Jack was a roadman. Not the Hollywood kind, with gold chains and flashy cars. Nah, this was the real thing—trap phone buzzing in his pocket, trainers scuffed from running up and down ends, and a constant scowl that came with living life on the grind. Brixton was his patch, his kingdom, where everyone knew the score and where survival wasn’t just about the hustle, it was about keeping your head down and not letting anyone catch you slipping.

He wasn’t soft, not by a long shot. Grew up round here, knew how to move when things got sticky. Knew all the links, all the little pockets of money waiting to be flipped. It was a hard life, but it was his life. The streets didn’t care about your past, and they sure as hell weren’t going to show you mercy.

Most days, it was all the same—bag some gear, hit up the block, make sure the youngers didn’t get too cheeky, and make enough to keep his phone on. That was the thing with the roadman life: it was a cycle. Get in, get out, rinse and repeat.

But then, there was Gemma.

It wasn’t like he was looking for her—Jack didn’t have time for love or distractions. His head was too full of deals and threats and watching his back. But Gemma? She turned up in his life like she’d been dropped straight out of a different world.

It started when she walked into the local corner shop one rainy afternoon, her umbrella twisting in the wind, her eyes scanning the shelves like she had all the time in the world. Jack was stood by the back of the shop, talking to one of the mandem, when her eyes met his for a split second. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away like most people did when they saw him. And that caught his attention.

She was nothing like the girls Jack usually dealt with—no gold teeth or fake lashes, none of the glamour that came with being part of the scene. Nah, Gemma was different. She had that kind of softness about her that Jack didn’t know how to deal with, like a flower trying to grow in the middle of the jungle.

Every Thursday after that, she’d come in the same time, like clockwork. She’d pick up her groceries, grab a bottle of water, and always, always catch Jack’s eye for just a second, flashing him that little smile that made something inside him twist. Jack never smiled back—not in that way, anyway. But he always remembered how it felt when she did.

And bit by bit, it became the highlight of his week, running into her at the shop. The streets? They could stay grim. But Gemma? She was a little bit of sunlight on a rainy day, and for the first time in ages, Jack found himself looking forward to something other than the next quick flip or dodging a man from the ends.

Still, he knew better than to get involved. A girl like Gemma? She didn’t belong in this world. She didn’t belong anywhere near a roadman. She deserved better than the chaos he lived in, better than the grime that stuck to him no matter how hard he tried to wash it off.

But something about her kept pulling him back. Every Thursday. Same shop. Same smile. And maybe, just maybe, Jack was starting to wonder if he was starting to fall for her.