Modern AU | fluff and banter | Gwen’s intervention | romcom logic
— This is a terrible idea, Gwen.
— It’s a brilliant idea, Merls. I’m tired of your dramatic sighing and your “I can’t stop thinking about him” whining. A party is the easiest, most natural way to make a move on a bloke you fancy.
— It’s not. I can barely speak to him in normal circumstances, when it’s just the two of us and no one else around. And you want to throw us into a crowd. Yes, of course, surrounded by half-tipsy, dancing strangers, we’ll really get to know each other.
— You don’t need to get to know him. You already know him. Unlike most people there. Walk up, switch the charm on full blast, flutter those lashes, or do that mysterious club thing you like. That little party trick of yours always works. Don’t look at me like that—I know you.
— It works on strangers. Not on someone who’s seen you in a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt, avocado shorts, and slippers with a hole in the big toe—when you’ve seen him in flip-flops and red pyjama bottoms with yellow little dragons on them, and the two of you spent half the night scooping icy water off the floor with whatever you could grab, swearing like sailors and yelling at each other. There’s not much mystery left after that, you know.
— All the better. You’ve already made an impression. You’ve got history—talk about that.
— Should I apologise again for flooding his flat and forcing him to have it redone? Or shall we discuss that terrifying letter he wrote to my landlord?
— Terrifying?
— Yes. Horrifying. Very long. Packed with references to our contract, local regulations, national law—the lot. Honestly, I’m just glad I wasn’t the one it was addressed to. Only the one it was about.
— Is he a lawyer?
— Worse. A prosecutor.
— Oh! Did you ask him to draft it?
— Of course not. I rang Mr Johnson the moment we’d mopped everything up. He yelled at me, said it was all my fault, and that I owed him money on top of it. Arthur heard him, asked to see my tenancy agreement, took a photo of it, and then sent me that text.
— And? Did it work?
— Mr Johnson informed me he’d pay for the repairs out of my deposit and cover whatever went over that—as long as I didn’t take him to court and didn’t involve “the affected party”… and my lawyer. (laughs) He literally rang an hour ago.
— Hot, and with a proper job. Lovely. You’ll thank him for helping. Honestly, love—what are you even worried about? That man’s already smitten with you.
— No. I’m not in his league.
— If one smug, flighty idiot dumped you, that is not a reason to sell yourself short. Stop having a pity party. I don’t want to hear that rubbish again. You’re gorgeous, and you can pull any man from any league if you decide you want to.
— I’d have to actually talk to him. So far I’ve managed either silent staring or shouting. He probably thinks I’m an absolute idiot. What am I supposed to do if he turns up in front of me shirtless again? My palms will sweat, my tongue will stop working, and I’ll just stand there like a muppet.
— I’m the host. I can set a dress code.
— That’s cheating. I wanted to go in a hoodie and jeans.
— No hoodies. You’re wearing your nice blue shirt to my party, and your tightest jeans.
— Since when did you become such a fashion dictator?
— Since we finally found a decent candidate for “boyfriend of my best mate with a broken heart”. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on you—and if it comes to it, I’ll take drastic measures.
— Such as?
— Doesn’t matter. One way or another, I’ll get you talking. Don’t make me resort to extreme solutions.
