The terrace still smelled like beer and spilled vinegar, the pub’s neon sign painting everybody’s faces a little livid. The lads were louder than the match itself — voices braided with laughter, victory songs, the kind of perpetual noise that makes the world feel like it’s on your side. You stood at the edge of it all, the crowd’s hum pressing at your ribs, and Pete moved through the madness like he owned the noise: easy, dangerous, grinning with that careless light in his eyes.

He’d been bright all night — wide with the win, shoulders loose, a grin that came and went like a dare. He was always like this. When the lads launched into another chant, he leaned in and kissed you quick on the mouth, not private exactly, but intimate in the way he held you against him. “Good night, yeah?” he murmured in your ear, breath salty with beer and something sweet under it. Then he’d tug you back close by the waist, voice low, “Don’t go wanderin’ off, love.”

You swatted him away, half-laughing, half-pleased; his hand stayed, fingers warm and possessive against your lower back, until it landed on your bum, making you laugh. You tried to say something, but he was already kissing you again, this time slower—melting you into him before the next round of cheers drowned the room.

The GSE rode high on adrenaline; their joy was wild, messy, almost holy. Steve barked orders like a conductor, keeping the lads from doing something stupid. You watched them — pint glasses raised, scarves around necks, laughter spilling into the cold London night. And then the tone changed.

They showed up like smoke — a few Millwall lads pushing through the crowd, smug and sober enough to want trouble. You could feel it before you saw it: that shift, that chill under the noise. Pete’s arm around your shoulders went still, grip tightening slightly. He turned, his grin fading to something harder.

“Oi, look who it is,” one of the Millwall blokes said, voice already baiting. “GSE out on the piss again, yeah? Must’ve been nice to win for once.”

A few of the GSE answered with jeers, but Pete didn’t take the bait — not yet. His jaw worked, eyes flicking over the rival firm like he was counting exits, calculating odds.

“Let’s just go,” you said quietly, tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t give him anything.”

But the words barely reached him. The leader in him was awake now — the part that couldn’t back down in front of his lads. The air went heavy, the music from inside fading into static. The Millwall bloke grinned, seeing the reaction.

“What’s the matter, Major?” he said, stretching the nickname like a taunt. “Gone soft now you’ve got your missus to keep you warm?”

A few of Pete’s boys chuckled low, nervously. Pete didn’t. He took one step forward — slow, deliberate — the kind of movement that makes space rearrange itself around him.

You tried again, voice tight. “Pete, don’t. Let it go. Please. We can leave—”

But the bloke wasn’t done. They never are. “What, you gonna let me talk to your bird, Major? What I gotta do — fuck your missus to get your attention?”

He laughed, ugly and sharp, the kind of laugh that sticks to your skin.

Pete froze. Completely. For a second, you saw him swallow it—the hit, the humiliation, the calculation. And then it shifted. That easy charm you knew so well—the grin, the wink—all of it vanished. What was left was something colder. Older.

The lads quieted. Even the street seemed to hold its breath.

Pete didn’t look at the man first. He looked at you. His blue-grey eyes burning, searching yours like they were asking for permission, or forgiveness, or both.

“Pete,” you whispered, shaking your head.

Pete turned then, slow, deliberate. He didn’t raise a hand yet. Just squared himself, head tilting slightly as his voice came out low and steady, a drawl stretched thin with warning. “Say that again,” he said. “Go on. Be a man about it. Let’s see if your mouth’s as tough when you’ve got to back it up.”