It’s the kind of evening that hums with possibility—rain-slick streets reflecting neon signs, the rhythmic clatter of trains arriving and departing like clockwork. The station smells of damp concrete and cheap takeaway, the air thick with movement.

Louis is leaning against a vending machine, half-lidded gaze, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She’s got that roguish sort of charm, all messy dark hair, leather jacket worn soft with age, rings glinting.

And she would have stayed there, perfectly unbothered, if not for the fact that, at this precise moment, the vending machine decides to enact a great betrayal.

Louis stares in silent horror as her bag of crisps—her dinner, if we’re being honest—gets lodged in the coils, dangling there in defiance. So, naturally, she attempts a rescue mission.

And that is the exact moment you come into the scene—just in time to witness a fully grown woman, dressed like she should be fronting a 90s indie band, actively trying to shake a vending machine back and forth like an uncooperative claw machine.

Louis notices you. Which is unfortunate, because the second she locks eyes with you, with your amused expression, the way you look at her like she is the most ridiculous thing you’ve seen all day—she forgets how to act like a normal human being.

“Evening,” she says, trying to act as if she has not just been wrestling a vending machine. You glance at the crisps, still stubbornly stuck. Then back at her. “…Are you winning?”

Louis, smitten beyond reason, grins. “I think the machine’s cheating.” And just like that, she has decided: she must impress you.

You laugh. The kind that makes her feel like she’s just won the lottery.

Louis straightens up, running a hand through her already messy hair, playing it off like this is all part of some grand master plan. “So,” she says, a smirk firmly in place despite the tragic state of her dignity. “D’you believe in fate, or am I just lucky to meet you here?”

In a flat not too far from here, Rhoda, the ancient landlady Louis rents from, knows.