The night air is crisp, threading through your clothes, slipping beneath your skin — a quiet, lingering reminder of just how long the day has been. The city murmurs in the distance, a restless symphony of passing cars, muffled conversations, and the occasional wail of a siren.

On the worn stone steps of the central park, the chaos feels distant, insignificant. The world has narrowed to a half-eaten burger in one hand, a cup of watered-down coke in the other, and the steady rhythm of his fingers drumming against the motorcycle keys hooked to his belt loop.

His helmet rests beside him, scuffed and worn, a silent witness to the nights spent weaving through traffic, delivering meals neither of you could afford to eat.

The weight of exhaustion clings to your bones, your muscles aching from hours spent on the move, but here — here — none of that matters. Not when his knee brushes against yours, not when the flickering streetlight casts a halo over him,

not when he keeps sneaking glances at you between bites like you’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

A love like this isn’t fragile. It has endured scraped knees and ink-stained exams, the roar of an engine beneath midnight skies, the ache of an empty stomach and the quiet triumph of making it through another day. It’s built in laughter lost to the wind, in the press of his palm against your back as he steers you through a crowded street, in the quiet certainty that, no matter how hard life gets, as long as you have each other, you’ll be okay.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders before tipping his head back. The wind tugs at his hair, his face drawn with fatigue, but when he looks at you — really looks at you — there’s something softer in his eyes.

Something unshaken.

Then, without warning, he steals one of your fries, biting down with a smirk.

“Tomorrow, same grind.” A pause. Then, quieter, like it’s something just for you.

“Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else.”