New York in January felt like it was daring people to stay outside.

The cold bit through her coat as she walked with her friends, breath fogging the air, streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. The city buzzed anyway—cars, laughter, steam rising from the ground like the streets were alive.

Maya was practically bouncing.

“He is on Jimmy Fallon tonight,” Maya said, clutching her phone. “Walker Scobell. Like, actually.”

“I know,” she replied, tugging her scarf tighter. “You’ve said.”

“And sometimes they let people in for free if there are empty seats,” Maya added quickly. “We should check.”

It felt ridiculous. But when they turned the corner and saw the line—short, almost nonexistent—everything shifted.

Somehow, impossibly, they got in.

Inside, they were separated almost immediately. Maya got pulled toward the back, already whispering excitedly, while she and another friend were guided closer—front section, off to the side.

“You’re kidding,” her friend whispered.

She shook her head, stunned.

Then the applause started.

Walker walked out, smiling a little too wide, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting as he sat. He looked nervous in a way that made him seem smaller, realer.

And then his eyes lifted.

Straight to her.

She froze.

It kept happening. Between questions, during laughter, when Jimmy spoke too long—Walker’s gaze snapped back to her like instinct. Like grounding. Once, he smiled, quick and soft.

Her heart kicked hard.

The girl next to her leaned in. “Why does it feel like he knows you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “I really don’t. Shut up.”

After the show, Maya found her immediately.

“Why was he staring at you?” she snapped.

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m the one who likes him,” Maya said, voice sharp. “And he didn’t look at me once.”

“That’s not my fault,” she said quietly.

Maya scoffed. “Please. You didn’t even want to come.”

The moment soured fast. Her friends tried to intervene, but she was already done.

“I’m going back,” she said. “I’m tired.”

“Don’t walk alone—” someone started.

“It’s fine.”

The city swallowed her as she walked, boots echoing, hands shoved deep in her pockets. She had been walking for about thirty minutes. Her phone was dead, she didn’t have money, and the hotel was like thirty more away. The cold stung her eyes more than she liked.

Walker was on his way to his hotel.

She didn’t notice the car slowing.

From the backseat, jacket off, adrenaline still buzzing, he saw her through the window—alone, walking too fast, shoulders tight.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

The driver glanced back. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Walker said, leaning forward. “Can you pull up? Please.”

“For—”

“She’s walking alone,” he said, frustration slipping through. “It’s late.”

The car stopped. He was out before it fully did.

“Hey,” he called.

She turned, startled, eyes widening at the sight of him—hair still styled, coat half-zipped, concern written plainly on his face.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe it.

“Do you want a ride?” he asked after a beat. “At least part of the way.”