically sprinting over, wedding dress gathered in her hands. Her mouth twitches in a polite smile to Oliver, before she says to me, “You’ve gone all red and wonky-eyed. Are you drunk already?”
“No!” I don’t dare glance at Oliver as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Oh, thank Merlin. Take this,” she hands me a glass of Knotgrass Mead. Not my favourite. When I furrow my brow quizzically she says, “I need you, Edie. People are going to be handing me drinks all night. You have to drink them for me.” She says airily to Oliver, “I’m doing a cleanse.”
Taking the hint, he disappears. I can’t help it—my eyes follow after him. Thankfully, Lisa is too panicked to notice, “Please, Edie. You’ve been training for this your whole life.”
That’s a very forgiving way of looking at my drinking habit. But I really didn’t plan on getting trashed tonight. “Why don’t you just pour it out?”
“My Mum spent a fortune on it, as she continues to remind me,” she rolls her eyes. “I feel too guilty.”
“Can’t Justin do it?”
“You know he hardly drinks. Especially with his mother around...” She looks at me imploringly. I want tonight to be special, and to remember everything. But she’s so pretty and she’s asking me and it’s her wedding day...
“Oh, bugger all,” I knock back the glass, sending myself into a fit of coughing and chest-pounding.
“Wow. I mean, you didn’t have to—”
“—really not meant to drink mead that way—”
“I immediately regret it.”
“Thank you, Edie. I’ll try to go easy on you.” She grabs me in a hug, heaving a sigh, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s your wedding. Wouldn’t miss it,” I grumble, again feeling as though just maybe I might possibly be getting a bit emotional. Blinking it away, I hold her at arm’s length.
Then her mother’s voice is booming over a Sonorus spell, “And now the bride and groom will dance.”
The crowd has stepped back, leaving Lisa and I in the middle of the dance floor. With my hands on her shoulders, and hers on my waist, we look ballroom-ready. There is an awkward mumbling. I spot Seamus in the crowd, doubled over in laughter.
I swear to God, if you make a lesbian joke in front of Claire Turpin…
Justin appears, clearing his throat, “That would be the bride and groom, Edie.” He steps in between us, entwining their fingers in a waltz stance. I roll my eyes theatrically and he flashes an annoying grin. As the music starts I scurry from the dance floor.
Humiliated, I naturally lock eyes with Oliver. Because as a Rule of the Universe, he is now always present for my blunders. Returning his smile, I make my way over before somebody steps in my path.
“Dean,” my disappointment is audible. I hope that he has somehow failed to hear me, but the flash of hurt in his eyes says otherwise. I am really mucking up things with him lately. “H-how are you?”
“I’m fine,” he sounds annoyed. “Where have you been?”
“Other couples will now join in the dancing,” Claire is not asking. She’s telling. Several panicked-looking couples have hurried onto the dance floor under her glare.
With decisiveness I grab Dean’s sleeve, “Looks fun!” I pull him onto the dance floor, which it turns out is like giving a fish a broomstick and saying, “Alright, let’s play Quidditch!” Dean freezes, his hand clamping on my forearm. But I’m determined to fix our friendship.
At last I wrangle him into a sufficient pose. Of course, neither of us has the faintest idea of how to waltz, but at least one of us won’t outshine the other. “Move your feet like this,” I suggest.
“There is absolutely no pattern to that.”
“At least I’m moving! You’re like one of the Queen’s Guard.”
“Well I’m sorry I haven’t been brushing up on my ballroom dancing!”
“Well I do know your hand doesn’t go here,” I pluck it from my shoulder and place it above my hip. He goes quiet again.
At last we’re past treading on one another’s toes and have settled into a doable, albeit clumsy, stride. It is a perfectly passable waltz, to a blind person. “So, how’ve you been?” I pry.
“Uh, good! Really good,” Dean removes his hand from my waist for the umpteenth time. Now to scratch his ear; now to fix his tie; now to run it through his fuzzy hair. I have the feeling he doesn’t like touching me. “Been doing some more work for the Prophet. Not my idea of a reliable source, but it pays the bills.”
“Oh, that’s great. Brilliant.”
One-two-three, one-two-ouch! I knock elbows with another couple; one who apparently takes waltzing very seriously. I turn us so that the posh-looking man can no longer glare down his nose.
Dean wets his lips, “What about you? Plans for the holiday?”
“Oh, I’ll be spending it at home. I’m back living with my Mum and Andrew.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Seamus.”
“The economy and all.”
He steps on my toe and we pretend it never happened. More staring around the room. This is horrific. “Should we discuss the weather now? Politics?”
He shrugs, not willing to admit it: something’s changed. We’re not the same anymore, and it’s probably my fault. I wish I hadn’t asked him to dance, so that I could make up a lie about needing to visit the loo. But the song’s only just begun. There are at least another two and a half minutes of this torture, according to statistics.
“I just—” Dean stops, breaking the silence only to begin a new one.
“You just what?”
His anger surprises me, “I just wish you were around more. You’ve hardly wanted anything to do with me—and Seamus,” he stammers, “since you got your job. We never see you anymore, unless you need something from us. We broke into a building for you. We could have gotten into serious trouble, and Seamus could have lost Auror’s license!” His voice rises sharply; several heads turn. When he realizes people are staring, his shyness takes over. He stalks off the dance floor and I trail behind helplessly.
We reach a quiet corner and he says, “Plus you were too wrapped up in that Jae fellow. We hardly spoke.”
I cross my arms helplessly, “I’m sorry, Dean.” He’s waiting for a proper apology, but the words aren’t coming. I’m no good at talking when it matters most. I feel like a complete ass.
“Things just… They got all wonky…” He shakes his head, so I try again, “I stopped telling you everything because I was so embarrassed. Things were bad for me. Really bad. I didn’t want you to know about losing my job, and my flat, and those awful things I was writing about—”
He rolls his eyes and I stop, “What?”
“I just find it ironic that you’ve been devoting so much time to the person who turned your life to shit.”
“It’s not shit, Dean,” I contradict the very thing I just said. “I mean, it’s not perfect, but… I got a job out of it.”
“Yeah, for those ‘awful things’ you wrote about somebody who you’re now defending.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget why you wrote what you did. He made you lose your job, and he’s been nothing but an ass since you met. Obviously you felt very strongly about this, and now you’re letting him walk all over—”
“But I didn’t know him—”
“You’re letting yourself get wrapped up in all of his charming celebrity bollocks!”
I stomp my foot in frustration. “God, why are you being like this?”
He stares at me. It’s like he can’t believe that I don’t understand. Don’t understand what? There are people moving all around us, but they slow into a blur. Something clicks.
He looks away first, blinking hard. I feel sick.
I don’t know what else I would have said. But Seamus and Oliver are suddenly with us. Dean steps away from our little circle, as if Oliver’s very presence disgusts him. Seamus has an arm around the much taller man’s shoulders, standing on tip-toe. The other hand holds a glass of red currant rum, neat.
Oliver looks at me stiffly, an apology for their interruption, “Seamus wants to say hello…”
“They have some really nice liquor here, Edie!” Clumsily holding onto the glass with two fingers, he digs around in his shirt pocket. Oliver snatches the glass just before it is dropped. Oblivious, Seamus extracts a lobster puff and eats it, chewing loudly, “What are you two gossiping about?”
“Nothing,” I blurt.
But Dean says, “We were discussing Edie’s writing.”
I whip my head towards him, horror-struck. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do something like that to me. He knows that Oliver doesn’t read his own press—he wouldn’t dare give him reason to start. I stare him down but he won’t meet my gaze. The subject is dropped. He just wanted to remind me, again, of how much I’ve changed.
“We weren’t discussing anything,” I repeat.
There is a silence. I am staring down at my feet, because I know Oliver is looking at me, which means Dean is looking at Oliver. Everybody somehow knows that something is up, except for Seamus.
“Lobster puff, anyone?”
I’ve done a bang-up job of ignoring the fact that, no matter how I feel about Oliver now, those articles are still out there. All he has to do is pick up a magazine, and everything is over. How long until he gets curious? It’s childish, but I don’t want to be reminded. Not right now. Not after what happened, just half an hour ago in the courtyard. I want to go on living in my stupid little storybook, where actions don’t have consequences and I am the heroine, not the villain.
“I’m going to the bar,” Dean says sullenly. “Coming, Seamus?”
“Thought you’d never ask. ‘Sides, bartender is quite pretty.”
I squint over at the bar, “Seamus, that’s a man.”
He only looks mildly impressed, “Huh. Right, let’s get those drinks.” He claps Dean on the shoulders. The latter doesn’t meet my gaze before sulking away.
Oliver watches them leave, hands in his pockets. I stare after Dean, the sick feeling still churning in my stomach. Oliver swivels to me and says jovially, “So how long exactly has he been in love with you?”
I drop my arms in defeat. Am I the only person who never realized this? Lisa—sweet guardian angel Lisa—chooses this moment to discreetly hand me a Blishen’s Firewhiskey as she passes, without a second glance. She’d make a great Gwendolyn Phire.
Things that I know: I can’t kiss Oliver, my best mate has just implied that he has feelings for me, and I’m being handed free, high quality Firewhiskey. I drink heartily.
“Let’s take a walk.”
Thankfully, Oliver doesn’t press the Dean question as we stroll through the empty castle. It’s getting darker and darker outside, the December air chilly. I cast a quick heating charm over us. The castle is small—much smaller than Hogwarts—but it still feels like I’m sneaking out of the Hufflepuff common room after hours.
“D’you have the feeling that Mrs. Norris is about to appear, and land us in detention?” My head is light with drink.
“She liked me, actually.”
I give him a doubtful look, “Yeah. Right.”
“Honestly! I used to sneak out to the Quidditch pitch—”
“I heard that you used to spy on Hufflepuff’s nightly team meetings.”
A blush rises to his cheeks, “It wasn’t my fault that they were daft enough to meet in the middle of the third floor corridor, out in the open. Everyone knows it’s the quickest shortcut to the pitch.”
“Of course. Common knowledge.”
“Anyway, I snuck out so often that I started carrying little treats for Mrs. Norris.”
“Little treats?” I laugh.
He shrugs, scratching the back of his head in an endearing way, “Y’know. Bits of roast chicken from dinner. I started leaving them along my route, ‘cause I figured she’d pick up my scent. By the time I graduated she was coming when I called her. Never ratted me out, either.”
We burst into laughter, turning into a long corridor. The lack of windows makes it impossibly dark. I extract my wand, “Lumos.”
Our footsteps echo down the corridor, lined with stone sculptures of people who once inhabited the castle. I wonder if they’re Muggles. A bit creepy, actually. Maybe I should do that bit where I snuggle up to him out of fear. We reach the corridor’s end, or at least where the end would be, if the wall hadn’t long since crumbled. We’re on a small cliff overlooking the sea, where the horizon is still faint yellow before darkening to indigo. It’s breezy and the sea air is heavy. This will do nicely. I perch on a felled bit of stone, squishing around until it’s almost comfortable.
Oliver says, “Oh! I almost forgot. I’ve brought you something.” He digs around the pocket of his blazer, which he seems to have charmed to carry all of Britain. Elbow deep, he at last extracts an envelope bearing the Puddlemere seal.
“Don’t set this one on fire.”
Giving him a scowl, I use my wand to pry the seal open. It tears clean from the paper with a satisfying pop. Inside is a short letter, folded and addressed to me. I cast Oliver a confused glance but he’s rubbing the back of his head again. “Well go on, read it.”
I’m sorry to have not written you back sooner. Honestly, I received
so much mail about the European Cup that I stopped opening
the letters. I’m sure Oliver has told you that most of them were Howlers.
As for why I pulled the Wronski Feint, I can’t say. Reckon I just got caught up
in the moment and lost sight of the bigger picture. But it’s nice to
know that supporters like you still have faith in Puddlemere.
Anyway, thanks for your letters.
PS - Try not to shout so loudly at the next match.
I read it once, twice, and then a third time just to be sure. Jaw dropped, I stare up at Oliver in astonishment. “Is this…?” He nods slightly and I jump to my feet, shrieking, “Oh my God! Amelia Jones answered my letters!”
Almost a year later (and an embarrassing amount of post) and here I finally have my response. It’s completely childish, but I’m elated. “Amelia Jooones wrote me a leeetter,” I sing-song, skipping in a circle with the parchment waving overhead. All right, maybe I’m a little tipsy. Far below us on the beach, people are staring up at the screaming lunatic.
Oliver’s eyes are glimmering. “Glad you like it. I’ve had that for ages.”
A cool breeze picks up, ruffling his wavy hair. I say more quietly, “I wish I could kiss you right now.”
“I’d say we could bend the rules, just for a few minutes.”
Despite what my conscience is telling me, I step towards him. But if I’m doing wicked things then he is too—Oliver takes my wrist and pulls me to him, our lips crashing together. My arms circle around his neck. I have to stand on my toes to reach him, my chin lifted, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.
My Maid of Honour speech goes smoothly enough, although I’m clearly making it up as I go. I actually use the phrase, “The Beatles once said, ‘All You Need is Love.’” Lisa watches with interest at my improvisation, but is still somehow rendered a sobbing mess by the end. Claire Turpin is not so amused, her eyes boring into me icily over her glass of mead. Thankfully, Peter Finch-Fletchley’s blubbering lament for lost love will be the one that sticks. It ends abruptly when Claire shouts, “Let’s eat cake!”
People seem to think that I deserve alcohol for making a speech. My hand is never empty. Despite my good intentions, by ten o’clock I’ve had far too much to drink.
Oliver keeps his distance when we’re in public. He knows what happened with Dean, which I selfishly don’t even want to think about. Guests mistake my sitting alone, sipping a drink for being in need of a dance partner. Really I’m thinking of the way Oliver’s lips felt on mine, our bellies and hips pressed together.
I am rather inappropriately eating a maraschino cherry when Lisa’s uncle appears, “You look like you could use a dance!”
I spit the cherry out, “Oh! No. I’m fine, thank you, really—”
Naturally I dance the next three songs with him. Thankfully, a wobbly Seamus comes to save the day. He’s very good at Pretend Boyfriend-ing when I need him. We dance like idiots together, which keeps my mind off of Oliver long enough to function. Dean and I don’t so much as glance at one other. Eventually I assume he’s already left until I spot him, heading outside with a drink. I should probably follow him, but I feel like being a selfish ass tonight.
I can’t believe what I’m turning in to. It’s like I have no control over my eyes—all night they follow Oliver, drinking him in. I’m just really allowing myself look at him, for once. He’s no Adonis. His nose has clearly been broken from Quidditch, and his calculating look sometimes appears callous. But I’m struck by how good-looking he really is, especially in this firelight. Everything that I’ve held back is pouring out, thank-you Firewhiskey. But I know that I’m not alone in my sentiments. When I’m talking to Lisa or Seamus, I can feel his gaze boring into me.
It’s half-past midnight when the guests finally head outside. Glasses in hand, everyone is teetering a bit as we line the stone steps. The showering sparks from our wands create a tunnel, and we erupt into cheers when Lisa and Justin emerge from the castle. She looks like she might combust with happiness. Giddy, they scurry down the stairs, the tunnel of white sparks casting a glow over them.
As Lisa passes, she catches my eye. She stops to throw an arm around my neck, the other still linked with Justin’s. “Make good decisions!” she says in my ear, before hurrying away. She and Justin step into the awaiting carriage. We all stand, waving and cheering until they disappear into the darkness.
Make good decisions. Our playful little mantra carries new weight tonight. Looking across the tunnel, I catch Oliver’s eyes. He is already watching me. Nearby firelight casts shadows across his face. He’s smirking in a way that makes my stomach flip.
I don’t want to make good decisions.
When the guests begin to disperse, I don’t waste any time. Firewhiskey is burning in my blood. I cross right over to Oliver, who is in the middle of shaking hands with a kind-faced wizard. I hear the man saying, “You’re playing quite the season indeed! That Holyhead match was truly something.”
“Thank you,” Oliver says quietly, just as I march up to him and snake my arms around his waist. The man shuffles uncomfortably before making his exit.
Despite my idiot display Oliver smiles widely, putting his hands in my hair. “Well, hello. Somebody’s having fun.”
“Take me home.”
He pauses, “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
“No. Take me to your house. Right now.”
He stares and my resolve sputters out. This is so stupid. I’m half drunk and begging for him like a Puddlemere groupie. How many times has he done this before? I clear my throat, “I… I would love some coffee.”
He smiles and brings my forehead to his lips, “I’ll get my cloak.”
Author's Note: This fic is now officially the fluffiest of fluff to have ever fluffed.
So Dean's feelings for Edie are out in the open. Many of you are probably thinking the in-love-with-my-best-friend thing is a trope (and I suppose it is.) But trust me, it is painful and can ruin a friendship. I don't at all intend to turn Dean Thomas into a villain, because he's lovely. But I want to explore the issue of the "friend zone," and feeling guilty for something you should absolutely NOT feel guilty about.
As always, thank you so much for the reads. Please let me know what you think!
I do not own "All You Need Is Love" because the Beatles do.
Beautiful CI by southpaws @ TDA ♥!
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