#agegapifyousquint

No destination. No plan. Just boots hitting pavement, one after the other, letting the city swallow him whole. Letting the noise of London try—and fail—to drown out the echo of everything still sitting heavy in his chest.

It didn’t work.

It never really did.

So eventually, when the thoughts got too loud—too sharp, too close—he made a decision.

A hard dampener.

The first pub he saw, he stepped into.

It was warm inside.

Dim lighting, amber-toned, the kind that softened edges and made everything feel a little less real. Conversations hummed low, laughter bubbled somewhere near the dartboards, glasses clinked in a steady rhythm behind the bar.

Normal.

God, it was normal.

Price took a seat at the far end of the bar without a word, automatically positioning himself with his back to the wall, eyes on the room.

Habit.

Instinct.

Survival.

After everything he’d seen—everything he’d done—awareness wasn’t something he could switch off. It was stitched into him now, woven deep into muscle memory and bone.

He ordered a whiskey. Neat.

Then another.

And another.

He was halfway through his third, nursing it more than drinking it, head slightly bowed—an image of someone keeping to himself.

Except he wasn’t.

Not really.

He was watching.

Always watching.

The couple in the corner booth practically devouring each other—Price wasn’t sure how they were still breathing.

Three booths down, another pair sat stiff across from each other, tension thick enough to cut through. Pretending not to argue, which somehow made it worse.

A group of older men tucked into the far corner, hunched over what looked like cards—poker, maybe. Quiet, deliberate. The kind of men who had stories they didn’t tell.

And the rest of the pub—half full, half loud, alive in that careless way civilians got to be.

Outside, rain had started to fall.

Not a drizzle—no, London was putting its back into it tonight. Heavy sheets against the windows, streaking down the glass in uneven lines.

Price’s gaze lingered there for a moment, tracking the movement of a single drop as it raced the others—

The bell above the door chimed.

His head snapped up.

Instinct.

Always instinct.

And then—

There you were.

Rain-soaked despite your best efforts. Your hair clung to your face, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and jaw as you stepped inside, muttering something under your breath as you wrestled your umbrella closed.

You shook it out near the door, shrugging off your coat with a small huff, clearly unimpressed with the weather.

Price’s eyes tracked you before he could stop himself.

A single drop of water slid from your hair, down the curve of your neck, disappearing beneath your collar.

His grip tightened slightly around his glass.

He looked away.

He should have looked away.

You didn’t head toward the dartboard crowd—the loud, easy laughter kind of people. The kind of people who looked like they didn’t carry anything heavier than a bad day.

You waved toward the bar instead.

“Bobby! I need something strong!”

Your voice cut clean through the noise, familiar, easy—like you belonged here.

Price’s gaze flicked back despite himself.

You were already moving, eyes scanning the room quickly, assessing—quick, sharp, observant.

He made an assumption.

You’d take the open seat closer to the two men a few stools down. They’d already noticed you, turning slightly, interest written plainly across their faces.

But something in their gaze—something you didn’t like—

You pivoted.

And just like that, you were heading his way.

You slid into the seat one over from him, leaving a single stool between you.

Deliberate.

A buffer.

You shrugged out of your outer layer, draping it over the back of the stool, rolling your shoulders slightly like you were shaking off more than just the rain.

Bobby—the Bobby, apparently—appeared in front of you without needing to be called again, already pouring your drink.

Whiskey sour.

Price clocked it instantly.

“What’s the occasion tonight, Y/N?” Bobby asked, sliding the glass toward you.

You leaned forward onto your elbows, fingers wrapping around the drink like you’d been waiting for it.

“I’m drowning my sorrows, Bobby.”

There was a dry edge to your smile. Practiced. Familiar.

Price found himself watching you again.

This time, he didn’t look away as quickly.

“What for?” Bobby prompted.

“Terrible date?”

You shot him a look—sharp, unimpressed.

“Please. I’d take a terrible date over this.”

You took a sip, then exhaled slowly, like you were bracing yourself.

“My editor squashed another story.”

Bobby winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, swirling your drink slightly. “Five months of research. Five. Months. Chasing leads, digging through records, maybe—maybe—bending a few minor laws—”

Price’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

“—and for what?” you continued, your voice tightening just a fraction. “Because Bruce thinks it’ll ‘rock the cradle too much.’”

You scoffed, sharp and humorless.

“What a bastard.”

Bobby let out a low breath through his nose, already shaking his head like this was a familiar tune.

“A bastard indeed.” He leaned one forearm against the bar for a second, eyeing you in that way that said he’d seen this exact version of you before—frustrated, wired, running on fumes. “You eat today—” he paused, squinting slightly, “—what am I saying, of course you didn’t.”

You didn’t even argue.

Just took another sip.

“I’ll put something in for you,” he decided, already turning away toward the kitchen before you could protest.

Price looked away then.

Not because he wasn’t interested.

But because he was.

And that was already more than he’d intended when he walked in.

His gaze returned to the room, slipping back into habit—tracking movement, noting exits, cataloguing faces without thinking about it.

But you—

You didn’t disappear into the background like everything else.

Not quite.

You leaned forward again, digging into your bag with a quiet huff of irritation.

Out came a worn notepad, the edges softened from use. Then a pack of cigarettes, flicked onto the bar beside you without much thought. Then… more digging.

Your movements got sharper.

Faster.

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath, frustration bleeding into the word.

Price’s attention shifted back before he could stop it.

“Bobby, you got a pen?” you called, glancing up—only to find him already tied up with someone at the other end of the bar.

You let out a heavy sigh, dropping your head for a second before dragging a hand down your face.

“Jesus, Y/N…” you murmured to yourself, voice lower now, edged with annoyance. “What kind of journalist doesn’t carry a pen?”

You kept digging.

“And BBC would have a field day with that—strip your credentials, take your badge, public humiliation—”

Your bag gave a soft thud against the bar as you shifted it, clearly coming up empty.

“—brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Price watched for a second longer than he should have.

Not obvious.

Not enough to draw attention.

But enough.

You were… sharp.

Not just in what you said—but how you moved. Quick. Intentional. Your eyes had that same edge he recognized in operatives, in soldiers—people who noticed things.

People who didn’t miss much.

People who didn’t belong entirely to places like this.

His fingers moved before he fully thought it through.

A quiet decision.

He slipped a hand into the inside of his coat, retrieving a pen—simple, unremarkable, the kind he always kept on him.

Prepared.

Always prepared.

He extended it toward you without a word.

You stilled mid-search.

Your head snapped up, eyes landing first on the pen—then following it up to him.

There was a flicker of surprise there.

Quick.

Gone just as fast.

You blinked once, like you were recalibrating, then reached out to take it.

Your fingers brushed his.

Brief.

But not nothing.

“Oh—” you let out a small breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Well… thank you.”

Your lips curved—not quite a full smile, but close enough to feel real.

“I appreciate it. I’m apparently grossly ill-prepared today.”

There was a beat.

And then—

You didn’t immediately look away.

Price held your gaze.

Steady. Quiet. Assessing in that way that wasn’t unkind—but wasn’t soft either.

Up close, you could see it clearer.

The weight in him.

The kind that didn’t come from bad days or long weeks, but something heavier. Something that settled deep and stayed there.

His voice, when it came, was low.

Roughened slightly from disuse—and the whiskey.

“Happens.”

One word.

Simple.

Grounded.

It sat between you for a second longer than it should have.

You shook your head, huffing out a quiet breath as you shoved your cigarettes back into your pocket.

“Not to me, normally,” you muttered, more to yourself than him at first, your pen already moving across the page in quick, sharp strokes. “But I am incredibly annoyed today, which apparently leaves me frazzled—”

You paused, your mouth twisting as you searched for the right word.

“—which wouldn’t even be the case if my boss wasn’t a…”

You trailed off.

Not because you didn’t have the word.

Because you had too many.

Price didn’t miss the opening.

Didn’t hesitate, either.

“A coward,” he said, voice even, eyes still on you, “and a bastard.”

Your head snapped toward him again.

Fast.

Too fast to be anything but instinct.

And there it was—that spark.

Your eyes lit, something sharp and delighted cutting straight through the frustration.

“Precisely!”

The word came out almost triumphant.

Like he’d passed something.

You shifted in your seat without thinking, angling your body toward him now, the barrier of that empty stool suddenly feeling more like a suggestion than a boundary.

Your journal flipped open again, pages already crowded with notes and scribbles, ink layered over ink in a way that made it clear this wasn’t just a hobby.

This was how your brain worked.

Fast. Relentless. Always moving.

Price watched your hand for a moment—the way you wrote like you were chasing your own thoughts, trying to catch them before they got away.

“—he didn’t used to be like that, you know,” you continued, already talking again like the conversation had been yours all along. Like he hadn’t been a stranger thirty seconds ago. “He used to have some damn integrity. A hunger for the truth—”

You scoffed softly, shaking your head as your pen scratched harder against the page.

“—but now? Now he’s indulged in the absolute soul-selling, demonic practice of politics and has lost every last semblance of a spine.”

There was heat in your voice.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… real.

The kind that came from caring too much about something you couldn’t quite fix.

Price took a slow sip of his whiskey.

Let the burn settle.

Let the quiet stretch—just long enough that it didn’t feel empty… but deliberate.

Then—

“That tends to happen,” he said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Truth doesn’t make many friends.”

You scoffed, but this time it wasn’t sharp.

More… amused.

“Yeah—no kidding,” you muttered, your pen moving again as you crossed something out, then circled another line two, three times over like you were trying to trap the thought in place.

Your brow furrowed.

Then—

You stilled.

Something clicked.

Your head snapped up toward him again, expression shifting—just a fraction.

Awareness.

“Oh—” you straightened slightly, a hint of a sheepish smile tugging at your mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

You turned more fully toward him now, like you were finally acknowledging what had been building between you for the last several minutes.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

You stuck your hand out toward him—confident, easy, like introductions were something you owned.

Price’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand.

Then back up to your face.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He set his glass down, then reached out, his hand closing around yours—firm, steady.

Warm.

“John Price.”

Your grip matched his.

Not delicate.

Not hesitant.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, John,” you said, releasing his hand, your tone lighter now—but still threaded with that same restless energy. “And thank you again for the pen.”

You glanced down at your notes, then back at him, one brow lifting slightly.

“And if you’d like me to shut up, please feel free to say so. I know I tend to talk a lot.”

A small shrug.

“I’ve been told multiple times. Something I never quite outgrew, apparently.”

Price’s mouth twitched again.

This time, it lingered a fraction longer.

Before he could answer, Bobby reappeared, sliding a basket down in front of you—fish and chips, hot, the smell of it cutting clean through the air.

“That’s an understatement, Y/N,” Bobby said dryly. “You could outtalk a damn auctioneer.”

You didn’t even miss a beat.

Just grinned, already reaching for the vinegar and salt.

“Damn right I could, Bobby.”

You shook the vinegar over the chips with enthusiasm, like you hadn’t eaten in hours—which, judging by Bobby’s earlier comment… you probably hadn’t.

Bobby’s eyes flicked between you and Price.

Quick.

Assessing.

There was a look there—subtle, knowing.

He knocked his knuckles once against the bar.

Then turned away.

“Thanks, Bobby!” you called after him, entirely unbothered.

You grabbed a chip, blew on it quickly, then popped it into your mouth—sighing softly like it might’ve been the best thing you’d tasted all day.

Then—

You turned back to Price.

Like the conversation had never paused.

“So,” you said, swallowing, tilting your head just slightly. “Do you?”

Price arched a brow.

“Want me to shut up?” you clarified, gesturing vaguely with your chip before pointing it at him like it was part of your argument.

There was a beat.

Price leaned back just slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the bar, his gaze settling on you in that same steady, unreadable way.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t rush to fill the space.

He just… looked at you.

Taking you in.

The way you spoke without hesitation.

The way your mind moved faster than most people could keep up with.

The way you didn’t seem particularly concerned with how you were perceived.

“No.”

Simple.

Certain.

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Don’t mind it,” he added after a moment, his voice low, even. “Gives me something to listen to.”

You hummed, pleased with that answer—far more than you probably should’ve been.

There was a flicker of something in your expression. Satisfaction. Amusement. Maybe even a little curiosity.

Then you shifted the basket of fish and chips toward the empty space between you.

An offering.

Casual.

But not meaningless.

“Chip?” you asked, nudging it slightly closer to him. “I don’t know what Gregory does back there in the kitchen, but his chips are top notch.”

Price glanced down at the basket.

Then back at you.

A beat.

He reached in and took one.

You smiled like you’d just won something.

“So, John…” you continued, propping your elbow against the bar, your chin resting lightly against your knuckles as you looked at him—really looked at him this time. “I think you’ve gathered I’m a journalist.”

A small tilt of your head.

“What do you do?”

There it was.

Direct.

Curious.

Unapologetic.

Price didn’t answer immediately.

He chewed slowly, buying himself a second—two.

Weighing.

Measuring.

Then, calm as anything—

“I’m in security.”

Your brows arched almost instantly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Price tracked it without meaning to.

The shift.

The interest.

“Security…” you repeated, dragging the word out slightly, like you were testing it. “That seems kind of vague.”

His gaze held yours.

Steady.

Unmoved.

“What was the story your editor killed?” he asked instead.

Deflection.

Clean.

Effortless.

Your smirk deepened.

Oh—you clocked that.

Absolutely.

You could’ve pushed.

You should’ve pushed.

That was your job, wasn’t it?

Pull threads. Ask questions. Don’t let people redirect you.

And yet—

For some reason—

You let it slide.

Instead, you shifted.

You stood just slightly, sliding off your stool—only to settle onto the one directly beside him.

Closer.

Close enough that the space between you disappeared entirely, replaced by the shared warmth of proximity and the faint brush of your sleeve against his coat.

You dragged the basket with you, placing it between you both like it had always belonged there.

Price didn’t move.

Didn’t lean away.

Didn’t comment.

But something in him sharpened.

You launched back in without hesitation.

“Corruption piece,” you said, already flipping your journal toward you again, pen moving as you spoke. “Local government contracts—misallocated funds, shell companies, a few very creative accounting practices.”

Your voice picked up speed, energy threading back through it like you’d found your rhythm again.

“I had sources—good ones. Documents too, not just hearsay. Enough to make it stick if it had gone to print.”

You huffed, shaking your head.

“But apparently we’re not in the business of making powerful people uncomfortable anymore.”

Price listened.

Really listened.

Not just nodding along—tracking what you were saying, how you were saying it.

The details you emphasized.

The ones you skipped.

“Risky,” he said after a moment.

You snorted softly.

“Yeah, well. So is crossing the street in London.”

You reached for another chip, dipping it absentmindedly before pointing it at him slightly.

“Difference is, one of those things actually matters.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chip.

Then back to your face.

“You don’t strike me as someone who backs down easily,” he said.

You paused mid-motion.

Just for a second.

Then you smiled.

Slower this time.

Less sharp.

More… honest.

"I don't," you admitted. "Which is probably why I'm currently drinking my dinner instead of celebrating a front-page story. My plan was to come here, regroup, find another way in to MAKE my boss print the story. But it seems I've found something else to interest me."

John took another fry. "Oh yeah? What's that, love?"

"You." You said it without missing a beat.

John froze for just a moment, then his eyes met yours again. You were smirking… you were really smirking.

"You smoke, John?" you asked.

His eyebrow arched. "Yeah."

"Great. Come have a smoke with me."

You downed your drink in one go, called over your shoulder to Bobby that you'd be back, and sauntered out—not even looking back to see if John was following you.

He was.

He downed his own drink and followed you.

You were leaning against the wall near the garden of the pub, sheltered from the rain by an awning. You held a cigarette between your lips, and your lighter wasn't cooperating. John watched for a moment as the lighter refused to catch, and then he stepped forward, pulling his own from his pocket. He moved up beside you—far too close—and struck his lighter. The flame flickered to life, and he cupped his hand around it against the wind, holding it steady to light your cigarette.

A far too tempting smile appeared on your lips as you inhaled, then exhaled a puff of smoke and met his eyes. You extended your pack of cigarettes to him, lid popped.

John's gaze dropped to the offered pack, then back to your face. He plucked a cigarette from it with thick fingers, and you noticed the calluses, the scars across his knuckles. Working hands. Dangerous hands.

"Ta," he murmured, voice low and rough as gravel.

You held up your lighter—finally cooperating now, of course—but John was already leaning in. He dipped his head toward your cigarette, the tip of his nearly touching yours as he drew the flame from your ember. The orange glow illuminated the sharp planes of his face, the scruff along his jaw, the intensity in those blue eyes as they held yours through the thin veil of smoke between you.

He pulled back slowly. Too slowly. Close enough that you could smell him—whiskey and something woodsy, clean but unmistakably masculine.

"Efficient," you said, your voice coming out lower than you'd intended.

"Waste not." The corner of his mouth twitched. He took a drag, exhaled to the side—a gentleman's gesture that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd blown the smoke right in your face.

"Smart." You grinned. "So, John…" Your tone lighter now, conversational. "Got plans tonight? Or were you planning to drink your night away in that pub same as me?"

"That was the plan," he admitted, his voice steady as he took another drag.

His eyes moved too, now. Tracking you in the same way. Measured. Deliberate.

"Well," you said, like it was nothing, like you weren't absolutely aware of the shift in the air between you, "this place gets busy in about half an hour."

Casual. Too casual.

"Oh?"

His brow lifted slightly.

You leaned back against the wall again, taking another slow drag before exhaling, your eyes still locked on his.

"There's a late crowd," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the pub behind you. "Gets louder. More people. Less… space."

A small pause.

Your gaze dipped—just briefly—to his mouth.

Then back up.

"If you're not in the mood for the crowd… I know a quieter place. If you're interested."

John took his time with that. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled slowly, let the silence stretch between you like a test.

"Quieter," he repeated. Not quite a question.

"Mmm." You tapped ash from your cigarette, watching it scatter in the wind. "Better acoustics."

"For what?"

"Conversation." You met his eyes. "What else?"

The corner of his mouth pulled—barely. "What else," he echoed.

He was still watching you with that unreadable expression, the kind that made you wonder if he was three steps ahead or just patient enough to let you keep talking.

"So?" you prompted.

"Depends." He took another drag. "How far?"

"Ten-minute walk. Maybe less."

"In the rain."

"It's just water, John."

"That a yes or no?"

You smiled. "That's a 'settle your tab and find out.'"

Something shifted in his expression—decision made, maybe, or at least the beginning of one. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and gestured toward the door.