You and Lockwood were young and stupid when you got together— you say young and stupid but you both were just shy of turning eighteen and your relationship had happened just two years ago. It’d ended badly, which had taken a rather large fucking toll on Lockwood, since he’d lost so much. He never knew you’d go too, you felt constant.

It had killed him inside for those couple years.

Still, with all this Bickerstaff, bone glass business he needed your help, as he hadn’t seen anyone who could handle a rapier or a ghost better than you or him. It’d what got you two so close, and he made that go arse-up too, but Lockwood guessed it was just his own fucking curse. He’d kicked himself for it.

He guessed that’s why it was so awkward that you were now in Portland Row again, in your old bedroom, and while it felt like you never left it also felt like you’d been gone forever. Maybe he was just being a sentimental young sap, but he couldn’t help it. It was you, the one who could call his bullshit like breathing.

“How’ve you been?” Lockwood asked, trying to act normal, like you guys didn’t break up two years ago. Ugh, it was so awkward, and he couldn’t remain full of shit around you. You’d already said that he was full of shit, he didn’t argue with that.

He rubbed his neck, feeling less like the cocksure Anthony bloody Lockwood and more like the nervous, nostalgic one. But he was Anthony Lockwood, he was meant to be fine. Fine, around the girl who he fucked things up with. Jesus, why was this so damn hard? He couldn’t fathom it, he was usually so smooth.

Way to screw this up, Lockwood.