1
Daisy
I roll over and rest my chin on his chest.
“Morning.” He flashes me a tired smile and tosses his arm around me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good, I think.”1 I nod. “Did I?”
Killian Tiller shrugs with both his shoulders and his mouth. “You didn’t smack the shit out of me when I got into bed last night, so that felt good for me.”
I smile up at him proudly and he sniffs a laugh as he stares back. Normal people don’t reflexively strike their boyfriends with their elbows when said American boyfriends climb into their beds late at night.
“What time do you want to head to the farmers’ markets?” I sit up, shifting into him more.
He pulls an uncomfortable smile. “I’ve gotta work—”
“It’s a Saturday!” I frown.
“I know.” He shrugs again. “Just a bit time-sensitive—”
“Tills.” My shoulders slump. “Is it about my brother?”
“Dais, you know that they took me off everything to do with him—”2 He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Just think — without me there, you can spend as long as you want in the leafy green section…”
I give him a measured look. “You are very annoying in that section.”3
He sighs, steeling himself for the conversation we’ve already had 50 times. “A leaf is a leaf, Daisy—”
I shake my head. “It isn’t.”
“It is.” He nods his. “Just a bunch of leaves named by eccentric botanists—”
“A head of romaine looks and functions very differently — to say — kale.” I give him a look, and he shakes his head all stubborn, just to get a rise.4
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“Should be.”
He nods, then leans over, kisses me how I’ve always wanted him to for so many years, and then rolls out of bed to shower.
He has his own place, but really he lives here with me in my apartment in Kensington Garden Square.5
About a month into living by myself I came home one day to find my apartment broken into.
Door smashed in, lock broken, place tipped upside down — nothing missing, not that I could tell, anyway.
I called the police because apparently that’s what normal people6 do if something goes wrong — they don’t call their brother7 or his Lost Boys8, they just call the police9. So I called the police10.
And then Killian Tiller showed up.
He knocked on my broken-down door and it swung open slowly. I was there, perched up on a bench next to my neighbour, Jago,11 who eyed the man in the doorway suspiciously.
I jumped to my feet when I saw him and a funny prickle rolled through my body, some sort of relief and sadness all at once. I remember becoming acutely aware that I was in baggy old 501s and a black crop top. Mismatched socks and my hair all shoved up into a little ponytail, barely there because I cut my hair when I cut everyone out of my life.
“I heard it on the radio—” Tiller told me with a frown as he reached into his back pocket to pull out his badge, flashing it at Jago.
“This is Killian Tiller—” I nodded over at him. “He’s a…” I squinted at Tiller and his eyebrows arched in that old, playful way. “Sort of an old friend.”
Jago nodded, told me to call him later — that I could stay with him if I wanted to — and then he left.
Tiller glanced around. “Your housekeeping’s gone downhill.”
I rolled my eyes and he gave me a small smile. Happy to see me, I could tell.
“This how you found the place?” He started poking around with a pen as to not touch anything. “Did you move anything?”
I shook my head and he whipped out his phone, taking a few photos.
“Any ideas?” He looked down at me.
“Was it Julian, do you mean?” My brows arched in defence.12, 13
His jaw jutted. “You said it, not me.”
“No, it wasn’t Julian.” I glared over at him and he just nodded, walked around a bit.
“How have you been?” he asked, looking up at me from across the way. Arms folded over his chest, serious brows.
“I mean—” I glanced around my trashed living room. “I’ve been better.”
He squashed a smile. “Before this — how were you?”
“Good.” I pursed my lips. “I guess.”
“You heard from him?”
I shake my head. “Last I heard, he fled London14 because he’s wanted by Scotland Yard.” I gave him a dark look.
“Well…” His American shoulders shrugged. “He’s stolen a lot of art.”
“I know.”
“Evaded a lot of laws.”
“I know.” I nodded, impatient.
“Kidnapped some kids.”
“I know, Killian,” I sort of yelled and then my voice went soft. “We don’t talk anymore.”15
He nodded once, eyes dropping from mine. “Sorry.” And he was, I could see it on him. “You need a new lock,” he told me, pointing at it.
I pursed my lips together, nodding. “So, do I just call a locksmith then?”
“I’ll do it—” he said, quickly. His eyes met mine and held steady.
I shook my head at him, flashing him a thankful smile. “That’s not really in your job description.”16
His mouth pulled, like he was amused. “Yeah, but neither is this though, so—” He gestured to my apartment.
“Just in the neighbourhood, then?” I asked, eyebrows up.
“Yeah—” He nodded coolly. “Something like that.”17
That moment to me, still to this day, were I to put it to pictures: it’s a tiny sapling breaking through the dirt.
That night I stayed at Jack’s18 — Tiller drove me there, and then late the next afternoon, he turned up to my apartment with a new lock and a tool box.
As soon as he arrived, Jack, who had been with me all day,19, 20 his eyes went wide and he mouthed across the room, ‘Oh my fuck, he’s so hot.’
‘Shut. Up.’ I mouthed back.
Jack made a circle with his index finger and his thumb, then plunged his other index finger into it repeatedly.21
“Get out—” I pointed to the door and my best friend cackled as he glided over to me, kissing my cheek. “Call me.”
“We’re fighting,” I called after him.
“What are you fighting about?” Tiller asked, looking up at me from his tool box.
I flashed him a quick smile. “Nothing.”
I wandered over and stood by the door he was fixing because — us and doorways, you know? My heart was fucked. I missed my brother, I missed Christian. I was alone and I was afraid, and Tiller was on his knees in my apartment fixing a thing he didn’t break.
He knew what he was doing. Which — I mean — of course he did, he offered to do it, but I’d never really watched a man fix something before.
The drilling, the chiselling, the screwing — oh my God — it was torture. I bit down on my thumb because without something to bite on, I would have just been staring at him, mouth fallen open in a permanent way because Tiller was just — he’s Tiller, you know? He’s heaven with that blonde hair and those blue eyes and those shoulders, with that accent. I’ve been a puddle around him since I was about sixteen and I was melting all over again there in my own kitchen.