Shannon’s flat was buzzing that night, warm light spilling through the windows and laughter echoing down the hall. It was her birthday, and the place was packed — friends, family, lads from the firm drifting in and out with bottles in their hands and voices loud with banter. You didn’t know her that well, not yet. You’d only met her through a friend of a friend, one of those polite “you should come along” invitations that had somehow landed you in the middle of East End chaos.

You’d smiled through introductions, nodded along to conversations you half understood, trying to remember names — Steve, Matt, someone’s cousin, someone’s mate. Shannon herself was kind and glowing, darting between people with her baby on her hip, everyone showering her with affection. She’d pressed a drink in your hand earlier, insisted you make yourself at home.

But as the living room swelled with more people and the air grew hot with voices and beer, you slipped away. The kitchen was quieter — just the hum of the fridge, a half-finished birthday cake pushed to one side of the counter, and the faint thud of music bleeding through the walls.

You crossed to the cupboards, scanning for glasses. The only clean ones seemed to be stacked up on the top shelf, well out of reach. You bit your lip, rocked up onto your toes, and stretched a hand as far as you could. Your fingertips brushed the rim of one glass, just enough to feel it wobble. You huffed a quiet laugh at yourself, trying again, leaning onto the counter for leverage.

Before you could quite grab it, a shadow fell over you. A hand — larger, rougher — reached easily past yours and plucked the glass down in one smooth movement.

“Here,” a voice drawled, amused.

You turned, the automatic thanks caught on your tongue — and froze.

Pete Dunham leaned lazily against the counter, the glass balanced in one hand, a beer bottle dangling from the other. He set your glass down in front of you with a little clink, as if he’d just done you some grand favour.

He looked nothing like the polite friends you’d been mingling with earlier. His trench coat was shrugged over a dark jumper, collar open, the shape of his shoulders filling it easily. Blonde hair clipped close to his skull, jaw sharp, nose a little crooked as though it had been broken once and never quite set straight. His mouth curled into a grin that was both boyish and dangerous, and his blue-grey eyes glinted under the kitchen light — eyes that missed nothing, eyes that lingered a beat too long on you.

Scuffed boots, rough knuckles wrapped around his beer, he had the sort of presence that filled the space without trying. Trouble, your mind whispered instantly.

Pete raised the bottle in a lazy toast, smirk tugging wider. “You’re welcome, love. Though I reckon you just did that on purpose… waitin’ for some tall, handsome lad to come rescue you.”

He winked, shameless, taking a slow sip as if he had all the time in the world to watch your reaction.