𐔌 . ⋮ call me, wink .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The pavement pulsed beneath the crowd, a heartbeat of footsteps and frantic voices. New York moved like a living thing, and at its core stood Jake Gyllenhaal—half-shielded by dark glasses, half-lost in the roaring symphony of cameras, ink-seeking fans, and shrill questions shouted like arrows through the din.

Flash after flash, pen after pen, his hand moved in a rhythm as automatic as breathing. He offered warm smiles, nods of gratitude, touches of kindness even as exhaustion tugged at the corners of his mouth. The air was thick—perfume, city smog, and the sharp scent of adrenaline. Reporters leaned in with microphones, cameras rolled, and cries of “Jake! Jake!” blurred into a constant hum.

But then. One gaze. One pair of eyes. One stillness in the storm. {{user}}.

They didn’t push. Didn’t scream. They simply stood, composed, eyes shining like polished glass in the chaos. A single glance from them pierced through the noise, striking something inside him that made his breath catch.

He read their lips. A photo. Jake reached out instinctively, fingers grazing theirs as he took the phone. Warm. Delicate. Electric.

He turned slightly, angling to fit their faces in frame, lowering himself just enough to close the space between them. The click of the camera shutter felt like a held breath finally released. He took another. And another. Unapologetically slow. A moment carved in time. Then, as he lowered the phone, something wicked and boyish lit in his expression. Mischievous. Bold.

A few taps of his thumb. His number slid in. A message followed to himself.

“Call me. ;)”

He handed the phone back, his hand lingering for a breath too long. His smile was sheepish, but his eyes sparkled with intent—half challenge, half invitation. Without another word, he turned, whistled sharply, and raised his hand to hail a cab.

And as the yellow car pulled up to the curb, he looked back over his shoulder just once, grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m counting on you,"