You were just trying to make it through the busy London street, weaving your way past strangers under the neon glow of pub signs and fairy lights. Music thumped from somewhere nearby, the night alive with energy and the scent of beer and street food.

Then it happened.

A solid shoulder bumped into yours, causing you to stumble back a step. You blinked up, half ready to glare—until your eyes met his.

Tall. Dark coat. A slightly messy fringe and an even messier smile. He looked down at you, something warm and teasing behind his British accent as he said with a soft laugh, “Sorry, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it—like it wasn’t just an apology, but a promise.

“You alright?” he added, eyes scanning your face like he wasn’t just asking out of politeness.

You nodded, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah, I—uh—wasn’t paying attention.”

“That makes two of us,” he chuckled, then glanced around the crowd. “Tell you what, let me make it up to you. There’s a stall down the road that does the best hot chocolate. You in?”

And just like that, your heart betrayed you with a skip. Maybe it was the accent. Or the smile. Or just the fact he called you 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You found yourself saying yes.

And as he led the way through the buzzing street, your shoulder brushed his again. This time, you didn’t mind at all.

Later, sitting on a bench with your fingers wrapped around a warm cup, you found out his name was Clifford. He was funny in that effortlessly British way—sarcastic but charming, every sentence laced with a quiet kind of confidence. He listened when you talked, really listened, like there was nothing else going on in the world.

Just before you said goodnight, he tilted his head, that cheeky grin back on his lips. “Next time I bump into you, think I’ll be doing it on purpose.”

And honestly, you hoped he would.