⟾ 29 | TWISTED

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ONE YEAR LATER...

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

LOUIS

_

CHICKENS ARE TOO DAMN LOUD.

Little known fact, but many of the Brits that live in the countryside end up with chickens in their backyard. I suppose it comes with the territory, and the reasoning that driving into the city to get eggs is too much of a bother for most of us.

I don't hate it, really, this new life I've made for myself. I live somewhere in Bibury now, off in the great plains with a cottage and a bunch of noisy animals that occupy my garden.

I'd barely gotten a wink of sleep when Henry—the chicken, if you couldn't guess—started screaming his head off, so I groaned and rolled out of bed. It seemed far too early to be up. There wasn't any fire, threat, or damage being done, so I should be supposed to sleep in.

Bloody chickens.

Pulling on my shirt, I cast a quick glance to my bed, making note of its emptiness. Just crumpled blankets and flat pillows.

She wasn't there.

Pursing my lips, I trudged into my hallway, running my hands through my tangled hair as I entered my kitchen. Tea, I needed tea. Preferably something sweet (raspberry-peach?) sounded tasty.

As I turned on the kettle, I listened to the sounds of the birds chirping from outside. When I said I lived in Bibury, I meant the far south of it. Literally no one came out here unless they wanted to get lost in the fields or separate themselves from society entirely.

I hated feeling lonely, but it was necessary.

I had to give a lot of things up to ensure my safety, turning away from London and luxury forever. I didn't need social interaction anymore, I had these...chickens.

"Shut up Henry!" I snapped, as if the animal would understand, "I'm trying to think in peace!"

The chicken yelled back. "You can think?"

I flinched at the sound, nearly knocking over the kettle and spilling burning water all over the floor. I didn't, thankfully. My reflex abilities had gone down significantly since I left the agency, and all my spy abilities I used to pride myself on we're almost gone.

It's not like I needed them.

But, considering I was caught off guard, I quickly realized it wasn't the chicken that spoke.

"Please tell me you didn't think Henry could talk," [y/n] laughed, walking into the kitchen, "sorry for scaring you, darling."

Oh, did I forget to mention she lives here too?

When I said I felt lonely living in isolation, I only meant in the mornings. That's when [y/n] would go into the more populated side of Bibury to buy food. Unfortunately, it often left me alone in the cottage for a few hours, and I didn't like being separated from her for too long.

"Morning," I smiled.

She crossed the kitchen, planting a kiss on my forehead. "Morning."

"Why can't you just sleep in for once?" I sighed, "you don't have to go into town so early."

"Miss me too much?"

"You know the answer to that," I smirked.

She set down her bag, plopping into one of the kitchen chairs and kicking off her shoes. I poured her some tea, sliding it across the table. She caught it with one hand. She, on the other hand, didn't lose any of her reflexes. She was too stubborn to let that happen.

And it's strange to think a year ago we hated each other, and now we're living in a cottage together and acting like a married couple. We're not married, and we don't want to get married, because that wasn't us. We were never the 'make it legal' type, because half of the stuff we used to do wasn't legal at all.

"Honestly, Lou," She had said when I first brought it up to her, "I feel like we got married when you got that tattoo."

I remember grinned. "Does that mean I proposed first?"

"Of course not, it was a mutual thing."

My inner reminiscence was cut off when [y/n] laughed, setting down her mug to reach under the table. I reclined into my chair, watching with admiration. I loved her laugh, and I was lucky to hear it so many times after leaving London. We didn't have to run anymore.

She picked up a bright, ginger cat from the floor, setting it in her lap as she pet its head.

"Did you feed Miss Scratchy yet?" She asked, glancing up at me.

I widened my eyes. "I may have forgotten."

"Louis!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Poor things must feel abandoned," she stated, getting up from her chair and petting the cat, "it's alright, baby, I'll take care of you."

I sighed dramatically. "Well, I've also been abandoned, if you didn't remember."

She glanced at me. "You?"

"You always leave in the mornings, it makes me sad."

"You could have at least fed the cat," she shot back, "I have half-a-mind to kill you right now, Partridge."

As she walked towards the end of the kitchen, I extended my arm, catching her wrist in my hand and pulling her into my lap. Miss Scratchy let out a loud hiss, before jumping out of the woman's arms and scurrying off into the hallway.

"Still hate me, Ash?" I grinned.

She didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at me with glazed over eyes. She was purposefully making it hard for me to read her. A few moments passed where we just stared at each other. Just staring, and staring, and staring, and—

Suddenly she kissed me so forcefully, my chair nearly got knocked off its legs and would have sent us falling onto the stone floor. I managed to grab the end of the table, pulling us back upright before it tipped over.

"Still hate you, Partridge," she whispered, ruffling a hand through my hair, "and don't you forget it."

The thing about us was that we did things backwards.

In most relationships, the couple falls in love, but ends up hating each other in the end. For us, we were enemies first. Other couples would say 'I love you', and we would say 'I hate you'. Was it strange? No, not for us. You know what they say:

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

We just got a little too close.

But even though we'd always used the hating terms to describe each other, we really meant it the opposite way. It was our way of saying love. What's the book trope that all those readers fawn over? Oh, yeah, enemies to lovers.

We were enemies, to lovers, to enemies, to lovers, and it got so confusing, we ended up smushing the labels together.

When I said I hated her, I really meant I loved her. But the feelings were too fast, and too strong, that I confused it with my anger and confused my own feelings. But to all those who read this, I'll have you know.

I don't hate her.

I love her.

Don't get it Twisted.

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