London [Louis Tomlinson]

4: Worse

        The people I served began to rush by in a blur of hard to pronounce names and complicated orders. I was on the verge of losing it; about to untie my apron and call it a day. But somehow, it got worse.

        The queue was so dense that it would've been impossible for me to peer down it and notice him earlier. It wasn't until the guy in front of him walked away with his iced coffee that he came into view. And judging by the look on his face when he lifted his eyes up from his phone to say his order, I knew that he hadn't known that I'd be his server.

        He was looking gorgeous as ever; hair trimmed, collar popped, blue eyes still so impossibly vibrant. I'd made an attempt at avoiding him at all costs these past few months, rearranging my TV viewing schedule to ensure I wouldn't ever cross paths with The X Factor, even changing my bus route in case he happened to take that line regularly. But for whatever reason, the universe wouldn't let me have my way, and he had to be at this café at this time in the morning. And in my queue.

        His expression was initially one of shock, much like our last unexpected meeting. But this time his face shifted into a look of irritation; anger, almost. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and said in a bitter tone,

        "Hot chocolate."

        I was astonished by his rudeness, unable to understand the cause for his lack of manners and annoyed expression. He wasn't at all like this on the bus; there, he'd even acknowledged me with a friendly nod of the head. What had changed since then? Why was he being so impolite to me now?

        I wanted to snap back at him, tell him off for all he'd done to me, and even admittedly, slap him across the cheek. But I was at work, surrounded by customers and co-workers, and the manager was down the back. So instead I had to give him a polite nod as he slid his money over, adding it to the register, before reciting his order to Amy at the machine beside me and proceeding to the next customer.

        He stepped aside to make way and I tried to focus on what the schoolgirl in front of me was ordering, but it proved to be a difficult task. He was here. Louis. Standing only a few feet apart from me, acting in a resentful manner which had me questioning if maybe I'd unknowingly drunk texted him something offensive when I got pissed with my friends last weekend. While I tried to remain attentive to my customer, I couldn't resist taking swift, secretive glances at him from the corner of my eye. And when I noticed his eyes peeking out from under his fringe, landing on me briefly before returning to his phone screen with haste, I couldn't help but let out a quiet gasp under my breath.

        I finished up with the schoolgirl, running a hand over my head from how exhausted I was, and was just about to call for the next person when Louis rudely interrupted. It had only been, what, five seconds since I'd served him? And yet he said,

        "Could you hurry up?"

        His request would've been perfectly acceptable if it were not for the coarse way in which he said it, the way he eyed me down accusingly, made me feel like I was doing my job completely wrong. I wasn't even in charge of brewing his drink, yet he still targeted me in particular. He never behaved like this when we were together. Either he was in a ridiculously foul mood, he'd found a reason to resent me, or the few months he'd spent on The X Factor - appearing on TV screens across the country and being recognised by countless girls on the street - had already changed him. And honestly, I was hoping with all my heart it wasn't the latter.

        His stare was degrading; he made me feel like I was small, inferior, and even stupid. I hated him so much in that moment; hated how he made me give in, made a chill run down my spine, made me fumble out a shaky "S- sure." I wanted to hold my ground, I really did. But it was virtually impossible with that demeaning look he was giving me. What a bastard.