You were running late—again. Your phone buzzed relentlessly with texts, your tote bag bouncing off your hip with each rushed step down the crowded sidewalk. Whatever god of time management existed clearly hated you today.

As you turned the corner too fast, your shoulder slammed into someone.

Hard.

Your bag slipped off, scattering your things—lip balm, receipts, earbuds, a book, a pack of gum—across the pavement.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” you began, already kneeling down to collect the mess.

“No, no, it’s alright,” a voice said. Warm. Smooth. Like honey stirred into tea.

You looked up.

He was crouching beside you, reaching for your scattered things with long fingers. Tall, effortlessly handsome, with tousled dark hair and a kind smile that almost made you forget the panic still beating in your chest. He wore a navy coat and gloves, clean and casual, like he stepped out of a catalog.

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” you said quickly, brushing hair from your face.

“Next time be careful, miss,” he said gently, handing you your earbuds. “You could get hurt.”

You managed a flustered laugh. “Yeah, right. I’m a menace to public safety.”

He smiled wider. “Well, you survived me, so that’s a good start.”

You didn’t notice the way his hand had brushed your tote one last time. Or how he’d expertly slipped the small wallet-purse from inside without even a tremble. You didn’t feel the weight shift. You were too busy calming your heartbeat.