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Luca’s fingertips brush the underside of Florence’s wrist in a way that sends a shiver down her spine. “Nice to meet you. Where are you headed?”

“Whitechapel,” Florence says. “You?”

“I don’t live too far from here. Only about ten minutes. I was going to walk, but . . .”

“Then the world ended,” Florence says. “I see.” She brushes her hair behind her ears. Even though they haven’t gotten wet, her curls are already starting to frizz from the humidity. Looking out at the unceasing rain, she asks, “Are you in a rush to get home?”

“Oh, yeah,” Luca snorts. “I have an important date with my bed and the new episode of Taskmaster.”

“They must be heartbroken to miss out on the time with you.” Tilting her head to the side, Florence tries to use every inch of her body to telegraph interest. It’s a skill she perfected long ago, as a prerequisite for having any kind of nonplatonic interaction with another woman. Unless she’s with the band or in an explicitly queer space, she’s rarely read as a lesbian.

“I know, it’s tragic.” When Luca glances at her this time, she seems a little flustered, like she’s finally catching on to the fact that Florence is flirting with her.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Florence says. “Misery loves company, et cetera.”

“Definitely better than getting wet on my own,” Luca agrees—and promptly turns beet-red when she realizes what just left her mouth.

Florence feels her own grin widening. “That’s what I always say.”

“Oh my God.” Luca buries her face in her hands. “Forget about that. I didn’t say anything.”

Shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, Florence looks at her phone. The bus should have been here several minutes ago now. There’s no sign of it.

They spend a few minutes in companionable silence while the rain taps soothingly on the glass roof of the bus stop.

Having reemerged from behind her hands, Luca stifles a yawn.

“Long day?” Florence asks.

“Kind of.” Luca scrubs a hand over her face. “I had an early shift at the café where I work.”

“Do you work there full-time?”

Luca pauses for a second before answering, “I used to go to uni, but I . . . It’s full-time, right now.” She shifts her weight onto her other foot. She’s slouching a bit, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her height. “What about you?”

“I finished my bachelor’s last month. Right now I’m just working at the pub around the corner,” Florence says. Her lips quirk as she realizes that in a couple of weeks, her answer to this question may be different. “And I give piano lessons.”

Luca’s gaze drops to Florence’s hands as though pulled there by some kind of magnetic force. Her ears—protruding and a bit too large—turn pink when she meets Florence’s eyes again. Florence wishes she could see inside her head and know what Luca thought of that made her look like that: wide-eyed, caught. In a voice that’s slightly hoarser than before, Luca asks, “Did you just get off from work?”

“Yeah.” Florence refreshes her app again. Still no sign of the bus. “You know, Luca,” she says, “I fear we may have been forsaken. I don’t think the bus is coming anytime soon.”

Luca scratches her neck. “I think you’re right. Hey—there’s a Tube station not far from here. My flat is on the way there, if you want to walk together?”

Florence glances up at the sky. She did not, of course, have the foresight to carry an umbrella. She’ll likely be soaked to the bone within minutes, but she’ll take it over waiting for God knows how long at the bus stop.

She nods. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Okay. Here goes.” Luca takes a deep breath and steps out into the rain. When Florence hesitates, she turns back to her, rain sluicing down her nose, and calls, “Come on!”

With one more bracing inhale, Florence leaves the shelter of the bus stop. It’s immediately awful. She can’t see and nearly runs into a streetlamp before Luca’s hand closes around her wrist and pulls her to the side. The electricity that sparks across her skin in response feels like it could rival the thunderstorm.

“Careful,” Luca laughs.

They keep going, running down the empty pavement, dancing around puddles. It seems like everyone but them has had the good sense to stay inside. Luca’s fingers are still curled lightly around Florence’s wrist, which is good because Florence can barely see a thing. She’s glad she isn’t wearing any makeup beyond her lipstick, or else she would be giving her best raccoon impression by now.

“How much farther to your flat?” she shouts over the next roll of thunder.

“It’s just around the corner!” Luca responds.