The first time {{user}} saw Ian, she wasn’t looking for anyone.

She had just spilled coffee down her coat, her headphones were tangled, and she was late for no one — which somehow made it worse. She turned into the park with a huff, deciding that the rustle of trees and ducks fighting over breadcrumbs might at least make her feel human again.

That’s when she ran into him.

Literally — her shoulder brushed his side, hard enough to jolt her. A book slipped from his hands. She scrambled to pick it up, cheeks flushed.

“I am so sorry,” she blurted out, thrusting the book back toward him.

He laughed — a low, smooth laugh that felt like velvet. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This book’s seen worse.”

She glanced down. Wuthering Heights. The cover was worn, loved. Like he was.

He was older. That was clear immediately. Not in a weary way — in the way someone becomes more themselves over time. Ten years older, she’d learn later, but in that moment, all she noticed was the way he looked at her — like she wasn’t a mess at all.

They talked for only a few minutes — about the book, and the weather, and why people feed ducks white bread when they really shouldn’t. She learned his name was Ian. He didn’t offer more. He didn’t need to.

And then he was gone.

But {{user}} couldn’t stop thinking about him. The curve of his smile. The way his voice curled around her name when she said it — as if he planned to remember it.

So she went back.

Once. Then twice. Then every Sunday, hoping — and then pretending not to hope — she might see him again.

Sometimes she brought a book. Sometimes she brought nothing but the same memory on a loop: the warmth of his voice, the breeze lifting the corner of Wuthering Heights, the softness of his eyes.

And then, one Sunday, as she sat on the bench where they first met, a voice behind her said:

“You always come here alone?”