☆

[y/n]

_

WE'RE GOING TO MAKE COOKIES.

After the sketching by the Thames, Louis came up with the idea to bake desserts because 'he was hungry'—which is a very valid excuse, mind you—so I wholeheartedly agreed. He drove us to his house an hour later, and now I was wandering around his kitchen like a lost puppy.

"I hate you," I sighed dramatically, leaning against the marble counter, "this kitchen is bigger than my entire living room! The audacity."

Louis slid a carton of milk towards me. "Is someone jealous?"

"Totally not."

"Don't lie to me, Tewks," he grinned, "you're easier to read than a picture book."

"And you're just as childish as one."

As soon as my retort left my mouth, I immediately regretted it. Sliding over the stools, Louis somehow ended up right behind me, wrapping his arms to trap me from slipping out of his hold. I could hear him laughing proudly.

"Admit it!" He urged.

I shook my head. "No!"

"Admit that you're jealous!"

"You can't make me!"

There was a pause, where Louis loosened his arms from around my shoulders, but I knew better than to think it was over. That was a rookie move. I'm more proficient when it comes to knowing him.

"Oh, I can," he smirked.

And suddenly, I found myself being dragged towards the door of the kitchen backwards. 

"What are you doing?" I pressed.

He shrugged. "taking you home."

"What? why?"

"Becuase if you won't say you're jealous, you have to go home," he noted devilishly, "I've decided to make that the rule."

"Rubbish!"

"Call it all you want, but you're the one who doesn't get to make cookies."

I wanted to pretend like the denouncement of food wasn't a big deal, but when I thought of Louis getting to bake mouth-watering chocolate-chip cookies by himself, I was filled with newfound rage. No one can rob me of food. 

"Okay, fine!" I gave in, wrestling out of his grip, "fine, fine, fine, I'm jealous of you."

Louis looked far too smug for my liking. "Now, that wasn't so hard to say, was it?"

"Don't push it, Lou," I smirked, "it's not like I envy your every move, I was just wondering how on earth anyone could live in a house as pretty as this."

"Well anyone could live here," he smiled, cocking a brow, "if their last name was Partridge."

I blinked, nearly knocking over the milk carton as I flinched at his words. Thankfully, he was busying himself by searching for a cookbook, so he didn't see my awkward reaction.

Was he flirting with me?

No, he couldn't be.

He has a girlfriend, and I just interpreted his sentence in a more-than-friendly-way because I see him in a more-than-friendly-way. Stop overthinking, [y/n]. That gets you nowhere, and all you should be focusing on right now is the fact that you are about to bake cookies with Louis Partridge.

As if on cue, the boy's curly brown hair popped up from the other side of the counter, followed by a happy smile as he held out the cookbook he found.

"Shall we?" He asked, giving it a little shake.

I grinned. "We shall."

The next 30 minutes were filled with more chaos than I thought. I learned that Louis hated following the recipe, liked adding far too many chocolate chips than necessary, had a habit of blasting Bon Jovi while baking, and—unfortunately—thought it was hilarious to throw a handful of flour at my face while I was distracted.

"Hey!" I yelled, lunging over the counter to grab my own ammo, "what was that for?"

He giggled devilishly. "No reason."

Before I could throw a pile of flour back at him, he sprinted over towards the kitchen door, swinging it open tauntingly.

"Can't get me if I leave the kitchen," he said, winking, "I'll be right back."

And then he left me standing in the kitchen, my hair covered in flour, and a smile on my face. I should have been mad at him, really, but I couldn't be. It was his playful personality. I loved every bit about it, even if it meant getting baking supplies tossed all over me.

I was about to dust off my clothes, when I was caught off guard by another entrance.

"Hey idiot," a voice said, walking into the kitchen, "have you seen my polaroids?"

Issie Partridge, the eldest sibling, strode into my view, her hair pinned into small space-buns, and her checkered dress shimmering under the fluorescent lighting. She was holding a package of camera film in her hands, and she hesitated when she saw me standing there covered in flour.

"You're not Louis," she said.

I agreed. "I'm not Louis."

"You must be the bicycle girl, then," she said, holding out her hand, "I'm Louis' sister, Issie."

We shook hands. "[y/n]."

"I remember when Louis came carrying you in," she laughed, "you should have seen his face! He thought you bloody died."

I winced. "He carried me here?"

"Well, yeah, we don't live too far from that ice-cream shop you two were at."

"That's embarrassing," I groaned, slapping my hand against my forehead, "how do I erase the past?"

Issie shrugged, climbing onto one of the stools across from me with one swift hop. She tossed her film cartridges onto the marble surface, latching her hazel eyes onto me with observation.

"I wouldn't be embarrassed," she said, "Louis thought it was brave of you to run after that thief."

I looked up. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah, he wouldn't shut up about it when he came back. It's like he's known you forever, honestly."

I opened my mouth to respond, but I was cut off by the sound of the door swinging open, and someone walking in. Millie Partridge was juggling envelopes in her left hand, while balancing a brown parcel in the right. She flung them onto the counter in exhaustion.

"Oh, hey [y/n]," she said once she saw me, "didn't realize you were here."

I smiled. "Hey Millie."

"Where's the git?"

Issie rolled her eyes at her sister. "Stop calling him that, Illie', you know he hates it when you do that."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she grinned, pointing towards the brown parcel, "anyways, can someone let him know that a package arrived for him?"

"Who's been sending Louis packages?"

"No one," Millie said, "the label says he ordered that himself."

All three of us peered over the counter to observe the tiny brown box, curious as to what was inside. I didn't get a chance to fully read the label, because our sleuthing was soon cut off by someone clearing their throat from behind us.

Louis had returned.

"What are you girls doing?" He questioned, eyeing us suspiciously.

Millie held up the parcel. "Looking at your stuff, obviously."

I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. As soon as Louis saw the brown package, he flinched, rushing over to the counter to snatch it out of Millie's hands. She exclaimed in protest, but he ignored her, shoving the box behind his back and stumbling back towards the door.

"Did any of you open this?" he said, specifically glaring at Millie.

She sent him a glare back. "No."

"Good."

"Woah, woah, woah," Issie cut in, standing up from her chair, "what's in there?"

I felt like I was intruding on some scene from a soap opera, but I was too invested to tear my eyes away. It was like a showdown of the siblings. Millie and Issie vs Louis—who will win?

"None of your business," he frowned, taking a pause to mull things over in his mind. There was a split second where he sent a threatening glance to his sisters, before glancing at me, and then at the floor. "It's for my girlfriend."

His girlfriend?

Now I wanted to know what was in that box.

"Oh," Issie said, glancing at Millie, "it's for his girlfriend."

Millie glanced at Louis. "Oh, I see."

I looked at the boy to see if he'd say anything else, but he gave me a sympathetic smile instead. Something inside of my stomach started to swirl, and I felt a little sick inside. This was jealousy. The idea that Louis bought something for another girl, because he liked that girl, and that girl was not me.

I wished it was me.

But I respected his private life.

"I'm sure she'll love it," I said, giving him the best smile I could manage.

But that didn't change that now, more than ever, I felt a little broken inside. Not my heart, but every daydream I'd had leading up until this moment. I scripted this DR to be like the real one. I had to accept the things that happen, for better or for worse.

I made cookies with Louis Partridge, but he'll share them with another girl.