My date with Dylan is nearly here. At ten to six in the evening, I'm clock-watching at work, counting down the remaining forty minutes of my shift as I collect up empty mugs from abandoned tables.

"You know, staring at the clock isn't going to make time move any faster," Ellie says, amused by my impatience.

"Oh, shush you," I laugh.

"I'm just saying," she replies, holding her hands up in defence. She grabs a few of the empty mugs from me and helps me load them into the dishwasher. "Where are you going to eat?"

"The Lakeside Palace," I inform her. It's my favourite restaurant, a cute little Italian place in the centre of town. They make the best pasta dishes. It's where Dylan and I went on our first date and, since then, it's kind of become a tradition of ours. "We have a reservation for seven."

"Ah, of course," she says with a grin. "You guys are so cute."

"You know, you say that a lot," I tell her, closing the half-empty dishwasher and leaving it to stand.

"That's because it's true," she says with a shrug.

The door to the café opens, the bell signalling the arrival of a new customer. We both watch as Bradley, Andrew, Finn, and Lucas Coleman enter.

I feel my heart plummet, beating erratically fast as I try not to let my unease show. Showing weakness, any kind of weakness, is a big no-no. I take a deep, calming breath as I tell myself that, logically, nothing bad can happen in such a public place.

Still, my hands turn clammy as Lucas heads towards the counter, intending to place an order, whilst the other three move to occupy the same booth as last time.

Ellie – quite conveniently – makes herself scarce. She moves to chat to the family of regulars sitting tucked away at the back of the cafe, not even looking back as she leaves me to deal with the Coleman's alone.

Traitor.

The smile I aim for is far less successful than last time as Lucas stands in front of me, the forced curve to my lips probably appearing more constipated than polite, so I decide to ditch the attempt altogether, my face becoming an impassive mask as I try not to let him see my hands shaking.

Damn, why am I being such a baby all of a sudden?

"Four black coffees," Lucas orders the same as last time. "Large."

I keep quiet as I punch the order into the till, pressing the button for the card machine when I see the blue Barclay's card in his hand. I expect him to pay and leave but, when he doesn't move to tap his card, I have to force myself to look at his face.

His eyes are on my hands; he must've seen them shaking as I used the till. I clench my hands into fists and drop them to my side, out of view behind the counter.

Damn it, Jade! Now he knows you're scared of him.

Lucas doesn't speak so I force myself to.

Clearing my throat, I mutter, "Card machine's ready."

Lucas finally taps his card, the contactless payment beeping its approval, and returns to his brothers without another word, his face a far better impassive mask than my sorry attempt.

When the coffees are ready, I take them over. I square my shoulders as I walk towards the brothers, determined to appear much stronger than I did five seconds ago. When I place the mugs down on the table, I fight the urge to avoid eye contact so hard it's almost painful.

You are not scared of that asshole.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" I ask, praying they say no so I can return to the safety of the counter and ignore them for the rest of my shift.

"I wouldn't mind your number," Finn says, the smirk on his face turning into what can only be described as a cheeky grin.

"That's nice," I reply, my voice flat and uninterested. It's not the first time I've had a customer hit on me and, usually, I'm not so rude about it. That being said, I usually don't see customers stashing drugs into their pockets, either.

Finn raises an eyebrow at my less-than-warm response but he doesn't seem offended, more amused as his grin remains intact.

"Ignore my brother, Jade," Bradley says, rolling his eyes and punching Finn in the arm. "He's an idiot."

I smile at him, a barely-there tug of my lips, unsure of how to respond. I take note of the cut on his left eyebrow and the large bruise just underneath his eye, the only remaining indicators of the state he was in the last time I saw him.

"How are you doing?" I feel obligated to ask, my voice strange – polite but not my own, like my body has been taken over by an alien parasite. Honestly, an alien parasite would explain the uncomfortable squirming in the pit of my stomach, like something straight out of a Ridley Scott movie.

"If you squeal to even one person, you'll regret it. Got it?"

Oh, I've got it, alright. I've got that these are not the sort of people I want to be around – as if there was ever any doubt about that in the first place. Ever since that little heart-to-heart in the car on Monday, my nerves have been completely shot to hell. Who knew that a few simple words could fuck up my mainframe so completely?

"Alright. Thanks again for the help," Bradley replies before finally answering my original question. "I think we're good for now."

I take my chance and run – and by run I mean I take a slow, leisurely paced stroll back to the counter, so they can't see how much I want to actually run. I'm not sure I pull it off.

"Lucas Coleman was totally just checking you out," Ellie says in a hushed voice, returning now that it's a Coleman-free safety zone once more.

"Like hell he was," I mutter, keeping my voice low.

You don't threaten girls you have a thing for.

"Seriously?" she asks in disbelief. "You're telling me you didn't just see the way he was staring at you? It was so..."

"Creepy?" I supply.

"Hot," she corrects. "Although I totally don't approve, he's way too much of a badass for my girl."

I don't respond.

"The guy has a serious obsession with your ass, though," she continues on, her voice still low enough that only I can hear.

"Oh my God, El," my laugh comes out strained and uncomfortable as I try and change the topic. "I have a date in less than an hour, remember? You know, with my boyfriend?"

"I know, I know," she replies dismissively before leaning forward and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Mr blood-and-knives doesn't, though."

"Shh," I hiss at her, grateful as a new customer enters the café and distracts her. Ellie serves this one, a bright smile on her face as she talks.

For the next half an hour I set to work on cleaning abandoned tables, serving customers, and helping Paul unpack a delivery. I try not to focus too much on the time, by which I mean I glance at the clock every five minutes to see if my shift is over yet. I want it over, for more than one reason now as the Coleman's fall into some hushed discussion at their table, Lucas's eyes subtly casting in my direction every so often, when he thinks I'm not looking. Alas, time is not my best friend today. It ticks by so slowly and, at one point even, I swear I see the hand on the clock tick backward.

Eventually, though, time decides to have a change of heart.

As I'm wiping down the counter – after Ellie managed to spill an entire mug of tea everywhere – the door to Wilson's swings open. In walks the familiar sight of my boyfriend, the grin on his lips hard not to mirror, even with the unease still grappling for attention inside my brain.

"I hope you're hungry," he says, resting an elbow on the newly cleaned counter.

"Starving," I reply.

Starving to get the fuck out of this place, at least.

"Let me guess..." he starts, rolling his eyes. "You're going to have the ravioli?"

"What?" I feign surprise, trying to keep my focus on Dylan and not the group of guys currently watching us from the booth by the window. "How did you know?"

"Let's call it intuition," he laughs.

"Yes, let's," Ellie says, grinning. "Because that sounds better than saying your girlfriend is entirely boring and completely predictable."

"Harsh," I laugh, nudging her with my elbow.

So, I like to stick to what I know, what's wrong with that? I like what I know.

"Between you and me," Dylan says, leaning towards Ellie and bringing his hand up to his face, as if sharing a secret I'm not supposed to hear. "I think we'll break her down, eventually."

"Hmm," Ellie nods her agreement, looking at me with an expression so serious, it's almost comical. She looks back at Dylan. "We'll get her to try the risotto one of these days, I'm sure."

"I don't know..." Dylan muses, chin resting on his hand as he flashes me a grin. "I think rice might be a little too adventurous, you know?"

"True," Ellie agrees, tapping her knuckles against the top of the counter before snapping her fingers, as if this conversation is in any way deserving of a eureka moment. "Tortellini, it is."

"I hate you both," I sigh. I shake my head at their open mockery, resisting the urge to poke my tongue out at them both.

"Well, now," Ellie says, putting on the worst – and I mean the worst – fake southern-American accent you will ever hear in your life. "That's just a sweet hot lie there, Pinocchio."

Dylan laughs and I can't help the begrudging smile that tugs at my lips. It's nice that these two get along so well; I would hate it if they didn't. It makes life so much easier than it is with Megan, who hasn't been Dylan's biggest fan from the get-go. The feeling, unfortunately, is mutual

He doesn't like that Megan's such an "overbearing, popular chick," as he once called her, and she doesn't like that he's such a "pompous, golden boy". Her words, not mine – obviously.

Don't get me wrong, they manage to hide their distaste for one another really well – for my benefit more than their own, I think. They definitely don't hate each other as much as they used to, though, which is a little thing I like to call progress.

With Ellie and Dylan, however, there's never been anything but this: shameless banter at my expense. It's an expense I am more than willing to pay.

"Right," I mutter, the time on the till screen informing me that my shift has officially ended, as of fifty-three seconds ago. "I'm going to get changed. You two behave."

"Take your time," Ellie all but sings after me as I disappear from sight. "I'm more than happy to spend some one-on-one time with boyfie-sweet-butt, here."

My prayers are with you, Dylan.

Out in the back room, I deposit my apron into my assigned locker and grab out the bag of clothes I left earlier.

Locking myself in the toilets, I change into the black skinny jeans and a blue flowy top, stuffing my feet into a pair of cute black heels and quickly touching up my makeup. I glance in the mirror and deem myself date-worthy presentable.

I scoop up my work uniform and shove it into the locker, too. I'll pick it up on my next shift, to save lugging it around with me all night.

When Dylan sees me return, his usual charming smile – the one that always knocks me dead – lights up his face. He stops listening to whatever Ellie is chattering about, not that she takes any offense to it.

She sends me a knowing look, her smirk absolutely wicked. "Have fun," she mouths to me before busying herself with refilling the sugar holder behind the bar.

"You look amazing," Dylan murmurs. He says it in a way that makes me think he'd feel the same if I walked out wearing a bin bag. I try not to let that get to my head too much.

This boy really loves me.

I don't let my attention return to the four Coleman's by the window as my boyfriend leads me outside, not wanting to know if I'm still being watched.

Although, that's not strictly true.

It's not that I don't want to know. It's that I don't what them to know that I want to know.

Maybe, if I make it seem like I've completely forgotten about their existence, Lucas will realise I'm not a threat and forget about me, too. I wouldn't say anything about what I saw, anyway – I was never going to. I'm not dumb.

"So, are they regulars, or something?" Dylan asks once the door is safely shut behind us.

I don't need to ask who he's talking about, though I really wish he hadn't brought it up. For one night – just one freaking night since the Coleman's walked through that door – I want to not think about them. For one night, I just want to think about my boyfriend, this date, and the tasty ravioli I'm about to devour.

"No," I reply. "That's only the second time I've seen them in there."

I want that to be the end of this conversation but I know Dylan well enough to know it won't be. He worries about me – even when I tell him he doesn't need to.

"I don't like the thought of them being around you," he admits with a sigh, swinging our arms back and forth slightly between us as we walk. "They're bad news."

"Trust me, I know," I agree.

"Yeah, I know you know," he replies with a shrug. "I just don't trust them."

"I don't think anyone does," I point out.

"Neil does," he says. "Who do you think supplies him with crack for his parties?"

I pull a face, wanting to change the subject. This doesn't feel like a date-night conversation.

Neil Gareth is our school's biggest douchebag – and that really is saying a lot. His family is beyond loaded and he's the sort of person who likes to throw it in the face of anyone who looks his way. He has done it to me a few times now, bragging about his wealth as if he has in any way earned it himself. Did someone say trust fund baby?

You've got to hand it to the guy, though – Neil knows how to throw one hell of a party. With his parents away working most months of the year, his house has grown quite the reputation for itself. Unfortunately, his basement is an unofficial druggie den, which is why I hate it when Dylan drags me to his parties. The pair have been friends since pre-school; they're bro-bonded for life, as Neil likes to call it.

I guess it's only fitting that Dylan doesn't like one of my friends because I can't stand Neil.

Every time I go to his parties, I make sure to steer clear of him and his basement. Even so, that doesn't stop the odd basement-dweller (doped up and flying) from rising to the surface.

I never enjoy the parties and, if it weren't for Dylan's tie to the kid, I would never go. Usually, we only end up staying for an hour at max. As soon as I want to go, we go – as is the deal we make every time Dylan asks me to one of the stupid parties. He knows how I feel about drugs.

"It's that Andrew dude," Dylan finishes.

"Huh," I mutter, not surprised by the news.

"Hey," Dylan says, finally getting the hint. He lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulders. "Let's talk about something else, yeah?"

"Okay," I agree, relieved. I lean into his warmth as we walk. "What time do your parents get back?"

"Mum said not until gone eleven, so you won't have to worry about any interrogations tonight," he informs, making me smile.

"Good," I reply. "So, what are we watching when we get back to yours?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "What do you want to watch?"

"Hmm," I murmur as I contemplate. "Something cartoony."

"Cartoony, huh? How about... Madagascar?" he suggests.

"Nah," I reply. "What else have you got?"

"Um... Chicken Little?"

"No, I watched that the other day," I tell him, before a film suddenly pops into my mind. "Oh! How about-"

"We watched Happy Feet last time," he reminds me, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I know, but they are so cute!" I argue in my defence, returning his smirk with a grin.

"Okay, okay," he sighs dramatically before leaning over to kiss my temple. "Dancing penguins it is."

"I want a baby Mumble," I announce as we arrive at the doors of 'The Lakeside Palace'.

I smile at the familiar sight of the restaurant: the white brick wall exterior shrouded in a maze of twining ivy, the quaint thatched roof, and the red-gloss-coloured front door. The pathway leading to the door is lit, lined by a few twinkling lights that sparkle as we walk past, beckoning us inside to a welcoming atmosphere of warmth, good vibes, and great food. I really love this place.

"So you say every time we watch this film," he laughs, opening the door and letting me step through first.

We stand by the 'please wait here' sign, waiting to be seated. From the looks of her, the waitress that comes to show us to our table can only be a year or so older than me, her long golden hair tamed into a braid that swings back and forth as she walks. I don't miss the few surreptitious glances she makes toward my boyfriend, or the blush that stains her cheeks.

I think Dylan is oblivious to everything but the specials board as we pass it on the way to our table, and I try not to laugh as I have to all but drag him to keep his feet moving.

It's difficult not to see that Dylan is good-looking. It was the first thing I noticed about him, too, on that first day he sat next to me in class.

Instead of getting irritated when I notice other girls coming to the same conclusion, as most people expect me to, I just find it funny – especially when I realise how rarely Dylan notices, too.

I'm not really the jealous type. Well, at least I try not to be – I got over that stage in our relationship pretty sharpish. I trust Dylan and that's enough for me. Who cares if other girls show interest, too? I'm the girl he's with. He has made it perfectly clear during our time together that he's not interested in being with anyone else.

"Here you go," the girl says to both of us, motioning towards the reserved table. Her smile turns sheepish when she looks at me but I only smile back.

See? She's not a bitch. She just thinks that my boyfriend is smoking. Funnily enough, so do I. I guess we have that in common.

The waitress scuttles off to let us peruse the menu, almost tripping over her own feet in her hurry to escape, probably worried that she's pissed me off for checking out my still oblivious boyfriend, whose attention has now moved to the menu in front of him.

What is it with men and their food?

All in all, it's a great meal: the food is delicious, the service is great, and the price is decent. Dylan pays and I happily leave a tip, trapping the money under the salt shaker for the waitress to find when she clears the table. We're past the point in our relationship now where we get weird about money. Dylan pays for this one and I will most likely pay for the next – neither of us really keeps track, we just enjoy each other's company.

"You seem happy," Dylan comments as we make our way back to his house, my arm tucked around his, my head resting on his shoulder as we walk.

The evening is a little chillier than expected for early May but I don't mind the walk, even if my toes are starting to feel a little sore in my heels. It's a nice night and this is one of those rare times that I can actually enjoy it. The feel of Dylan next to me, sturdy and strong, chases away any worries I might have.

I'm not just happy. For the first time in a long time, I feel content.

"Mmm," I agree, smiling as I think over the conversation we had during dinner.

It was light and easy – nothing heavy, nothing stressful. We kept away from topics like the Coleman's, our exam stress, or our plans for the future. I think Dylan knew I wanted to steer clear of those things, the things that would keep the cogs in my brain grinding away the moment my head hit the pillow tonight.

Instead, we had fun. He made me laugh over silly things until I could barely breathe, a good kind of breathlessness so unlike the kind I'm used to – the sort of breathlessness that only Dylan can cause.

We had swordfights with our spoons, a battle of the brownies as Dylan tried to pinch them all from our shared dessert platter. When I accidentally pinged one across the room – a narrow miss for a balding man in an expensive-looking grey suit, out to dinner with his wife – we laughed so hard I thought I wet myself.

"It's been a good night," I murmur as he turns his head to kiss the top of mine.

"It's not over yet," he reminds me. "Are we still going with the penguins?"

"Absolutely."

When we finally reach Dylan's house, I'm quick to zip inside and into the warmth. We kick off our shoes by the front door and, immediately, I feel far too short. I always feel like some kind of pixie after taking off my heels and returning to my normal height, as if every time I do I lose another inch off my spine.

"Do you have any popcorn?" I ask.

"Above the microwave," he replies as he follows me into the kitchen.

As instructed, I reach for the cupboard above the microwave. I dig out a packet of microwaveable popcorn – sweet, of course – and set it to pop whilst Dylan digs out a bowl to put it in.

Popcorn in hand, we head up to his room, with me batting his hand away every two seconds as he steals piece after piece and pops them in his mouth.

"Save some for the movie, dumbass," I mutter as I push his door open.

Dylan's not the biggest neat freak when it comes to his bedroom, with bits of paper and books scattered here and there, always waiting to be put back in their rightful place. His white laundry basket is overflowing with dirty clothes, T-shirts and jackets spilling from the top and scattered around the surrounding floor space. It's a surprise he has anything left to wear.

"I know, I know," he laughs as he flops down onto the bed, remote in one hand as he folds the other behind his head. "I'm throwing some in the wash tomorrow."

I sit on the bed next to him, the arm behind his head moving to snake around my waist as he sets up the movie and presses play.

"I still don't get your obsession with this film," he tells me as I snuggle more into his side to get comfortable, the bowl of popcorn balanced on our legs.

"There are dancing penguins. What more do you want?" I ask, grinning up at him and giving him a quick peck on the lips before looking back at the screen, reaching over for a handful of still-warm popcorn.

The popcorn soon vanishes and I place the empty bowl on the bedside table, my eyes still glued to the TV screen as I do so. I want a penguin.

We're not even halfway through the film when Dylan starts the assault of kisses down my neck.

I can't help but roll my eyes, realising with a smirk that I'm probably not going to be focussing on the penguins for much longer. This realisation is confirmed when he hits the sensitive spot at the base of my neck – my biggest weakness, which he damn well knows.

His lips form into a smirk when I turn to give him my full attention, bringing my own to his as I lift my hand up to run my fingers through his hair.

He has great hair.

"I've missed you, babe," he murmurs as he pulls back from the kiss a little, his smirk now softened to a smile.

"Oh, I bet you have," I reply with a breathy laugh, rolling my eyes as our lips reconnect.

I slip my hand under the hem of his shirt, the film long forgotten now as more clothes are added to his floor and we have what Ellie so rightly called 'some alone time'.

*********