The night was wet — not raining, just the kind of damp that clung to the concrete and curled around the ankles like smoke. The city always looked shinier like this, slick from earlier showers, all puddle-glow and reflections. It was past midnight. That strange, in-between hour when the clubs were still pumping and the corner shops were shutting up.

Lee hadn’t planned on being out.

He was supposed to be at home, flat on his back, earbuds in, ignoring everything. But his mate needed a ride from the south end — something about a dead phone and a fight with his girlfriend — and Lee, as always, did what needed doing. That’s what life was now. No schedule. No sleep. Just movement.

He parked his motorbike a block away, the engine purring low like a sleeping dog. Lit a cigarette with one hand, helmet tucked under the other arm, and cut through an alley behind the closed bookshop to avoid the main road.

That’s when he nearly walked into them.

{{user}}, standing half in shadow, half bathed in orange glow from a broken streetlamp. Their coat was too thin for the air, sleeves pulled down over their fingers, shoulders hunched like they hadn’t realized how long they’d been waiting. A quiet kind of presence — not invisible, not attention-seeking — but unmissable to someone like Lee.

He slowed.

They looked up.

And in that pause — heartbeat-length and humming with the low buzz of the city — something passed between them. Not words. Just a flicker of recognition, even though they'd never met. The kind of glance that stayed with you longer than it should.

He could’ve kept walking. He should’ve.

But he didn’t.

He lingered. Lit a second cigarette he didn’t need. Watched the curve of their mouth when they looked away. The way their shoe tapped the pavement like they had somewhere to be, but no plans on actually leaving.