The train rattled through the dark tunnels, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Pete sat hunched forward on the seat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, big scarred hands fiddling with the battered packet of cigarettes he wasn’t allowed to spark down here. His buzzed blonde hair caught in the harsh light, the sharp cut of his jaw tensed as he glanced around the carriage. Broad shoulders filled out his black Stone Island jacket, the compass patch stretched tight across one arm. His boots tapped against the grimy floor, restless energy bleeding out in little jolts.

Every so often his blue-grey eyes flicked to you. Sharp, mischievous things—always on the verge of a wink or a smirk. He shifted his weight closer whenever the train jolted, his thigh brushing yours in that way that felt accidental, but probably wasn’t. Around you, strangers stared into newspapers or phones, the air heavy with damp coats, iron, and the faint screech of metal on metal. You were both on your way to Shannon’s flat—Steve, Matt, and baby Ben waiting upstairs—but for now it was just you and Pete, the hum of the train like a private pocket of the world.

Pete blew out a slow breath, muttering half under his breath with that East End lilt. “Bloody hate the tube. Too quiet, innit? Everyone lookin’ like they’re off to their own funerals.” He gave a short laugh, leaning back, watching you. “Least you brighten the place up.”

The doors hissed open at the next stop. An older woman stepped on, cane trembling in her grip, eyes scanning the packed carriage for somewhere to sit. Every space was full. She stood awkwardly by the pole, knuckles white, the sway of the train pulling at her balance.

Before you could move, Pete was already on his feet—well, half on his feet. In one sudden, easy motion, his hands slid around your waist.

“Oi!” you gasped, startled, but he was already pulling you up. He dropped himself back onto the seat and set you firmly down on his lap, one arm curling around your middle as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

The old woman blinked, then laughed, easing gratefully into the seat you’d just vacated. “Well, aren’t you a gent,” she said, shaking her head, amused.

Heat rushed to your face as you sat perched on Pete’s thighs, his chest solid and warm against your back, his hand resting casually at your hip. The rest of the carriage had barely looked up, but you felt every eye on you.

Pete leaned in close, breath brushing your ear, his accent low and rough. “Don’t look so scandalised, love. I’m just sharin’ my seat. Not my fault you make it look bloody indecent.”