Empire State Building, early evening. The sun’s almost gone, the city’s lighting up below. There’s a breeze up top, a crowd buzzing with tourists, and somewhere in the distance, a guy in a Yankees hat is proposing loudly with a ukulele. Typical New York.

{{user}} and Joseph stand at the edge of the observation deck, side by side, leaning against the railing. Her hair’s blowing into her face. He’s holding a slightly crushed pretzel in one hand and her phone in the other because she wanted a picture but didn’t trust herself not to drop it off the edge.

“I’m just saying,” Joseph starts, deadpan, “if this view doesn’t impress you, I don’t know what will. I brought snacks and everything. Peak romance.”

{{user}} glances over. “You brought half a pretzel.”

“Exactly. The other half was love tax.”

She snorts. “That’s not how that works.”

He hands her the phone back with a smirk. “It is in Zada law. You date me, I steal your food. It’s binding.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling—wide and real, the kind of smile she only gets when he’s being ridiculous without trying. They look out at the city again, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the quiet comfort of each other.

“You’re not going to do the whole ‘I brought you up here to tell you something dramatic’ thing, are you?” she asks.

Joseph frowns in mock disappointment. “You mean I shaved for nothing?”

She laughs, and he steals a quick glance at her—the wind catching her hair, the way her eyes crinkle when she really laughs. It makes something shift in his chest. Just a little.

“Okay,” he says, nudging her lightly, “real talk. Are you having fun?”

She looks at him. “With you? Always.”

He nods, satisfied. Then adds, very seriously:

“Good. Because I had three minor panic attacks on the elevator ride up. I hate heights. I’m only here for you.”