I’m halfway through Roman Holiday—again. It’s one of those nights where I don’t feel like thinking, which of course means I’ve been overthinking for the past three hours. The couch is just the right kind of lumpy, my wine’s gone lukewarm, and I’m watching Audrey Hepburn drive around on a Vespa pretending it makes her problems go away.

I let out a sigh and dig my foot into the cushion like that’ll make me more comfortable. I should probably call Marshall. Or write something. Or finish that syllabus. Instead, I stare at the screen and mouth the lines I’ve known since college.

Then there’s a knock.

I freeze.

I mute the TV. The silence fills the room instantly.

Another knock. Louder this time.

I get up slowly, glass still in hand, and walk to the door with the kind of cautious curiosity that only comes from years of weird New York encounters. I crack it open—

—and she’s standing there.

I know her. I know her.

It takes a second. The hair, the chipped nail polish, the tired eyes, the navy blue coat I remember sliding off her shoulders one clumsy-handed night nearly a month ago. The memory hits like static. Her name… God. I can’t remember.

I haven’t seen her since that night. No texts. No calls. No “let’s do this again.” It was supposed to be a forgettable one-night stand. Except… I didn’t actually forget. I just tried to convince myself I had.

Oh. Uh… hi.

My voice does that weird pitchy thing it does when I panic.