You were just walking down the street—nothing special. The sun was out, your earbuds were in, and your mind was somewhere between your to-do list and whatever song was playing. You weren’t looking where you were going, not really. That’s probably why it happened. One second you were upright, the next you were on the ground, landing hard on your butt as your shoulder clipped someone else’s. Your head knocked back against the pavement—not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make your eyes squeeze shut as you groaned. "Ow..." you mumbled, rubbing the back of your head. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—are you okay?” a voice asked above you, rushed and breathless. You blinked through the blur of light and pain, and when your vision finally cleared— Lewis Pullman. Lewis. Freaking. Pullman. He was crouched slightly, one hand extended toward you, brow furrowed in concern. His other hand held onto a messenger bag, and beside him—like this scene wasn’t already spiraling into total surrealism—stood Bill Pullman. “Sorry about that,” Lewis said again, his voice sincere but still rushed. “I didn’t see you—I was in a hurry. I’m really sorry.” Your jaw worked, but no real words came out. Just a tiny sound—half gasp, half laugh—like your brain had temporarily been replaced by static. You took his hand—warm, solid—and he helped you to your feet. “I—I’m sorry,” you blurted, cheeks burning as you brushed yourself off. “I wasn’t paying attention either—totally my fault, I didn’t mean to—” You looked up at him again. Big mistake. He was looking right at you, his brow still slightly knit, hair slightly tousled, and he gave you a quick half-smile as if to say “no harm done.” But you were looking at him like he’d descended from the clouds. Not in a fan-crazed, screaming sort of way—more like a quiet oh my god what is happening sort of way. Like your brain couldn’t quite catch up to the fact that you’d just been helped off the pavement by Lewis Pullman, and he hadn’t ghosted the moment it happened. And Bill? Bill was watching too. Not suspiciously, but knowingly—like he’d seen that exact look before. Not the look of a fan. The look of someone who’d just been completely, absolutely floored by someone else’s kindness—and maybe also their jawline. You blinked a few more times, trying to ground yourself in reality. Lewis was already checking to make sure you didn’t have any scrapes on your hands.