The first painting Daisy ever saw was Klimt's The Kiss.

It had been on a trip to Austria with her father. Most of the time in the gallery had been spent perched on his shoulders, bored out of her little four-year-old mind. If someone asked her about it now, she wouldn't be able to remember a thing except for that painting; her father had poked at her knobby knee— "take a look at this one, Dais"— and she lifted her head from the crook of his neck to take a peek. Round eyes, parted lips, her small hands gripping her father's shirt. The colors and shapes of it amazed her and all she knew was that she wanted to be inside the painting for herself.

Painting was something she could always lose herself in. That said, having her grandmother's wrinkled foot two inches from her face and a bottle of nail polish doing a balancing act on her knee wasn't exactly Daisy's idea of art. It was her first Saturday in Kent, and so far the majority of it had been spent sitting on the floor, painting Nana's nails an obnoxious shade of red.

"They look beautiful, darling," the owner of the foot herself sang from where she sat on the couch. Daisy's hand tightly gripped the cap as she swept the polish over Nana's last toe. "Having an artist for a granddaughter really comes in handy."

For a moment, as Daisy took a particularly strong whiff of whatever it was in between Nana's toes, she wondered if Gustav Klimt ever had to paint his grandmother's toenails before finally selling his artwork. Maybe it was all part of the process (or at least she could tell herself it was).

"I'm not sure if it takes a good artist to paint nails, Nana," Daisy laughed, closing the bottle. She took a proud look at her work, like she always did when putting her brush down, and then finally scooted back on the carpet to put some distance between her face and her Nana's bare, freshly-painted feet.

"Well, it certainly doesn't hurt."

She smiled wearily and wiped the hair off her forehead. She couldn't remember the last time she had gotten a normal amount of sleep.

No, I guess it doesn't.

The past five days could be summed up in four words; rain, toenails, soup, and more rain. Kent so far was nothing like the memories from Daisy's childhood, but she was still keeping her hopes up for it to turn into the sunny, warm paradise that she used to spend her summers at. Nana, however, was just the same as she remembered. She looked a little more frail now compared to the woman who used to roll around in the mud with her, and the lines at the corners of her eyes seemed to run deeper and longer— but she was still Nana, and she still made her paint her nails and watch ridiculously corny romance films with her, which now that Daisy was older, she realized were far too close to porn for her to have watched as a kid. (Nana clearly hadn't thought so, though.)

She couldn't say that the past five days had been all bad, though. Getting away from the cramped streets of London was like taking a breath for the first time; she felt as though her canvas had been washed over, allowing for new colors to find their way onto it. She wasn't sure what those colors would be just yet, or what form they would take, but Daisy was trying her best not to let her anxiety over it consume her. Of course, certain movie store employees who try to prejudge her for simply the way that she looked didn't help too much; it was mind-boggling to her that even now, a few days after the fact, his words still stuck with her. You seem like the type that'd be into it. And what type was that? she wanted to ask him. She wasn't even so sure of the answer herself.

"Let me make some dinner for you, darling," Nana said once her bright red toes had dried down. She stood from the couch, needing a little support from the armrest on her way up. Daisy was instantly on her feet to help her.

"What do you have in mind?"

Please don't say soup, please don't say soup.

"I was thinking I'd make this recipe I have for tomato soup—"

"No!" Daisy bit her lip and faked a smile. "I mean, well, I was actually thinking I could make you dinner tonight. To say thank you, of course, for letting me stay here with you." The words rolled so effortlessly off her tongue that she felt a sigh of relief work its way up; the last thing she wanted to do was to let Nana know how damn tired she was of her soup. She didn't think her stomach could handle anymore dinner in liquid form, but the old woman hunched beside her didn't need to know that.

Suspicious eyes squinted at her. It had been at least a decade and yet Nana could still sense her lying, as if she had just got caught feeding the dog treats when she wasn't supposed to. "Do you even know how to cook?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But come on, I'm sure I can put something together."

"You really don't have to, bonita—"

But her granddaughter with the overgrown bangs and puffy lips and specks of red nail polish staining her fingers was already shrugging on her coat.

"But I want to!"

And that was how Daisy ended up sopping wet in the middle of a Tesco.

The rain had decided to come down in bucket-fulls right when she stepped out of the house to go shopping for ingredients— she couldn't even complain too much because of the way it made the little town look as she passed through. The water seemed to bleed into the streets, reflecting the lights above as if the line between sky and earth had been blurred. For an artist— it was mesmerizing. Almost as mesmerizing as the flecks of gold and green and blue in Movie Snob Boy's eyes as they had raked over her for an unnecessarily long time...

Not that she was concerned about the color makeup of his eyes or anything.

And if for a moment she let herself admit that she maybe was concerned about it, it was simply because of the colors. Colors spoke to her in a way that nothing else did. It was only natural for her to remember the taffy pink of his lips, with the center of them slightly redder than the rest as though the blood beneath had ballooned to the surface. Tufts of chocolate hair; there had even been hints of gold in there that the fluorescent lights of the movie shop had revealed. His cheeks— a rosy blush only a few shades lighter than his pert mouth. It was not a thought she wanted to admit, but when she had turned back to glance at him one last time, angry and flustered, Daisy had imagined how red the skin on his cheek would look after being smacked by the palm of her hand. Red and splotchy and warm under her touch...

There was no way, of course, that she would actually hit him or anyone, but that hadn't stopped her from imagining it when she had taken a hot shower that morning and watched her own thighs turn red under the water as if someone had smacked the skin there..

But it was really—truthfully—just the colors Daisy cared about. She was an artist, after all.

That was why she started picking up produce solely based on how their colors screamed out at her. That was one way to plan a meal, right? The bright oranges and reds and greens were fresh and as vibrant as a Van Gough. She chewed at her lip mindlessly while fluttering her way down the aisles, wondering what it was she was going to cook exactly with all this.

"You must be having a feast tonight," a voice was the one to put a stop to her wet boots against the floor. Spinning around, Daisy was met with a pair of warm brown eyes.

"Oh," she then followed her gaze to what they were looking at— her basket was filled to the brim with more vegetables and fruits than she could possibly need. She blushed at the sight of it. "No, actually. I just got a little carried away. These fruits and everything just look so pretty, you know. What can a girl do?"

"I hear you." The stranger stood over her with a grin. He looked like the kind of boy she would sit next to in one of her uni classes. His smile was warm and inviting and made her forget about the drenched state of her clothing. He nodded his head toward her basket. "That tomato right there broke my heart."

"Same," she bit hard at her lip until it jutted out into a breathy smile. "You can't trust the pretty ones."

"Tell me about it." He laughed and slung his hands into his pockets. An array of tattoos decorated both his arms and even up to his neck, peaking out from the white collar of his shirt. She wondered if they even coated his stomach and back— was there much of his own skin left?

"You don't seem like you're from around here," the boy continued, giving his head of dark hair a shake.

"Oh.. how could you tell? I'm actually from London. Just moved here a few days ago."

He shrugged. "I just know most faces around here. It's a pretty small town. You sort of know everyone after awhile."

"It's nothing like London," she admitted, shifting the basket in her hand as it was starting to leave red imprints on her palms. Daisy wasn't much of a flirt, not without a few shots in her anyway, but that didn't stop the familiar flutter in her belly as the boy noticed her struggle and nodded his head, the smile on his face reading let me carry it for you. She complied, handing the basket over to her first potential friend in Kent.

"So why did a London girl end up in Kent of all places?"

It was a simple question but it took Daisy back for a moment. Why was she there. The little voice in her head that sounded somewhat like her mother had been asking her that since she had boarded the train. What was she doing. Where was she going.

"Honestly," she grabbed a strand of her hair, twisted it, and felt some water trickle down the back of her hand. "I don't even know."

"Ah, you're just a bit of a wanderer then."

"Something like that... Does it ever stop raining here?" she asked in return, rubbing her hands together and laughing.

"Nope. Never. Better get used to being wet," his lips pulled back in an uneven smile.

She couldn't help but blush because what can a girl do? She let her head lull forward so her hair hid her cheeks. If he noticed it, he luckily didn't make any remarks as they continued to walk through the Tesco, talking and sharing smiles and bitten lips. Trails of rainwater followed both of them, but neither seemed to notice as the stranger then helped her find the ingredients she actually needed (Daisy had secretly hoped he could be of some use after she admitted to him she had no idea what she was doing).

Everything about this boy seemed to be so effortless that she found herself envious— she wished she had the same sense of certainty.

"I never got your name," he said to her after she had paid and they both stood hovering near the automatic doorway.

"Daisy. Like the flower."

"Zayn," he frowned, scratching the hair on his chin, "like the um.... like the... well, like me. I'll see you around though? Good luck with that dinner. Oh— and hopefully you find whatever it is you're looking for here."

"Thanks. I hope so, too," she waved at him, then tugged her hood back on before disappearing back into the rain.

Zayn like the boy with tattoos and a warm smile who I happened to meet soaking wet in a Tesco.

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There was this one time when Daisy had still been in primary school when her family had gone on a road trip up to Wales. She didn't like being stuck in the backseat with all three of her siblings, who had been of tantrum age back then. She also didn't like the way her parents had argued the whole drive. Yelling always frightened her, made her tense up and shut down and resort to hiding within herself. The scariest part of that car ride, though, had been the loud smack sound when her father had suddenly ran into a deer. She could remember climbing out of the car, panicking, staring at all the blood on the road. The injured deer crying, her parents yelling between each other— it was a memory she kept because she had never been more scared in her life.

Except for right now, she felt like she was staring down at the dying deer once again.

She had gotten back home with the groceries only partially wet and her toes only half numb. Opening the door, she noticed how quiet everything seemed to be. Nana was fast-asleep on the couch with her mouth hung open, with only the occasional snore to break the silence, and she'd seem to forgotten to turn the lights on so everything was dark. An unease swept over her— not because there was something to worry about, but just because she couldn't seem to fight it.

It wasn't until she set the bags down in the kitchen that she saw it.

A dark shadow that moved across the window outside. Her fingers instantly balled up into fists and she felt her heart tighten. It was probably nothing, right? It was probably nothing and she was just ridiculous and the little voice in her head that always assumed the worst was just being paranoid and she should pretend like she didn't see anything.

But then it was there again.

She suddenly felt like a little kid in the shell of someone who was supposed to be an adult. It was embarrassing how quickly she grabbed for the nearest object she could see— it just so happened to be a pan from the stove. What was she even going to do with it? She didn't know but it seemed to give her a sense of security. Her lips pursed as she slowly walked toward the window, passed the sleeping Nana on the couch, and again— making her nearly jump this time— she saw the dark shadow sweep across on the other side of it. The drum of the rain had slowed down but still trickled against the glass. Large and lanky, whoever was out there certainly possessed the strength to knock her out if it wanted to.

She went to the door. Swallowing hard, one hand held the pan over her head while the other reached for the knob. She tried to think of what her father would have done in this situation— probably grab his gun, she thought. A frying pan would just have to do.

You never really think you have it in you to smack someone with a pan until suddenly that's exactly what you find yourself doing.

Just as Daisy opened the door (she barely could breathe at this point her anxiety was so bad), the figure happened to be right there, crouching down, just a few meters away. She could barely see anything with the rain biting at her eyes. It was all a blur— suddenly they were standing up and taking a step towards her, and then the next thing she knew was she felt her arm swing forward, bringing the pan with it.

She screamed when she hit him. "Get away from me!"

The victim of her frying pan yelped out a growl of pain, stumbling back until they fell down into the muddy grass. Something was in their hand (probably a gun), and it was dropped to the ground beside them as they instantly reached up to where the pan had hit their face. You see, while Daisy had been aiming for the entirety of their face, she actually ended up only whacking their chin and mouth since she was at least a head shorter than the shadowy, faceless figure... who she could now see a little better as she stared down at them, groaning and holding their bleeding mouth in agony, and now suddenly they did have a face. A face she recognized.

"Oh... oh my god?" Daisy whispered in surprise.

He brought his hand back from his lip and stared at the blood coating it. "What the actual fuck!"

"Oh my god," she repeated, this time apologetic as she bent down in the mud beside him, dropping the pan, with the rain falling harder and soaking her hair and clothes which had barely even a moment to dry from the first downpour. "Oh my god, what are you doing here? I thought you were trying to break in!"

"What the fuck," he sputtered again, groaning and hissing and trying to lick the blood that was spilling from his cut lip. "Why was your instinct to hit me with a fucking pan?"

"Well—" Daisy rubbed her cheeks, "I don't know! I thought I was in danger, shit— sorry! What was I supposed to do?"

"Not assault me maybe?" the boy with the busted lip and wet curls replied. Maybe she had fleetingly daydreamed about slapping him a few times (regrettably) but this definitely wasn't what she had had in mind. She chewed at her own lip while inspecting the inflicted damage the best she could in the dark and with the rain thrumming over their heads. His chin was red but not bruised, and his bottom lip was split right at the middle, wide enough to let a stream of blood gush down his chin and dribble down his neck even. She winced at the sight of it.

"What are you even doing here?" She asked, bringing her hand to his mouth in attempt to stop the bleeding. The skin felt cold but the blood was warm. He moaned out and flinched back.

"The flowers," he gritted out, "I cut the fucking weeds around them. Every Saturday." He paused a moment and looked at her. The girl who could've nearly killed him if she was just a bit taller. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored him, shaking her head. "But why? And in the rain?"

"I get paid for it, obviously," he said, "I've been doing it every Saturday for like— ten years."

"Yeah but.." she trailed off, finally letting her eyes drift over him. She noticed the pair of overalls he was wearing, which now had a stain of blood on them, and the thick boots on his feet which were caked in mud. The thing in his hand hadn't been a gun, but actually a pair of shears. The whole situation seemed to dawn on her all of a sudden as she suddenly cupped her face in her hands and began to laugh into the palms of them, softly at first but then loud enough to make him shoot a glare at her.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Oh— come on, this is funny."

"Funny? Funny?! You think getting hit in the face with a hunk of metal is funny?" he spat out, but a smile was threatening to break at the corners of his injured lips.

"You were here cutting the weeds for my Nana, and I thought you were trying to break in and kill us," Daisy laughed softly, her head shaking with each word she said as if she couldn't believe it. Of course, she couldn't say she wasn't glad to see the Movie Snob rather than a serial killer at their door. She stood up and reached a hand out to him. "Pretty fucking hilarious if you ask me."

"Yeah okay," he rolled his eyes, "Your ass could have killed me but yeah, sure, let's laugh about it. My existence is clearly void of meaning, anyway... Wait, Ms. Cecile is your Nana?"

"Yeah, my grandmother," she waved her hand at him and motioned toward the door. "Come in, I'll clean you up. I feel bad."

"Well, you should."

Daisy quietly opened the door and led him inside. She looked back at him and put a finger over her lips, glancing at the woman on the couch who had been asleep for the whole thing, and who she hoped would stay asleep. The boy gave a nod and trailed behind her with his muddy boots making as little noise as possible against the wood flooring. Water dropped from their drenched heads of hair. She guided him to the kitchen where he leaned against the counter while she searched for a towel.

"Here," she whispered, wetting it under the faucet before handing it to him. For a moment, she breathed him in. She could remember smelling him the other day at the shop— while he had smelled like toothpaste and coffee then, now he smelled like damp clothes and flowers and blood. The guilt in her stomach was still tying itself in a knot, but somehow the scent of him, as unpleasant as it may have been to some people, helped to sooth it.

She watched him press the rag against his mouth. "Thanks," he muttered quietly. And then there was silence. It was stiff, so that the air seemed heavy between them as only the sound of the rain outside filled the quiet cracks of space. She stared at the floor, and then at the sink, and then finally let her eyes fall onto him. The first thing she noticed was how dark his hair looked when it was wet, almost as dark as hers, and it curled behind his ears limply. Some of it stuck to his damp forehead, with little drops accumulating at the tips and then trailing down the sides of his temples.

It was weird seeing him again at all, let alone in her Nana's kitchen with a towel against his lip. She couldn't stop staring though, because something about the way he looked right then and there seemed so painting-worthy. Maybe it was the randomness of it all, that spoke a story not even they knew the end of yet, or maybe it was the way his eyes were glued to the floor as if he was thinking about something intently. But what could he even be thinking about?

"I think I'll be okay," he finally spoke up, standing from the counter. He reached his hand out with the rag in it. "Thanks."

"Yeah, okay," Daisy nodded and grabbed it from him, "Thanks for not killing me."

He shook his wet hair, scoffing as if she had said the most ironic thing he had heard all day. "No problem. Thanks for not killing me."

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hey ummmm here it is. I always hate the first few chapters but I'm excited for what I have planned for this storyyyy heheh . please comment and vote it makes me happy