The Art of Ruining Me Gently

Chapter 1

Finn

It started at a café with a name that sounded like it was trying too hard—The Lark & Ledger, or maybe Ledger & Lark, he couldn't remember. Something quaint and bookish, like a place you'd go if you wanted to write your great novel or cry about your ex into an oat milk latte.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. He didn't like cafés. Too many people pretending not to people-watch while definitely people-watching. Plus, the coffee always tasted like it had daddy issues. But he was hungover and starving and not going to walk any farther, so here he was: sunglasses on, brain pulsing, asking for a black Americano with a voice that sounded like it had been hit by a bus.

And then he saw her.

Tucked into the far corner, glasses slipping a bit down her nose, hair pulled back in some neat ponytail with those little face-framing bits left out on purpose. Red trainers. A jumper with birds on it. She wasn't pretty in a way that screamed for attention—at least he didn't think so. Not much makeup, but a deep berry gloss maybe. No smiles. Just...focused.

Well, mostly focused. Her pen kept drifting to the edges of her notebook. Doodles. Little half-formed faces and sometimes just eyes or noses. She'd draw, then catch herself doing it like she'd just farted in church, and go right back to studying.

She said something under her breath once—just a muttered curse when she dropped her pen—for a second he thought she sounded American. But then came the sharp tilt in the vowels, the soft edges of her consonants. Not quite American. Definitely not British. Whatever it was, it was hers.

Finn watched her for a full thirty seconds before realizing two things:

One, she was absolutely ignoring him.

Two, he kind of loved that.

He didn't even mean to flirt with her. It just happened. He asked the barista something dumb like "Is the sun always that bright in here or is that girl actually glowing?" and she didn't even look up. Just turned the page like she'd been waiting for his mouth to start moving so she could move further into not caring.

God, that was hot.

And yeah, sure—girls had ignored him before. Contrary to popular belief, not every woman in London had him pinned on some kind of reverse boy band heartthrob bingo card. Some rolled their eyes, some made snide comments about rehab and daddy's money, and more than a few had told him—correctly—that he looked like the kind of man who'd ruin your life and then write a song about it.

But this girl? She looked like she didn't have the time to bother forming an opinion. Like she was carrying so much that ignoring him wasn't personal—it was survival. Like she'd seen storms bigger than him and still managed to show up to this café with her textbook and her notebook and her very tired-looking tea.

So obviously, he was obsessed.

Later that night, Finn found himself slouched across Callum's grotty couch, legs over the armrest, strumming an unplugged electric guitar that wasn't even tuned.

"There was this girl," he said, out of nowhere.

Callum groaned. "Christ, already?"

"No, not like that. I mean—yeah, she's fit, but—she didn't look at me."

Rowan, sitting cross-legged on the floor, blinked at him. "...That's the whole story?"

"She ignored me. Like I was wallpaper. Moldy wallpaper. Even the barista laughed at my line, but her? Nothing. Not a twitch."

Callum raised an eyebrow. "So what you're saying is, you've finally met a woman with taste?"

Finn ignored him. "She was drawing in her notebook, too. But only in the margins. Like she was punishing herself for it. Like she wanted to finish this sketch of a face but made herself stop."

Rowan snorted. "You watching people in cafés now? That your new hobby?"

"I think she's an artist," Finn said. Quietly. "Or could be."

And then he kept going back.

Every day for a week. Then another. Some days she wasn't there. Some days she was, but in a different seat, earbuds in, laptop open, and the same pen gliding across the page before she stopped herself again.

She never noticed him watching. Or maybe she did and didn't care. Either way, he found himself timing his mornings to when she might show up. He tried switching up his lines—asked the barista if he looked like a decaf kind of guy, left her a doodle on a napkin once (she threw it out without looking). At some point, he stopped trying to flirt and just... kept showing up. Sat at the back, tried to write lyrics, failed, watched her instead.

Two months of this. Two months of chasing someone who barely noticed he was breathing. Two months of feeling—confused.

Why her?

She didn't even speak to him. Not really.

But she made him want to write. Not just lyrics. Full songs. Big, messy, loud ones. Songs that screamed and whispered and bled.

Songs she would probably never listen to.

Maybe that was why he kept going back.

Because for once, someone wasn't clapping for the chaos. Or calling him a twat—god, she looked like she didn't even have the time and energy to tell him to fuck off.

And it made him want to be someone she'd look at. Not just glance—see.

He was in trouble.

Isla

There was a lump of limbs and blonde curls slumped across the train bench. Sprawled out like someone had dropped a life-sized Rockstar Ken doll onto public transport. Isla blinked once. Twice.

Oh my god. It was the weird guy from the café.

She hadn't known his name. Still didn't. But she remembered the day he walked in—half dead, sunglasses indoors, stinking of hangover and audacity. She was mid-revision for an exam. He tried to flirt. Not charmingly, not cleverly—just sort of reckless, lazy flirtation that assumed the world would flirt back. She didn't. Which, apparently, only encouraged him.

He came back the next day. And the next day after that. Always some version of bedhead and a new stain on his shirt. Sometimes he ordered coffee, sometimes just water, but always tried to talk to her. It wasn't cute. It was confusing.

Now here he was. Unconscious on the District line.

She debated pretending not to recognize him, but it was hard not to when he wore that same smug face, even blacked out. He looked like a fallen angel with a drinking problem. She shifted in her seat, crossed one leg over the other, and tried to refocus on the Chess.com game on her phone.

Until he stirred.

"Mmmf—fuck. Where are we?"

"You're on a train," she said flatly, not looking up.

He blinked at her. Squinted. "Wait. You're that girl. From the café."

"You say that like it's an accomplishment."

A slow grin spread across his face. "You look nice without the books."

"And you look worse without the coffee."

That got a laugh out of him, even if it turned into a groan halfway through. He rubbed his face. "Shit. What time is it?"

"Too early to be this much of a mess."

He looked like he was trying to sit up straighter, like that would help him recover some semblance of dignity. "What, no good morning?"

"You're lucky I didn't report you as a safety hazard."

"Ouch." His smile didn't falter. "Still mad I interrupted your studying?"

Isla finally glanced up. "I think you should fix yourself."

She stood, tugging her bag onto her shoulder just as the train slowed at her stop.

He didn't have a reply this time. Just watched her go, eyebrows slightly raised, like someone who'd just been handed a riddle they didn't quite understand.

She didn't look back.