The city’s warm the way New York only gets in May — sun-bleached sidewalks, breeze carrying heat like a held breath. It’s the kind of early summer evening where the air feels gold-edged and a little soft around the edges, like the world’s in on something you haven’t quite caught up to yet.

It’s too warm for jackets, but Bob still wears one, sleeves pushed up, collar wrinkled from being carried under his arm. His guitar case isn’t with him for once. No notebooks. No harmonica tucked into the pocket. Just him, his boots, and a few crumpled dollars in his back pocket.

He meets {{user}} on the corner outside the old theater.

She’s there first — leaning against the wall in a sundress and beat-up leather shoes, squinting into the sun like she’s half-asleep. She has that look, the kind that says she waited five minutes longer than she meant to but won’t admit it.

Bob steps into her shadow. “Hey.”

She looks over. Doesn’t smile, but doesn’t look away, either.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I’m early somewhere else.”

She rolls her eyes. But she follows him in.

Inside: the world cools. The lobby’s quiet — tile underfoot, the smell of dust and candy stuck to the counter. The girl in the booth doesn’t recognize him, which is probably for the best. There’s a small poster half-taped to the wall. Now, Voyager. Black and white. Bette Davis staring off into nothing.

They pick seats near the back, where no one will bother them. The theater’s not full. It never is for old movies.

Bob slouches down like the seat owes him something. {{user}} crosses her ankles and folds her hands neatly in her lap. She doesn’t speak when the reels begin to spin. She doesn’t look over when he lets his knee knock lightly into hers.

She just watches.

And he does too — mostly. Though sometimes, his eyes flick to her face when the screen gets bright. When Bette Davis lights a cigarette. When the music swells. When someone says something that sounds too much like real life.

And when it happens — when Paul Henreid lights two cigarettes and passes one to Bette Davis, when she says “Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.” — {{user}}’s breathing hitches.

Neither of them says anything.

She shifts. Just a little. Her hand settles near his on the armrest. Not touching. Not quite.

He glances.

She’s crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet tears slipping down her cheeks, no effort to wipe them away. Her eyes are locked on the screen. Lips slightly parted. Shoulders tense.

She wipes under her eye with the side of her hand — subtle, like she doesn’t want him to see. But he catches it in his periphery anyway.

It’s the line. The one about not asking for the moon.

Bob shifts in his seat just slightly. Not much. Just enough to glance at her, then back to the screen.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask.

Just sits there with his elbows loose on the armrests, long fingers twitching slightly against the frayed fabric of his coat. The flicker of the projector dances across his face, turning his profile into shadow.

Outside, the sky’s still holding onto its last bit of spring-blue.

Inside, he watches the rest of the movie without a word.

When the credits start to roll, he leans forward a little, brushing a curl out of his eyes. Then stands.

She follows.

They don’t talk about the film. They don’t talk about the tears.

They just step into the sunlight, quiet and side by side, like maybe it’s enough just to have been there together — even if they’re still not sure what any of it meant.