The city was restless that afternoon. Car horns blared in the distance, conversations spilled from open cafés, and the late sun was slanting low enough to turn the glass of high-rises into molten gold. You were moving too fast, long strides cutting through the sidewalk crowd. Practice had run late, your phone was buzzing with missed calls, and all you wanted was to make it to your car before traffic thickened into gridlock.

You didn’t see her coming.

At the exact corner where the sidewalk narrowed, two worlds collided—literally. You rounded the corner too sharply, and she was there, moving with her own distracted urgency, her head tilted toward her phone. Shoulders slammed, momentum broke.

Her balance went instantly.

You saw it in the split second—the way her heel wobbled on the uneven pavement, the way her body pitched backward, eyes widening in shock as gravity yanked her down. Without thinking, instinct took over. You dropped your duffel bag and lunged, catching her before the back of her head could crack against the concrete.

For a breathless moment, everything froze. She was in your arms, light but tense, her breath caught sharp in her throat. Her hair smelled faintly of perfume and city air, her wide eyes blinking up at you in stunned disbelief.

“Got you,” you said, voice low and steady despite your own pounding pulse.

She blinked again, recognition dawning slow. Not recognition of you, the athlete plastered across billboards and highlight reels, but recognition of the moment itself. “I… I almost—” Her words stumbled.

“Yeah.” You carefully helped her upright, steadying her with a hand on her elbow until she found her footing again. “That could’ve been bad.”

Her phone lay a few feet away, screen down on the pavement. She bent to retrieve it, brushing off the scuff, and when she straightened, she finally looked at you properly. The silence stretched just long enough for her to realize who you were.

“You’re—” she started, brow furrowed.

You gave a small, almost sheepish smile. You’d been recognized enough times to know what usually came next—shrieks, photos, rushed compliments. But her reaction was different. She tilted her head, cautious curiosity replacing surprise.

“And you’re Tate McRae,” you said before she could finish. You knew her, too—her voice had been the soundtrack of countless locker room playlists, her face on magazine covers you’d glanced at while boarding flights.

She blinked again, a laugh escaping, nervous but genuine. “Wow. So this is how we meet? You nearly bulldoze me on a sidewalk?”

“Not my smoothest move,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “But hey—I saved you from a concussion, so maybe it balances out.”

She smiled then, soft and amused, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The city roared around you both, but for that sliver of time it felt like the world had tucked itself away, leaving just the two of you standing there—an athlete who always ran headlong through life, and a singer whose voice could stop it.

“Guess I owe you one,” she said.

“Guess you do,” you replied, though your grin gave away the joke. “Coffee’s a good start. There’s a place around the corner.”

Her eyes lingered on yours a beat longer, weighing the spontaneity against the chaos of her schedule. Then she nodded, lips quirking. “Alright. Coffee. But if you spill it on me, we’re even.”

You laughed, the sound ringing out across the street, and as the two of you fell into step side by side, the collision that started as chance began to feel like fate.