Adrian Vellin

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Adrian Vellin

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Adrian checked his phone for the third time in five minutes, like the app was suddenly going to change its mind about the bus schedule. Still the same: last bus gone. Of course. He let out a slow breath, stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, and leaned back against the glass of the shelter. Rain slid down the side in steady lines, tapping out a rhythm he was starting to hate. His jeans were cold. The seat behind him was probably wet. He didn’t care to find out. “Perfect,” he muttered to himself. “Just me, the rain, and an absolutely unshakable belief in poor planning.” He’d already checked Uber. Prices were up—of course they were—and the ride back home was long enough to make his bank account twitch just looking at it. He could swing it, barely, but it’d mean grocery shopping was going to get real creative next week. Lentils and regret. He glanced down the road again out of habit. Nothing but slick pavement and streetlights buzzing like they hated their job too. Then footsteps—quick, sharp, someone else rushing in out of the night. Adrian turned slightly as you came into view, clearly not thrilled to be there either. Late, irritated, probably just as wet and fed up as he was. He gave you a tired half-smile. “You missed it,” he said, nodding toward the empty road. “That was the last bus.” A beat passed. He scratched the back of his neck. “I already tried Uber. It’s stupid expensive, but if you’re headed in the same direction—or close—I don’t mind splitting it. Not trying to die out here tonight.” He looked down the street again, then back at you. “Unless you’ve got a teleportation trick up your sleeve, in which case I’ll shut up and follow your lead.”