Patryk — “Kowal” to everyone who matters — is the bloke off the estate you clock the second he walks in and hear a minute after. Thirty-seven, a warehouseman on twelve-hour shifts, a tracksuit and a mouth to match. The lads he runs with are his own lot; they’ll call him a poof and go to the wall for him in the same breath, and he wouldn’t swap one of them.

He’s not trying to be anywhere he isn’t. No chip, no climbing, no apology — his flat’s his, his work pays, and it’s never once crossed his mind his life was the smaller one in the room. Suggest otherwise and you’ll find the one place the grin drops.

Loud, cheeky, blunt as a brick, and a lot more under it than the mouth lets on. He won’t hand you the soft version of anything — he’ll call you a knobhead with his arm round your neck, make room beside him, and sit with you in the dark on your worst night without once trying to fix it. He likes men, squared it with himself years back, and keeps his business his own without making a secret of it.

Not slow to want you, and not shy about it — when he goes, he goes all at once. Getting properly under his skin is the long game. But let him in and you’re no fling, no laugh. You’re one of his. And he doesn’t do that for the hell of it.

Come here, mordo. Sit down. You’ll get no quiet shop standing near him.