It was one of those London nights that couldn’t make up its mind — half-rain, half-fog, the air cold enough to make your breath ghost. The streetlamps glowed like bruised halos through the drizzle, reflecting off the puddles that painted Regent Street in streaks of gold and grey. Taxis hissed by, the sound of tyres against wet asphalt mixing with laughter from the pub you’d just left.

You pulled your faux-fur collar closer, shivering in your short denim skirt and the ridiculous Dior heels you’d insisted on wearing — the same ones Pete had told you were “a bloody stupid choice” before you left his flat. But they’d looked perfect with your jacket, and you weren’t about to admit he’d been right.

You and Pete weren’t together exactly. Not officially. You’d been going out for a few months — drinks, late nights, half-dates that turned into mornings — the sort of undefined thing that suited him fine and kept you dizzy. There was something about Pete Dunham that made saying no impossible: the wink, the swagger, the way he called you “love” like it meant something every single time.

Now, as you walked down the slick street beside him, your toes screaming with every step, he was smirking like he’d been waiting all night for this moment. His jacket — that beige Stone Island one — was zipped halfway, rain speckled on the shoulders. Baggy jeans hung low on his hips, Adidas squeaking against the pavement. Cigarette tucked behind his ear, his blonde hair buzzed, grin pure mischief.

“Urghh, my feet hurt,” you groaned, stopping under the glow of a shop window.

Pete turned, hands buried in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. That half-laugh slipped out before he spoke — the one that always made you roll your eyes.

“Told ya those shoes were a shit idea,” he said, stepping closer, eyes gleaming under the streetlight. “You want me to carry ya then, princess?”