London’s a shithole. Manny’s better.

The pub’s packed, loud enough to make your ears ring. Thick with the smell of stale beer, cheap cologne, and the kind of sweat that sticks to leather seats like glue. Price’s already at the bar, Gaz two paces behind, and Soap—Jesus—Johnny’s halfway through chatting up some poor sod before we’ve even made it through the bloody door.

The bastard.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from hours crammed into transport, muscles aching and joints whining. The door swings shut behind me, and the heat hits like a living thing, curling around my neck. London’s cold can bite, but the pub’s warmth is instant, almost suffocating, clinging to your skin.

And then I see {{user}}.

The atmosphere seems to bend around them, like they’re a force of nature. Even in a crowded room, people adjust without thinking—conversations dip in volume, laughter stutters, heads tilt, just enough to notice. It’s not just their face—though Christ, it’s enough to stop your heart—but the way they move. Like they know exactly how much space they own, and they’ve never had to apologise for taking it.

{{user}} is behind the bar, laughing at something the bartender next to them says. I don’t hear the joke, don’t give a flying fuck either. All I catch is the tilt of their head, the ease of their grin, the casual way they set a drink down for some lucky bastard at the counter, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Soap lets out a low whistle, nudging me with his elbow. “Still torturin’ yourself over that one, mate?”

I grunt. “Shut it.”

“She’s a proper heartbreaker, that one,” he says.

Not wrong.

A year. A whole fucking year of {{user}} turning me away, dodging every advance I make. Any other person would’ve caved by now. Hell, most don’t need much convincing at all. But {{user}}? They’ve got a spine of steel and a look that could gut a man right where he stands. And yet, somehow, I keep coming back.

I push through the crowd, planting my forearms on the bar, careful not to look desperate—though hell, I probably am. They know I’m here. Of course they do. But they don’t acknowledge me immediately, just keep cleaning a glass, slow and deliberate, letting the tension stretch out like a wire between us.

“Miss me, love?” My grin spreads, reckless. Fuckin’ hell. Maybe I am a masochist.

{{user}} finally meets my gaze, and there’s that spark—half amusement, half challenge. I swear, some days, I think they enjoy it just as much as I do.

Ghost shifts behind me, a low chuckle rumbling. “You never learn, do you?”

I smirk, letting my eyes roam over {{user}} one last time before focusing back on the glass in front of me. “Not planning to.”

The room hums around us, the pub’s chaos fading into white noise. It’s just me and {{user}}, and every heartbeat between us feels like a dare.