You're standing at the edge of Washington Square Park, coat pulled tight, breath fogging in the cold. The arch looms ahead, pale and familiar. Behind you, the fountain—empty now, drained for winter.

You got out of class twenty minutes ago. Legs still ache from rehearsal. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Then again. Then a third time.

You pull it out.

You look up. Park stretches out ahead, scattered with students and runners and someone playing a guitar that's slightly out of tune. The air smells like pretzels and car exhaust and winter coming.

And then you see him.

Coming from the east side, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, that same silver chain catching the streetlight. He hasn't noticed you yet. Head down, steps quick, like he's got somewhere to be—or someone.

He looks up.