TF141 & International student neighbor on the verge of a crisis
Next - Masterlist
A tiny, itty bitty breakdown.
You didn’t cry when you moved into your flat. A few tears spilled when the kettle refused to boil, and the radiator wheezed like it was dying, but that hardly counted. You weren’t this close to a soul-shattering mental breakdown in four different languages and two whole personalities. Nope. That was just being a successful woman, completely in control of her life. You lived in a flat that could be described as vintage, or one good gust from collapsing, as your best friend kindly put it when you called. It had four walls, a roof, and the washing machine only flooded the kitchen every other week. It wasn’t the worst deal in the world. At least you didn't have spiders building their little lego-web houses on the ceiling. That would be disgusting.
However, you spent your first night on the couch wrapped in every hoodie you owned, scrolling through your phone with the Wi-Fi from the library nearby that cut out if you breathed wrong, wondering what the hell you’d gotten yourself into.
The move to England had been impulsive, at least that’s what your parents said. “You’re barely out of high school, sweetheart. Isn't it too soon?” But you wanted to prove you could do it; be independent, get a degree, build a career. Whatever that meant. You didn’t know yet. Those stupid tik toks about girlbossing your way through life didn’t help much, either. Classes were hard. Work was harder. You cleaned tables at a café full of old ladies who judged your every move, then crammed lectures and assignments into your evenings, falling asleep to the sound of cats screeching in the alley outside your window.
And then there were your neighbors.
The first time you saw them, your eyeballs nearly popped out. Four men who looked like they’d walked out of an action movie trailer. Broad shoulders, broader chests, paired with alertness that made you sit up straighter when they walked by. Pavlov's a bitch. One of them wore a beanie and had a beard that probably intimidated children. Or made them laugh, it depends on who you ask. You bet he worked as Santa Claus during Christmas time, that beard would do wonders. One limped slightly but moved like he’d break into a sprint at the slightest excuse, he also had a nasty scar on his head. One always had his baseball hat up and gentle eyes. And the last one… he wore sunglasses even on cloudy days and didn’t speak unless he was being sentenced to death. You nicknamed them The Lads before you even learned their names. It was honestly a really bad attempt at copying the British accent, a silly little inside joke meant only for yourself.
It was the limp that pulled you into their circle. Soap. His real name was Johnny, but everyone called him that. Something had happened to him. Not a car crash kind of injury, and surely not a oops-I-got-a-paper-cut issue. Something else. A kind of hurt that reeked of bloodshed and gunfire. He looked so cheerful despite it all... you envied his lack of self-restraint. He helped you carry a box of books up the stairs when you dropped it.
"You don’t look like a librarian." You tried to break the ice.
He grinned. “Cheers, lass. Ye don’t look like yer old enough to be living alone.”
“Rude,” you replied, winded. “But fair.” You became something like their mascot after that. Or a stray pup they all silently agreed to look after.
Price knocked on your door the night your power went out. Just handed you a flashlight and an extra blanket and left, didn’t even wait for a thank you. Gaz noticed your bike had a flat and fixed it without a word. Ghost, well, Ghost scared you a little. A lot. But you never said it to his face. It wouldn't be polite, would it?
You weren’t supposed to become attached to them. They were four grown men with lives and a bond so deep you couldn’t begin to understand. And you? You were just the girl next door. Sweet, a little clueless, a little cheeky, and hanging on by a thread.
You were tired all the time. Tired of pretending you were having the time of your life when really, you felt like you were slowly crumbling. Like the version of yourself that had boarded that plane so full of hope and plans had somehow gotten lost between Heathrow and the broken laundromat on the corner. How could you tell your mum you were regretting everything? How could you face your brother and say that the big sister he looked up to was just a loser? The weather was hell 365 days out of 365, if someone offered you another fish and chips dish you'd crash out, and you were likely forgetting all of the damned languages you spoke because of the humidity eating your brain cells.
Wasn't youth supposed to be the best time of your life? This was the part where you found yourself and laughed and made memories you’d cherish forever... Seriously, what the heck were you doing? You felt cold and alone. Ate one-pound meals at the measly convenience store run by Aunt Wang and listened to her ranting in Mandarin Chinese. What an exciting existence. How dignified.
Until the night you cried in the stairwell. You’d just finished a shift where someone called you incompetent because you didn’t know what a “flat white” was supposed to taste like. Your exam results had come back worse than expected. And your period had started early, like the universe had decided to kick you where the sun doesn't shine while you were already down. Bollocks, Simon's voice rang in your mind. You were curled up by the railing, the hoodie laid over your knees, when the door opened. Boots. Heavy ones. Speaking of the devil, Ghost’s voice scared the shit out of you. “Bad day?”
You sniffled, eyeing him up and down. “No, just peachy. Rainbows and all that.”
“Bollocks." He countered timely. You giggled. It was ridiculous and extremely easy to make your day better. Any of them could with just a snap of fingers. "I'm telling Price y'were here cryin' like a baby."
"Oh, shut it. I'll have you know some of us have beating hearts in our ribcage, Mr. Creep-a-lot."
"Oi, yer fifteen years too young t'make fun o'me."
Perhaps you did have one good thing in your hands, wasting it would be a shame.
Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor
Part One - Next - Masterlist
Daddy issues & 141 to the rescue.
You and your father did not argue. That was the problem. The silence festered until it cracked, and when it did, it was always you left picking through the wreckage, burned, and bruised, wondering if he even noticed the blast. He was not the kind of man who yelled. He did not raise his voice. He raised expectations, dropped the ones you could not meet, and filed the rest into neat rows of disappointment.
“You’re studying what?”
You froze mid-bite of a week-old croissant you had been too cheap to throw out. The winter wind was seeping through the single-glazed window as your father’s words echoed in your ears like gunshots. Loud. Too much to manage.
“Teaching English as a Foreign Language,” you clutched your phone like it might bite you.
He laughed.
You thought you had won the Oscar for the best comedic performance, as if it was just another of the dumb knock-knock jokes you used to say as a kid. “You mean to tell me you moved to England, spent months pretending to care about mathematics, and you are studying to become an underpaid language teacher? You do realize AI’s going to eat that job alive, right? May as well get a head start and make your life more pathetic.”
“Mmh,” you mumbled, your voice curled in on itself for protection. It was always like that with him. You never slammed doors or snapped back. The thing you did most was shout silently and punch in the air once you had locked yourself in your bedroom. You absorbed everything like a sponge until you were soaked through with all the sharp jabs he never considered cruel.
“You are already fluent. Why waste a degree on it? I thought you were doing something real. STEM. Science. You said you were interested in biomedical engineering!”
“I was interested—”
“That’s not a real degree,” he snapped. “What are you going to do, teach English to toddlers? I did not raise you to be a failure.”
You hung up before you started crying.
He was bound to find out you had changed faculty at some point. You hoped the day would ever come. The thousands of kilometers separating you from your dad did nothing to lessen the pain.
—
That was how you ended up at their door again. You, red-eyed, wearing a hoodie three sizes too big (it might have been Simon’s).
The door swung open. Ghost. How lucky, being greeted by a monument to stoicism. He just looked at you, then down at your hands. “…They cold?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your hands.”
You blinked. “…Yeah.”
He stepped aside. “I will put the kettle on.”
—
You did not cry until you were in the living room, sitting on the floor between the sofa and John’s armchair, knees to your chest like the child you had spent years pretending you weren’t.
Johnny found you first. “Jesus, hen…”
“Don’t. Please don’t make jokes. I cannot laugh right now.”
He sat down across from you and peeled a clementine, feeding you a slice once he was done. “Was it yer family?”
Your face crumpled in the most humiliating way imaginable. “Dad thinks I’m wasting my life.”
“Because yer not doin’ what he wanted?”
“Because I am not doing what he would be proud of. And the worst part is… I kinda get it. He spent everything to get me here. I told him I would do something that would make it worth it. Something practical. Something—” You sniffled.
“Respectable?”
You nodded. “And now I am… studying how to teach vowel sounds to ten-year-olds who will not remember my name in five years. I am not curing cancer. I am not building satellites. I got a half-empty fridge and a 77% average grade in phonology.”
A second later, a warm mug was pressed into your hand.
“Then he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about,” Gaz sat beside Johnny, cross-legged like this was a team debriefing and your heartbreak was the mission report.
You stared down at the tea. Earl Grey. Extra milk. You did not like milk tea, but who cared at this point. “He is my dad.”
Ghost appeared out of nowhere. “Yer job isn’t to be his trophy.”
“I’m not anyone’s trophy.”
“Exactly.”
“You know,” Price’s voice came from behind the couch, “I had a mate in the military who learned Urdu so he could help train local interpreters. Saved more lives than the medics did.”
You looked up. The captain was holding a folded dish towel and a glass of that tragic ale he always kept nearby. “You want to teach people how to communicate? How to understand each other? Do you think that is not useful? Christ, love. That is the most important job there is.”
“But it is not enough,” you whispered. “Not to him. He wanted me to be successful. Someone he could brag about at family functions.”
Soap clicked his tongue. “I’d brag about ye.”
You rolled your eyes. “You brag about that mohawk.”
“Aye, because it’s incredible. Point is, yer smart. Ye’ve made it halfway 'cross the bloody world and survived eight months wi’ us next door. That’s gotta count fer somethin’, eh?” He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Kyle intervened then. “Let me put it this way. You speak like, what? Three languages?”
“Four,” you corrected him.
He hummed. “That’s hot.”
“Sergeant,” Ghost growled.
“What? It is! My man can barely count to twenty without help,” he said, jabbing a thumb at Johnny, who launched a spice jar at his head in return.
“Picked a path that’s yours,” Ghost rumbled. “That takes more guts than anyone gives it credit for.”
“And you’ll be wonderful at it,” John added.
—
Later, you found a sticky note left on the threshold of your apartment. In black sharpie, Johnny had written:
“REAL DEGREES INCLUDE:
ANT 🐜 (Advanced Napping Techniques)
How to Look Like a Dad - Double Degree in mutton chops
Passive-aggressive Sighs
GSS (Ghost’s Stalking Skills)
TEFL = solid. Ah’d’ve majored in it meself if Ah hadnae been busy diffusin’ bombs in ma twenties.
Love,
Yer emotionally available Scottish neighbor 🧼”
You stuck it on your laptop.
Shitty day, this is purely self-indulgent. Sorry for whoever is in stem.
Kyle is the best customer you could ask for, but his teammates aren't as easy.
At first, London seemed like a dream. Hustle, grit, fashion week, the chaos of creativity all bottled into a city that never took a breath. Too bad the reality was different. It wasn’t the long hours that crushed you, it was the people, the endless ladder climbing, the sneers hidden behind faux-kind smiles, the stinging burn of rejection from agencies that only saw numbers, not vision. For someone like you, soft around the edges, it was suffocating. So, you left. “I didn’t fail,” you told yourself. “I just chose something else.”
Now, you were here, in a sleepy tiny town tucked far from madness, working in retail in a cozy boutique on the corner of a cobbled high street. The shop had charm. All reclaimed wood shelves and vintage Edison bulbs, racks lined with pre-loved jackets, silk scarves, old military coats with stories stitched into their hems. Some days were slow. Most were, but you liked the pace. You liked knowing the regulars by name, their styles by heart.
Your signature Ferrari bomber jacket hung over your shoulder, bright red, bold white racing stripes down the sleeves. It had survived seven years and at least three attempted red wine assassinations. Half the people who walked in complimented it. The other half gave you a knowing look when they spotted the prancing horse.
“I know,” you’d sigh with a smirk. “Being a Ferrari fan is practically a tragic personality trait.” The jacket made people smile. It made you smile. And in your world, that was enough.
Your favorite customers were a group of four men who’d started showing up sometime last year. You didn’t know how they found you, though it wasn’t surprising. Most of your customers came from word-of-mouth; a recommendation from a friend, or sheer luck during a caffeine-fueled detour. Either way, once they got in, they kept coming back.
Kyle was the first. Friendly, easygoing, with a sparkle of curiosity behind those warm chocolate eyes. He liked trying new styles, often picked your brain about fabrics and cuts, and wasn’t shy about flipping through racks with genuine enthusiasm. The two of you hit it off quickly. You’d talk fashion—designers, eras, tailoring techniques, so on and so forth. Every now and then, you’d catch him scribbling notes into his phone like he didn’t want to forget what you’d said. You had a stupid smile plastered on your face for the rest of the shift.
Johnny followed soon after. Something about his roguish charm and mischief wrapped in a thick Scottish accent made your heart flip. He made a game of flirting with you, asking which shirt made him look like a rockstar, which trousers “hugged the right bits.” You didn’t mind. It wasn’t sleazy and disgustingly creepy like Mr. Lambert’s comments; it was just cheeky. “’s fun, right, hen?”
The Scot had been through something, there was a scar that curved into his hairline, and sometimes, you caught him checking exits a little too carefully, but he always smiled at you as if the world wasn’t heavy on his back.
One day, Kyle told you the others would drop by the shop for a quick tour. “The captain and lieutenant,” he explained, hanging a pressed crimson sweater on the rack. “Figured you might help. Price—John—needs to stop dressing like a dad who bought a motorcycle to impress his ex. And Ghost... well, he’s allergic to color. I won’t be there, love. Good luck.”
You laughed, finding his concerns exaggerated. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
And oh boy, you did.
—
The bell above the door chimed, and in walked two figures whose attires screamed ‘suspicious crime syndicate members.’ One was broad-shouldered, bearded, and wore a low cap over his brow. The other looming shadow wore black jeans and a hoodie, eyes unreadable under a dark skull-printed mask.
“Y’alright?” John Price’s voice was gravel and warmth, all wrapped in one delicious burrito. “You’re the one tryin’ to make us fashionable?”
“I try to guide people. Whether they listen is another matter.” You corrected him.
Ghost didn’t say anything. He stood by the door like a gothic statue, gazing from wall to window to floor, like the entire place might collapse under the weight of vintage cardigans. You offered him a polite smile. He didn’t return it.
So. That was Simon, you’d find out his birth name much much later.
Gaz had warned you. But warnings didn’t quite prepare you for the presence of someone who could dissolve into a shadow if he really wanted to. You felt your smile falter a little. “Be gentle with the lieutenant, bonnie. He’s got the fashion sense of a funeral director. Easily spooked, tha’ one.” You remembered Johnny saying it. That Hulk of a man didn’t really seem easily spooked or affected by anything at all. But you’d learned not to trust the Scotsman’s judgement on people. Last time he said your newborn nephew looked like Sid from Ice Age and you’d never felt so offended.
“Well, let me know if anything makes you feel like you’re on a runway show,” you offered lightly, mostly to Price. “Or at least less of a fashion crime.”
That earned you a huff of amusement from the captain. “That obvious, huh?”
You studied him openly, eyes running over his old leather jacket, faded jeans, boots that looked like they’d seen more mud than pavement. “I'm getting 'I'm about to start a podcast about whisky and post-divorce toxic masculinity' vibes.”
Ghost let out a short snort. Yes, that sound had come from him. Price, on the other hand, barked a laugh and pointed a finger at you.
“Cheeky. Sorry for the trouble, birdie.”
—
The next thirty minutes were… interesting.
Price started by rejecting everything. Every coat was too soft, every shirt too ‘bloody posh’, every jumper looked like something his dad would’ve worn to the pub. But he kept trying them on, kept letting you adjust the collar, roll up sleeves, hold a mirror just right. “Don’t see what’s wrong with the leather one I’ve got.”
“John, you don’t want women to guess you’re divorced and why just by your looks.” You deadpanned behind a rack. The man stopped complaining after that.
“Tell me the truth,” he inquired once, eyeing a fitted navy peacoat. “Do I look like someone who owns a boat?”
“You look like someone who pretends to own a boat to impress his Tinder date.”
He gave you a mildly confused look. “What’s Tinder?”
Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t moved an inch. You tried subtle nudges. Held up a long black coat with silver snap buttons. No response. Picked out a designer knit jumper with a high neck. Nothing. Finally, you took a risk.
You stepped closer, gentle but not meek. “Look, I’m not gonna try and make you wear lime green or anything. But you’re a tall guy. Broad frame. You could make half of this stuff look terrifying in a clever way.”
He tilted his head just enough to make the skull motif shift with him. “Not here to impress anyone.”
“Fair. But comfort isn’t just about fabric. It’s about feeling like yourself. Or... the version of you that you don’t mind being seen.”
Silence. Again. After a moment, he reached out and you had to stifle your holy hell as he plucked the coat you’d offered off the rack. Then he disappeared into the changing room.
You turned back to Price, whose eyes held something vaguely amused. “I owe Kyle a pint,” he winked.
Ghost walked out of the fitting room, and the entire shop seemed to still for a moment. The coat suited him like it had been tailored specifically for his bulk. The wool draped across his shoulders and the belt cinched just enough to emphasize the lean strength of his torso.
…
“Could be worse.”
You beamed. That was a five-star review coming from him.
Eventually, both men found something they liked. Price left with the peacoat and a rugged forest green henley. Ghost kept the long coat and to your absolute delight, picked up a navy blue shirt as they were checking out. You didn’t mention it. You figured calling attention to it might break the spell.
At the register, Price handed over his card with a smirk. “Suppose I owe you an apology, birdie. Thought this’d be a waste of time...”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pretend you were a nightmare and insulted my entire stock.”
“Attagirl.”
—
Later that evening, Kyle poked his head back in while you tidied the place back into shape. “They liked you,” he cheered.
“I’m irresistible.”
“Nah, seriously. You made Ghost wear something that wasn’t from a tactical catalog. That’s magic.” You rolled your eyes. However, when he left and you locked the door behind him, a little glow lingered in your chest.
Between the final stretch of your business degree and the effort of packing up your entire life in a polycarbonate suitcase, your savings had been bled dry. Not a cent in that bank account, nope. The mobile van consumed every penny and every spare hour. You also had poor Fluffball to take care of; the puppy was the best cashier in the area, diligent and ready to bark your ears off. It was a stray you picked up a few months ago on your way home, had a nose for good sales (quite literally). Your dream was sweeter, far too unassuming for your family’s expectations. Trapped in the scent of butter and caramelizing sugar and the sizzle of thin batter against a hotplate. You made fresh crepes for all the kids in the neighborhood, and when the inspiration struck, you indulged in the delicate art of sugar painting.
You had a particular knack for the latter. You could pull and shape the amber liquid into shimmering fairies with wings thin as parchment, or fearsome dragons that coiled around lollipop sticks. A skill born from countless evenings spent watching Mrs. Hu at her stand near your childhood home. She was a hard-working, albeit stern woman who had built a good life, bringing simple joy to people’s faces. You aspired to that.
You’d found a semi-permanent spot on a corner of the local market that saw decent foot traffic. After months of uncertainty, regulars began to flood.
The first to appear, a few weeks back, were Johnny and Simon. They started showing up like clockwork every Wednesday and Saturday around five. Johnny introduced himself with a boisterous Scottish inflection. He was all cheeky grins, easy to please if you flashed him a toothy smile. Simon was his shadow, always trailing after him, a mountain of a man in a black mask and a skull-printed balaclava.
You’d initially wondered if they were a couple. The way Simon positioned himself between Soap and the rest of the world was territorial. Soap stole glances at Simon when he thought no one was watching… well, if they weren’t, you thought, poor Johnny was nursing one hell of a heartbreak with those starry eyes.
Then Halloween arrived. The air turned crisp, the reddish leaves made a picturesque landscape around you. You’d swapped your usual menagerie of sugar animals for spookier jack-o'-lanterns, ghosts, and friendly-looking spiders. You were putting the finishing touch on a particularly intricate ghost when you saw them approach. It wasn't just Soap and Simon tonight. Simon was shepherding two other men, his large hand clamped firmly on the shoulder of a younger, handsome man who looked deeply unimpressed, while an older man with a weathered mustache and a worn flat cap followed, puffing on a cigar that he dutifully stubbed out before coming closer.
Simon gave the younger man a slight shake. “C’mon. Need to get a grip, the lot of ye,” he grumbled. He nodded toward you. “Say hello to the pretty sugar birdie. Made a ghost lolly jus’ f'me the other day.”
If the evening chill hadn't already painted your cheeks a rosy pink, you would have melted on the spot. The tenderness in his tone was entirely for your benefit, just like Soap’s wink. You quickly finished the ghost, its form wispy and ethereal, and handed it to Simon. His fingers brushed against yours, calloused and warm.
“Happy Halloween, boys,” you beamed.
Soap, meanwhile, was already leaning on the counter, his energy infectious. “See? Told ye she was a bonnie lass. And a wizard with the sugar! This is Gaz,” he said, thumbing toward the man Simon had been prodding, “and the grumpy one with the dad ‘tache is Cap’n Price.”
“John is fine,” Price rumbled. His eyes swept over your van with an appraising, almost paternal air. “Impressive setup you have here. Runs like a dream?”
“Most of the time. She has her moods,” you laughed, wiping your hands on your apron.
As the weeks bled into November, the four of them became your most reliable clientele. Price always seemed to materialize just as you were struggling with the heavy crate of flour or sugar sacks, and took the weight from you. “Let me get that, love. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” He made you feel weak in the knees.
Kyle was a steady, warm glow. He was the one for quick, unexpected hugs, pulling you into a secure embrace that smelled of fresh air and fabric softener. “You’re a lifesaver,” he’d murmur into your hair after a long day, and you’d have the absurd urge to snatch him away, to take him home and just cuddle on the sofa until both of you snoozed off.
They ached for you, that much was clear. It was in the way Price’s gaze lingered, in the protective circle they formed around your van, in Johnny's “thank ye, lil' bird”. They were a unit, not even a suicide mission against that psychopath Russian terrorist could separate them. So what if they wanted the owner of the van down the street? Wooing you couldn't be harder than having a bullet shot straight through their head.
tw for sexism, talk of eviration (one sentence), general ghost/price threats.
One date will probably lead to the eviration of the poor sod who took you out.
It all started with Johnny. The same way, eventually, it would all end with Ghost.
When Soap suggested you try that dating app, you should have known better. "Yer smart, bonnie, and all sorts of fun. Deserve someone yer age to flirt with, instead of four old geezers loitering in yer kitchen all day."
You rolled your eyes. “You’re barely in your thirties.”
"Thirty is closer to Price's age than twenty, lass. Can ye believe the old man's pushin' past forty?"
You gave it a go.
—
You had high hopes from the start. Benji seemed nice enough over text: he was a student from a nearby uni, a bit older, and talked your ears off with his love for cooking and ‘deep convos.’ But your instinct kept a wary eye open the moment he referred to you as “exotic” in the middle of a late-night conversation. It made your skin crawl.
The lunch was a disaster. Red flag after red flag. A whole sea of signals screaming “Girl, run.”
He’d shown up wearing a GTA t-shirt and black sweatpants and spent the first thirty minutes talking about himself. The rest of the time passed critiquing feminism with jokes like “I mean… equal rights, equal fights, no?”
“What do you mean I'm wrong? Men provide for everything! The least a woman could do is cook, clean and raise the kids!”
“No, I don't own a house. Prices are insane! Do I look rich? What? I'm not going to look for a job immediately after graduation. Are you crazy?”
An old, subtle discomfort creeped in your bones. You just stared at him in disbelief and paid for your own half.
—
“Wait up!” He called, catching up with you as you turned onto your street. Your building stood just ahead, weathered brick and ivy clung. God, you just wanted to be over with it.
You gave a tight-lipped grin. “I’m good. Thanks for lunch.”
“Let me walk you up,” he wrapped an arm around you. “We can watch a movie, drink something.”
“I’ve lived here for a year. I know the way.”
“Oh, come on. You really buy into all that stranger danger stuff, huh? How dramatic.”
“I’m not inviting you in, Ben.”
That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.
When you stopped in front of your building, key already in hand, he stepped all over your boundaries. As if the proximity could override your refusal. “You’re too cute to stay the night alone. Let me keep you company—”
“No,” you said plainly.
“Chill, I’m not going to try anything. I’m being polite. You’re the one making it weird.”
And that’s when the door behind you creaked open.
“Something the matter, love?” You turned, grateful. Price stood in the doorway, holding a cup of tea. Cargo pants, dark jumper, sleeves pushed up over his forearms like he’d just come from fixing a boiler. A toothpick rolled slow between his teeth.
Now, that was a man who knew he didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. You’d let him rearrange your bones, and it didn’t necessarily have to be sexual.
But behind him, in the shadows, came someone deathlier.
Simon Riley didn’t make noise when he moved; he lived up to his callsign. The balaclava made it impossible to tell where he was looking, except you knew it was straight at Benji.
Your date tried to laugh it off. “Nah, she invited me in.”
“Not you the one I’m calling ‘love’, are you, kid?” John’s voice was thunderous.
Again, Ben didn’t give you the chance to answer your neighbor. “Man, it’s not that deep. She’s playing hard to get—”
You swore it was just a flash of movement. A black-gloved hand shot around the collar of Ben’s jacket, yanking him off his feet. The younger man’s bravado vanished from his face like piss down a drain as he was shoved back against the iron gate of the front garden. Hard.
It rattled. Birds took off from the nearby wires.
“Y’got two seconds to walk away,” Simon’s threat made you startle. “Otherwise, I’ll drag you down the road and leave your fuckin’ limbs in the canal.”
“I—shit—okay!” Ghost dropped him like a bunch of garbage. But not before murmuring something you couldn’t hear. Whatever it was made the other terrified as he ran for his life.
Oh well, no more online dating for a while.
—
“Alright, hen, who do Ah have tae kill?” Johnny asked dramatically, flopping on your couch and kicking off his boots. “Was it the little shite in the shitty t-shirt? Gaz said he saw him runnin’ like a wee dog wi’ its tail on fire.”
Kyle nodded behind him. “Bloke looked like he wet himself. I told you that app was full of clowns.”
“Clowns I can handle,” you sighed, accepting the mug of tea Gaz offered. “Honestly. He was a great walking PSA for birth control.”
“Listen, a real man carries yer bags, listens when ye talk, and never, ever tries to weasel into yer pants without consent. If a lad’s got the honor of taking ye out, he should be treatin’ ye like royalty. Like settin' fireworks up on your anniversary-level of classy. Isnae tha’ a thing these days?”
Price had lit a cigar and then forgotten it on the windowsill. You weren’t sure he’d intended to smoke it at all. “You ever done that for someone?”
Johnny shrugged. “...No. But Ah would.”
The other former sergeant groaned. “That’s corny, mate. A romantic proposal requires privacy and a bunch of flowers.”
“Boo! No explosives? It has to be a booming celebration in every sense.”
Ghost, who was perched near the window like a gargoyle, beckoned John to come closer. Their exchange was too short and far away for your ears. Johnny had started to distract you with his newest knives collection anyway. “Look at this one, bonnie! Picked it up in the Alps. Nearly lost a toe for it. D’ye want tae see the scar?”
…
“Got his name in the university’s directory. Found his student accommodation listing. Top floor, no security camera on the back entrance.”
“Simon,” the captain raised a brow. However, the glint in his blue eyes only expressed sheer satisfaction in his lieutenant. “Fine. If I see one attempt at sexting in their chat, I’ll emasculate him myself.”
That was a conversation they’d finish later, when you were peacefully asleep with the smiley duck Kyle got for your birthday, and the horrible ‘ocean sounds’ playlist you claimed helped you relax.
Kyle is still the best customer you could ask for and Johnny needs a kilt
You knew your regulars. Mr. Pritchard came in every Thursday and never bought a thing. Alice liked anything floral with shoulder pads. The middle-aged goth couple picked corsets for each other. But your favorite was undeniably Kyle.
(No matter how whiny Johnny got when you reminded him that his fellow Sergeant was a much better customer.)
(Simon did scoff, too. You didn’t comment on it. Lest you wrongly assumed that the skull masked man was going soft on you.)
You couldn't help it. Gaz popped by the most. Sweet, always up for talking about sustainability and why wide-legged trousers deserved a renaissance. Let's be honest. As much as you adored the other three soldiers, Gaz was the pretty boy. Compared to his 'shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel all in one' looking friends, he took his personal care down to a T. Skin care, silk pillowcases, cologne. Whatever he needed to look like a three-course meal, he did. As a former fashion designer, you loved making him model outfits.
And he did, for your eyes only.
You were pricing a batch of brooches when the bell chimed, and a familiar accent rang out. “Right, hen, I need a miracle. Ye got any of those on sale?” Johnny stood in the doorway. Today he was in joggers and a bomber that might’ve been navy once.
“Define 'miracle', sergeant,” you folded your arms.
“Need a kilt. Wedding. Preferably one that won’t get me kicked out for indecent exposure.”
You raised a brow. “Your own kilt doesn’t work?”
He shrugged, stepping further inside. “Nah, s’not the traditional kind this time. Fancy English Garden thing. There’s no ceilidh, just prosecco and posh hors d’oeuvres. But Ah still want to wear a kilt.”
You snorted, gesturing toward the back where the fitting room sat. “Get in the booth. I’ll take your measurements first.”
He obeyed with far too much glee. You grabbed your measuring tape and notebook, joining him behind the privacy curtain. Of course, how naïve of you to think Johnny would let you work in peace.
“Careful where yer puttin’ that tape, lass. Don’t want ye gettin’ ideas.”
“It’s literally your waist, MacTavish.”
“Dangerously close to me charming friend down there.”
You rolled your eyes and tightened the tape just enough to make him suck in a breath. “Behave.”
“Oh, aye. Dominant. I dig that.”
“Behave,” you repeated, voice flat, even though you were biting back a laugh.
After far too long spent dodging innuendos and adjusting posture, you finally had all the numbers. You jotted them down while Johnny leaned lazily against the wall, as if he hadn’t been an absolute menace the whole time.
“Kilt length... got it. Color palette?”
“Pink won't work, ye think?” He grinned. “Kiddin', something classic. Show off my clan, but maybe a wee bit sexier.”
You pulled out a few tartan swatches, mostly sticking to red, green-ish and blue tones. He pointed at the first with a dramatic shake of his head.
“MacTavish colours, love. Not MacDonald.”
You switched to the correct family tones. “Fine. This then?”
He clicked his tongue. “No, too bright.”
“This?”
“Too dull.”
“This one?”
“Too plaid.”
You squinted at him. “They’re all plaid. That’s literally the point of a tartan.”
He grinned; teeth white against his stubble. “Just makin’ sure you’re invested.”
“You are the worst customer I’ve ever had.”
“'m your favorite customer,” he shot back.
“No, my favorite is Kyle. I won't cheat on our fashion marriage for you.”
The bell jingled again, followed by the scent of tobacco.
“Tell me he’s not making your life hell.” John stepped into the shop with his usual measured gait.
“He’s been insufferable,” you said without turning. “Worse than the woman who haggled with me over a moth-eaten poncho.”
Price raised a brow, mildly disappointed in his boy. “That bad?”
Johnny clutched his chest. “Ye wound me, sweetheart.”
“I want to,” you said sweetly. “Preferably with a clothes hanger.”
Price gave you a look, then turned his attention to Johnny. “You wearing your clan tartan?”
“Trying. She keeps offering ones that make me look like a boiled sweet corn.”
“I offered you exactly what you asked for,” you protested.
“You’re stalling, Soap. Treat her well, will you?”
“Clear, sir,” Johnny said solemnly.
You finally settled on a tartan in dark forest green, with thin silver stripes threading through. Sleek enough to stand out. You matched it with a fitted black vest and crisp white shirt from the new stockpile in the back.
“This’ll look good on you,” you said, handing it over. “You’ll manage to impress two out of the four bridesmaids.”
“Only two? Losing me touch.”
“You lost it the moment you opened your mouth, Johnny-boy.”
Still, for all his teasing, when he stood in the mirror wearing the whole ensemble he seemed grateful.
Price gave him a once over, then nodded. “You’ll do. Try not to spill wine on it before the vows.”
Johnny caught your eye in the mirror and blew you a kiss. “Thanks, love. Reckon if Ah look nice, ’s all yer fault.”
They both left bickering about who was going to iron the kilt. It would probably be Simon, you could imagine him smoothing and folding clothes behind an ironing board. That behemoth of a man was surprisingly domestic when he felt like it.
Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor
Part One - Next - Masterlist
You'll ace the next exam, hopefully.
C’mon over tomorrow, we’ll help you prep for that exam.
P.S. You can’t refuse, Captain’s orders.
Most people would think Johnny gave you his number first, being the hopeless flirt he was. But no, it was Kyle. Unlike his fellow former sergeant, Gaz was subtler, able to hide his true intentions behind easy smiles and clever banter. No less effective, mind you.
Then again, the whole 'old men adopting a stranded student' relationship was weird. A detail for your therapist next session, surely. Were you supposed to be worried? Get your head checked? Probably. Creating a found family with three British men and a hyperactive Scot wasn’t exactly listed under “Common Expat Experiences.”
Back to the present: you left Kyle’s message on read for half a second before sending a slightly-too-eager—
Of course!
You imagined a light revision, a few exercises, a cup of tea brewed by Simon just the way you liked, perhaps Soap dramatically imitating phonetic symbols to distract you from spiraling over your performance anxiety.
Certainly not this.
At exactly 1700 hours, you knocked on their door clutching your battered copy of Teaching English as a Foreign Language for Dummies and a highlighter that had lost the will to live halfway through your last grammar workshop.
“Highlight only the important parts,” your brother used to say. Sure. But what if everything was important?
The living room looked like a war zone… but not a gross, sock-strewn bachelor disaster. No, this was tactical mayhem. Soap’s footprints crisscrossed the carpet in suspicious patterns.
Your study notes had been printed, laminated, and tacked onto a corkboard. Snacks were stacked on the coffee table like sandbags. A flipchart had been set up beside the telly. Someone had written across it in bold, underlined red: OPERATION: ACE THE PAST PERFECT.
Price looked up from the kitchen, a mug in hand. “No pressure, kiddo. Just your entire teaching career.”
Ghost, leaning against the wall, nodded solemnly. “We’ve got biscuits.” Was that supposed to help?
Gaz shuffled a stack of index cards, color-coded with terrifying precision. “Who’s quizzing her first on the difference between the present simple and the present perfect?”
“Define the unlawful killing of a human being without malice!” Soap barked like a drill sergeant. You gaped at him. Why was he wearing a peaked military cap? It was even worse than John's boonie hat.
“Wrong subject, Johnny,” Price called from the kitchen. “We’re not teaching criminal interrogation tactics, it’s English grammar.”
“Aye, but keeps her sharp, doesnae it?”
You sat gingerly on the couch between Gaz and a mountain of flashcards. “I... appreciate the effort, truly. But, uh, how did you get my notes?”
And was that your favorite set of pastel pens peeking out of John’s pocket?
“Found them last week. Binder fell down the stairs. Took the liberty of reorganizin’ ‘em by theme.” Ghost’s voice came from somewhere dark and ominous.
“You color-coded grammar topics?” You squeaked.
“Course I did. I’m not a monster. Stuck to your precious Pinterest palette, too.”
Well… You couldn’t exactly argue with that.
The first twenty minutes went smoothly.
Gaz walked you through the major language acquisition theories — Krashen, Vygotsky, yada yada — with flashcards that had doodles of confused stick-figure students on the back. Price explained different classroom management styles like he was giving a battlefield briefing: “Adapt to your environment. Don’t lose command of the room.”
You nodded dutifully, and sometimes got rewarded with a brief, proud head pat.
Then Soap made his move.
“Right! I’ve built a memory palace,” he announced.
“A what.”
“Memory technique! Visualization! Top-tier stuff!” He dragged you into the hallway, where he had drawn on the walls with dry-erase markers. You weren’t hallucinating.
“See here?” He pointed at a doodle of a dragon labeled ‘Past Tense Pete’.
“This beastie guards all irregular verbs. Ye’ve gotta slay him with correct conjugations!”
“What is happening?!” You shrieked, staring in horror at the doodle of an adverbial goblin. John, your knight in shining mutton chops, came to your rescue.
“She asked for help revising!” Soap protested.
“I asked for basic revision, not a full Dungeons and Dragons campaign!”
You pointed dramatically at Johnny, ready to throw him under the bus called ‘Captain Price.’
Then Ghost dragged a chair into the center of the room.
While Price and Soap bickered about the ethical limits of creative teaching aids, Gaz slipped a flashcard into your hand... CONDITIONALS: First vs. Second – Remember: If I win the lottery, I will freak out. If I won the lottery, I would freak out.
“Quiz time. No fluff. Answer fast, or you owe me a push-up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I am not doing push-ups over auxiliary verbs.”
“Then don’t get them wrong.”
And he began rapid-firing questions: “What’s the communicative approach? How many types of conditional sentences? Example of a weak modal verb?”
You answered, getting most of them right. You were still terrified.
And then, from the kitchen: “QUIZ TIME’S OVER, I MADE A POWERPOINT!” The Scot roared.
—
At some point, you were cross-legged on the carpet, biscuit crumbs on your notes, explaining the importance of student talking time versus teacher talking time while they all nodded proudly like awkward but loving uncles.
“You’ll smash it,” The captain finally said, clapping a heavy hand on your shoulder.
“If not,” Soap winked, “we’ll sneak into the university database and ‘fix’ it.”
“Please don’t,” you whimpered.
As you packed your things, Ghost quietly handed you a neat stack of flashcards. “Keep these. I made extra copies.”
You flipped through them: clear, minimalist, perfect. You smiled. “Thanks, Batman.”
His eyes crinkled behind the mask. “You’re welcome, Robin.”
Your notes had never been clearer. Your brain, however, felt flash-banged by a PowerPoint titled “How to Conquer the Passive Voice Like a Spartan.”
You would never forget the dragon guarding irregular verbs.
