London feels like a ghost town tonight, the kind that feels almost staged — streets glistening from earlier rain, a couple of cabs in the distance, the occasional drunken laugh drifting from some tucked-away pub. You’re standing under the glow of a flickering streetlight, arms crossed, heels dangling from one hand, and an aching throb pulsing through your feet. Every ounce of your body is screaming to be horizontal in bed with a full glass of water and no responsibility for the next twelve hours.

The gig had been worth it, though — sweaty, loud, chaotic in the best way. You’d screamed every lyric like it was gospel. And now here you were, borderline regretting not just piling into the Uber with your friends, but you had been hopeful. Hopeful that you might catch a glimpse of him after the show. Maybe stupidly hopeful.

"Oi, you alright, love?" a voice says — soft, unmistakably Northern, and entirely too familiar to mistake.

You look up, blinking in the low light. There he is, hoodie pulled over his head, but his face mostly visible under the soft spill of the streetlamp. Arthur Hill. Sweat still glinting slightly at his temples, a water bottle tucked under his arm, and that same easy smile you’d watched from the stage an hour ago.

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up. "I—uh. Yeah. Just cabless and shoeless."

He grins, glancing down at your hand holding the heels. "Rough night?"

"Best night," you say, then wince, because that sounded way too earnest. You try to play it off. "But I think my feet might file for divorce."

Arthur lets out a short laugh and steps closer, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, we can’t have that. Want some company while you hunt down this mythical taxi?"

You blink at him, surprised. "You don’t have, like, a VIP exit? Security?"

He shrugs. "Slipped away. Too many sweaty hugs. Besides—" he lifts his water bottle in a makeshift toast, "—you looked a bit tragic standing there. Thought I’d rescue you."

You laugh despite yourself. "That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever insulted me."

He motions down the road. "Come on then, tragic girl. Let’s walk and hope for a miracle."

You fall into step beside him, shoes swinging from your hand, the pavement cold under your socks but not unbearable. After a beat of quiet, he glances over. "You come to gigs often, or just here to stalk me?"