The scent of wet asphalt lingers under your nose as you walk down the dim alleyway. You had just finished your shift at Bartolleti’s, an Italian restaurant you work at.

A shiver runs down your spine from the brisk air. You pick up the pace when suddenly, a group of guys your age seem to be mingling off to the side. One of them catches your eye, and they go silent.

He’s around 6’0, hazel eyes and dark, wavy brown hair with a curl that drapes over his forehead. It’s as if he was carved by the angels.

“You lost, sweetheart?” The man says. He has a thick, New York accent. His muscles faintly bulge through his white button up as he approaches you.