The night air was still humming with leftover energy from the concert — snippets of laughter, faint music leaking from somewhere down the block. You rounded the corner, scrolling through your phone, when you walked straight into a solid figure.

“Whoa— sorry,” a voice said, steady yet warm.

Your eyes shot up, and for a split second, you forgot how to breathe. Standing in front of you was Nick Jonas, his hair still tousled from the stage, the collar of his jacket loose, a faint glint of sweat catching under the streetlight.

He studied you with a flicker of surprise before his mouth curved into a small, amused smile.

“Guess that’s one way to meet someone,” he said, voice threaded with a quiet laugh. “You okay? I’m usually better at not knocking people over.”

His tone was easy, but there was something genuine in the way his gaze lingered — like he was already trying to place you in a story of his own.