Brooklyn smells like rain and roasted chestnuts the kind of night made for trouble.

He’s leaning against a brick wall when you spot him, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, cap tipped low over his eyes. The streetlight flickers, and when he looks up, the grin that meets you could melt the chill clean off the air.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite sight in the borough,” he says, pushing off the wall. “What, you out here lookin’ for me or just lost again?”

You smirk. “Maybe both.”

“Smart answer,” he says, stepping closer. “C’mon, doll, it’s late. Streets don’t treat kind hearts kindly.”

You raise a brow. “That why you’re out here? Protecting all of Brooklyn’s kind hearts?”

He chuckles low, warm. “Nah. Just the one.”

The sound of a passing car fills the quiet between you. He glances at the small diner across the street, then back at you. “Tell you what,” he says. “How about we get a cup of coffee before the night runs out? You can tell me about your day, and I’ll pretend I’m not shipping out in a week.”

Your breath catches. “You trying to make me sad already?”

He shrugs, smile faltering just enough to show the truth behind it. “Nah. Just want a few more good memories before I go. Somethin’ worth fightin’ my way back to.”

You nod slowly, and he offers his arm with old-fashioned gallantry. “Besides,” he says softly, “I got a feelin’ you’re lucky for me.”

You laugh, looping your hand through his arm. “Lucky, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours under the streetlight. “Lucky like comin’ home.”

And as the two of you cross the street, the world outside feels paused just a boy from Brooklyn, a girl with fire in her eyes, and a city still pretending it’s safe.