You're already halfway home when the sky decides it's had enough of your bullshit.

It doesn't start gradually — none of that polite warning drizzle. One second it's just damp, the next it's like someone tipped the entire goddamn ocean over your head.

You're soaked through in seconds. Seconds.

Your jacket is useless. Your hair is plastered to your face. You can feel the cold seeping into your bones like an unwanted guest who refuses to leave.

(Perfect. Absolutely perfect.)

Your phone buzzes once in your pocket — then dies. The screen goes black like a dramatic exit in a bad movie.

You want to scream. You settle for a string of creative curses under your breath instead.

That's when you see it. A phone box. Tucked between a closed-down convenience store and a graffiti-tagged wall, its light flickering weakly like it's trying to stay alive.

Fuck yes. Thank you, universe. I take back everything bad I said about you.

You lunge for it, yank the door open, dive inside—

And slam directly into something solid. Warm. Alive.

The door clicks shut behind you. The handle doesn't budge when you shove at it.

Oh no.

You turn around slowly. There's barely enough room in here for one person, let alone two. Your chest is pressed against his. Your knees are touching his thighs. You can feel his breath on your face — sharp, startled, warm.

And then you look up.

(Oh fuck. OH FUCK.)

He's beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. Sharp jaw, big dark eyes wide with surprise, lips slightly parted, wet black hair clinging to his forehead. He's wearing a hoodie that's already soaked at the shoulders, and he's holding a convenience store bag like it's the most precious thing in the world.

The phone box light buzzes faintly above you both, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow.