Southside Of London

That Dingy Bar

I stand outside this dingy bar on the Southside of London that my sister insisted we go to tonight, and of course, it's raining. I should have predicted that. It rains almost every night here, which is just ridiculous. I look back down at my phone as the raindrops soak the screen trying to figure out how the hell to get back to my apartment. My frustration begins to mount when suddenly I no longer feel the rain falling on my head, despite it continuing to pour in the streets. Looking up, I realize an umbrella has opened above me. When I turn to my left, I'm met with a breathtaking sight: piercing blue eyes set in a face framed by artfully disheveled dark brown hair—the kind of carefully crafted "I woke up like this" look that seems effortless yet meticulously planned. His well-groomed stubble traces the lines of his jaw, complemented by ripped black jeans and a blue denim jacket over a crisp white t-shirt.

"Not used to the usual London weather?" He grins, his smile both charming and slightly challenging.

"Not even a little bit," I respond with a hesitant smile. He's standing uncomfortably close, and I inch slightly to the left, only to have my shoulder immediately exposed to the cold rain.

"Where are you from then, love?" he asks, his English accent heavy and distinctive. It sounds different from the typical London dialect—more nuanced, with an edge that sets it apart from the surrounding urban soundscape. I look at him quizzically, wondering why I'm about to divulge where I'm from to this attractive stranger.

"New York." He laughs softly, his eyes dancing with amusement at my obvious displacement.

"You're a long way from home then. You're lucky it's me who found ya and not some creep," he says with a chuckle that hints at both humor and something more enigmatic.

"And why exactly does that make me lucky?" I challenge, looking him up and down. "For all I know, you could be a murderer."

"Because, love, I am the most charming guy in all of London... I bet you've heard of me," he declares with a cocky tone that borders on absurdity.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?" Who the hell does this guy think he is? The skepticism in my voice is unmistakable. Standing alone in the rain suddenly seems more appealing than entertaining this bizarre encounter.

He raises an eyebrow in disbelief, feigning offense, before that gorgeous, infuriating smirk reappears—challenging, mysterious, and utterly captivating.

"I'm Louis Tomlinson. Does that ring a bell, by any chance? He says in a sort of cocky tone. I scrutinize his face, trying to place the name that he's clearly expecting me to recognize. The name hangs in the air between us, laden with an expectation I'm not sure I can meet. His cocky smile widens, a mixture of confidence and challenge dancing in his blue eyes, waiting for my reaction. Then it clicks.

"Oh, wait weren't you in that boy band when you were younger? I ask, my tone deliberately casual. "Was it One addition or something like that?"

He lets out an exaggerated gasp, his hand dramatically pressed against his chest in a mock display of wounded pride. "Did you just call One Direction 'that boy band'?" The performance is Oscar-worthy—part genuine offense. "Ouch. You're making me feel quite old," he dramatically laments, though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

Now that he's mentioned the name, a distant memory surfaces. I let out a laugh—louder and more unexpected than I'd intended. "Yeah, that's it, One Direction. They used to be pretty big back in the day. You can't be that Louis," I declare, punctuating my skepticism by placing a hand on my hip.

He laughs again, shaking his head. "Oh, but I assure you that I am. How can I prove it to you?" The challenge is clear in his voice, a playful glint dancing in his blue eyes.