“Yer dry spell’s makin’ me feel bad for you Simon,” Soap says as he walked alongside Simon on the sidewalk in the chilly, gloomy air. It’s been a bloody week that Soap’s gone on about this, as if Simon’s…predicament was personally affecting him.

“It’s fine, I don’t need it, alright?,” Simon says plainly as he lit the cigarette in his hand and puffed until the cherry was bright then exhaled the smoke that plumed in tendrils along the sky.

“Aye, ya say that ‘til you’re gettin’ all pissy when ya push a pull door mate,” Soap says as if he’d experienced it himself, “just one. I ain’t seen ya chase a tail in a year now-“

“You watch for that?,” Simon looked at Soap with his brows etched in sketchiness before resigning, “fine. I ain’t helpin’ you though.”

In the pub, Simon gave narrowed eyes at the people Soap had gotten nearby to make the move on his behalf…but none took him. To their credit…Simon was fucking scary when he wanted to be left alone.

Simon intended on giving Soap hell…until he’d caught eyes with {{user}} down the street outside of the pub. ‘Bloody hell look at that one’, he thinks to himself as he felt the urge to rise to his feet and catch them before he’d never see them again.

As he’d stepped out and behind them he could see their absolutely delicious curves while they’d walked ahead of him.

That dry spell of his certainly was getting to him now, but he had to stay focused. Remember how to approach a person of interest.

He stared in contemplation for only a few minutes before he’d noticed they’d dropped something. Their passport. ‘Perfect, fuckin’ brilliant’, Simon thought to himself. He peeked it open to get their name and noticed their gorgeous face on the picture.

“{{user}}?,” Simon says after a clear to his throat and tried to keep his heart still as they turned around with a confused look, “your assport-passport…passport…you dropped it, dove.”

Bloody Freudian slip, god damn it all to hell.