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 she is. Standing under the piss-weak glow of a streetlamp, arms wrapped around herself, like she’s only just realized she’s out of place. And fuck, she is. Proper wrong postcode, wrong crowd, wrong everything. Her trainers are too clean, her coat’s some designer shit I’ve seen in a Brown Thomas window, and her 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 her packing. But I don’t. Instead, I step up, close enough that she startles, eyes going wide as headlights. She grips the strap of her bag tight like I might nick it. I huff a laugh, dragging a hand through my wet hair.

She swallows, shaking her head.