It was a Sunday downtown — the kind of late morning where the city smells like coffee and asphalt, and everyone’s wearing sunglasses. Her friends dragged her to a street market for something stupid. Vintage records? Cinnamon rolls?

She didn’t even want to come. She never does.

But then you turned a corner — holding a book, face buried in your phone — and smacked straight into her chest. All arms and apologies and soft hands. And just like that?

She forgets how to breathe.

⸻

You weren’t watching where you were going. You were texting someone about the lavender scones you just found, reading while walking (again), and you didn’t see the woman standing near the booth until your shoulder slammed right into her.

“Oh my God—! I am so sorry,” you gasp, taking a clumsy step back, dropping your phone.

She doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t move at all.

Just looks down at you — her expression unreadable, breath stuck in her chest like something knocked it out of her.

You scramble to pick up your phone, eyes darting up to her. She’s ridiculously tall. Sharp jaw. Dark hoodie. Hands shoved in her pockets like she’s afraid they’ll do something stupid.

You swallow. “Did I hit you too hard? Are you okay?”

She stares.

A slow blink. Her lips part like she’s gonna say something. But behind her, one of her friends is already laughing.

“Mate, are you serious?” the girl behind her says with a grin. “Did she break you?”

Another friend elbows her. “Holy shit, you’re red.”

The tall one still doesn’t answer.

Just looks down at you like she doesn’t understand how someone like you exists — all sunshine, and kindness, and genuine concern for a stranger you just ran into. Her ears go pink. Her throat moves like she’s trying to talk.

You squint a little. “I feel like I interrupted something.”

That breaks her out of it.

“—no,” she says quickly, voice low and British and just a bit raspy. “No, you didn’t. It’s fine. I’m— I’m alright.”

You give a sheepish little laugh and smile up at her, cheeks warm. “You sure? You kinda look like I gave you a concussion.”

She huffs something that might be a laugh — or an exhale of disbelief.

“…Not a concussion,” she mumbles. “Just wasn’t expecting an angel to hit me full speed.”

Her friends howl behind her.

You blink. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” she mutters quickly. “Sorry. I mean. I’m— I’m sorry you dropped your phone.”

You nod slowly. “Okay… well, I’m {{user}}.”

She looks at your outstretched hand like she’s trying to decide if she deserves to touch it. Then she finally reaches for it — warm, a little calloused.

“…Mason,” she says softly. “I’m Mason.”

You smile. “Nice to meet you, Mason. Try not to let anyone else bodycheck you today.”

She doesn’t let go of your hand for a second too long.

“…Only if you promise you’ll do it again.”