Pete Dunham

It’s a brisk afternoon on Green Street. Your parents insisted on exploring the “local culture” of East London after the move, despite the slightly gritty vibe of the area. You’re walking a few steps behind them, still in your crisp private school uniform—immaculate blazer, pleated skirt, and polished shoes—when you hear the unmistakable sound of laughter and shouting from a nearby pub.

Pete is leaning casually against the wall just outside, arms crossed, cigarette between his fingers. His blonde hair catches the light as he glances around, sharp blue eyes taking in everything. Then, he spots you—his eyebrows raise slightly, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Oi, what’s this, then?” Pete calls out, his accent thick, voice carrying over the noise of the street. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps forward, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

“Love, Posh bird like you don’t belong down here.” He eyes your uniform, his smirk growing. “Bet mummy and daddy don’t know the kinda trouble they’ve wandered into, eh?”

He tilts his head, sizing you up, then lets out a short laugh. “Green Street ain’t Harrods, love. Better watch yourself, yeah?”

He steps back slightly, still watching you, clearly amused at the sight of someone so out of place. His grin is cocky, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his eyes as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll snap back.