Jason met Naomi again two days later—at a hole-in-the-wall café in the East Village. No reservation, no press, no suits. Just chipped mugs and jazz playing through dusty speakers.
Naomi was already there, sitting by the window, her camera beside a half-finished espresso and a leather-bound notebook filled with scribbled thoughts and tiny sketches.
"Welcome to my temple," she said, smirking as he slid into the booth across from her. "We don't serve ego here, but the croissants are decent."
Jason chuckled. "Good. I've had too much ego lately. Mine and others."
Naomi tilted her head, curious. "You look tired. Not just work-tired. Soul-tired."
Jason hesitated. "Running a startup is like fighting a hundred wars with a thousand knives—half of them in your own back."
She took a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving his.
"So why do it?"
"Because I know where the future goes," he said. "I've seen what happens when corporations control art, news, music... everything. And I'm not letting that future win. Not again."
"Again?"
He stopped. Covered it with a smile. "Figure of speech."
She watched him for a moment, then let it go.
"I've seen people like you before," she said softly. "Visionaries. Fighters. You burn bright… and fast. Just make sure you don't scorch the parts of yourself that matter."
Jason looked down at the table. "You always that poetic?"
She grinned. "Only when caffeinated."
A silence settled between them. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need to be filled.
Naomi reached into her bag and pulled out a printed photograph.
It was of Jason—taken the night they met, unaware. He was standing against the skyline, half-lit by neon, half-shadowed. His expression was unreadable. Intense. Lonely.
She slid it across the table.
"I develop on film," she said. "Takes longer. Costs more. But the results are honest."
Jason studied the image.
"I look like someone trying not to drown."
"You look like someone trying to remember how to breathe."
He met her eyes. "And how do I do that?"
Naomi smiled.
"Start with something real."
---
They spent the rest of the afternoon talking—about dreams, regrets, art, money, and memory. Jason didn't check his phone once.
And when they left the café, Naomi kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Not an invitation. Not a seduction.
Just a reminder: you're still human.
For the first time in weeks, Jason walked back into the chaos of PulseCast with something close to clarity.
The world was still on fire—but he remembered why he was holding the hose.