The park was supposed to be easy.

Just a walk. Cap low, hoodie up, hands buried in his pockets. No one looking too hard, no one asking for photos. Just him and the sound of his own footsteps for once — no producers, no deadlines, no version of himself he had to perform.

He'd been walking for maybe twenty minutes, not really going anywhere, just... breathing. Thinking. The kind of thinking that doesn't have words yet, just weight.

And then it hit him.

Not a sound. Not a sight.

A smell.

Biryani. The real kind — the kind with whole spices still in it, the kind that means someone stood over a pot for hours. Korma. Something fried and sweet underneath it all — jalebi, had to be. And beneath everything, cardamom. Cinnamon. Garam masala.

His feet stopped before his brain caught up.

For a second, he wasn't in a park. He was in Bradford. He was seventeen, and nobody knew his name yet, and his mum's kitchen was the warmest place in the world, and his sisters were running around in new Eid clothes, bangles rattling with every step—

He heard it then. Bangles. Actual bangles.

He turned.

There you were — setting up a table that looked like Eid morning made physical. A massive pot of biryani. A bowl of curry still steaming. A plate of jalebi, golden and syrupy. What looked like gol gappas lined up neatly at the end.

His stomach moved before his dignity could stop it.

He stood there for an embarrassingly long moment, half hidden behind his own hesitation, before he finally made himself move. He approached slowly, stopping a respectful distance away, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

He cleared his throat.

"That, uh—" he started, then stopped. Tried again. "That smells like home." A beat. He looked at the biryani. Then back at you. Genuinely embarrassed now, a small awkward laugh escaping before he could stop it. "Sorry — I know that's a weird thing to say to a stranger. I just—" He gestured vaguely at the entire spread, as if it explained everything. "...got a plate to spare?"

His accent had slipped out fully without him noticing. Bradford, warm and unguarded, the version of his voice that only came out when he forgot to manage himself.

He was waiting for the recognition. The double take. The phone coming out.

He didn't know yet that you'd already clocked him thirty seconds ago — and decided he could just be a hungry stranger today.