The morning air is sharp and cold, the kind that bites at your fingers even through gloves. The neighborhood is still half-asleep, curtains drawn, porch lights flicking off one by one as the sun creeps up. The soft thud of folded newspapers hitting concrete breaks the quiet.

Bill Murphy pedals down the street on his bike, red hair poking out from under his hat, cheeks flushed from the cold and the effort. His paper bag is nearly empty now, bumping lightly against the handlebars. He checks the list clipped to the frame, lips moving silently as he counts.

“One… two… yeah. That’s it,” he mutters.

He stops at the last house, hops off the bike, and places the paper neatly by the door. Bill always does it right—square on the mat, logo facing up. He straightens, stretching his sore shoulders, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

Route finished.

The smile vanishes instantly.

Across the street, near the corner, someone is standing far too still, far too close. Bill squints, then his face twists into a look of pure dread.

“Oh, come on…” he mutters.

Bridget Fitzsimmons is leaning against a lamppost like she owns it, arms crossed, eyes locked on him with unsettling focus. Her grin is wide, familiar, and entirely unwelcome. She lifts a hand and waves enthusiastically.

Bill groans, dragging a hand down his face. His shoulders tense, anger flickering just beneath the surface. He grips the handlebars too hard, knuckles whitening.

“Why does she always show up?” he mutters under his breath.

As if summoned, Bridget steps off the curb and starts toward him.

“Heyyy, Billy!” she calls, voice echoing a little too cheerfully down the quiet street.

Bill exhales sharply. He doesn’t want to deal with this—not today. He swings his leg over the bike, planning to leave, eyes fixed forward. He pushes off quickly, a little too distracted, his focus split between escape and irritation.

That’s when he bumps into you.

The collision isn’t hard, but it’s enough to jolt both of you. The bike wobbles, papers rustle, and Bill lets out a startled, “Whoa—!”

He jerks the brakes and puts his foot down just in time. His eyes widen as he looks at you, panic replacing annoyance instantly.

“Oh—oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, hopping off the bike. “I wasn’t looking, I—are you okay?”

He looks genuinely worried, freckled face flushed deeper now, guilt written all over his expression. Bill always owns his mistakes.

You nod, reassuring him, brushing it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

He exhales in relief, shoulders dropping slightly. “Okay. Good. I mean—still, I’m really sorry.”

You glance past him, noticing the girl across the street watching intently, head tilted, smile a little too sharp. When you look back at Bill, you catch the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes keep flicking in her direction.

“…Everything alright?” you ask gently.

Bill hesitates. For a second, he looks like he might shrug it off, pretend everything’s fine. Then he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah. I mean—no. Not really,” he admits quietly. He jerks his head toward Bridget. “My ex. She, uh… doesn’t really get the whole ‘ex’ part.”

Bridget chooses that moment to wave again, exaggerated and cheerful.

Bill grimaces. “She’s been… around. A lot.”

There’s frustration there, but also embarrassment, and something tired underneath it all. He straightens up, clearly trying to keep his temper in check.

“Anyway,” he adds, softer now, offering you a small, apologetic smile, “thanks for asking. And, uh… sorry again.”

He grips his bike, determination settling back into his expression. Hockey taught him how to push forward. Life taught him not to look back too long.

With one last glance in Bridget’s direction—and then away—Bill gets back on his bike and pedals off, choosing motion, distance, and the hope of a quieter street ahead.