at Archer's words... more like orders.

"Either get in or continue getting wet."

I looked to the pellets of rain hitting his windshield and so, putting all sense and reason aside, I opened his door and got in.

The interior was dark and the lights low, and strangely, I found it more comforting than terrifying.

Like in Bill's car, everything seemed brand new, untouched, almost as if he'd just driven out of the showroom now. I began to feel very aware of the water droplets falling down my skin and the damage they would do to literally everything around me. Archer made no complaint. In fact, he seemed entirely unbothered by me entirely.

For whatever reason, probably because he'd saved my arse by giving me a lift, I felt guilty. He hadn't been forced into getting me out of the rain, he'd done it out of the goodness in his heart... I withheld a scoff. Even if it wasn't because he was a nice person, I still felt bad for throwing that coffee over him. Yes, he'd been a dick, but this ride definitely made up for it.

I turned to him.

I had to admit, the view wasn't so bad. His side profile was damn near perfect; a straight nose, full lips, defined jaw, and eyelashes far longer and darker than he deserved.

"I'd like to apologise," I told him, breaking the tense silence. "For ruining your shirt. I'll pay to get it cleaned." Okay, maybe that wasn't the wisest of things to say, but I supposed it was the least I could do. I would just have to resort to other means to make money. Like selling my organs on the black market.

"I didn't like that shirt anyway," he said, lips tipped upward at the edges— if only ever so slightly. It was a refreshing change from his usual indifference and stoicness. I didn't feel so... on edge. "Besides, I was unapologetically rude to you. I'd say I deserved it."

I wanted to nod along, say 'damn right you did', but restrained myself.

"I must admit I'm surprised how nice you're being."

He raised a brow, turning the wheel slightly as we went round the corner. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you're an 'Elite'," I said, raising my hands subconsciously to do the sarcastic gesture. "And I'm, well, me."

"You?"

We continued down the road, now straight so the gates and school were nearing and in plain view.

"Yeah, me," I sighed. "Jolie Dubois, the girl who is literally ignored around here. You know, I reckon I could make up the wildest crap about myself and people wouldn't know any different. They'd have to believe it."

He skirted his eyes over me, thinking. "Doesn't seem like such a bad thing."

"Try living it," I said. The gates opened automatically and those perfectly trimmed bushes started going past my window. He pulled up to the main entrance. "Thank you," I said as I eased my door open and stepped out.

He nodded. As soon as I'd closed my door, he'd driven off to the left and down towards where I imagined the other cars were kept.

I stood for a moment, wondering what the hell just happened.

***

It was late by this point. Miles and I were laying in my bed, talking about anything and everything.

"You know," he said, shovelling a hand full of popcorn into his mouth. "There is probably other universes with another Earths in them, and there are versions of us in each of them but like little differences. So like in one of them, we might not be friends. And in another, I might not be gorgeous, unbelievable, I know."

I threw a pillow at him. "When did you become so sciencey?"

"Since I've had three shots," he slurred, holding up four fingers.

I don't even know how he'd got the alcohol in here, only that he had and hadn't wasted a moment in cracking it open and gulping down glass after glass. I, myself, had turned down the drink, preferring to keep sober, more to look after him than anything else.

"Let's get you to bed, fuckface," I said, pushing myself off the bed to steady him.

"Alri', sugar tits," he said in the worst Welsh accent I've ever heard. He'd gone on and on about how he'd watched Gavin & Stacey aka the 'best show in television history' at least a hundred times, and yet still was unable to master the accent.

I pulled the duvet to his neck, whilst he lay in only his pants.

"Night, Miles," I called from the door.

"Niiiight," he sang.

I'd hidden the bottle so that it wouldn't be found and he wouldn't be kicked out. I knew plenty of people here had their own stashes of alcohol, but leave it to Miles's luck for his to be the only stuff found.

I went back into my own room and began tackling the mountainous pile of homework Mr-Snape-Wannabe had set. After about ten minutes, there was a knock at the door.

"Miles, I swear to go—" I opened the door, not to Miles, but to Archer. "Can I help you?" I asked, recovering quickly from shock.

He leant against my doorframe, hands embedded in his infamous trench coat pockets. I figured he would be going out soon or maybe he just chose to wear it all the time, you know, for the aesthetic.

"I have a proposition," his smooth voice began, entrancing me with only a few words. "You need money."

"Yes..?" I said, realising he must have overheard me begging with Ms Kingsley. I cringed in embarrassment. "But I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Well, I need a date for galas, so if you be my date, I'll pay you a considerable amount that will be sure to cover your... expenses."

"Like an escort?"

"Of sorts," he said. "Only more like a girlfriend, a pretend one, of course."

"No, absolutely not."

He pushed himself off the wall, running a hand through his hair. "Just think about it."

He turned and walked away so effortlessly and quickly, that I wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing. With a deep exhale, I closed my door again, yet again confused by the billionaire boy.