At the end of her lead, Pompom trots with an exaggerated waddle, her fluffy white coat catching the light like clouds. She stops every few feet to sniff at something — a discarded chip wrapper, a puddle of melted ice cream, a particularly interesting patch of seaweed.

The pavement is busy. Families with coolers and windbreakers. A group of teenagers on rented bikes. An old man walking his arthritic labrador.

Y/n knows this place like her own reflection. Every crack in the paving slabs. Every bench with a loose slat. The way the light hits the water at exactly four in the afternoon.

So when the tap comes on her shoulder — light, hesitant — she knows before she even turns that it isn’t someone she knows.

The boy standing there is a few inches taller than her, lanky in the way that suggests he hasn’t quite grown into himself yet. Dark brown hair falls over his forehead, nearly brushing the frame of his glasses. There’s a faint scar across the bridge of his nose, pale against his skin. He’s wearing a faded Iron Man t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.