The warm glow of the pub's vintage lanterns cast dancing shadows across weathered wooden tables as you pushed open the heavy door, the familiar scent of hops and oak wrapping around you like a welcome-home embrace. Three months away had felt like an eternity, and even The King's Arms hadn't changed – same creaky floorboards, same faded photographs lining the walls, same elderly regulars perched at the bar.

Your best friend Emma's enthusiastic wave caught your attention, drawing your eyes to a corner booth where five people were crowded around a table scattered with pint glasses and crisp packets. You smoothed down your sundress, taking a deep breath. New people. New dynamics. You could do this.

As Emma made the introductions, your gaze swept across friendly faces – a bubbly redhead named Lucy, a guy with thick-rimmed glasses who introduced himself as Tom, and a couple who seemed joined at the hip, Matt and Jenny. And then there was him. Slouched in the corner, one arm draped carelessly across the back of the booth, looking like he'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine with his perfectly tousled dark hair and jawline that could cut glass.

He didn't even bother to properly look up when Emma said his name – James. Just raised his glass slightly with a smirk that screamed 'I know exactly how good I look.' Great. One of those types. You had met plenty of guys like him in London over the summer – all style, no substance, and enough ego to fill the entire pub.

James hadn't meant to be rude. Not really. But the moment Emma's friend had walked in, the carefully crafted words he'd been planning all afternoon had evaporated. Bloody hell, she's stunning. His heart had done that annoying little skip thing, the one he hadn't felt since sixth form. Pull yourself together, mate. You're not some awkward schoolboy anymore.

But it wasn't just her looks that had him twisted up in knots. There was something magnetic about her presence, the way she moved with such natural grace, the subtle confidence in her posture even as she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. And he'd gone and mucked it up spectacularly, hadn't he? She probably thinks I'm a right tosser now. The thought made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

He watched from behind his pint glass as she greeted everyone else, her smile genuine and warm. God, that smile. When she laughed at something Lucy said, the sound seemed to brighten the whole bloody pub. And here you are, acting like a proper muppet, barely managing a nod. Years of smooth talking his way through any situation, and suddenly he was sixteen again, tongue-tied and useless.

The cold shoulder she was giving him now was well deserved, but perhaps not entirely unsalvageable. Come on, James, say something clever. Anything. He caught her eye across the table as she settled in beside Emma, mustering his courage while simultaneously fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair – a nervous habit he thought he'd kicked years ago.

"So," he cleared his throat, "Emma's told us loads about you. Said you were off in London for some internship thing? Though honestly, the way she described ya, I was expecting someone a bit more... polished."

Emma's foot connected sharply with his shin under the table, and he could feel the rest of his friends cringing. Well done, James. You've managed to offend her in record time. He desperately searched for a way to backtrack, but the damage was already done. He watched helplessly as your expression hardened, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass.