"What are you doing here?" he asks, my dream response sliced in half and torn to shreds by his real one. "And is that my iPad?"

I glance at it, slide it into my bag and offer him a sheepish smile. "Your Mum gave it to me," I explain.

"She did?"

I nod, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. "I needed to find you."

"You did?"

I nod again.

"Well, you've found me."

"I know."

"So, what do you want?"

"To talk," I say, my shuffling increasing tenfold.

"Here?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Well, not necessarily. I just want to explain, and I guess I can do that anywhere. You know, here, there, outside, at home, even on the moon, although that might be a little tricky because of the whole oxygen situation which—"

"We can talk here," he says.

I stop shuffling. "Thanks. Thanks a lot, actually, for, you know."

"Hearing you out?"

I nod. I need to stop nodding.

He turns wordlessly, and I follow in his wake, squeezing through the crowd until we reach a staircase, and he heads downstairs. It's pitch black; that is, it is when there's not a neon sign. Then, there's a short burst of tinged artificial light that casts a glow across Isaac and the close stairwell.

Downstairs is quieter. There's a counter in one corner, and small groups huddled around the low coffee tables or spread out on the plush multicoloured sofas with cups and cups of tea.

"You should find a seat," I say as I head for the counter.

"I can get the tea," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"No, honestly, it's the least I can do."

He dithers before he rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh. "Fine, I'll grab us a seat."

"Thank you."

I head for the counter. It's staffed by a two-person team, with one taking orders and the other completing them. While I wait in the short queue, I glance at the chalkboard that hangs off the exposed brick wall and take in the menu. It's short, that is everything but the tea options. There are a dozen at least, some herbal, others spiced, a few caffeinated. My eyes bounce up and down the list, the possibilities far too endless.

My phone buzzes.

From Isaac:

Masala chai. You'll love it

I can't help the smile that creeps onto my face, can't help the way my heart skips a beat. I can't help the clammy hands or the slight sheen of sweat that gathers on my forehead. Can't help the heat emanating from my cheeks or the giddiness that bubbles in my chest. If anything, the only thing I can help is a slice of rationality. But I don't want to be rational. I want to be hopeful—stupidly, irrecoverably optimistic, like Edward when he thought he had a chance in hell of saving Bella from vampire hood.

Then again, this isn't Twilight, so maybe I should be sensible. I mean, a recommendation isn't a proposal of marriage, not that I'm looking for one, but you know, maybe I shouldn't get my hopes up.

If I know anything, it's that it's my turn to lay my cards out on the table and pray he accepts them. Not that I deserve it, but sometimes we get the things we shouldn't have, and Isaac's someone I probably shouldn't have.

I order the Masala chai and two slices of carrot cake. It's prepared far too quickly, giving me not even a moment to collect myself, and, just as I'm on the verge of running away, a tray slides across the counter with the order.

"Thanks," I say, my voice inauthentic to the extreme.

A hurried, your welcome, follows. I take it as my cue to leave and head towards Isaac. He jumps to his feet as I near the squat circular table and its two patchwork armchairs.

"Here," he says, taking the tray from my hands, "let me."

"Thanks."

I collapse into the unoccupied seat and pull out my phone. There are three messages from Paula and Henry, well, that is one on the group chat and another from each of them. I open said group chat and relieve them of their getaway duties before slipping my phone into my bag and turning my attention to Isaac. He's already poured two mugs of tea.

"Thank you," I say as he hands the ceramic cream mug over.

"Don't mention it."

He takes a sip of his tea; I take a sip of mine. He takes a bite of his cake; I take a bite of mine. It feels like we can go on like this forever, mirroring one another, but he pulls it to a quick, decisive close.

"What did you want to talk about?" he asks once he swallows his third bite.

"Us."

"I'm not sure there's an us, Lizzie."

"No, not right now, but there could be."

"Unfortunately." He takes a slow, controlled sip of tea. It drives me insane. "I think you prefer guys like Spencer," he says; the admission drives a stake through my heart.

"I don't," I insist. "I mean, I know how you might think I do, but I don't."

"He was at your house, Lizzie."

"I didn't invite him over," I say. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"You wouldn't?" He places his tea on the coffee table and scoots forward until he's perched on the very edge of his seat.

"Of course not. I know I said I didn't know at the airport. I know I said I couldn't give you a hundred per cent. I know I picked Spencer. But it should've been you. I want it to be you."

He swallows, his tongue darting out and sweeping across his bottom lip. "I don't know," he eventually says as he collapses back into his armchair. "You say this now, but." His voice trails off, and he shrugs. It's helpless, feeble. It's my worst nightmare.

"I know how I'll feel a minute from now, an hour, fuck it, seventy-two hours from now. I know how I feel about you, Isaac, I promise."

"And how do you feel about me?"

It's my turn to swallow. To reach for my tea and cradle it close, the cardamom helping to soothe the bubbles of anxiety that travel from my stomach and infect my throat.

"Well?" he asks.

"I like you."

"I figured as much in Portugal, but what about now?"

"I don't know," I sigh, placing my tea across from his. "It's hard to explain like this."

"Like what?"

"Here." I gesture to the café. "I had this whole thing planned. I cooked, there was cheesecake, and a gift and Spencer ruined all of it. I don't know what to say anymore. I don't want to in case it won't work."

"You cooked?" He sits up straighter.

"Ricotta pasta."

"And cheesecake?"

"The New York kind."

"And a gift?"

"Which is sitting at home."

"You did all of that for me?"

My shoulders heave, and I glance at the coffee table. "It's the least I could do. You've got to go big or go home after all."

"I don't need big," he says. "I just need to know."

"How I feel?"

"Yep, and if it makes you feel better, I promise it'll work; everything I said in Portugal still holds true."

I smile, and he smiles too. His is blinding. It's the smile I wanted to see when he arrived earlier, the smile I dreamt of. But it's here now, which is all that matters.

"We have history," I say, "and ever since that day at the fireworks, I've realised just how thin that line between us is."

"What line?"

"The love, hate one. We are either entirely obsessed with one another or entirely repulsed. There's never been any middle ground."

"Which side are you on now?" he asks.

"I think you know which side I'm on."

"I'd still like to hear it."

"Like," I say, the word love far too intense, too scary. "I like you, a lot, because, as luck would have it, you're funny and kind and not Spencer, which is a big thing."

He laughs. It's music to my ears.

"You never gave up on me," I say. "Even when I was awful, when I made you feel small, you still had a hint of kindness in your heart, and well, I guess what I'm wondering is if you still want to give things a go."

He pauses. The silence is far too dramatic and talent-show-esque. It ebbs and flows, growing exponentially until a humongous grin blooms on his face like a fresh spring lily—no, no lilies, a fresh spring daisy.

"Of course I want to give it a go," he says, laughing, "but the hundred per cent thing still stands."

"You'll get a hundred and ten," I promise.

"A hundred and ten?" he quirks a teasing brow and leans forward.

"Okay." I slip out of my seat and head towards his. "Maybe a hundred and five."

"I'm good with that."

His hands wrap around my waist, and I tumble into his chest, a string of giggles ballooning above us as I settle against him. It's the closest we've ever been, at least like this. When we were kids, we'd cuddle up on the sofa and watch movies, but it was entirely innocent. His hands wouldn't slip under my shirt, his mouth wouldn't find mine, but the moment I'm comfortable, my lips millimetres from his cheek, his arms cradling me close, that's exactly what happens.

"And you said you weren't an exhibitionist." He winks as we pull apart.

"Well, you said you wouldn't be opportunistic."

"I don't think I was."

"You don't?"

"You were sad," he says. "I cheered you up. What's so bad about that?"

"You bought me ice cream. It was practically a proposal."

"A proposal is a proposal."

"And the ice cream?"

"An act of kindness." He narrows his eyes, challenge sparking. "You should try it sometime," he says.

I tip my head back, laughter spewing forth and then return upright, my hands reaching for his face. They curve around his jaw, hold him in place. "How's this for an act of kindness?"

"How's what—"

I kiss him. Square on the mouth. Our lips mould together like perfect pieces of an imperfect puzzle. I want to stay here forever, in our little pink bubble. That is until he pulls back, and it only grows until it takes over the entire room. Hell, it swallows the world—our world.

"So?" I grin, tracing spirals on his collarbone.

"It was very kind."

"I knew you'd see things my way."

"Well, how do you see us?"

"Me and you?" I scoot back to take him in.

"Yes, me and you."

I lick my lips, nibbling gently on the inside, and shrug.  "Would it be too presumptuous to call it dating?" I ask.

He laughs and kisses the corner of my mouth. "I knew you'd see things my way."

"No, I think I see it our way."

"Our way." He grins, pulling me closer. "I like the sound of that."

"You and me both, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"You're two months younger than me."

"That doesn't make me the kid."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it—"

I grab a fistful of his shirt and smash my mouth to his. He quickly falls into the kiss, his arms wrapping around my neck. When we pull apart, our breathing is ragged, falling on two separate rhythms that are as different as they are complementary, but we're smiling, beaming actually, and in this moment, I know that nothing will ever compare. For, in this moment, I've found true happiness, true bliss.

***

This is it guys.

We've finally got Lizzie and Isaac together and happy.

It's been such a struggle to write these last two chapters. I honestly did not want this story to come to an end.

There's only the epilogue left, so be sure to read it if you want to know how Lizzie and Isaac do and if there's a boyfriend/girlfriend moment on the horizon.

Anyway, as per usual, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did, please remember to share, comment and vote.

xxx