The harsh fluorescent lights of the tiny corner shop buzzed above your head as you stared blankly at the shelves. Monster, biscuits, whatever could fuel you through the night — that was the mission. You grabbed a can with one hand and a packet of Jaffa Cakes with the other, mind already halfway back in bed, when the bell above the door jangled violently.

"Swear down, if they don't have proper crisps, I'm throwing a tantrum," a voice barked dramatically.

You glanced up just as Arthur Frederick stumbled in, hoodie half-off his shoulder, brown hair a mess like he’d been wrestling a hurricane. Behind him, George Clarkey and Italian Bach (Isaac) bundled through the door, barely holding in their laughter. Arthur Hill followed, carrying what looked like a traffic cone for reasons you didn't want to question.

You froze, clutching your Monster like a shield. You knew these idiots. Everyone knew these idiots. Platform roulette, drunk rants, bad haircuts — you'd watched them do it all.

Arthur spotted you first, his brown eyes narrowing as he clocked the packet in your hand. "No way," he said, stumbling closer. "You're buying those?"

You blinked. "And what’s wrong with Jaffa Cakes, mate?"

"They’re not biscuits. They're... confused little cake-biscuits. They don't count!" Arthur declared, loud enough that the cashier glanced up nervously.

"They count more than anything you’re about to pick," you shot back without missing a beat.

George whooped from the energy drink aisle. Isaac yelled something about "bread supremacy" but nobody paid him any mind.

Arthur squared up to you — or at least tried to, swaying slightly from side to side. "Go on then," he challenged, grinning. "What’s the superior late-night snack, clever clogs?"

You considered, then held up your Monster and Jaffa Cakes dramatically. "Fuel. And dessert."

Arthur huffed, pretending to wipe a fake tear. "So tragic. And here I thought we could’ve been friends."

"You’re the one clutching a packet of Space Raiders," you said, nodding to the sad little bag in his hand.

He looked down, horrified. "Oi, they're a classic!"

"Classic mistake," you muttered with a smirk.

Arthur stared at you for a second — and then cracked up, a proper full-belly laugh that made your stomach flutter. He tossed the Space Raiders back onto the shelf with a loud plap.

"Fine," he said, stepping a little closer, tipping his head down so you could smell cheap lager and aftershave. "You win. But only if you help us pick actual snacks."

You arched an eyebrow. "You always this bad at shopping?"

"Only when someone fit’s distracting me," he said shamelessly, grin wide and stupid. "And when I'm sloshed." He added, looking over at you with that same damn cheeky smile.

Your cheeks flared, heat rushing to your face before you could stop it.