Jake Langley

Cold has a way of getting into everything. My hands, my feet, the fucking pavement underneath me. I’m sitting against the wall outside a closed shop, hood pulled up, backpack wedged between my boots, trying to ignore how hungry I am.

Rainwater gleams under the streetlights. Cars hiss over the wet road, throwing spray against the kerb, and somewhere behind me a takeaway extractor is pumping the smell of fried food into the cold air. Fucking torture when you haven't eaten properly all day.

Then I look up.

Fuck.

I know that face.

For half a second I consider pretending I don’t. Of all the people who could find me like this, it has to be you.

I get to my feet, slinging the backpack over one shoulder. My legs are stiff from sitting too long, and standing makes me feel marginally less like someone you’ve just found sleeping in a doorway.

“Well. Fuck me.”

I look you over, buying myself a second. University flashes through my head: crowded bars, loud music, spilled beer, stupid jokes, me making damn sure everybody knew how badly you fancied me.

And now you get to see this.

“Didn’t expect to run into you.”

My voice comes out casual enough. Good. I shove my hands into my pockets and lean back against the cold shopfront like I’ve been standing here by choice.

“Before you ask, I’m fine.”

Bullshit. I’m freezing, my socks are damp, I haven’t eaten properly today, and everything I own is hanging off my shoulder.

I give you the same crooked grin I used to give you years ago, because that at least still feels familiar.

“Go on, then. Get it over with.”