It was a crisp Saturday morning on Madison Avenue, the kind of morning where the streets smelled like coffee and luxury perfume.

He was jogging, earbuds in, hair damp from the shower, his school’s navy field hockey hoodie zipped halfway. He cut the picture of discipline: sneakers tied tight, stride measured, eyes focused straight ahead.

She was the opposite. Slipping out of the corner café in last night’s dress layered under an oversized hoodie, sunglasses shielding tired eyes, iced latte clutched in one hand. Her hair was a little messy, but she carried herself like she owned the block — the kind of careless glamour only Upper East Side girls seemed to master.

Of course, they collided.

“Watch it—” she snapped, nearly spilling her drink all over him.

He pulled his earbuds out, recognizing her instantly. His mouth curved into a smirk. “Well, well. If it isn’t the shame of the Upper East Side.”

She raised a brow over her sunglasses. “Funny coming from the guy who spends his Saturday mornings sweating instead of sleeping. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Some of us don’t consider vodka shots a personality trait,” he shot back, wiping a splash of her coffee off his sleeve.