Shift ☆ Louis Partridge

7 | Shadows In Satchels

☆

[y/n]

_

THIS IS ODDLY IRONIC.

The first time I shifted, I accidentally landed myself in the back of Louis' car unannounced. Now I'm sitting in his passenger seat on purpose (and neither of us are screaming in horror, thankfully).

My upper cheekbone was starting to bruise a horrible yellow and purple shade, but my shin was already feeling better by the time we were speeding down the motorway to get to my house. I had to thank him a million times for bandaging it up—to which he'd say 'it was really no bother'—and back again.

But now he was driving me halfway across London in his car.

"I didn't know you could drive," I said, turning my head to look at him.

He laughed. "Are you saying I'm a bad driver?"

"Well, you did almost run that red light."

"Key word, almost," he smiled, "there's a difference."

I let out a breathy chuckle, letting myself sink into the leather of the passenger seat with anxiousness. Why was I anxious? I shouldn't be. I've done this countless times before, talked to him countless times before—no matter if it was just a shift—and yet sometimes he made me feel...simple.

In our quiet, little universe, I was a star and he was the sun. The world seemed to revolve around him, and I was just a simple speck among the rest, going unnoticed by many.

And it was selfish to expect anything more.

We kept up a bit of chatter on the drive back to my house, and once we arrived, I felt my heart sink. What if this is where we said goodbye? I was only just someone he met at a bus stop, and I hadn't scripted him to keep running into me. Getting him to stay meant clinging onto every second I could.

So I turned my head.

"Do you want to come inside?" I asked, "I can make you a cuppa' if you want."

Louis smiled. "A cuppa' sounds nice."

It did.

Unbuckling my seat belt, I popped open the car door, sliding out and jostling for my keys in the depths of my pockets—I know, feminine clothing having pockets? Unheard of! (That was sarcasm, by the way, I can't tell you the amount of times I bought trousers and found out the pockets were sewn shut).

For a split second, I was grateful my parents took night shifts, because that meant I wouldn't wind up in an embarrassing conversation. They knew I was a Louis fan, and they'd probably see him and say: oh, so you're the chap my daughter has pictures of all over her room!

Oh hell, the pictures.

"Make yourself at home," I said quickly, swinging open the door, "I've got to do something really quick."

Louis stumbled in behind me. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere."

I probably shouldn't have panicked, because now Louis was following after me in suspicion—but who could not panic after realizing there's a wall littered of Tewksbury polaroids and mirror-selfies screen-shotted off of Instagram?

Hurdling up the steps of the stairs, I gained a quick distance from the curious boy, dashing into my room with super speed. Thank gosh he didn't know which door I went through. Glancing around the surprisingly neat room, I began to rips pictures off of the walls, stashing them into drawers and between books with haste.

I had just ripped a picture of Louis with a watermelon off when he came peeking in through the doorway.

"Oh, there you are," he said, wandering in, "why were you running?"

I ignored that question, heading back out towards the hallway. "I should make you that cuppa' tea now."

"Thank you, Tewks," he called after me.

callmetewksonemoretimeandIwilltakeyourteaanddumpitoveryourheadbecuaseIliterallycannothandlehowmuchthatmeanstome.

Ignoring the racing of my brain, I hurried down the stairs and to the kitchen. If my previous shifts were any help, I knew that he'd probably want Peach-Raspberry (the tea he was drinking when he spilled it all over me, remember?).

Putting a kettle on the stove, I set it to boil, and climbed onto a stool while I waited.

I needed to think.

...

No, that's too hard to do at the moment, my brain feels fuzzy and my face hurts from the punch.

I suppose my mission wasn't entirely rubbish though, because I learned two things: One, even if I couldn't get Louis to love me, at least I know he wouldn't hate me entirely if we ever met in real life (which won't happen, but still). And two, it's incredibly weird knowing that Louis Partridge is in your house.

I had a glimpse of his house back when I needed 'medical attention', and it looked like a smaller version of Buckingham Palace—the sodding git was pretty much royalty, for heaven's sake. He probably thought my house was like a telephone booth in comparison.

At least he didn't see the pictures of him I had in my room.

Wait.

He's still in my room.

Scrambling out of my chair, I left the boiling kettle behind, sprinting back up the stairs with a deafening pounding in my heart. Why was he still in there? Why didn't he follow me out? Did I accidentally leave a picture up?

Sliding down the hallway, I regained my composure, and made an attempt to walk into my room calmly. I didn't want to seem suspicious.

But as soon as I made it through the doorway, I saw Louis flinch, slipping something into the satchel hanging on his shoulder. I didn't see what it was, but I assumed it was his phone. He was lingering near my desk, and turned to look at me when I walked in.

"Hey," he said breathily.

I blinked. "Hey."

It was awkward for some reason.

I could tell by the way he was tapping his fingers against the strap of his bag, his eyes darting around the room nervously as if he'd seen something he shouldn't have. Oh no. Sweeping my gaze around the walls of my space, I did a check to see if I'd missed a photo—but I didn't.

There wasn't a trace of anything left hanging up, and all the shelves and drawers remained shut like before. Everything was pretty much untouched.

So what had he seen?

"Listen," he said, glancing away, "I should go."

My anxiety was through the roof. "Already?"

He paused, hesitating for a split second of a moment. I let him make his way across the room, stopping in front of me with an awkward stance. He ran his hand through his hair—another one of his nervous habits.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to drop something off at my girlfriend's anyways," he said, turning towards the door. "Don't let the tea go to waste, okay?"

Girlfriend.

Oh.

"But hey, Tewks," he said, stopping by the doorway, "fate gave us this friendship, so I don't think it should end here, hm?"

My mind was spiraling now. Girlfriend. Stop thinking. Who? Focus, [y/n], focus. What did he see? Enough of this. No, no, no.

I regained my composure. "What do you mean?"

Giving me a soft smile, he shuffled through his satchel before pulling out a pen. I didn't give myself the indulgence of looking to see the contents inside, and instead focused on watching him uncap the pen and reach over my shoulder.

He scratched something down on the bottom of my calendar.

"There's my number," he said, clicking the top of the pen back on, "I'll see you later, Tewks."

And then he left.