Content Warning:
This chapter contains depictions of physical violence, sexual harassment/attempted assault, panic reactions, addiction and recovery themes, and emotional distress.

Please take care while reading.

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The café had thinned to its last stragglers—two cabbies finishing bacon rolls and a uni couple who'd gone quiet over the remains of a Victoria sponge, all eyelashes and sulks. The radio burbled some late-night call-in about Arsenal's back line; the fryer gave one last sigh and clicked obediently to silence. Ruby wiped the pass with a tea towel until the wood flashed clean, then hung the towel on the hook like it might learn to behave if she set a good example.

"Clock's past eleven," Simone said, hip against the counter, scarf already knotted up like armour. "Go on, babes—off you trot. Beauty sleep. Or, in your case, moody sleep."

Ruby huffed, the ghost of a smile. "Cheek."

Danny slid a tray of mugs into neat ranks, fingers careful, sleeves pushed to his elbows. "I'll do the float and lock the back," he said, as if the room had asked him and not the people in it. "You look knackered."

"I'm fine." Ruby tugged her apron strings loose and folded the cotton on itself twice, as if tidiness might keep the day from spilling. "Just a long one."

Simone's eyes flicked. She'd been the one who found Ruby earlier, shaking by the bins in the drizzle, whispering I'm okay as if saying it made it true. Now she cocked her head. "You sure?"

Ruby nodded too quickly. "'Course. Just need my bed."

Simone leaned in, voice softer. "What even happened, then? One minute you're making tea like a robot, next you're doing your best impression of a ghost in the alley."

"Nothing." Ruby wrapped the apron tighter in her hands. "Just—moment of weakness. That's all."

"'Scuse me if I don't buy 'moment of weakness' when your hands were going like a bloody hummingbird," Simone said, gentler for all the bite. "You don't have to chat if you don't fancy it, but don't lie to me, Clarke. I get hives." She tapped her own chest as if to demonstrate—hives, see, catastrophic.

Ruby swallowed. The NA fob knocked against her keys in her pocket, a small plastic tap like a reprimand. Six months wasn't long enough to have a past that stayed buried. It was barely long enough to learn how to carry it without spilling on other people. "Honest," she said, keeping her eyes on the till drawer. "Just tired."

Danny, who never forced a thing, just smiled.

"Right," Simone said, snapping the fluorescent light above the counter, leaving them in the warmer glow of the pendants. "Out."

Ruby leaned over and hugged her quick—Simone smelled of citrus hair oil—then turned to Danny. He looked startled at the idea of being hugged and then delighted when she did it anyway, an awkward tangle of apron and forearms.

"Night, Dan," she said into his jumper, muffled.

"Night, Rubes." He said it carefully, like the word might bruise if he threw it.

She shrugged into her leather jacket, zipped it to her throat, and tucked the takeaway tea into the crook of her elbow. The bell over the door jangled when she pushed out. London breathed on her.

For two steps she kept her shoulders square. Then she glanced back through the glass.

Danny watched her go, hands braced on the counter, a look that lingered a beat too long to pass as casual. Simone clocked it.

"Oh, for—" She swatted his arm with a stack of side plates. "Just tell her you fancy her, will you? Before you fold yourself in half like a deckchair."

Danny flushed, colour rising quick in his cheeks. "Don't be daft."

"Daft is you alphabetisin' the sugar packets every time she looks sad," Simone shot back, eyebrows arched. "She won't bite, you know."

He gave a small shrug, eyes still fixed on the door Ruby had disappeared through. "She's... private. Don't reckon she wants me stickin' my nose in."

Simone softened, just a fraction. "Maybe. But people like that don't mind someone remindin' 'em they're not on their own." She clacked the plates together for punctuation. "I'm not sayin' propose, you damp book. Just—tell her you like her smile, so she remembers she's got one."

Danny huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. "You ever considered a career in diplomacy?"

"Hate to break it to you, Professor, I'm already in it," Simone said, jerking her chin toward the front door. "East End bloody United Nations. Now lock up."

He obeyed, as he always did, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth.

Simone watched him another second, rolling her eyes skyward. "She's a mystery, that one," she muttered, softer now. "Try not to drive yourself barmy unravellin' her."

Outside, the pavement was slick as a polished bar. Sodium lamps made buttery puddles of light; the bus stop poster peeling at the edge. Her jaw ached where she'd clenched it too long.

Moment of weakness. Fine. Let Simone think that. Let Danny keep his gentle questions for someone who didn't have a history that rattled when you shook her. She'd built her clean life like a Jenga tower—shift, breathe, place, don't sneeze—and she wasn't about to invite someone to play. The past wasn't a story you told in a warm kitchen with a friend rolling their eyes in the right places. It was a door. Open it and the weather changed.  

A group of lads spilled out of a pub two streets down, singing something obscene to the tune of a Christmas carol. She took the longer way, the one that added five minutes but kept her off the main drag. Her boots clicked on the broken bits of grit where the council never quite swept. She passed the kebab shop, shutter half-down, the owner's radio still murmuring an Arabic lullaby to the chilli sauce.

The chip there knocked her knuckles, the plastic fob warm from her skin. Six months. If she said it enough perhaps it would become a fact that couldn't be changed. Six months clean; six months of waking up with her teeth still in her head, six months without the itch under her skin that made the world look too bright and too far away. She'd started at the café then, walked in with a CV that had more gaps than words and hands that couldn't carry a tray without shaking. Simone had smirked and given her the worst shifts; Danny had made tea she hadn't asked for. They had become friends by accident, which was the only way Ruby knew how.  

A cat slid between bins up ahead, its eyes throwing back the lamplight like coins at the bottom of a fountain. She watched it disappear and found herself thinking of Matt Buckner, the nervous American with the careful smile, and then—because the mind went where it always fucking pleased—of Pete, who had never been nervous a day in his life.

The image of his face in the café door flashed up so bright she stopped walking. She pressed her free hand to the wall, breath shallow. It had been years and then not any years at all.

A door banged on the estate. A woman laughed too loud, the sort of laugh that keeps loneliness from hearing itself. Ruby started moving again. The trick was always the same: keep moving, keep breathing. Don't look back at the places you've already been.

She reached the corner where the high street gave way to the terrace run, the shopfronts blinking to black one by one, and paused to finish the tea, last mouthful gone lukewarm. She tipped the cup into a bin and missed, because of course she did, and had to go back to fetch. The motion steadied her, stupidly. Ordinary chores. Ordinary life.

Her flat was twenty minutes from here, more if the old boy with the Staffy stopped her for a chat about West Ham like he always did. She took the alley cut-through anyway, because she wanted the quiet. Her trainers squeaked on a damp bit and she pulled her jacket tighter over her ribs and tucked her hands into her sleeves until only the knuckles peeked out.

Behind her, someone coughed. She didn't turn. The cough came again, and a mutter, and a shuffle of feet that might have been nothing, might have been three men deciding the night wanted entertaining. Ruby kept her head down and lengthened her stride, casual, casual, not panicked.

"'Scuse me, love," a voice called, sing-song and wrong. "Got a minute?"

She didn't answer.

At the end of the alley the street opened up, high brick on one side and a trimming of privet on the other. If she turned left she'd be on the corner by the launderette; if she turned right she'd cut another two minutes off the walk. She chose left, because caution felt like courage these days.

"Hey," a second voice said, closer. Her stomach did that quick icy drop, the body remembering all the times it hadn't been listened to.

She put one hand flat to the wall, the brick slick under her palm, and told herself: twenty minutes. Twenty minutes and you're home; your kettle clicks; your window fogs; your heart comes out of your mouth and back into your chest where it lives.

A shape moved at the mouth of the alley.

"Ruby?"

She spun too fast, elbow catching on the strap of her bag. Matt stood under the lamp, his mouth caught between smile and apology. "Sorry—I didn't mean to scare you." His accent flattened the word, saw-ree.

Ruby's hand tightened around her bag strap. She ducked her chin, eyes on the pavement. "...You're—everywhere today," she mumbled, voice barely carrying.

Matt gave that easy, awkward laugh. "Guess so. You heading home?"

She nodded once, quick.

"Mind if I walk with you? I'm crashing back at Shannon and Steve's anyway and I've got nothing do to." He tilted his head, waiting.

Ruby hesitated. "...Do what you want."

He fell into step beside her, matching her pace.

"You, uh... always finish this late?" Matt asked after a beat, like he was tossing a stone to see if it skipped.

Ruby tugged her sleeve over her hand. "...Sometimes."

"Long day then."

She gave the smallest shrug.

"Coffee shop seems nice, though. Everyone in there knows you."

"...Six months," Ruby murmured. "Not that long."

Matt smiled at that, though she didn't look to see it. "Feels longer. You fit."

Her throat tightened, but she said nothing.

The silence stretched, only rain and the scuff of their shoes between them. Ruby's fingers tightened in her sleeve. Finally, she glanced sideways—quick, almost guilty—and murmured, "...What were you doin' with Steve's brother?"

Matt blinked, surprised. "Pete?"

Her shoulders hitched at the name, but she kept walking.

"Yeah, uh," Matt said, rubbing the back of his neck, "that was kind of a setup. Shannon and Steve wanted a night in. So Steve palms Pete some cash, tells him to take me out, show me the ropes." He gave a small shrug. "Didn't exactly get a say."

Ruby's gaze flicked up, just for a second, then down again.

"He took me to this pub—The Abbey. Wiiiild place. Very loud and smoky, everybody packed in shoulder to shoulder. Met his mates—Swill, Dave, Ned, Ike, Keith... Nice guys, mostly. Bovver, though..." Matt let out a half-laugh. "Pretty sure he'd have knifed me just for breathing the same air."

Ruby's fingers worried at her sleeve. "...Really?"

Matt blinked. "Yeah."

She fell quiet again.

"So then," Matt said, filling the silence, clearly nervous, "we head to the match. And man—look, I've been to baseball back home, right? But this? This was alive. Like—The whole place shook. The chants, the songs—you feel it here." He thumped his chest lightly. "Like... like belonging."

Ruby's mouth tugged, the barest ghost of a frown.

"Only thing was... when we went in, they all pulled up jackets, scarves, covering their faces. Sketchy as hell. I'm thinking, if you're not guilty, why hide? Cops everywhere and they're acting like fugitives."

Her voice came out thin, almost swallowed: "...What'd Pete say?"

"Told me to keep my head down. No questions." Matt shook his head, amused and baffled all at once.

Ruby's shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the ground.

"And then Bovver—this was insane—he snags a press outfit, pretends he's media just so he can mouth off at the Birmingham fans. Starts yelling 'dirty northern bastards' like he's proud of it. Security dragged him out before it blew up." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I mean, the guy's a lunatic!"

For the first time, Ruby's mouth twitched toward a smile, quick as breath.

"Anyway," Matt finished, softer now, "afterward, word goes round there's a fight. Pete, Bovver, all the lads take off like it's nothing. Me? I bailed. Look, I like the game, but fighting strangers in alleys? Not for me."

Ruby nodded faintly, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Matt looked at her sidelong. "You're quiet."

She gripped her sleeve tighter. "...I usually am."

"Yeah?" Matt looked at her sidelong, chewing at his lip like he wasn't sure if words belonged here at all. "Well—I talk a lot when I'm nervous."

"I noticed."

"...Can I ask you something?" His voice was tentative, almost lost to the rain.

Ruby's stomach pinched. She nodded once, tiny, eyes fixed on the ground.

"At the café earlier. When Pete walked in." He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "You looked... I dunno. Like it shook you. Is there—" He cleared his throat. "Is there something between you two?"

Her head snapped up for half a second before dropping again. "No." The word came out flat, hurried. She dug her hands deeper into her sleeves. "Of course not."

Matt slowed a little, brow furrowed. "Right. Just—sorry, it seemed—"

"Just—" Ruby cut in, voice soft but frayed. "You shouldn't be askin' things like that."

That stung him more than he meant to show. He gave a quick, awkward laugh, running a hand through his wet hair. "Fair enough. Guess I'm stepping outta line."

Ruby kept walking, the silence pressing down again. Her throat felt raw, like the words had scraped coming out.

"I just meant..." Matt tried again, gentler, "Pete didn't look right either, after."

Ruby's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you saw. But there's nothin' to talk about."

Her shoulders hunched smaller; Matt shoved his hands into his coat pockets, wishing he hadn't opened his mouth at all.

They walked on, boots clicking against wet grit, the road narrowing as the terrace blocks pressed closer. Sodium lamps flickered overhead, pooling light that looked more jaundiced than golden. Ruby turned down a side cut, quick and quiet.

"This way," she murmured. "Shorter."

Matt glanced at the alley, at its damp brick walls, bins sagging under black bags, a dog's eye glowing for a moment before it vanished. He swallowed, but followed.

The air was colder here, tighter.

A sudden crash split the dark—glass shattering hard against the wall beside them. Ruby gasped, clutching at her chest. Matt flinched, eyes snapping wide, and both of them wheeled round.

Three men stepped from the shadows. Birmingham fans. The kind Matt recognised at once—their faces flushed, drunk, predatory. One wore a deep green Stone Island jacket with a fur-lined hood, black beanie pulled low. The other two loomed close, grinning in that way that promised nothing good.

Ruby froze. "What the—"

The man in the green coat sneered. "That's him. Saw him earlier. He was with the GSE!"

Ruby blinked, frowning, stomach dropping at the name. Her eyes cut to Matt.

The men surged forward. "Get him!"

Instinct jolted Matt's legs before thought did. He grabbed Ruby's arm and ran. Ruby stumbled once but forced her feet to follow, heart slamming in her chest.

The fans thundered after them, boots slapping the wet ground, shouts echoing off brick.

Ruby and Matt turned a corner, breath ragged. Ruby's lungs burned already; Matt's stride faltered with panic. They weren't fast enough.

Another alley opened up, narrower, darker. They darted in—only to collide with more shadows waiting. Two other men stepped out like the alley itself had spat them forth.

Hands snatched. Ruby cried out, Matt grunted. They were slammed against the wall, breath knocked out of them. Ruby's lip split as her face clipped rough brick.

Everything tilted. Ruby went still. Her body shut down, terror turning her limbs into stone.

Matt panicked, thrashing in the grip pinning him. "Look—I don't want any trouble!" His voice cracked high, desperate.

The man holding him laughed, breath sour. "A fuckin' Yank."

Ruby shook her head hard, words tumbling out. "Don't hurt him—please—"

Another man smirked, turning his eyes on her. "At least this one's British. Pretty, too."

Ruby flinched back into the wall, heart hammering.

The man in the green jacket shoved Matt harder, teeth rattling. "Why's a Yank runnin' with the GSE, eh?"

Ruby's blood iced over. Matt had no idea what that even meant.

"I don't—I don't know anything about a GSE!" Matt gasped. "I'm just a tourist!"

The laughter came again, sharp, cruel. One of the men holding Ruby leaned closer, his grin crooked. "And what about you, love? What are you then?"

Ruby's lips parted, but no sound came. She shook her head once, trembling.

The man restraining Matt grinned wider. "A tourist, huh? In that case..." He unzipped his own jacket slowly. "How's about we leave you with a proper souvenir?"

Ruby's eyes widened, dread crawling ice-cold through her chest. She couldn't even guess what they meant—only that it was bad. Matt tried to buck against the hands pinning him, but they slammed him harder against the wall.

"You ever heard of a Chelsea grin?" the green-jacketed man asked, voice low and mocking.

Matt's eyes went wide. "No—come on, please!" His voice broke.

Ruby whimpered, eyes darting between them, throat thick with terror.

The two men restraining her laughed, their hands pressing too close, one of them sliding across her waist. Ruby's breath stuttered; she recoiled as much as the grip on her arms allowed. "Please—stop—" The words came out small, strangled.

The green-jacketed man pulled out his wallet, as casual as a man paying for a pint. He slid a card free, the blue glint catching the lamp light, before tucking the wallet back. "Do you take American Express?" he jeered, holding it up like a prize.

Matt choked on a sob. "No—no, don't—"

They shoved the card between his teeth, forcing it in until Matt gagged, muffled and wild-eyed. Tears sprang to his eyes as the plastic scraped hard against his gums.

Ruby cried out, "Stop! Please! He doesn't even know—"

The green-jacketed man stepped back, chuckling as another held Matt pinned, card wedged cruel between his teeth. "Bet the Major gave out his shares of Chelsea grins back in the day, eh? Back when the GSE weren't sloppy enough to leave one of their own behind."

Ruby's pulse crashed in her ears. "He doesn't know what the GSE even is! Please—don't hurt him!"

The man's eyes cut to her, sharp and suspicious. "Funny you know the name well enough, love. How familiar are you with the GSE, eh?"

Ruby froze. Too late. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

He stepped closer, voice colder. "You know the new Major personally? 'Cause no one really does."

"I—I don't." Her voice trembled. She shook her head so hard it made her vision swim. "I don't."

The man's grin turned sly. "Don't sound so sure."

He drifted closer until his shadow swallowed her. His hand lifted, slow, deliberate, fingers hovering just a second from her body, from the place that made her stomach drop to the floor.

Ruby's breath locked. She couldn't move.

The man's fingers brushed the waist of Ruby's jeans, tugging lightly at the band. She jolted as if shocked, but her body stayed locked.

He grinned, teeth flashing under the jaundiced lamp. "Bet you're used to lads doin' what they want, eh? Won't take much to remind you where you stand." His breath stank of lager and smoke, hot against her ear.

Ruby's mind split into static. Panic roared so loud inside her that it drowned the world out. She wanted to move, scream, claw him away—but nothing obeyed. She was stone, trapped in her own skin.

Then—

No one saw it coming.

Pete Dunham tore through the alley like a storm.

One hand clamped the back of the man's jacket, yanking him off Ruby as if he weighed nothing. Pete's forehead slammed into his face with a sickening crack. The man howled, blood spraying from his nose, before Pete shoved him to the ground so hard the breath shot out of him.

Ruby gasped. By the time her eyes darted wide again, the whole alley was war.

The rest of the GSE had followed Pete in, spilling into the dark with fists already swinging. Matt staggered as one of the Birmingham lads lunged for him, but Pete grabbed the collar of Matt's jacket and hauled him back just as another GSE man crashed into the nearest Brummies.

It was carnage.

Ruby's head spun as fists met flesh, the crack of bone on bone reverberating off the brick walls. Boots thudded into ribs; someone's head smacked the bins with a hollow clang. The air filled with grunts, shouts, the guttural roar of men who'd been waiting for this.

One of the GSE grabbed a man by the hair, slamming his face repeatedly into the wall until blood painted the brick. Another dragged one down with a crunch, then kicked him savagely in the gut to keep him there.

"Get the fuck up, you coward!" one of them roared, only to punch the poor sod back down before he had the chance.

Ruby's breath caught, chest too tight. She pressed back into the wall, trembling, every instinct telling her to flee but her feet rooted by the spectacle. The fight was too close, too raw, every blow vibrating in her bones.

Matt was pulled toward her, coughing, eyes wide with terror. "Jesus—" he gasped, half-choked.

Pete didn't spare him a look, just shoved him toward Ruby. "Stay behind her. Move!"

But Ruby couldn't move. Not until Pete's hand shot out again, dragging her from where she'd been pressed against the wall. His grip was iron, his body hot through his jacket.

Another Birmingham fan tried to blindside one of the GSE with a broken bottle. The man ducked and swung up hard, knuckles crunching into the bloke's jaw. "You horrible bastard!" he spat as the man dropped, bottle skittering across wet concrete.

Somewhere down the alley, one of the lads shouted, "They're gettin' away!"

"Go! Come on!" another GSE voice barked, slicing through the chaos.

Ruby didn't notice until too late that she'd latched onto Pete's arm—old instinct, old reflex. Her nails dug through his jacket sleeve. She yanked back like she'd been burned, stumbling a step away.

Pete's head turned, eyes catching hers for a split second. His voice rumbled low, urgent: "Don't lose sight of me."

And then he was gone—breaking away to chase, shouting at Matt: "Come on, Yank! Now!"

Matt bolted, tripping over his own feet, scrambling after him. Ruby blinked, the world blurry with adrenaline, unsure if she should follow or collapse where she stood.

"Where the fuck he's gone?" one of the GSE men snarled as they spilled onto the next street corner, breaths ragged.

"Two foot small—slipped it!" another snapped, scanning the shadows.

"Where the fuck is he?" a third spat, furious, knuckles split and bleeding.

"I'm gettin' too old for this shit," one muttered, bending with his hands on his knees. He wiped blood off his brow—she couldn't tell if it was his or someone else's—and groaned. "Seriously. Could use a beer and a lie-down."

Ruby lingered a little back from them, shaking so badly she could hardly feel her hands. They didn't notice—too busy with their own fire.

Then the growl of an engine cut through the air. A battered 2003 white Peugeot Boxer van swung around the corner, headlights bouncing over slick brick and battered bins.

"Oi, lads!" the driver yelled, horn blaring, grin wide under the streetlamp.

"Get it out first!" someone jeered.

"Can't get it out of your mum," another shot back, laughter raw and breathless.

The horn blared again, two sharp honks.

"This has to be financed, though, right?" someone groaned, clutching his ribs but grinning.

Before any of them clambered in, they all looked at Pete.

Ruby saw it clear—the way the entire crew shifted toward him. Even in the chaos, they waited. A single silent moment stretched, the weight of it undeniable.

All of them looked to Pete Dunham.

The van door creaked open and Keith hopped down from the driver's seat, wiping his palms on his jeans. He squinted at Matt first, jerking his chin. "What the fuck happened?"

Matt swallowed, shoulders still shaking. "I was just—walking, man. They came outta nowhere. Swear to God, I was scared to death! Ruby too I guess—" His voice cracked before he forced a shaky laugh.

The new name made them turn their heads.

One by one, the lads swung their attention to the girl. Ruby as Matt as called her. A dozen eyes on her at once. She froze, arms tightening around herself, wishing the bricks might open up and swallow her.

"Oh—Shit—I forgot, presentations." Matt hurried on, words tumbling fast. "This is Ruby. She, uh—she works at that café Steve and Shannon go to. I ran into her on the way back. That's all."

Silence followed, heavy as wet wool.

Then one of them snorted, bloodied lip curling into a grin. "Christ, Yank, you pick up strays now?"

Ruby's stomach lurched.

Another elbowed him, eyes flicking over Ruby from her soaked jacket to her trembling hands. "She don't look like a stray to me."

The banter cracked the tension. Grins spread, cocky now that the danger had passed, bruises turning into badges.

A tall lad stepped forward first, tugging at his collar like he was back in school assembly. His hair was a curly mess, damp from sweat, freckles scattered across his nose. There was a jittery spark in his eyes, boyish and reckless.

"Name's Swill," he said, grin lopsided but warm. "Don't mind the state—don't usually look this pretty after a night out."

The others laughed, voices bouncing off the bricks.

Next came a broader figure, dark hair cropped close, a steadiness about him even with a bruise swelling under his cheekbone. His eyes were dark like his hair and thoughtful in a way the others weren't.

"Dave," he said with a small nod. "Don't mind him. He thinks he's God's gift."

"You're just jealous," Swill shot back, chuckling.

Ruby didn't move. She managed the tiniest nod, throat too tight for sound.

Another lad shifted his weight, rubbing blood from his brow with the heel of his hand. He was slighter than the rest with pin straight hair, a crooked grin half-hidden behind the pain.

"Ned," he said simply. His smile was weak, but his eyes—almost apologetic—held hers just long enough to make her believe he meant it when he added: "Don't worry. We ain't all as scary as we look."

That earned another laugh, this one sharper, edged with nerves.

The next was stocky, wide-shouldered with close-shaved hair, stubble rough across his jaw. "Ike," he said. His trainers were still muddy from the pitch, and Ruby caught the faintest whiff of chocolate as he shifted closer, a bar half-melted in his pocket. "Don't let these mugs fool you. I'm the only normal one 'ere."

Finally, the last one came up last. Heavyset, face flushed from the cold, a Guinness still etched into the lines of his voice. He gave her a grin as casual as if they were meeting at the pub instead of dripping blood into the gutter.

"Keith. Driver, miracle-worker, all-round good bloke. You'll work it out." He jerked his thumb at Ruby, then glanced toward Matt. "Café girl, eh? Steve's spot? Small world."

Ruby's lips parted, but no words came.

"Nice to meet you, Ruby," Dave said at last, and the others echoed it in their own rough, teasing way—some grinning, some just nodding, all of them carrying the charge of curiosity now that her presence had settled.

Ruby forced another nod, her nails biting into her sleeves.

Across the way, Pete hadn't moved. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, his eyes stayed on the group, watching, weighing. He didn't say a word.

Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was low but cut through the damp air like a blade. "You lot head to the Abbey. I'll walk her home."

Silence.

The others stared at him, wide-eyed, like he'd just suggested tea with the Met.

Swill let out a baffled laugh. "Walk her home?"

Dave frowned, wiping blood from his lip. "Since when do you play chaperone, Pete?"

Ruby's pulse kicked against her throat. She kept her eyes glued to the pavement, not daring to move, not daring to speak.

Pete didn't answer. He only shifted, giving a sharp tilt of his head for her to follow.

The lads glanced between one another, snorts and mutters simmering. Then their gazes slid back to Ruby. She still hadn't said a word. Her silence stretched long enough, heavy enough, that the shape of it became its own admission.

Something flickered through their expressions—surprise, dawning suspicion. One by one, they went quiet.

Ruby took a hesitant step forward, then another, falling into line beside Pete like gravity had pulled her there. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, shoulders hunched.

Pete started walking. "Come on," he muttered. Not to the lads, not to Matt—just to her.

She obeyed.

The GSE stood in the alley mouth, watching them go. Blood dripped from split knuckles, boots shifting restlessly against the grit.

Keith gave a low whistle, shaking his head. "Since fuckin' when does Pete Dunham walk a stranger home?"

"Not a stranger, though, is she..." Dave muttered.

Swill blinked, brows knitting. "What, so he does know her?"

"Looked like it to me," Ned grunted.

They all fell quiet for a beat, the puzzle of it hanging in the mist. Then, almost in unison, they turned to Matt.

"Oi, Yank." Keith narrowed his eyes. "You know somethin' we don't?"

Matt held up his hands, still rattled. "Hey, don't look at me. I barely know the guy. Barely know her either. Met her at a café, that's it." He gave a helpless shrug. "I'm as lost as you are."

The lads exchanged looks, a mix of confusion and intrigue.

Meanwhile, Pete and Ruby disappeared into the wet London night, shadows stretching long and silent ahead of them.

The street was wrecked quiet—broken glass glittering under the lamps, the stink of lager still hanging in the air. Ruby's breath came too fast, too shallow. She was still trembling, the aftershock buzzing in her hands.

Pete slowed his stride until he was level with her.

She shook her head, eyes locked on the pavement. "You shouldn't bother."

His jaw twitched. "Should've bothered years ago."

The words snagged in the air between them, sharp enough to cut. Ruby's chest cinched, but she didn't answer. She kept walking, trainers squeaking in the wet.

The sodium lamps buzzed overhead, painting everything in a sickly yellow. Silence stretched so tight it might've snapped.

Pete tried again, voice low. "You didn't tell me you came back."

Ruby's shoulders hunched. "Don't."

That shut it down. For a block, only the drip of gutters and the scuff of their boots filled the space. Pete looked down at her once, quick, then away, his hands jammed in his pockets.

Finally, it broke.

"You could at least pretend," he said, the edge in his voice sharpening. "Pretend you know me. Instead of actin' like I'm some fuckin' stranger."

Ruby stopped walking. She stared at the ground, voice tight. "You shouldn't be draggin' Matt into this. He's just off the plane."

Pete huffed, shoulders lifting in a rough shrug. "I didn't drag him into nothin', did I? Steve stitched me up. Wanted his big date night with Shannon, so I had to bring the Yank along. Even slipped me some cash—told me to buy him a pint, make him feel welcome."

Ruby's laugh was bitter, small. "Right. So he paid you to babysit him." Her gaze flicked up, sharp. "You lot ain't exactly starvin', Pete. Steve throwin' money around so he can have his night out, you takin' it so some poor sod can get his head kicked in for your club." She looked at him then, properly, her eyes burning. "Fists, pride, bloody brotherhood...and now you're takin' pocket money on top. And look where it's got you."

Pete's jaw clenched, breath flaring through his nose. "Better than runnin'," he muttered.

Ruby flinched. The silence roared back in.

They walked on, side by side but never touching. The sodium lamps buzzed overhead, pools of jaundiced light breaking the dark, then vanishing as soon as they stepped past.

After a while Pete cleared his throat, rough. "How've you been?"

Ruby's fingers tightened inside her sleeves. "...Fine."

Just that. Flat, clipped. But the word trembled, because fine was the word you used when nothing was. And they both knew it. The way Pete's eyes flicked toward her made it clear he was asking something else altogether: How've you been since then?

Ruby kept her gaze fixed on the pavement.

Pete let out a small sound, half a laugh with no humour in it. "Workin' at that café long?"

"Six months." Her voice was thin, cautious. "Not more."

"Six months." He nodded once, like he was filing it away.

They reached a corner. Ruby jerked her chin to the left. "This way."

Pete followed without question. It was her path, not his; he didn't even know where she lived now.

Ruby broke it this time, surprising herself. "How long've you been Major?" The word tasted strange in her mouth, like it didn't belong.

Pete's lips curved, not into a smile but something more defensive. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to her and away again. "Not the Major." He shrugged, hands buried in his coat pockets. "Don't even know if I want it."

Ruby gave a tiny nod, unsure if she believed him.

They passed under another lamp, light spilling over his profile—hard jaw, eyes shadowed. He glanced at her again, and for a moment his mouth softened.

"Still the same, ain't you, princess—"

"Don't—" Ruby froze, her breath catching. She shook her head quickly, almost violently. "Don't call me that. Not anymore."

Pete stopped dead in his tracks. For a second his face cracked, like the years between them had fallen away, like he'd forgotten how heavy the word could be. He nodded once, curt, forcing his shoulders square again. "Right."

Ruby kept walking, eyes down, guiding them toward another turn. He followed, boots scuffing the grit, the weight of unspoken things pressing heavier with every step.

Her voice broke the silence at last, bitter enough to sting. "What now, then? Gonna get shit-faced at the Abbey? Smash a few glasses, bloody something up just for old time's sake?"

"Shit-faced..." Pete repeated and scoffed.

Ruby stopped dead, head snapping up, her glare like knives under the lamplight. For a moment neither of them breathed. Pete looked away first, spitting the taste of regret onto the pavement.

They reached her building in silence, the bricks dark with rain. The weak bulb over the door buzzed, throwing light over her pale face and trembling hands as she dug for her keys. Metal scraped metal; the ring jangled too loud in the quiet street. She fumbled, swore under her breath, then finally found the right one.

Pete lingered on the kerb, shoulders squared but weighted. His gaze stayed fixed on her—like he wanted to speak, to drag something honest out of the space between them. The words never came.

Ruby shoved the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. She didn't invite him. Didn't even glance back.

The door closed with a hollow click.

Inside, the narrow hallway smelled of dust and boiled cabbage from a neighbour's pot. Ruby pressed her back against the door, breath snagging. Her hands shook so hard she had to curl them into fists. The wood was cold at her spine, but it was solid, and that was all she needed.

Outside, Pete's boots scraped once against the pavement, then faded into the wet night.

Ruby let her eyes fall shut. The silence in her flat was deafening.

She pushed herself away from the door, hands still trembling, and dropped her bag onto the narrow hallway table with a thud. Her keys clattered next to it, loud in the small space. For a moment she stood there, staring at the chipped wallpaper, breath still snagging in her throat. Then she moved quickly as if standing still too long would let the weight of the night crush her.

She yanked open the kitchen drawer, half-empty and cluttered with takeaway menus and elastic bands. Her fingers clawed through it until they closed on the packet. Cigarettes, crumpled, nearly done. She fumbled with the lighter, sparks catching on the third try, and drew the smoke into her lungs so fast it burned.

The exhale came out shaky. She pressed her forehead against the cool laminate cupboard door, letting the nicotine spread through her bloodstream like a sedative. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, ghosting against the faint yellow of the bulb overhead.

She cracked the window, letting the drizzle creep in with the London air, acrid and wet.

She smoked the first one down to the filter, stubbed it in a chipped saucer on the sill, then lit another. Her fingers steadied by the second drag. She hated herself for needing it—hated herself more for how badly she did.

Routine saved her. That was what the counsellor had said. So Ruby clung to it. She peeled herself from the window, kicked her boots off by the door, lined them neatly against the skirting board like proof she was in control. Jacket hung on the peg. Bag slumped into the chair.

In the bathroom, she ran the tap until steam clouded the cracked mirror. She brushed her teeth too hard, spat. Splashed her face with cold water, then patted it dry with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender fabric softener. Vanilla and ash—her life in two scents.

Back in the living room, she let herself collapse into the couch, one hand wrapped around her third cigarette, the smoke curling into the low light of the lamp. The telly sat dark, reflection catching her pale outline, but she didn't switch it on.

Her eyes drifted to the mantelpiece.

The photograph was there, as it always had been. A cheap frame, corners nicked, glass clouded slightly with age. It had survived moves, clear-outs, two relapse that nearly destroyed everything else.

Ruby stared.

Two children stared back: a boy with a grin too wide for his face, arms locked around a girl who looked half-shy, half-ready to laugh. Blonde fringe falling into her eyes, denim jacket sleeves too long. His chin rested on her shoulder, that lopsided grin saying the whole world belonged to him. They looked untouchable in that way kids did—untouched by time, by bruises, by the things they couldn't even yet name.

Her and Pete. Age four and six.

Her cigarette burned low between her fingers, ash threatening to spill. She barely noticed.

She thought of Pete tonight: jaw sharp under the sodium lamp, voice rough with anger, eyes shadowed with years she hadn't seen. The same boy, and not.

She leaned forward, set the cigarette in the saucer, and folded herself onto the couch, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Her gaze didn't move from the photograph.

She didn't cry. There were no tears left in her for him. Just that aching disbelief—how could two children pressed together on a summer's afternoon, denim on grass, ever become the strangers who walked the streets tonight?

The silence thickened. The lamp hummed. She pressed her cheek to her knees, eyes still fixed on the picture, as if staring hard enough might summon those children back.

She stayed like that for a long time, staring at the frame, the smoke curling and dying in the saucer.

── .⚽︎⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The pub throbbed with heat and noise, a different world entirely.

The Abbey was alive tonight: walls sweated with condensation, every table buried under empty pint glasses, and the air was a ragged mess of shouting, singing, and the hollow smack of hands on wood. Cigarette smoke hung low despite the cracked windows, weaving into the tang of stale beer and fried onions.

Matt sat wedged between Ike and Ned at the booth, their laughter ringing in his ears. He didn't catch half the jokes—they slurred together, thick with East End vowels—but he laughed anyway, swept along in the tide. Every so often he glanced across the table at Pete, who held court with his usual swagger, pint sloshing dangerously in his hand.

Pete was drunk. Not sloppy, but loud—the kind of drunk that made his voice sharper, his grin wider, his shoulders spread like he owned the room. Every story ended in a roar of approval, every jab landed easy. His mates leaned in when he spoke, the younger lads bright-eyed, hungry for his attention.

Bovver, naturally, tried to top him—snapping at the edges, cutting into every story with his own version—but Pete swatted him down with a laugh, the others joining in until Bovver simmered quiet, nursing his drink.

Matt nursed his own, slower, letting the foam cling to the glass while he watched. He wasn't used to this kind of energy—so much loyalty built on bruised knuckles and late-night pints—but something about it had a gravity, a pull. He could almost understand why Pete called it family. Almost.

The jukebox wheezed out a Stone Roses track. Voices rose with it. Keith pounded the table in rhythm, spilling half his pint, and everyone howled.

Pete downed the last of his beer, slammed the glass down, and stood. "Right!" he said, voice carrying easy over the din. "My round."

A cheer went up, half in jest, half in gratitude. Pete smirked and made for the bar, swagger in every step.

Matt watched him go, shoulders broad under the pub's dim lights. He'd never known anyone who filled space the way Pete did—like the walls bent themselves to make room for him.

At the bar, Pete leaned against the sticky counter, waving a note at the barman. His laughter dimmed to something quieter, private. He dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet—a worn, battered leather thing, fraying at the corners.

He thumbed through the notes, then paused.

Tucked behind the folded cash, flattened with age, was a photograph.

Pete's hand stilled. The noise of the pub blurred, muffled, as he drew it out with careful fingers.

Ruby.

She was younger here, sixteen. Hair loose over her shoulders, eyes wide, caught in that moment between girl and woman.

Pete stared at it, everything else bleeding away.

He remembered the day he'd taken it. A summer afternoon, long before things went to hell. He'd had some shoddy disposable camera in his pocket, and she'd rolled her eyes when he pulled it out—don't be daft, Pete—but she hadn't moved, hadn't turned away. The shutter had clicked, and the image had burned itself into his life.

When she'd gone missing at sixteen, he'd carried it everywhere. Showed it to anyone who might have seen her—blokes in pubs, coppers on corners, neighbours leaning over garden fences. Have you seen her? He'd said it until his voice cracked.

The photo had never left his wallet since. A charm. A wound. Both.

Behind him, Matt had drifted up, half-curious, half-looking for fresh air from the crush of the booth. He froze when he caught sight of the picture, the pale oval of Ruby's face in Pete's hand.

His brows furrowed. He knew that face.

Ruby.

For a moment, Matt stood stunned. The same Ruby who worked at the café, who barely met anyone's eyes, who'd looked at Pete like he'd cracked the earth under her feet. Her picture, tucked into Pete's wallet.

Matt's throat dried. Questions crowded his tongue, but before he could open his mouth Pete shoved the picture back, snapped the wallet shut, and shoved it deep into his pocket.

The bartender slid pints across the counter. Foam slopped over the rims. Pete scooped them up, jaw tight.

Matt hesitated. "Was that—"

"Grab a tray," Pete cut him off, not looking his way.

Matt did, fumbling, his heart beating too loud for the noise around him. He carried the first load of glasses back, still frowning.

Pete lingered at the bar for a second longer, the weight of the wallet heavy against his hip. He dragged in a breath, squared his shoulders, and turned back to the pub.

The roar swallowed him again, easy as ever.

Matt slid into the booth with the others, setting down the tray. They cheered, pulling pints free, toasting, spilling half on the table. Pete arrived moments later with the rest, grin back in place, loud as before.

Only Matt noticed the tension in his shoulders. Only Matt kept glancing at his pocket, the memory of Ruby's face burning bright in his mind.

The photograph had said more than Pete ever would.