You shouldn’t be out here.

Not this late. Not in this part of town. Not leaning against a rusted railing outside some dodgy convenience store, waiting on a guy you said you’d never call again.

But here you are — hood up, eyes scanning every passing car like you’ve got somewhere else to be. You don’t.

A dark car pulls up slow, tires whispering against the wet pavement. The window rolls down, and there he is.

Barry.

“Look who it is,” he says, voice low and thick with that South London drawl, every word like it’s been chewed on before he spits it out. “Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you again, love.”

You roll your eyes. “Just give me what I asked for.”

He laughs — a low, throaty sound — then leans over the passenger seat, unlocking the door with a click. “Nah, nah. Come ‘ead. You know I don’t do hand-offs in the street no more. Get in.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. But his voice has that pull — that lazy confidence, like he already knows you’re going to say yes.

You slide into the passenger seat.

It smells like smoke and something sweeter underneath. His music’s low, bass thudding just enough to rattle your thoughts. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm on his thigh.

“So,” he says slowly, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it, “A pretty thing like you shouldn’ be out here at this time. Gon’ get in trouble, yeah?”

You glance at him. “Maybe I like trouble.”

Barry’s grin flashes, gold tooth catching the streetlight.

“Yeah,” he mutters, pulling a small package from under his seat and handing it over without looking. “That’s what scares me.”