Sally Rooney

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"Why Dublin?" Lizzie asked me, cupping her coffee mug in a small garden café we had found, her legs crossed on the couch-like seat and her hair pushed behind her ears.

"It's stupid," I laughed, shaking my head.

"No, go on," she giggled, "I'm interested."

"My favourite author sets all her books in Dublin and Trinity College," I laughed.

"Sally Rooney?" she asked.

"Yeah, do you know her?" I smiled.

She nodded and hummed, coffee in her mouth, "I love Conversations with Friends, it's one of my favourite books."

"No shit, I have a quote from the book tattooed on my spine," I beamed, smiling wide at her.

"Really? Can I see it?" she asked - a smile like my own on her lips.

"I'm not getting my bare back out in this café," I giggled.

"Okay touché," she laughed, "maybe another time."

I hummed a smirk and nodded, looking down into my cup with a giddiness in my chest, "what about you? Why Dublin?"

"I don't know," she replied, "it's a really pretty campus and I desperately wanted to get out of the US."

"Did you grow up in New York then?" I asked.

"LA," she corrected.

"That's pretty cool," I smiled, "what's it like?"

"Ummm, it's very hot," she giggled, "it's really nothing special."

"I'd love to go to LA, I feel like it would be a fun cultural experiment," I decided.

"We'll go," she nodded, "I'll bring you home at some point."

"Do you often bring home girls you've just met?" I laughed.

"I've never bought a girl home," she mumbled.

"So what makes me so special?" I smirked.

"I don't know yet, I just have a feeling we're going to be really close," she replied without a doubt in her words.

I hummed and nodded, feeling a blush rising up my neck and settling on my cheeks.

"Do you um- do you drink?" I asked nervously.

"Like ... alcohol?" she laughed awkwardly.

"No Lizzie, do you drink water?" I smirked.

"Nope," she smirked back, "but yes, I do drink alcohol, why?"

Ask her for a drink.

"Um-"

Ask her for a drink Y/N.

"Do you- have you been to the club?"

"Do you want to be more specific?" she giggled.

"Volks," I specified, "the one by the shopping centre."

"No, I haven't; my friends don't really go clubbing much, I feel like I'm massively past clubbing age anyway," she smiled softly, subtly placing her hand on the table in front of me.

I reached my hand out and slowly brushed my pinkie against the soft skin of her own.

"How old are you? If you don't mind me asking," I smiled back.

"How old are you?" she deflected.

"21," I replied, "your go now."

"23," she nodded, "I feel like a fucking pensioner."

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