September's first ray of sun spills through my window, its golden hue cast across my profile and the landscape of my bedroom. I sit on the cushioned stool before my vanity table, elbows resting amidst the spread of upturned makeup. Outside, I can hear the sounds of Torin and Armani cussing at each other as they boot a ball to and fro, over the gurgling of our neighbours' lawnmower gnawing at their front garden. The scent of freshly cut grass wafts through the open window, and my eyes water in response to it. I ignore the burning behind my irises, and focus on the stubborn curl in my sideburns that refuses to lay down.

"I told you she wouldn't be ready."

The door to my bedroom creaks as it opens, revealing a pyjama clad Chanel positioned against the frame, hands tucked into her snug fitting bottoms. Tiegan's head peaks over her shoulder, she scrutinises my incomplete appearance through narrowed eyes. Today, her hair is swirled at the peak of her head, edges swooped and skin aglow. Her plump lips are set into a firm line, as she continues to screw me. I barely pay them any mind, as I take to my hair with gel, again. "Dior, it is half past three."

"I know."

"What happened to leaving at 2?" She counters. Chanel's face contorts, she pushes herself firm onto her feet and invites herself further into my room.

"That was never going to happen," she chuckles. She plops down onto the foot of my bed, her messy bun shifting as she does so. "Where are you guys even going?"

Today marks the first of September; that means two days left of summer. Two days left of limitless freedom, until I'm shackled to my studies for the next nine months. I've declared tomorrow my self care day—so while Tiegan gets her haircut, I'll be twenty inches deep in vanilla scented bubbles, doing everything I can to distract me from all my academic jitters. Today, Tiegan and I decided to seal summer '18 with a lunch date, although it's beginning to look a lot more like dinner.

"Crepes and Cones, with Jug and Jiz," Tiegan answers her. She folds her arms and shrugs the shoulder that her mini handbag drapes from. "But we definitely ain't gonna get the train and make it on time."

"Cab it," Chanel shrugs. The both of us eye her weirdly, not that she pays us any mind. She wriggles herself into comfort and then spreads herself across my bed like a starfish.

"Who's paying for a cab all the way to Croydon?" I scoff.

"Ask for a lift," she suggests.

"From who?" I frown. "Or are you offering your boyfriend's services?" Chanel briefly sits up in her seat to glare at me. Tiegan snickers from across the room, as she steps fully inside and pushes the door closed behind her.

"Don't even start," Chanel grumbles.

"Not Chanel being in love," I tease her further.

"It's the blushing whenever we talk about Daniel for me," Tiegan chips in with a shake of her head. Chanel responds with an abashed groan, pulling a pillow from the head of my bed and pressing it flush against her face.

"Leave me alone," she grumbles, her speech muffled by the heart-shaped bolster covering her mouth. She moves it out of the way before she continues, "Nobody ever has this energy for Tiegan and Armani."

"Are you joking? Everyone has this energy for me and Armani. I can literally never get enough of it," Tiegan argues.

"Don't act like you don't enjoy it," I scoff. Tiegan shoots me a sharp look but—of course—she doesn't deny it.

"Piss off."

"You guys love making as if you're not in love. I don't know how I'm gonna feel when the double dates start," I sigh. Tiegan and Chanel share an urbane look. Naturally, Chanel is as tough as nails and Tiegan resides in a shell that takes extensive time and effort to pull her out of. Seeing them catch feelings and turn into the opposite never fails to amuse me. The way Daniel thaws Chanel's icy coating whenever he's around her, whenever someone mentions his name, is almost like witchcraft to me. And although she'll never admit it, Armani draws Tiegan's inner self out like a shoot from a seed, without even trying. I find it hard not to admire the way they all admire each other.

"You're always welcome to be the fifth wheel," Chanel smiles sarcastically, I roll my eyes and look away from the mirror and towards the two of them. I gesture for Tiegan to pass me the shoe-box I'd sat at the foot of my bed, she uses the side of her trainer to slide it towards me. I'd been the fifth wheel for years now, seventh if you count Torin and whatever unlucky girl of the hour he'd cast his spell on.

"If you weren't so anti-men, maybe you'd find yourself on more dates too," Tiegan jokes. "I can't tell who's more shook, you of men or men of you."

"It's the blunt replies. You good? Yes. How was your day? Calm. I think I like you. Safe," Chanel adds, and the pair of them share a silent laugh. I narrow my eyes.

"I'm not blunt," I defend myself. I think people confuse my shyness for candour. In unfamiliar settings with unfamiliar people, I can't control the shortness of my words. In the many instances I've found myself trying to, and instead ended up divulging way too much, I'd learned that I'm less prone to embarrassment if I keep my words to a minimum. Plus, it leaves room for mystery. I've come to realise that the less you talk, the more people listen out for what you have to say. "And boys aren't scared of me."

"True. Reckless definitely showed no fear," Tiegan says. The smile on her face curls into a smirk and she tilts her head leftwards, I pay her no mind and instead focus on knotting the laces of my shoes. At the mention of Nehemiah, an eminent butterfly zips around the width of my stomach, I can feel my insides ripple for a brief moment, and then it passes and I pretend nothing happened. God, that boy was fine.

"Reckless doesn't fear anybody. His name is literally Reckless," Chanel says. "But I'd be lying if I said he's that nice to all the girls he meets." I'm unsure what it is about what Chanel says that makes my body blush, his fearlessness or the fact that he'd actually been exclusively nice to me.

"Who even is he? Why've we never met before?" I ask, sitting up in my seat with a huff. Chanel's mouth twists to the side as she searches for an answer to my question.

"He's not from here, he's from Bromley. Well, was. Plus, you guys don't have mutual friends," Chanel says.

"Oh, Armani and Torin and Daniel are my mortal enemies. I forgot," I counter sarcastically, through narrowed eyes. I lean back on my stool, spine against the cliff of my vanity table as my frown deepens. "I can't believe they never introduced me to him—us to him."

"You sound offended," Tiegan chuckles.

"I am. I put Torin on all our leng friends. He never returns the favour," I say. Chanel's body shudders as she laughs.

"Nehemiah is very anti. He can talk to who he wants to, but that's not a lot of people. He's slick at the mouth, and he's very hotheaded," Chanel explains. "Probably why he fits right in with all our brothers—"

"And your boyfriend," Tiegan adds.

"—and Daniel. They're all bad breeds together. It's actually sickening," Chanel says with a chuckle.

"But not as sickening as the two of them undressing each other with their eyes while I tried to eat my burger," Tiegan chips in, casting the limelight back onto me. I can't even bring myself to argue down her point, but I can say it was more so Nehemiah than it was me—I don't have the balls.

"You two are gonna be so cute," Chanel beams, and my face immediately pretzels at the thought of it. As lovely as that sounds, no.

"Are you having a laugh? Armani would wring my neck," I scoff.

"He'll get over it," Chanel shrugs.

"Well if that's the case, you can go ahead and tell him about you and Daniel," I shoot back. Chanel smiles but knows better than to respond.

"Armani's so funny to me. Imagine if Torin said he should stop pursuing Tiegs. World War 3," I scoff, just as the door to my room pops open, and a sweaty Armani steps inside, topless and toting a black basketball beneath his arm. The muscles in his limbs are tense and the vein in his neck is prominent against his skin, as he pants softly, his intrusive stare flitting between the three of us. I watch in amusement as Tiegan's eyes trail up his toned stomach to the dull expression on his face.

"Why you patties in here discussing me?" He questions, dropping the ball to the floor with enough force for it to bounce right back into his lingering palms.

"We're talking about you having a crush on Tiegan," Chanel responds, clinically. Tiegan rolls her eyes, and a cheeky grin spreads across Armani's face. He inches closer to Tiegan, who stops him from entering her personal space with a manicured finger against his chest.

"You're sweaty," she grumbles. I can't help but laugh at the tickled expression on her face. "And he doesn't have a real crush on me, so let's stop putting that out into the universe."

"I do," Armani counters, a sly smirk stretches across his mouth. There's not a tremble in his tone and in that moment, I take a second to admire his confidence, because I don't think I could ever be that upfront.

"You don't," Tiegan argues.

"Bruv, how you gonna tell me?" He chuckles.

"Because you show me, every time you get your dick sucked by another girl. I let your actions do the talking," she taunts, tilting her head. I'm unsure if he hears a word she says, his eyes are locked onto her lips as she speaks, and as soon as she finishes, he leans in and dots a peck on her closed mouth, jumping backwards as she swipes at him.

"Damn, guys. Rub it in," I chuckle.

"Shut up, you don't need no man. Read your books," Armani retorts, without missing a beat. I share an all too knowing look with Chanel, and decide against provoking him today. For some reason, the thought of a man and I makes him sick to his stomach, as he loves to so graciously remind me time and time again.

"But you need a girl?" Chanel interferes.

"I need some love. I get lonely," Armani sighs. I scoff at the sudden facade of innocence in his tone as he speaks.

"Don't let him fool you, Tiegs. He has me," Chanel teases.

Armani rolls up his lips in disgust, "You're always with Daniel. You guys' friendship is so gay to me." I'm sure the strained look on both Tiegan and Chanel's faces mirrors my own, at the irony of what he'd said; I have to press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to keep from laughing.

"Anyways," I say. "Why you in here? What you doing today?"

"Waiting for Recks and Sy, so we can go Taze's," Armani responds, turning to me. I can't help the way I subconsciously perk up at this, as subtly as possible. His eyes narrow at me, and I purse my lips.

"Speaking of Recks, was it him I saw on Snap knocking the spit out of someone's mouth?" Tiegan inquires, veering Armani's attention from me. He nods, dropping his ball to the floor and letting it roll across my rug.

"Yeah. That Kenzo guy from OV went looking for his trouble, like an idiot," he chuckles. He distracts himself with the cosmetic bottles on my desk. Chanel looks between Tiegan and I, as if to say I told you so. I know Patrick—better known as Kenzo—well enough to dislike him. We can mutually exist in the same space without me wanting to kill him—or myself—but he gets a rise out of provoking people, and has a repugnant way with words. He'll say whatever it is he has to, just to get you out of character. His tongue knows no limits, I know that from experience. "You fuck with him, Dior?"

"Nope," I reply. I wouldn't even go as far as calling him an acquaintance, just somebody I'm unfortunate enough to know. In fact, a part of me wants to see this apparent footage of Nehemiah knocking some sense into him.

"I can't stand that guy," Tiegan mutters. Armani's head whips in Tiegan's direction, he drops whatever had been in has hand back onto my desk and it clatters against the surface, taking another bottle down with it, not that he pays it any mind.

"Sorry? How you know him?" Armani asks, meshing his arms together. Chanel and I both chuckle at his interrogative tone.

"Calm down, officer. He pushed in front of me to get on the bus, once. Then the driver wouldn't let me on. And I was late to school and got an hour. I'm holding that grudge forever," Tiegan huffs, irritation plastered across her face.

"Armani, you're so inner," I say. "You can't have my sis living like she's on parole. She's not your girl."

"She is," Armani quizzes.

"Actually, I'm not. You can't have your cake and eat it," Tiegan chips in.

"Preach. It's Tiegs or the streets—"

"Okay. I choose Tiegs, then," Armani shrugs.

"You might wanna slow down there, if you're gonna eat your cake don't choke on it," Tiegan says. Armani shifts his body in her direction, the amusement slips from his face but I can see the mischief brewing in his eyes. The two of them stare each other down for a few seconds, I begin to feel like I'm intruding on a very, very private moment. Chanel makes a face at me and I return the expression.

"You two get out, let me talk to Tiegan," Armani says.

"What? It's my room—"

"And close the door behind you." I kiss my teeth, but oblige. Chanel leads the way out of the room, I slip my bag off the back of the door as we exit, the pair of us make our way downstairs and into the living room. Torin lies stretched across the length of the sofa, his feet up and one sweat-glazed arm draped across his forehead while he scrolls aimlessly through his phone.

"You didn't think to go and take a shower before you sat on my couch?" I say, wrinkling my nose slightly before I pull his legs from the armrest by his ankles. He kicks his leg at me, but narrowly misses.

"Go pick on someone your own size," he retorts.

"Fuck you," I huff, moving away from him and towards the kitchen, where the aftermath of Armani's attempt at breakfast is spread across the counter-top. I help myself to what's left of the food, dividing my attention between the rerun of My Wife and Kids playing on the TV and the lukewarm pancake that I'm lathering in sugar and lemon. I roll my pancake as tightly as I can, but the doorbell rings seconds before I can take my first bite. I turn in my spot and lean against the cabinet, my eyes narrow at the monitor tucked beside the kettle. I watch the HD display of two figures hovering on our porch, it takes me a brief moment to realise it's Nehemiah and Daniel.

"Is someone at the—"

"I got it," I interrupt Torin, dropping my pancake back onto my plate and waltzing towards the door. I inwardly scold the butterflies in my stomach, and the blood gushing to my cheeks, as my hand wavers at the doorknob. I allow my face to fall flat as I twist the lock and pull the door wide open. Daniel stands an inch in front of Nehemiah, hands shoved into the pockets of his SST bottoms. He nods at me, waiting to be let inside—not that I can focus on him or his greeting when Nehemiah's stood beside him, in all his glory.

One hand holds his phone against his ear, the other is hidden beneath the waist band of his grey shorts. He turns away from the road and towards the front door once he realises it's open. Our gazes meet and an arch expression trickles down his face. My eyes flit between his dark ones, and the gold chain slung around his neck, partially hidden by the thin material of his white wife-beater. He hangs up the phone on whoever he'd been speaking to, intense stare still unwavering, as his mouth unfolds into a coy smile.

"Oh, hi, Nehemiah," I say, as smoothly as I can manage. I can barely hear myself think over the thudding of my heart in my ears. I try to remind myself of the last time I was this nervous behind a boy, but I can't.

"Afternoon, pretty," he replies. I don't even attempt to stifle my flustered grin. Daniel's face twists and it's only then that I remember he's still standing there. His eyes flicker between the two of us.

"Well damn, Dior. Hello to you too," Daniel grumbles, with a hushed scoff. I roll my eyes, step aside and beckon the two of them inside. Daniel takes another brief moment to scrutinise the two of us, before he walks inside and towards the living room. Nehemiah scans the small space preceding the door, before he allows himself to step inside the house. His eyes linger on the singular photo of my siblings and I, hanging on the wall beside the coat rack. I shut the door and press my back against it, watching him study the picture. He glances at me, and then back to the picture, stepping even closer to it.

"You're cute," he chuckles, tapping a finger against the photo. My skin burns in embarrassment. I can't recall what I look like in that picture, but I assume the worst. I don't think I've ever seen a framed photo I looked presentable in.

"Thank you, Nehemiah," I say, with a polite smile.

"You're welcome, Dior," he imitates, with a small laugh. He turns his body back in my direction. "You good?"

"Yes. Yeah," I shrug. Suddenly, all I can hear are Chanel's taunts in my head, about the shortness of my words, and so I force myself to ask, "You?" I instantly feel embarrassed and I have no idea why. I wonder if I look as awkward as I feel asking.

"I'm well, love. You look good, where you going?" He inquires. His shoulder leans against the wall and his shadows looms over my entire being. I try to focus on maintaining my composure, and not his hand slithering back into his shorts.

"Crepes and Cones—"

"Why you guys still there?" I glance past Nehemiah, where Torin is still sprawled across the couch. The three of them are watching us like a tennis match, it makes me roll my eyes. Nehemiah shoots me one last covert smirk, before turning where he stands and strolling towards the living room. Again, Torin's legs are swung from the couch, landing on the floor with a thud. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, shooting Nehemiah a flat look as he plants himself onto a seat. My eyes follow him as I trod back towards the kitchen, where I'd left my pancakes.

"Tigz, why your tits out?" Nehemiah teases.

"And why you bare sweating on the sofa?" Daniel adds.

"Why you man on me?" Torin grumbles, plopping back on the sofa.

"You're dripping like a pig," Chanel jokes, I snicker.

"Daniel, silence your woman. Please," Torin shoots back, quickly swatting away the pillow Chanel lobs in his direction. "Had to emasculate Loose in 'ball quick."

"Spell emasculate," I tease.

"Spell puberty," he snaps back. I flip my bottle of lemon juice shut and fling it in his direction. Much to my pleasure, it crashes into the side of his head with a thud. I don't think I know anyone with a tongue sharper than Torin's, he has an answer for just about everything.

"Tiegan!" I yell, not that she answers. I run my hands under the tap, I tear off a sheet of kitchen roll and I make my way into the living, drying my hands and dropping my tissue in the bin as I pass it. "I'm ready to get the fuck. Like now." I drop into the empty love-seat with an impatient grumble.

"So, Recks," Chanel's volume raises slightly, she crosses one leg over the other and clasps her hands, shifting more in Nehemiah's direction and leaning into the conversation. I raise my eyebrows at the roguish look on her face. "Are you ready for school on Monday?"

"I guess. I ordered some shit that still ain't come yet. Like, stationery and stuff. And a calculator," he answers with a shrug.

"I saw on the syllabus you need a special one for Physics," Chanel says. She looks towards me expectantly, like she's waiting for me to participate. I have a brief lapse as I struggle to think about what to say without making it awkward.

"What subjects are you taking?" I finally ask. Nehemiah glances at me, and then smiles slightly.

"Maths, Art, Physics, English," he recites. I can't help but to grimace.

"You know what, Dior hates Physics, but she's in the top ten percent at OV so she has to do triple Science. They get the upper years to tutor for extra credit but they're not helpful. Init, Dior?" Chanel rambles on. I narrow my eyes in suspicion, unsure where she's going with this. The three boys look from Chanel, towards me.

"Right..." I agree. Chanel lied. I mean, I do hate Physics—with a burning passion—but I'm good at it. I've never gotten tutored, let alone by an elder in OV, and I've never looked into it either. In fact, the thought of getting schooled by someone one-on-one makes me uncomfortable.

"If I was any good, I would help but you know. Shit at Science," Chanel continues, jabbing her thumb towards herself and then shrugging her shoulders. I notice the way Torin, Daniel and I's heads all tilt in the same direction. That was also a lie. Chanel's the brainiest of all of us, there's nothing she isn't good at, especially in school.

"I mean, if you really need the help, I got you," Nehemiah says, his hand finds its way to the back of his neck, and he itches the small space of skin beneath his hairline as he talks. An accomplished smile shoots across Chanel's face, and she flattens a palm against her chest.

"Recks, that's so nice of you," Chanel coos, and I suddenly realise that had been her intention all along.

"How sweet," Torin teases.

"Dior, you're averaging 9s in—"

"I wonder what's taking them so long," Chanel huffs, sitting up in her seat and effectively interrupting whatever it is that Daniel's about to say.

"We have time to waste," Torin shrugs.

"Yeah, well we don't," I complain. I know I'm the reason we're late in the first place—per usual—but the thought of dipping into my bank account to pay the thirty quid cab fare makes me want to cancel our plans altogether. Nehemiah's phone pings. His mouth twists to the side as his eyes dart across the screen. He types a short response to his message and then sits up in his seat.

"When's the appointment?" he asks.

"From 6," Torin answers.

"I have time to link my sister? I'll buck you man afterwards," Nehemiah says.

"Link her where?"

"At Love's. She lost her car keys, I'm supposed to drop the spare," Nehemiah says, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black matted car key, dangling it from his finger.

"Love who? Love Karter?" Torin questions, sitting up in his seat. I roll my eyes. "My bae, Love Karter?"

"You couldn't pay Love to look in your direction," Chanel chuckles.

"She hugs me when she sees me," Torin shoots back, he sits up properly in his seat and holds his closed fist out to Nehemiah. "Let's go, bro." Nehemiah pushes Torin's hand away from him, and shakes his head.

"You're gonna trek to Croydon for a hug?" Nehemiah chuckles.

"Croydon? Did you say Croydon, Nehemiah? Dior and Tiegan are going Croydon," Chanel perks up, clasping her hands together. Nehemiah and I make eye contact and I purse my lips. His smile glistens and there's a twinkle of amusement in his globes.

"Well, I'm cabbing it so they can hop in if they want," he says, apparently in answer to Chanel although his gaze is unwavering, still locked with my own. Nehemiah's eyes are nothing special, they're dark and deep set, and the skin around them is mildly dim. Yet, from the moment I met him it's his eyes that have repeatedly sent shivers across the lengths of my skin, locked me in a trance that pushes the world around us out of focus. I don't think it's his eyes, I think it's the way he looks at me. The way he stares at me, as if I'm the prettiest thing in the room. I can never bring myself to look away.

"Dior and Tiegan are running late so that's helpful," Chanel says with a grin. I see her flag her hand as subtly as possible, trying to get my attention. I blink at him and then at her, taking a deep breath.

"Thank you, Nehemiah," I say, shuffling slightly in my seat. "We can go halves if—"

"You're good," Nehemiah replies, with a nod of his head. Daniel snickers loudly, but Nehemiah either doesn't notice or completely ignores him, as he sits back in his seat once again, crossing his feet by his ankles.

"Let me get Tiegs to let me back in the house, then you man can cut," Torin sighs. He stands up from the sofa, stretching until his bones creak. "I need a fucking shower."

"You not going Croydon no more?" Daniel asks.

"Fuck no," Torin mumbles. He steps around the coffee table, knocking his knee against mine as he strolls towards the foot of the staircase and then out of sight. Chanel looks between the three of us, and then back to Daniel.

"I wanna go to the corner shop," she says. Daniel doesn't respond, only slips his phone away and rises from his seat. He holds his hand out to her, helping her to her feet, and the both of them move from the living room to the threshold of the house. The living room is suddenly submerged in silence, aside from the gentle whirr of electricity and the background murmur of the TV. My eyes remain glued to the screen, just in case I look away and meet Nehemiah's gaze, again. I don't want him to think I have a staring problem.

"Are you the youngest?" Nehemiah asks. I look away from the TV and towards where he sits, with another family photo he'd picked up from the coffee table. He holds it in one hand, close to his face, his other hand rests in his lap. He reels slightly in his slouched position, but he doesn't sit up.

"Yeah," I answer. "Me, then Chanel, then Armani, then—"

"Scarz. Valentino, I mean," Nehemiah corrects himself. I raise an eyebrow. So everyone knows Nehemiah but me? He narrows his eyes at the photo, frowning faintly. "You look nothing like them." Words fail me in that moment. My heart sinks a little, and I get this pinching feeling in my stomach, but I try my hardest not to let my emotions play out on my face. I shrug, with a brittle smile, and look back to the TV. As much as I try to ignore it, I can see him watching me from the corner of my eye, like he's waiting for my reaction to what he'd said. Or he'd seen my reaction, and is still contemplating whether to comment on it or not.

Before either one of us can say something, a door upstairs slams shut. There's heavy footsteps across the landing and then bounding down the stairs. Torin rushes into the living room with his house key in clutch, snatching his shirt from where he'd flung it earlier. I raise my eyebrows at the exasperated look on his face, like all his features are stuck in a cringe. "G, what is wrong with you?" Nehemiah questions, cutting his eye at Torin, who only gags in response.

"Don't talk to me. Them two were up there lipsing this whole tim—look, no one speak to me. I need a minute," Torin barely manages to get his words out, he pivots and storms out of the house. Nehemiah's warm laugh ricochets around the room, while I sit there, mouth agape. Seconds later, Armani and Tiegan stroll into the living room, one looking guilty as ever and the other looking overly content with himself. I stand, shaking my head.

"No comment," I say. Armani disregards me, greeting Nehemiah as I pull Tiegan with me, towards the front door. She narrows her eyes towards Nehemiah and then turns back to me.

"How long's he been here? What did I miss?"

"What did you miss?" I scorn, "What did I miss! I thought he couldn't have his cake and eat it?"

Tiegan's features soften and a lovesick smile takes over half her face, "We came to an agreement. I wasted enough time, let's go."

"Actually, we're getting a cab. With Nehemiah," I say. The pair of us turn away from the door and towards Nehemiah, as he finishes tying his shoelaces while talking quietly with Armani. I eye the way his nimble fingers blindly sew each lace with the other, he perches on the edge of the couch and nods along to whatever it is that Armani says to him. Then he smiles, and I turn back to Tiegan before I can begin to drool.

"It has been no more than twenty four hours and you look like you want to eat this boy," Tiegan jokes, shifting her attention away from the boys and back to me.

"He needs to stop calling me pretty," I lie. I don't want him to stop, he should never stop. I rarely get attention from boys—when I do, the effects that it has on me don't even begin to compare to this. There's a sharp honk from outside, Tiegan pulls open the door as a V-Class pulls up to the curb. Wearing mirrored expressions of surprise, we step onto the porch and watch the driver roll down his window. "Why'd he order this big ass cab?"

"My dad's account." I jolt out of my position at the proximity of the voice to my ear, stumbling into Tiegan's side as Nehemiah joins us outdoors. "Default settings, my bad."

"Oh, it's fine," I mutter.

"As if I'm about to complain about the extra space," Tiegan chuckles. She hops off the porch and strolls towards the vehicle, Nehemiah and I follow shortly after. Nehemiah pulls open the door, Tiegan clambers inside, Nehemiah's hand swiftly moves to guide me into the car. I preserve my poker face as I place my palm in his awaiting one and step up into the car. He gets in, he pulls the door shut, I sit beside Tiegan and he sits opposite me, and then turns to the driver. I shift in Tiegan's direction, only to be met by a firm and unwavering finger, as she rushes to shove both of her AirPods into her ears.

"Talk to him," she mouths animatedly, shooting me a two handed thumbs up and focusing all her attention outside of the window to her left. I huff and face my front, as the car begins to move. Nehemiah sits back in his seat, shuffling slightly. He looks so comfortable, I feel like any attempt I make at a conversation will ruin that for him.

"You know," he says, startling me from my thoughts. Half of me had been expecting him to shove his music in and relax, like most people do on long car journeys. "I weren't tryna offend you, or anything." My eyes widen and then shrivel, unsure of which occasion he's referring to.

"What?"

"What I said, about you and your siblings. I wasn't tryna be rude. None of you look alike, really. Not even the twins," he explains himself. They're fraternal, is what I want to say, but I know it'll sound slick so I don't. Besides, the three of them don't look alike for reasons that don't include me. I'm obviously not about to tell him that, though. I know I'm not like my siblings, but it still sucks to be reminded of it.

"It's okay. I wasn't offended," I lie, and then shrug to add to my nonchalant air. I can tell by the softness in his growing smirk that he's not buying it. "For real."

"I don't look like my siblings either," he continues. His posture slips slightly, and his hands leave his pockets so he can gesture as he speaks.

"How many do you have?" I question.

"Two sisters," he says. "Nyla and Noa."

"Are you the youngest?"

"Middle child. Nyla's 18, Noa's 14," Nehemiah answers, I almost coo at the enthusiastic smile on his face as he discusses his family. "None of us look alike, though."

"Let me see," I say. He busies himself with his phone, using one hand to scroll through his camera roll, while the other lazes in his lap. I inwardly give myself a pat on the back for not being awkward, or stand-offish. He flips his phone towards me, I squint at the picture and then scoff. He's standing in someone's garden, clothed in shorts and a tank top, with a younger girl clinging to his back and his arms secured around her legs, an older girl stands to his side, head tilted and smiling as she poses for the picture.

"Nyla looks exactly like you, that's kinda creepy. They're both so pretty," I gush, handing him back the phone. He takes it, a sly grin playing out onto his face.

"So you think I'm pretty?" He questions. My mouth opens and closes, I catch myself from strongly agreeing. I do think he's pretty—I think he's gorgeous—but he doesn't need to know that. Instead, I chuckle slightly and look away from him. "You're cute."

"Thanks, I guess," I mumble, and this time his laughter is full.

"I make you nervous," his words flow more like a statement than a question. As much as I'd tried to conceal it, you'd have to be dumb as rocks not to pick up on the way my nerves heighten whenever he speaks to me, when he looks at me. Hell, when he pays me the slightest ounce of attention.

"I get nervous a lot," I say, trying to avoid admitting that he's right. He calls me all types of pretty and there seems to be no limits to his flattery, but I know better than to get ahead of myself—interpreting his flirting as anything more than just flirting could end in a shit ton of embarrassment for one of us, and it's not him. "We're not friends yet."

He grimaces slightly, but the smirk on his face doesn't falter for even a millisecond. "Friends," he chuckles. My stomach tremors slightly, and I wait for it to still before I speak again. He's flirting again, right? I silently debate whether to overlook his skittish tone, or dwell on it.

"You don't wanna be friends?" I smile. Nehemiah leans forward in his seat, so his elbows rest on the crowns of his knees.

"Why would I wanna be your friend? You think I wanna be your friend?" Again, he's too close for me to even begin to comprehend anything other than the beauty that is his face, the flawlessness in each and every feature of it. How does he expect me to focus on the flirtsome things he's saying to me when he's staring into my soul like that?

"I... Why—I mean, why not?" I mutter, breathlessly. God, get a grip. Casually, he wets his lips with his tongue, but it does nothing to settle the zoo running rampant in the pit of my stomach. His eyes bore into mine for several seconds longer, and then his smirk brightens.

"Yeah, I want you," he mutters, so quietly I almost don't hear him. I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to. The car swerves around a roundabout and Nehemiah allows himself to sway, until his back is pressed against the seat once again. I breathe deeply, trying to belittle the last two minutes we'd shared so I don't freak out. He can't possibly want me, I'm shy and I'm frigid and I'm way out of his league. Right? He doesn't even know me, what have I shown him that there is to like? My phone vibrates against my thigh and I hurriedly pick it up, thankful for the distraction. I read Valentino's Caller ID on the screen, I answer with a smile.

"Hi."

"Yo, where you?" I glance at Nehemiah, who's still shamelessly staring at me, and then back out of the window.

"I'm going out with Tiegs, remember?"

"That wasn't an answer. Put me on speaker." I internally groan, but do as I'm told, shaking Tiegan's arm. She takes out an AirPod and leans towards the phone. "Where you?"

"I'm in a cab, approaching Woolwich," I say.

"Where you going?"

"Crepes and Cones."

"With who?"

"Jug and Jiz."

"Okay. You man don't come back late, or I'll fuck you up. And don't talk to no boys. If Jug and Jiz run shit back to me, I'll smash your phone."

"Okay."

"Cool. Love you. Bye."

"Love you. Bye," Tiegan and I reply in chorus, before I cut the phone. Tiegan pays the two of us no mind, going back to her music. When I look back towards Nehemiah, he's shaking his head with an amused smile. I chuckle, mildly embarrassed. Valentino's only three years my senior, but at times I think he forgets it. Even my dad doesn't have me on ropes the way Tino does.

"Believe it or not, that's the sweetest I ever heard that nigga talk to anyone," Nehemiah's body shudders as he laughs.

"He's terrible, but it's all love. I think," I joke, and Nehemiah laughs some more. I've grown to understand that Valentino's overprotectiveness is just his especial way of showing us that he cares. As much as he threatens to kill us, it somehow translates to love.

"Who's it you're going to eat with?" Nehemiah asks.

"Our friends. Jug and Jiz," I say.

Nehemiah smirks, "Joseph and Julius?" I can't even say I'm surprised that he recognises the notorious duo. Everybody in South London knows Jug and Jiz, you never see one of them without the other.

"You know 'em?" I ask.

"That's family. Jiz is my cousin," he explains. I nod my head.

"You know what, he does look just like Noa," I reason. "You're so much more mellow than him, I never would've guessed that you're related."

"Mellow, hm. That's it. You're mellow too," he agrees. "I like it." A small smile spills onto my face, I blink away the flustered feeling in my chest and quietly thank him. For the next hour, Nehemiah keeps me company, asking me surface questions about myself, paying me unshared attention and slipping in honeyed compliments at any given opportunity. All the doubtful thoughts I'd slept on last night pertaining Nehemiah, all the baseless reasons I'd conjured in my head as to why Nehemiah definitely wasn't interested in me, completely escape me. His sugary advances yesterday night, when we met, they were exactly what Chanel and Tiegan had said they were.

He's interested in me. He's attracted to me.

And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do about it.

For the last five minutes of our journey, it's the only thing plaguing my mind. Usually it's so easy to go with the flow, but it's different now because I'm actually interested in him too. I'm beyond attracted to him—if it isn't obvious—and I don't know how to act on those feelings, especially since they're so fresh. I don't have a crush on him, because I don't know him, but I fancy him. Fancy. What does that even mean?

Oh God, Armani's gonna kill me.

I look towards Nehemiah. His hand sits on the door handle as he holds a short conversation with the driver, who's finally parked right in front of the restaurant. When he turns back around, he slides the door open with ease. Again, he offers a hand to help me out of the car, which I take with a flustered grin. When the three of us are on the pavement, the car pulls away. There's a litter of young people up and down the high street, and the paradox smell of sweet and savoury sits stagnant in the air. Nehemiah looks from the two of us to our surroundings.

Now that our time's coming to a close, I try to guess when I'll see him next. Summer's over now, but he just moved to our area, so surely he'll start coming round more. But with the possibility that he won't, am I supposed to use my initiative and ask for his socials? Is he gonna ask for mine? "How far is your sister?" I question.

"Just down the road. But I'll walk you man inside before I dip—"

"Reckless!"

Nehemiah's gaze shoots past us, in the direction of whoever had yelled his name. I notice the vigilance in his eyes, and how easily he lets it slip away once he recognises the person calling out to him. A warm smile displaces the prickly scowl on his face, and he shakes his head. I follow his line of sight. Julius Reed, who goes solely by Jiz, strolls towards our trio, his signature air of mischief radiating from his smile. Beside him is Joseph Carter, or Jug, the commonly more composed of the pair. Tiegan and I step aside as the three of them greet each other in the way that boys do. Jiz steps away from him, still grinning as he aggressively pats Nehemiah's shoulder until he's pushed away. "Wagwan, cuzzo?"

"You good?" Nehemiah questions.

"No. I'm fucking hungry. And we been waiting here like dickheads for half an hour," Jiz retorts, turning to Tiegan and I to shoot us a sarcastic smile. I scratch the back of my head, and chuckle slightly. Jiz is your typical class clown, with an arguably dark sense of humour and an infamous streak of bad behaviour. He has a slender frame and clear, tawny coloured skin, but it's his somewhat charming personality and 'bad boy' reputation that gets him girls.

"Hey, at least we didn't get the train," Tiegan says, but Jiz doesn't seem to see the bright side and his impatient screwface only deepens.

"He's fooling, we only got here five minutes ago," Jug intercedes. "And he spent three of those five tryna move to olders." Jug provides the equilibrium to their friendship. Where Jiz is loud, upbeat and short-tempered, Jug is significantly quieter, serene and placid. The two of them compliment each other well; they're like two misshapen puzzle pieces, that fit with each other and no one else. He's actually a lot like Daniel, aside from the ire. Jug is tall and a pale brown, with dark eyes and a head full of curls—just your standard mixed-race boy.

"What's wrong with you?" Jiz hisses towards his friend, who completely disregards him.

"Can we go in now? I starved all day for this," Jug says. He smiles sheepishly, before spinning on his heel and making his way into the restaurant.

"Thanks for the lift, Recks," Tiegan calls over her shoulder, following after him with Jiz by her side, who nods at his cousin in farewell. I push for a kind smile to bid him goodbye and avoid an awkward embrace, but I'm sure it just looks like I'm in pain. As soon as I move to turn away from him, his hand loosely cuffs my wrist, keeping me in my position.

"I feel like you should give me your number," Nehemiah says, and my heart swells in my chest. I gnaw at my bottom lip as I struggle to contain my delighted grin. His hand slips down and around mine, pulling my palm up and open so he can place his phone in it. "You know. Just in case I'm still local when you guys are tryna head back."

"Mhm. Just in case," I chuckle. His phone is unlocked on his homescreen. His wallpaper is black and all his apps are in folders, so instead of letting him watch me tap through each one like an idiot, I type Phone in his Search bar, add my number, buffer slightly as I try and think of something witty to save it as, give up and settle with Dior—emphasis on the full stop. I pass it back to him, smiling a lot easier than I had before. "I'm gonna go now."

"Okay," he chuckles, he does a miniature two-fingered salute that—for some reason—makes my tummy turn.

"I'll see you around?"

"One hundred percent," he retorts, and then he winks. I look him over one last time, before we both turn our backs on each other and go our separate ways. When I enter the restaurant, I find Jug, Jiz and Tiegan seated at the table furthest from the entrance. Jug and Tiegs both laugh as Jiz speaks to them animatedly, banging his balled hand on the table. I pull the chair beside Tiegan and sit down, sighing in content. She cuts her eye at me but doesn't say anything. Not that I'd answer any of her questions right here, right now. I take my phone out of my back pocket and drop it into my lap, just as it buzzes against my thigh. I hurriedly check who had messaged me, just to be sure it's him.

Noticing the almost dazed look on my face as I clutch my phone to my chest and then drop it back into my lap, Tiegan leans towards me and speaks at a hushed volume, "Are you okay? Who messaged you?"

"Nobody, don't worry," I reply, smiling brightly and finally tuning into the conversation at our table.

Taze's barber shop is—surprisingly—one of my favourite places to be. Maybe it's because I'm so familiar with the place, maybe it's the promised lack of bodies in there all at once. I don't know what it is, but for someone as introverted and homebound as I am, I sure do find myself there a lot. Taze'd is a hair salon in Southeast London, the main branch of three. It's lowkey but well known, tucked in between a corner store and a holistic shop in Woolwich. Its storefront is matted black, with neon sabres and a jagged logo on the signboard. Its divisible theme of black backgrounds with neon accents continues inside the shop too, where three other barbers and Taze himself are stationed.

To this day, I don't actually know Taze's real name. I don't think anyone does, not even Loose and that's his uncle. Maybe that's why I'm so comfortable there; maybe it's because he treats me like I'm his nephew, too. Taze is tall, dark and tatted. He's an ex-trapper, felon turned good-ish, but with as many connections as he has, everyone knows better than to stir any trouble with him. He may seem grounded in his newfound lawfulness, but he's still got the temper of a Sinclair. I've heard enough stories and witnessed enough glides to know that Taze is not the one. If you look past all the illegal things about him, he's a sturdy senior figure. His mindset offers that bridge between youthfulness and adulthood, so he's easy to talk to and a senseful source of advice.

This evening, he's the only barber left in the shop. He'd cut Loose's hair, and then Syco's, now Tigz sits in his chair, head half done 'cause he doesn't know how to talk and sit still at the same time. He has the restlessness of a five year old—I don't think I've ever seen him sit in one place for longer than ten minutes. Every time he shifts or lifts himself out of his seat, Taze looks like he's using all of his might not to throttle him, and surprisingly doesn't. I know I would, but Taze has been cutting his hair since it was long enough to be cut so he's used to it. When Tigz leans forward in his seat to check his phone, again, Taze scowls at him in the mirror, and kisses his teeth. "I'm gonna push your hairline back an inch every time you move."

Sy snickers from beside me, but Tigz doesn't seem amused in the slightest. "I feel like you purposely take longer on my head, 'cah you know I can't fucking sit here for this long."

"You just got nappy hair, bruv," Taze says, defensively. I don't know anyone who battles with their hair the way Tigz does, and yet he refuses to cut it all off. He hates maintaining it, but not as much as he hates the thought of waves. God knows how unkempt he'd really step out if it weren't for his mum.

"Racist."

"I'm blacker than you'll ever be," Taze shoots back. Tigz scoffs and sits up in his seat like he's about to turn around, but Taze grips his shoulder and holds it in place. "Sit still, man."

"Nigga, I am black," Tigz argues.

"Your mum is white as hell," Taze replies.

"She'll still fuck you up, though," Tigz snaps back. Taze's two-fingered grip on Tigz's forehead doesn't let up as he grooms the front of his hair, but that doesn't stop Tigz from shooting him a menacing glare.

"Yeah. I'd let her," Taze teases. Sy and I both snort loudly at the disgusted look on Tigz's face, he lets out a distasteful groan and shoves Taze away from him.

"Taze, stop fucking joking about my marj," Tigz complains, covering his face with his hands and leaning forward in his seat, like he's on the verge of a breakdown.

"Everyone jokes about fucking your marj, what you mean?" Taze chuckles. Tigz averts his gaze to Sy and I, the two of us look away. I can't help but to laugh. I don't typically move to old, white women but no one with eyes and a working piece would pass on Torin's mum.

"G, don't look at me like that," Sy sniggers. "You know I'd never fuck your mum."

"I know you wouldn't, I'm looking at Recks," Tigz mutters. Sy and Taze both laugh, I narrow my eyes at Tigz in confusion.

"What? I'm the only virgin here, cuz," I retort. Taze gives me a funny look but I ignore it. I know what he's thinking, because everybody thinks it, I can see the disbelief in his eyes. I can't sit here and call myself a saint, knowing I've dabbled in just about every other sexual experience offered to me; I just haven't met anyone that I'm entirely attracted to. Usually any type of feelings I have towards a female dim after I get my nut. I can't fuck girls just because I'm horny, that's what head is for.

"How's that possible?" Taze questions, with a chuckle. Most people look at the four of us and assume if one of us were to be a virgin, it'd be Syco—no girl can get a slither of his attention because it's incessantly soldered to Chanel. But they've been fucking like animals from time ago, so that left me. And when it comes to purity, Loose and Tigz aren't exactly any type of competition.

"'Cause he's a dickhead. Girls like niggas who treat everyone like shit, not them. Recks treats everyone like shit... Full stop," Tigz says so matter-of-factly, I almost laugh.

"Recede his hairline," I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.

"See," he chuckles, and then blows me a kiss, I only blink in response and he laughs some more. I don't know when we all, as people, learn to get along with each other but I'm sure I skipped that entire phase in my development as a child. It's like the older I got, the more disinterested I grew with the people around me. Everyone is just so... annoying. People speak to me and it literally makes my skin crawl and my ears bleed. I learnt from early on how easy it is to differ sufferable people from the unbearable ones. Sy, Loose, Tigz—sufferable.

"Nah, what about Dior?" Sy chips in. Taze's gaze switches from the nape of Tigz's neck towards me.

"Dior Sinclair? My niece?" He questions. His tone is wonted and he has this glassy look on his face, giving absolutely nothing away. I can't help the smirk that sprouts from the corner of my mouth and stretches across it at the mention of Dior Sinclair. There's just something about her, and I'm still struggling to put my finger on it. Usually girls look at me and see opportunity. They see a spur to popularity, or pound signs and free shit, or dick. But Dior looks at me and it's like she sees something else. She's shy and careful with her words, she stares too long and flushes at the littlest of interactions. When I spoke to her, it didn't feel as though she was in character, or pretending to be whoever she'd thought I'd want her to be. She was just being herself, and I liked it.

"Yeah. He likes her," Tigz answers before I can.

"I don't like her, I don't even know her," I huff. If anything, I'd draw the line at interest, it's all physical attraction. I don't know Dior, but on all four instances I've found myself within a metre of her, my head's been left mystified at how pretty she is. Her face card and her aura alone make me buffer when I speak to her, although I'm a lot better at concealing it than she is.

"They met yesterday, bare flirty and shy and giggly," Tigz gags. "Makes me wanna vomit."

"What happened when you took them Croydon?" Sy asks. Taze removes the cape from around Tigz's neck, shaking it clean of stray hairs while he looks between Sy and I. I watch the little tufts of chestnut curls drift towards the floor, before I huff and turn to Sy.

"Nothing. I just talked to her. It's nothing, I don't even know the girl, like," I find myself growing defensive. Taze's mouth quirks, but if he wanted to smile he does a good job at suppressing it, as he busies himself with a long-handled packer and brush, and the field of hair around Tigz's seat.

"You don't have to admit it, we already know. You man are like Chanel and Sy in Year 10. Ew, bruv," Tigz says, shuddering slightly.

"You're a wasteman," Sy tuts, narrowing his eyes at Tigz.

"You like her, yeah?" Taze finally speaks. I instantly shake my head, because I don't. I briefly recall the seven minutes straight that Dior had spent explaining to me why My Wife and Kids is indisputably better than The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, the way she'd pursed her lips and coiled back into her shell in embarrassment when she realised she was rambling. She seems so pretty and delicate, even when she's just sitting there. I'm very attracted to her, clearly, but that's it.

"I just met her," I say.

"But you're interested?"

"She's pretty. And she's quiet, I like that. She doesn't do too much," I say, and then smirk slightly. "I think I make her nervous." I know I make her nervous. She can't look me in the eye when she speaks to me. But when I speak to her, I don't think she realises how intensely she looks at me as she listens. All doe eyed and unfaltering, she blinks slowly and angles her head and nods like she's listening to each and every word that I utter. That look alone can derail any train of thought, instantly. Even now, I have to sink my teeth into my bottom lip and blink several times to get the image out of my head, and focus on the inquisitive fix Taze has on me.

"Does Armani know you're grinning teeth when you talk about his little sister?" Taze chuckles. There it is, the one thing stopping me from pursuing Dior full force like I want to. Loose will die if he even guesses that I see his sister as anything more than an extension of him. I have to let him witness it grow naturally, so he's not too struck when I get her. If I get her.

"Sy first," I argue.

"Aye, no," Sy scoffs. He and Chanel have been together, officially, for a good three months now, but there wasn't much of a shift in the dynamic of their relationship when it happened because they were already practically living in each other's skin. The two of them barely know the world outside of each other, and they've been like that for years now. I'm convinced Loose won't pick up on the fact that they're literally in love until somebody points it out to him.

"Daniel, you still ain't told him?" Taze laughs, folding his arms and leaning against the worktop at his station. Sy scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly.

"Are you joking? Chanel almost punctured my lung when she found out I told you," he chuckles, "I think she wants to tell him herself."

"You don't seem too bov?" Tigz frowns.

Sy shrugs, "She's my girl, regardless."

"Armani won't break them up. He might be a bit disgusted at first, but he won't break them up. He'd rather it be Daniel than some any nigga," Taze shrugs. Tigz clicks his fingers and nods his head in agreement.

"See, that's how I feel 'bout him and Tiegs."

"Same with Dior," Taze adds, turning his attention back to me. "When you're sure you actually like her, tell him." Easy for him to say. I know that—in due time—I'll tell him, as much as I don't want to. I just know that if it were me, and a nigga was approaching me because he wanted to chat to Nyla, I'd bug out. Gross.

"What about Scarz?" Tigz questions, frowning curiously. The three of us turn to Sy, who only shrugs.

"He knows. Already approached me about it. He clocked, no one told him," Sy says.

Tigz inhales dramatically, "Bet he already knows about you and Dior."

"Nigga, we just met," I chuckle, standing to my feet. I reach above my head and stretch until the burn in my back subsides and ripples throughout the rest of my body. Through the shop's window and across the road, Loose stands conversing with an elder, the straps of his Tesco linen bag strained against his finger as he swings it to and fro slightly. I watch him spud the guy farewell and stroll towards the parlour's entrance. He pauses to read one of the few posters taped on the window, he glances over both his shoulders before he rips it off and pushes the door open.

With arched brows and a dubious scowl etched onto his face, his eyes flit between the four of us, put off by the sudden pause in our conversation. "What?" He questions.

"Nothing," Taze chuckles. "Nothing at all. What's that?" Taze nods towards the balled sheet of paper in Loose's fist, he kisses his teeth and holds it up for us all to see, not that we can read it through all its fresh creases. He flips the paper back towards himself and clears his throat.

"Why you got fraud reward posters on your window?" Loose questions. Taze grumbles a few profanities under his breath, and then kisses his teeth.

"I taken that down five times this week, them Barclays scouts keep fucking coming back with new ones," Taze complains. "You know how much shit I can get in for having that bullshit affiliated with me? Niggas will burn my ting to the ground just for having that up, you know."

"How much they offering?" I ask, slightly intrigued.

"2.5k, I think," Loose mutters. There's a chorus of disappointed scoffs around the room. I wouldn't label myself a fraudster, but I'd be lying if I said the money I have is clean. I've never legally worked for any of the money I have, and although it's not something I'm proud of, it's also not something I care to change. F money, drug money, it's easy money, yes, but it's also an addiction; I really don't see myself stopping it any time soon.

"We can make that much in a day, no one's turning informant for 2.5, fuck off," Sy chuckles, sitting forward in his seat to reach for the poster as Loose passes it to him. I step towards him and try to read it over his shoulder, but the writing's too small. Really, the only legible thing on the paper is the cash amount—big and thick-fonted.

"Real talk, shit is embarrassing," Tigz mutters.

"All them pillow-talking niggas must be sweating," Loose chuckles.

Sy scrunches up the sheet of paper and tosses it towards Tigz, who catches it with ease and shakes his head, irritatedly. "If a bitch ever snaked me for that much money, I'd kill her. Have some fucking shame," he mutters. Taze snorts loudly, before laughing.

"Being bait and having money is so long. These man are offering 2.5, like niggas won't snitch on you for a Haribo," Sy sighs.

"Facts. They don't get how green some of these niggas really are. Buy them a Happy Meal, they'll sing like canaries," Tigz says in agreement, he twists to and fro in his seat, and then pauses. "Nobody knows enough about me to snitch. Having money ain't a crime." I don't think it makes a difference. No one in their right mind would dare. Even thinking about how explosive that would be makes my heart thud a little faster in my chest. I wouldn't be able to rest peacefully knowing someone had tried to get me bagged and gotten away with it. I'd want war.

"We thank God for inactive socials," I add.

"I can't lie, you're the only inactive one in the room," Tigz says, and they all chuckle slightly. "I'm a faceman, I can never let these people forget it." Taze pushes at his head as he walks past him and towards the back of the shop.

"At least you're not flashing racks on snap," Taze calls over his shoulder. Tigz may not be the brightest of the four of us, but he's not foolish. None of us are. I'm not protected enough to be that reckless with my shit, ironically.

"Don't need to. Look at the fucking drip," Loose laughs, spreading his arms and spinning on the spot. Again, the door swings open, and in strolls Valentino Sinclair, glowering at the dialling phone in his hand. When it goes straight to Voicemail, he thrusts it into the pocket of his coat and aggressively kisses his teeth. Before I met Tigz, before I met Loose, I met Scarz. I was 11, foul-mouthed and talking back to niggas who I had no business looking for beef with. I would've gotten whacked that day if it weren't for him, but my pride's always been way too sturdy to let niggas fuck me about just because they're bigger than me. I'll be damned. That day, he not only saved my ass, but claimed me as his younger, and I haven't looked back since.

Back then, he was rough and ragged, a menace, a shitty influence—behaviourly, anyways—and an infamous hot-head, arguably the most hot-headed person I know. He's still all of the above, if not a thousand times worse. He's a good six feet of curbed anger, with naturally frown-set features and brown skin, a shade or two lighter than Loose's. The thin bristles above his lips and on the foot of his chin add a few years of age to his appearance, and his chiseled frown lines compliment his intimidating ambience well. Scarz has to be the most unapproachable nigga I ever met in my entire life, but I like him. He's nice. To us, anyway.

"Why your sister not answering her phone?" Scarz's deep voice bellows around the room, his question directed towards Loose, who shrugs his shoulders in response. There's a five year age gap between Scarz and the rest of us, but his life choices have definitely aged him. I'm sure there's a man double his age trapped inside his body.

"Which one?"

"Chan. She asked me to grab sutten for her, now she ain't answering her fucking phone," Scarz huffs impatiently. Loose raises the bag in his hand, and walks towards his brother.

"Already got it. Does that mean you're gonna reimburse me?" Loose asks, with a grin.

"Get out of my face, man," Scarz chuckles, and veers his attention towards the rest of us. "Wagwan, you man?" Tigz and Sy greet him verbally, and I nod my head in his direction. Sy had been with me the day I met Scarz, trying to mediate a very hot situation, and that same day Scarz had introduced the two of us to Tigz and Loose, a good six years ago now. I don't know what it is about the four of us that meshed so well together, but I've never had friends with a chemistry as strong as have with the three of them.

"You came to drop us off, right?" Tigz asks, Scarz snorts loudly.

"You lot better book a cab. I came to drop a couple packs off," Scarz says. My eyebrows raise instantly, and Sy, Tigz and I all seem to turn to Loose at once. He bares his teeth and scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly. "You ain't tell them?"

"I forgot," Loose mutters.

"Not for tonight, right? I'm fucking tired," Sy grumbles. Scarz glances over his shoulder and then back towards the four of us.

"It's not for you man, it's for them niggas that wanted to get put on," Scarz says. Again, the three of us look towards Loose, who stands back with an innocent smile on his face.

"Nah, I coulda sworn I told you man about that," he argues.

"You did not," Tigz huffs.

"Or I woulda told you no from early," I mutter, forcing myself back into my seat. I'm not a stingy person, especially when it comes to money. There's enough bread for everyone to eat, but putting people on isn't something I enjoy, especially when it's with Scarz and the rest of 6ix—I may have the patience to deal with a few bums but the six of them do not. When niggas ask to get put on and then fuck up, who has to deal with it? Syco, Tigz, Loose and me. You can understand why I'd rather not.

"Allow them. It's AK and those man," Loose says, and I scrunch up my face as I listen to him.

"Am I meant to know who that is?" I question.

"AK, Bigga and Ty. From Ocean View," he continues. Tigz's facial expression shifts, as though he's warming to the idea, and Sy turns to me with a look on his face that I know all too well. When Tigz and Loose are on the same boat, they know exactly how to get us on board with them. I stopped fighting it a long time ago. "Come on, man, they're calm."

"Don't Kenzo go there?" Sy questions, folding his arms.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"The nigga's jaw you spun last night," Tigz says, chuckling. Scarz's ears perk at this and he turns to me. I don't have an older brother but Scarz is the closest thing I have to one. He's not a model citizen but he's on my ass when I'm moving stupid, and outside of 4/4, there's nobody alive that's riding for me like he is.

"Why you beefing him? Wagwan?" Scarz asks.

"Nothing. It's fine. I don't even know the guy," I say, shrugging off the situation before he can escalate it even further. If I say the word, he'll sort it. I don't know Kenzo from a can of paint and I've never seen him before in my life, so the possibility I'll ever run into him again is little to none and he's the last thing on my mind.

"Look, me, Tigz and Chan are leaving OV but bare niggas that we do not fuck with are moving in, and Dior and Tiegs still go there," Loose huffs.

"Yeah?" I nod my head, waiting for him to continue.

"I told them I'll put them on, if they make sure no one goes looking for trouble with the girls. If they fuck up, they understand what'll happen, init," Loose sighs, rubbing at his eye like he does when he's stressed. My mouth bunches to the side and I nod my head, I can't really argue with that. "If shit goes down with Tiegs or Dior—"

"Then I'll deal with it," Scarz intercedes. I cut my eye at him, the conviction in his voice as he speaks sends a chill down my spine, and he's not even talking about me. I've never been on the receiving end of his wrath, but I pity the niggas that have. Scarz is quick to anger, most people avoid taking him there.

"Fine," I say, raising my hands in surrender to the idea. As long as I'm not beating nobody's ass for smoking the shit they were meant to sell, I'm cushty.

"They got till Friday to get rid 'a them packs and have my money at Thistlebrook. TK got a bag in the car," Scarz says, and Sy nods before leaving the salon to get it. Scarz takes the seat beside me and rests his head against the wall.

"You actually not dropping us off?" Tigz mutters. Loose and I both snicker.

"You four can't fit in my car. Get a bus," Scarz shrugs.

"Look how dark it is outside, I'm too pretty for that shit," Tigz whinges.

"Why can't we fit in your car?" Loose frowns, like he's doing the maths in his head. "You have Dad's fucking Range Rover."

"Okay. I don't want you man to fit in my car. I got plans. Babysitting ain't one of them," Scarz retorts. Tigz flips him off, and then flinches as soon as Scarz sits up in his seat. I scoff and shake my head.

"We can cab it," I say, with a shrug. "I'm just ready to get home and eat." Valentino's phone buzzes in his pocket, he sluggishly moves to retrieve it. When he looks at the Caller ID, his mouth quirks slightly before he answers it and puts it on speakerphone.

"Yo, what's wrong?"

"Hi." My head tilts slightly, as I recognise the voice on the other end of the phone as Dior's. Soft-spoken still, but notably more comfortable than when she's speaking to me. Tigz turns to me with a smirk on his face, but I ignore him. I busy myself with my phone, and give their conversation only half of my attention.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. You told me to call you when I get home."

"You're home?"

"Well, no. I'm at the corner shop. We don't wanna walk home. We might get a bus."

"Get a cab," he orders, so sternly it almost makes me laugh.

"We might." I smirk. I didn't think he was giving her the option. "Are you gonna be home when I get there? Chanel has a masterclass and I'm not tryna cook tonight."

"I'll come now. What you wanna eat?"

"Pizza. Or Chinese? I kinda want both, I didn't like the food we had today."

"I got you."

"I'm gonna go the long way home and get ice—"

"I'll grab it. You good?"

"Yeah, I'll see you in a bit."

"Love." Scarz hangs up the phone and stands from his seat. I have to bite my tongue to keep from reminding him that he had plans. The clogs in my head spin a little faster, taking note of how swiftly he cancelled his plans because Dior needed him. It makes me think of how happily he'd snap my neck if I fucked his sister. Right.

"Who eats pizza and Chinese?" Tigz grimaces. Scarz completely ignores him, he outstretches his fist to me and I spud him, and then he moves towards the door as he scrolls through his phone.

"Well he weren't gonna tell her no, was he?" Loose teases. Scarz pauses to turn to his brother, and narrows his eyes at him.

"Being the oldest is a bump. All three of you gonna run me dry," Scarz says, jabbing his finger at Loose.

"I mean, you could always just say no," Tigz says. I look up at Scarz and the puzzled look on his face, like he doesn't understand what he's talking about.

"Woah, chill," Loose says, elbowing his side and glaring at him, incredulously.

"I'm out. I ain't spending the night at home so make sure you're back before 12," he directs towards Loose, spudding both he and Tigz before leaving the shop. I can't help the element of surprise still lingering on my face, at how quickly he was up and out of here. I never thought I'd see the day anyone would have Scarz wrapped around their little finger. Sometimes I forget everyone has a soft spot, even him. His just so happens to be his siblings, one of which I'm plotting on.

"You man are spoilt," Tigz chuckles. I raise an eyebrow at him. Look at the kettle calling the pot black. We're all spoilt.

"You're a hypocrite," I laugh.

"I'm not spoilt. TK and Talon tell us no all the fucking time," Tigz scoffs. He throws the scrunched up paper in his hand towards me, missing by a good few inches. Loose tilts his head, thinking to himself.

"Like when?"

"They said no when I asked them about our brocation. I ain't even get to ask my mum," Tigz says.

"'Cause you don't have a passport," Loose says, with narrowed eyes.

"You man are all the same," I chuckle. I know I can get just about anything I want from my parents, because once upon a time they weren't able to give it to me. Once upon a time, no was the only answer they could afford, so if they want to spoil us, I won't stop them. It's something we all have in common. We weren't always up.

"No way, the girls are one hundred percent more spoilt than all of us, combined. Scarz and Loose could never in their lives tell Dior no, they won't even yell at her, or Chanel, bruv. At least I know I don't yell at Tiegan 'cause she cries," Tigz argues, as if the point is valid.

"But you man are the ones spoiling them..." I reply, and he rolls his eyes.

"You're preaching to Recks like he's not just Scarz with braids. Just very aggressive, very much empty threats," Loose taunts. "The same guy who threatened to launch Noa out a moving car. God knows why she still believes you when you chat shit to her."

"She's not dumb enough to check if I'm telling the truth," I chuckle, ignoring his little Scarz joke. I'm not Scarz. Noa is fourteen—if she's asking me, I'm not letting her do fuck all.

"Everyone's like that with their little sisters, it's standard. Scarz is so soft for the girls in our family, but Dior's the youngest on both sides so she's the baby," Loose shrugs. Then Taze calls his name from the back of the shop and he disappears to see what he wants. I glance outside, where Scarz has already pulled off but Sy is still stood joking about with TK. When I look back to Tigz, he's grinning with all his teeth as he stares at me.

"What is wrong with you?" I ask.

"I know what you're thinking," he says, with a smirk. I squint at him.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do, you're thinking 'bout whether you should still move her. Scarz's baby sister," he chuckles.

"Okay," I say, because he's not wrong. I don't get nervous about talking to girls, but never in my life have I ever considered getting to know one. They're all so irritating. The one time I'm drawn to a girl by my mind and not my dick, it's my best friend's little sister. The pressure of not fucking up has been bubbling in the pit of my stomach since I got back from Croydon earlier. Since I sat bussing jokes with Loose in his yard, like I weren't flirting with his sister an hour prior. I don't know how Syco does it. But he does it. And if he can do it, surely I can too. I'm more prone to fucking girls over than him, true, but I feel like this is different, and I won't know for sure if I don't go through with it.

"I don't know why you're sat there, bare deliberating like you're not gonna do it, anyway," Tigz scoffs and, slowly, a smile spills onto my face.

Fair point.