Red Flags

Summary:

Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way.

Or alternatively: You get to use that ankle restraint on Steven and sit on his beautiful face.

♡

The warning signs were written all over him like a marquee outside a theatre, lit up in gold and bright flashing red neon. 

On the first date you were supposed to have, he stood you up, only to call you four days later on a Wednesday night. Closer to midnight than dinnertime, oblivious and confused and asking where you were with a slight panic in his voice. 

“Date’s tonight, yeah? Saturday at seven?”

Un-fucking-believable. 

That was the first red flag. The point at which you should have done the sensible thing and told him to piss off and lose your number. 

He’d clearly lost the plot, and you’ve never been the forgiving type. You have a tendency to nurse your grudges like little houseplants by your windowsill, feeding them with pettiness that always simmers in your chest aplenty. 

But there’s something about Steven. Something you can’t quite put your finger on that won’t let you leave well enough alone. The friend who was with you when you’d approached him and asked for his number, had laughed and rolled their eyes. 

“ Of course, you’d be into him , he looks like the saddest stray dog at the shelter. The one nobody wants .” 

Which is true you suppose. But he’s also charming in a geeky, unconventional sort of way. Surprisingly handsome, even if it’s hidden underneath dishevelled hair better suited to a mad scientist and sleep-deprived black circles under his eyes. He’s got the sort of beautifully defined jaw that belongs on a marble sculpture and gorgeous brown eyes that you want to drown in. 

Besides, dating prospects in London can be grim. Even with this colossal fuck up, Steven was still the preferable option when compared with Ben on Tinder, whose profile photo showed him in a tux with his (hopefully ex-)wife standing next to him in a wedding gown. Or unsolicited dick pic numbers 1-3 and 5-12 (you were saving the possibility of number 4 for a rainy day).  Or another dreary night home alone in your tiny flat.

So despite your better judgement, you take the tube to Leicester Square, slipping down the crowded alleys of Chinatown and into a tucked away dim sum diner with dimly lit walls washed in cracked red paint.

He’s waiting for you at a cramped table in the corner, still looking like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Hair unkempt and frazzled, much like the man himself. His entire body is bowed and hunching in on itself like he’s afraid of taking up too much space—the whole of him one big apology for even existing. He’s nothing much to look at, not until he looks up and sees you, and then his whole face lights up with amazed delight. 

There’s something about his hopeful, nervous smile that tells you this isn’t a ploy or misguided attempt at negging. Not some weird power game to show you that he’s just not that into you. Something about those big round puppy-dog eyes, filled with awe and gratitude for your presence, tells an entirely different story: he’s the one who thought he was being stood up tonight. For whatever reason, this man genuinely seems to believe it’s Saturday. 

Those eyes are the reason you don’t bother to act indignant or inform him tartly that today is not Saturday . Instead, you let it go with a polite smile as you sit down across from him. 

High cheekbones flushed pink, he seems discombobulated that you’re actually here, reduced to a cluster of wrecked nerves and completely unable to hold down a conversation. And God, it would be cute if it weren’t so fucking awkward. You fiddle with your cheap wristwatch, pulling at the band until it comes loose the way it always does just so you have an excuse to put it back together. The silence between you echoes so loudly that you can practically hear the seconds tik-toking away.

“How’s work at the gift shop?” you ask finally, straining to keep the pleasant smile on your face. 

“Not too bad.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but his fragile nerves are etched on every line of his face, and instead his mouth clamps down tight. 

Three words. Apparently you get three words only . Then it’s back to silence, and you want to bang your head against the surface of the table. Maybe you should have gone with Ben from Tinder after all? 

God, you just need to find a topic of conversation. Any topic. You can’t do this deafening awkward silence anymore. 

So you open your mouth and wind up nattering on about the banal details of your day: the delay on the tube that almost made you late; your coworker’s birthday celebration; your failed eBay auction attempts for a particular edition of The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain.  

“It was a limited release, sold out at every book store in town, seems like.” It’s a topic that you regret embarking on as soon as you open your mouth. Still, you keep prattling on, sure that you must be boring him to death, because you don’t know what else to talk to him about. 

Miraculously, he shows no signs of boredom. Instead, he follows along, taking in your every word with rapt attention. He even manages to stutter out a question or two. Intelligent ones, at that. And he actually seems to care about your responses. You can’t remember the last time any man had listened to you so attentively. It’s flattering and leaves you feeling flustered and flushed.  

By the time the date ends an hour later, you’re feeling marginally warmer towards him, though he’s barely managed two dozen words of his own.

It’s absolutely pouring when you exit the diner, and you realise with dismay that you’d not thought to bring an umbrella.

“I’ll walk you to the tube, yeah?” he offers, popping open his own umbrella, and holding it out for you to step under. Carefully keeping it slanted your way when he joins you a moment later. 

You're both quiet on the walk, but the silence feels less awkward than it had in the restaurant, a bit friendlier. He’s still nervous and ill at ease and watches you surreptitiously the whole time, his eyes darting furtively in your direction when he thinks you aren’t looking. 

It’s not until you reach your station that he finally speaks. 

“Can I see you again?”

You hesitate, thinking of the miserable hour you spent sitting in the diner alone on Saturday—the real Saturday. Of the awkwardness tonight. The way you were there together for over an hour, but you still know next to nothing about him. 

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes are drawn to the soaked patch on the right shoulder and arm of his jacket where the coverage of the umbrella missed him entirely. Your own coat is dry, not a drop of water on you.

For the life of you, you can’t explain why you say yes, but you do.