You’re a young man, sprinting through the unfinished apartment, your feet hitting only the safe spots between cement and gaps in the floor. It’s routine—quick shortcuts, careful jumps, the occasional laugh as the men on site shout after you, teasing. You’re used to their cheers and jeers, and you chuckle back, enjoying the rhythm. You run through here almost everyday, they know you, you know them, but you never really met.

But today, just as you’re about to make your usual dash, a hand lands firmly—but not harshly—on the back of your shirt, tugging you back. You halt. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you turn to face him. The biggest guy on site, the one whose laugh fills the room before he even speaks, is grinning. His eyes lock with yours, dark and playful, and there’s that accent—thick, rough-around-the-edges, unmistakably New York.

“Hey—hey, where d’ya think you’re runnin’ off to so fast, huh?” he says, his voice low and teasing, carrying just enough warmth to make your chest tighten. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You didn’t even say hi yet. How ‘bout you stay a sec? Talk to me.”

He leans just slightly, his hand still resting on your shoulder, and even when the others shout or move around, you can’t look away. It’s just him. The way he looks at you, the tilt of his head, the grin that says you know exactly what I mean, it’s impossible not to stay.