To be fair, Charm isn’t the worst publication to intern for. It does promote young girls being strong, having opinions, and the like. Unfortunately those articles are wedged in-between the “Healthiest Snacks to Trim Fat” and “Ways to Make Him Say ‘Ahh’.”

Then Wood knocks back his pint in one go. Seamus and I are both staring, me in horror and Seamus as though he had just found his future husband.

“Right.” I put my hands on Seamus’s shoulders, forcing him away. Dejectedly, he shuffles to a corner table.

Wood makes a sad face. “Aww, but he was the nice one.”

“I know you’re a columnist—” I shoot him a glare, as if by reflex, and he corrects, “Journalist, right. But it seems like we have to spend some more time together professionally, and I really let it get off on the wrong foot. The timing was…not great for me, personally, but it’s still my fault.”

Setups, tofu and menopause.

Wedding dresses, spinach puffs and revenge.

Petty theft, not-dates and The Hanging Moon.

Scrubbing toilets, self-realizations and Howlers.

Breakfast disputes, irksome memories, and the first draft.

Disguises, flirty doorknobs, and Priori Incantatem.

Victories, losses, and potentially poisoned butterbeer.

Bathrobes, stern talkings-to, and squishy noses.

Dog-eared pages, lobster puffs and a wedding.

“What would’ve happened, if we’d met under different circumstances?”

“Crying won’t get you anywhere. You have to seize what’s yours and never apologize for it.”

Suddenly, I realize it: I am the villain of my own story.

He kept it.

He kept it and it’s as if everyone else in the room has disappeared. For a few fleeting moments it’s only Oliver and me, and for the first time since I’ve arrived today, he’s really looking at me. Like he used to.