Rain pours in sheets, blurring the park in silver and shadow. Barley pulls his blue-and-yellow Midtown varsity jacket tighter around his shivering frame, his breath fogging in the cold night air.

His sneakers slap through puddles along the trail — until something stops him. A shape. Floating in the pond. Face down.

His heart lurches.

Without thinking, he yanks out his phone and wallet, tossing them — along with his soaked letterman jacket — onto the ground. Then he dives.

“Hey! Are you— Are you okay!?”

The words break through the rain as he reaches you, an arm sliding beneath your shoulders. Your body is limp, ice-cold. He kicks hard, hauling you toward the bank.

Once on shore, he tilts your head back, trembling hands pressing against your chest.

One breath. Two.

You sputter and cough, gasping weakly as the rain mingles with your tears and his relief.

“You’re alive,” he exhales, voice shaking. “Thank God.”

Water drips from his wavy dirty-blonde hair, tracing down his jaw as he leans over you — breathless, soaked, and trembling between fear and relief.