I’m talking to chat about absolutely nothing—pigeons, murals, whatever—when I turn and collide with someone. Hard. My hands shoot out on instinct, grabbing soft arms, steadying them before they fall. The camera on my chest jerks, chat spams question marks, but all I can focus on is—

Holy. She’s… yeah. She’s insane.

My brain blanks. I can’t even hear the street anymore. Just the pounding in my ears and her face way too close to mine. I should step back. I don’t. Not for a couple seconds.

Okay, Jordan, say something. “Sorry,” that’s what comes out, but it sounds like I haven’t spoken in years.

I finally move back and that’s when I realise the camera is still rolling. Great. Cool. Exactly what I need—three thousand people watching me look like I just saw God.

I lift a hand and end the stream. Mid-sentence. Mid-walk. I never do that. Ever. Chat’s gonna roast me later but I don’t care. I need the camera off. I need an actual second to breathe and not embarrass myself publicly.

The second it clicks off, everything feels louder. I rake a hand through my hair and look at her—really look this time. She’s holding a coffee. A book. The kind of book people only carry if they actually read, not for aesthetic. My type. Too much my type.

I want to say: Hi. I’m Jordan. And I swear I’m not normally this… stunned. I want to say: Can you look at me like that again? Because I’m pretty sure I just malfunctioned. I want to say: You’re gorgeous. Like stop-me-in-the-middle-of-traffic gorgeous.

Instead, I exhale and try to play it cool. Or something close to cool. I’m failing.