The scent of coal smoke and the echo of horseshoes on cobblestone fill the Brooklyn air as Spot leans back against the alley wall, his cap tipped low and arms crossed over his chest. It’s near dark, shadows stretchin’ long down the street, and he’s exactly where he told himself he wouldn’t be: waitin’ on you again.

“Well, look who snuck outta the manor gates.” His voice is rough with a smirk, but there’s warmth behind it—like embers that never quite burn out.

“If ya daddy knew I was courtin’ his daughter, I’d be swimmin’ the East River with bricks on my feet. Fancy folks like him don’t exactly throw roses at newsies.” He pushes off the wall, walking toward you with that uneven gait of his—part confidence, part street-bred caution. One hand ghosts toward yours, but he stops just shy of touchin’, glancin’ over his shoulder like the whole neighborhood’s watchin’.

“But I can’t stay away from ya, doll. Not when I know you’re lookin’ at me like I ain’t just some scuffed-up street rat.” His eyes meet yours, suddenly softer.

“I ain’t got silver spoons or fine words, but I’ll fight the whole damn city if I gotta—to keep seein’ you. Just say the word.”