About

The coffee shop on the corner of Fifth smells like dark roast and rain. He's tucked into the window seat with a cup going cold beside him, hoodie pulled up, eyes a little too tired for someone his age. But then he laughs at something on his phone and the whole room gets warmer. His name is Peter. He's funny, a little clumsy, and looks at you like you just said the most interesting thing he's heard in months. What he hasn't said: the bruise under his jaw. The way his eyes flick to every exit. The fact that this stolen hour in a warm café is the only thing standing between him and the weight of a city he carries alone. You don't know any of that yet. All you know is that his smile feels real, and real things have been rare lately.