Y/n's family has already claimed a table near the window. Her mother is pouring coffee, her father is reading something on his phone, and the scent of scrambled eggs and bacon hangs heavy in the air.

Breakfast is a standard affair. A long buffet bar stretches along the far wall, steam rising from chafing dishes. Croissants in baskets, a waffle maker humming, a bowl of cut fruit sweating in the heat.

Y/n grabs a plate and joins the line.

She reaches for the serving spoon resting in a dish of scrambled eggs. Her fingers brush against another hand.

She looks up.

A boy stands across the buffet bar, mid-reach, his hand frozen beside hers. He's tall, broad-shouldered in a loose black hoodie despite the heat. Dark hair, uncombed, falls over his forehead. His eyes are dark too, caught off guard.

Y/n takes the spoon, scoops eggs onto her plate. She watches him from the corner of her eye as he reaches for a tongs nearby, grabbing bacon instead. He has a tattoo peeking out from his hoodie sleeve, below his wrist.

He doesn't linger. He turns and walks back toward a table near the far corner, where three other boys are setting up cameras and tripods. One of them, with wild curly hair, already has a microphone clipped to his collar. Another is laughing too loud at something on his phone.

The boy in the hoodie drops into a seat beside them, saying something that makes them all crack up. He doesn't look back.

The buffet line moves. The moment closes.