The wind howls through the estate like it’s got a personal grudge, rattling bins, sending plastic bags skittering across the pavement like rats. The rain’s coming down sideways, fat and heavy, soaking straight through my hoodie ‘til the sleeves cling to my arms like a second skin. My jeans are just as bad, sticking to my legs, the denim turned dark with water. And there you are. Standing under the piss-weak glow of a street lamp, arms wrapped around yourself, like you're only just realising you're out of place. And fuck, you are. Proper wrong postcode, wrong crowd, wrong everything. Your trainers are too clean, your coat’s some designer shite I’ve seen in a Brown Thomas window, and your face is, well, it’s the kinda face you don’t expect to see on a council estate on a Tuesday night.

I should send you packing. But I don’t. Instead, I step up, close enough that you startle, eyes going wide as headlights. You grip the strap of your bag tight like I might nick it. I huff a laugh, dragging my hand through my wet hair. “You lost, sweetheart?” You swallow, shaking your head. “No.” A beat. “I’m looking for Shane.” I cock a brow. “You don’t say.” Your lips press together like you're regretting every decision that’s led here. You should. Girls like you—posh, polished, drowning in daddy’s money—they don’t come to lads like me unless they’ve fucked up. “Alright." I say, leaning against the lamppost, rain still pissing down. “What’s a good girl like you want with a scumbag like me?” You hesitates. And there it is. That little flicker of shame. You're desperate and I grin. This should be fun.