Complacent [Duplicity Niall]

The bar is packed. Dez is behind the counter, moving fast, pouring drinks with the effortless skill of someone who’s been doing this too long to be impressed by drunk idiots. Scarlett’s there too, shaking cocktails and rolling her eyes every time a guy makes some lame attempt at flirting with her.

I’m perched on a stool at the end of the bar, sipping a whiskey sour, half-listening to Louis chat up some girl a few seats down. Liam’s laughing at something, tossing back a shot, while Harry—sulking, arms crossed, dark gaze focused on nothing in particular—sits alone in the corner like a Victorian ghost with a grudge. The grudge is with either Malakai (deservedly) or Zayn (ehhhh).

As per usual, with him lately. Not that I'm judging.

I'm not little miss sunshine right now. That position is being filled by Niall.

Louis, meanwhile, is putting on a show for some brunette in a leather jacket, leaning in close, all charm and smirks and smooth-talking nonsense. He’s got that look—the one that says he’s fully prepared to make someone’s night and forget about them by morning.

"Bet you five bucks he fucks her," Liam says, nudging me.

I scoff. "That’s not a bet, that’s a guarantee."

"Fair point," Liam laughs, knocking back another drink.

And then—because the universe is cruel and I must’ve done something horrible in a past life—some girl sidles up next to Niall.

She’s tall, blonde, the kind of pretty that feels manufactured but still works. She leans in too close, a manicured hand resting lightly on his arm.

I immediately hate her.

"Niall, right?" she purrs.

He turns, blinking like he hadn’t even noticed her until now. "Uh, yeah?"

She giggles. Actually giggles. Like some kind of goddamn cartoon character. "I thought so. I've seen you around here before."

Jesus Christ.

Niall, to his credit, just laughs, shaking his head. "You got a name, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

Don't call her that you fucking dickface.

I tighten my grip on my drink. My jaw clenches.

Scarlett, ever perceptive, side-eyes me. I pretend not to notice.

Blondie—whose name is apparently Brooke—launches into some flirty, handsy nonsense, and Niall, because he’s Niall, plays along, flashing that easy, stupidly attractive grin.

I take a long, slow sip of my drink.

"Jealousy is a drug, babe," Dez mutters under his breath.

I glare at him. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Scarlett snorts. "Sure you don’t."

I refuse to dignify that with a response.

Niall laughs at something Brooke says, and I swear to God, my eye twitches.

I could walk away. I should walk away.

Instead, I down the rest of my drink, slam the glass on the counter, and order another.

Dez and Scarlett exchange a look.

Liam, oblivious, keeps drinking. Louis gets that girl’s number. Harry still looks like he wants to kill someone.

And I sit there, stewing in my own ridiculous, entirely uncalled-for jealousy, because apparently, I’m a masochist.

Brooke is still talking—flirting, actually, aggressively at that—but something shifts in Niall’s expression. It’s subtle, the way his easy grin starts to slip, how his eyes flick away from her, landing somewhere past her shoulder. Somewhere near me.