3:47 PM.
Ethan Cross checks his watch. Patek Philippe, brushed steel, not a scratch on it. Exactly three minutes early.
Perfect.
Around him, the city park is drowning in pink. Cherry blossom season has hit the city like a bomb went off in a floral shop. Petals everywhere. In the air, on the sidewalk, caught in the hair of tourists taking selfies. It's loud. Chaotic. People pushing strollers, couples sharing overly expensive crepes, kids screaming near the fountain.
Ethan hates chaos.
He adjusts his cuff. Being twenty-three and the youngest senior analyst at Sterling & Cross usually means sixteen-hour days in a glass office, not wandering through a festival in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. But his brother insisted. Take a break, Ethan. You look like a vampire.
Sebastian worries too much. Ethan doesn't need a break. He needs efficiency.
He dodges a kid with a sticky cotton candy cone. Effortless sidestep. Muscle memory from years of kendo.
"Two minutes," he mutters to himself. He's supposed to meet Marcus at the north gate at 3:50. He'll be exactly on time. He always is.
Ethan's life is a straight line. High school valedictorian. Early graduation from MIT. Launching his first startup at nineteen. Everything calibrated, measured, and successful. He knows where he's going. He knows who he is.
Then the wind picks up.
It's sudden—a gust that rips through the cherry trees, sending a blizzard of pale pink petals swirling across the path. Visibility drops to a blur of pastel motion.
Ethan squints, shielding his eyes.
And there she is.
Through the shower of petals, she looks like a hallucination. Or maybe an anime character who got lost on the way to a convention.
She's standing on the low stone wall bordering the fountain, camera raised to her face. Long, violet hair whips around her like a flag in the wind. Not dyed a sensible dark plum, but bright, impossible electric violet. She's wearing a white sundress that's entirely impractical for climbing on slick stones.
Ethan stops walking. He literally stops. Which is weird, because he has places to be.
But he can't look away.
She lowers the camera. A smile plays on her lips—not for anyone in particular, just for the moment itself. She looks... vibrant. Like she's existing in high definition while everyone else is buffering.
Then she steps back.
The stone is wet from the fountain's spray. Her canvas sneaker loses grip.
It happens in slow motion. That's a cliché, isn't it? Time slowing down. Ethan hates clichés almost as much as he hates chaos. But his brain dumps a massive dose of adrenaline into his system, processing the geometry of her fall before she even screams.
trajectory. Angle of descent. Concrete edge.
She's going to hit her head.
Ethan moves.
He doesn't think about his Italian leather shoes or his customized suit. He launches forward, covering the five meters between them in two strides.
The girl gasps, her arms flailing, sketchbook and camera flying from her grip.
She tips backward.
Ethan slides his arm around her waist, bracing his legs. The impact slams into him, heavier than he expects, knocking the wind out of his chest. He spins with the momentum, pulling her away from the jagged edge of the fountain.
They crash together. Hard.
For a second, the world is just a blur of sky and pink flowers and the smell of... vanilla. Vanilla and rain.
They stop moving.
Ethan is breathing hard. His heart is hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. He's got one arm locked firmly around her waist, the other hand gripping her shoulder. She's clinging to his lapels, knuckles white.
Silence.
Even the crowd seems to quiet down.
Ethan looks down.
"You okay?"
She looks up.
And that's when it hits him. The knockout punch.
Her eyes.
They aren't normal. The left one is a deep, warm amber, like crystallized honey. The right one is bright, piercing gold. Heterochromia. He's read about it, seen pictures, but seeing it up close? It's mesmerizing. Like looking into a solar eclipse.
She blinks, long lashes fluttering. She seems dazed.
"I..." She hums a low note—a nervous, melodic sound. "I think so?"
Her voice is soft, husky. It wraps around his nervous system and pulls tight.
"Good," Ethan says. He realizes he's still holding her very, very close. He doesn't let go. "Because that was almost a very dramatic exit."
A flush spreads across her cheeks. She laughs, and the sound is breathy and embarrassed. "I know. I was just... the light was perfect. I had to get the shot."
"Is the shot worth a concussion?"
"Maybe?" She tilts her head, her mismatched eyes scanning his face. She doesn't pull away either. "Are you always this fast, or is saving clumsy girls a hobby?"
"I usually stick to arbitrage and corporate law," Ethan says, surprising himself. He doesn't do banter. He doesn't flirt. He exchanges data. "But I made an exception."
"Lucky me."
She finally steps back, smoothing her dress. Ethan's hands feel empty the moment she leaves them. It's an irritating physical sensation. A cold spot.
He looks around. "Your stuff."
He bends down, retrieving a battered camera and a sketchbook that landed open on the grass. The page is flapped open to a charcoal drawing.
Ethan pauses.
It's not just a sketch. It's a captured moment. The energy of the crowd, the flow of the trees—it's vivid, aggressive, and incredibly tender all at once. Usually, street art is garbage. This... this is talent.
"Hey!" She snatches the book from his hands, clutching it to her chest. Her face is bright red now. "No peeking."
"It's good," Ethan says. He puts his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking. Why are they shaking? "You're an artist."
"I doodle," she corrects him. She looks him up and down. "And you're... rich. Obviously."
Ethan quirks an eyebrow. "Is it the watch?"
"It's the shoes. Nobody wears shoes that shiny to a park unless they have an agenda."
Ethan laughs. A genuine, short bark of a laugh. He can't remember the last time he laughed without checking if it was socially appropriate first. "I'm Ethan."
"Ethan," she tests the name. She hums that little tune again. Mmm-hmm. "I'm Violet."
"Violet," he repeats.
Of course she is. Violet with the violet hair. It fits perfectly.
"Well, Ethan with the Shiny Shoes," she says, gesturing vaguely around them. "Thanks for the save. My sister would kill me if I ended up in the ER again. She says I have the survival instincts of a lemon."
"A lemon?"
"They roll off things," she says seriously. Then she grins, and it's blinding. It transforms her whole face, making her eyes crinkle at the corners. "I owe you one. Seriously. Can I buy you a coffee? Or... wait, you probably only drink espresso made from beans digested by cats or something."
"I drink coffee," Ethan says. "And I would love a coffee."
Somewhere, miles away in his brain, a reminder pops up: Marcus. 3:50 PM. North Gate.
He checks his watch. 3:55 PM. He's late.
Ethan Cross is never late. It's a cardinal sin. It shows a lack of discipline.
He looks at Violet. She's tucking a stray lock of purple hair behind her ear, waiting for his answer, rocking slightly on her heels.
"Lead the way," he says.
Marcus can wait. The startup can wait. The entire world can wait.
Because right now, looking at this girl with the sunset eyes, Ethan has the strangest feeling that he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
They end up at a small kiosk near the lake. The line is long, moving at a glacial pace, but Ethan doesn't mind. Usually, inefficiencies like this make him want to reorganize the staff workflow himself. Today, he's just grateful for the delay.
More time to talk to her.
Her full name is Violet Aurora. She's twenty-two. She goes to the local art institute but works part-time at a library because "books smell like magic." She hates thunder but loves rain. She talks fast, jumping from subject to subject like a stone skipping over water.
Ethan learns more about her in twenty minutes than he knows about colleagues he's worked with for three years.
"So, prodigy boy," she says, leaning against the counter as they wait for their drinks. She's drinking a vanilla latte with extra foam. "You play any instruments? You have pianist fingers."
Ethan looks at his hands. "Piano. Violin. A bit of cello."
"Show off," she teases. "Let me guess. You were the kid everyone hated in school because you set the curve."
"I wasn't hated," Ethan defends himself, though he's laughing again. "I was... respected from a distance."
"Lonely," she decides. She says it casually, but her amber eye seems to pierce right through his defenses. "Sounds lonely."
Ethan opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Maybe a little."
Violet reaches out. Her fingers brush against his hand on the counter. Just a touch. An electric shock zips up his arm, settling deep in his chest.
"Well," she says softly. "You're not lonely right now."
No. He's definitely not.
The wind kicks up again, shaking the cherry trees overhead. Petals rain down on them, caught in the steam rising from their cups. One lands right in Violet's hair.
Ethan reaches out. He shouldn't. It's too intimate. They met forty minutes ago.
But his hand moves on its own, plucking the pink petal from the vibrant violet strands.
Violet freezes. She looks up at him, her heterochromatic eyes wide.
The air around them seems to thicken. The noise of the festival—the laughter, the music, the shouting vendors—fades into a dull hum. It's just them. A vacuum of silence in the center of the world.
Ethan's fingers linger near her cheek. Her skin looks soft. Impossibly soft.
Kiss her.
The thought is insane. It's primal and completely out of character. But the urge is so strong it actually hurts. It's a magnetic pull, gravity pivoting to center on her.
Violet's breath hitches. Her gaze drops to his lips, then back up to his eyes.
"Ethan?" she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"We just met."
"I know."
"This is weird, right?"
"Extremely," he admits.
But neither of them pulls away.
This is the perfect timeline. He's rich, successful, healthy. He has everything a man could want. But looking at her, Ethan realizes he's been starving for twenty-three years and didn't even know it.
"Hey! Earth to Romeo!"
The spell shatters.
Ethan blinks, pulling his hand back as if burned. Violet jumps, almost dropping her latte.
A man is jogging toward them, waving frantically. He's wearing a t-shirt that says Debugging: Not a Phase and looks completely out of breath.
Marcus.
"Dude!" Marcus pants, stopping beside them and leaning hands on knees. "I've been at the North Gate for fifteen minutes. You're never late. I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped. Or kidnapped and then dead."
Ethan clears his throat, adjusting his jacket. He feels disjointed, like he's waking up from a deep sleep. "Sorry. I got... distracted."
Marcus straightens up, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Distracted? You?" He follows Ethan's gaze and spots Violet.
Marcus's eyes go wide. "Oh. Okay. Wow. I get it."
Violet laughs, the tension breaking instantly. "Hi. I'm the distraction."
"I'm Marcus," he says, sticking out a hand. "I'm the sidekick. It's a thankless job, but the benefits are terrible."
Violet shakes his hand enthusiastically. "I'm Violet. Nice to meet the sidekick."
"We should go," Ethan says quickly, checking his watch again. Not because he wants to leave, but because he feels raw. Exposed. If he stays here any longer, he's going to say something stupid like 'I think I love you,' and that would verify Marcus's theory that he's finally snapped.
"Right," Violet says. She clutches her sketchbook tight. "The sunset shots. I need to get to the bridge before golden hour ends."
"The bridge?" Ethan asks.
A shadow passes over her face. Just for a split second—a flicker of something dark and painful behind the gold eye. Then her smile pastes back on, a little brittle around the edges.
"Yeah. Great view from there," she says brightly. Too brightly.
She takes a step back. "Thanks for the coffee, Ethan with the Shiny Shoes. And the save."
"Wait," Ethan says. He steps forward. He needs... something. Insurance. "Will I see you again?"
Violet pauses. She looks at him, tilting her head. That warm, slightly sad smile returns.
"It's a small city, Ethan," she says. "And you have good reflexes. Maybe you'll catch me again."
She turns and runs off into the crowd, violet hair streaming behind her like a banner.
Ethan stands there. He watches until she's just a speck of color disappearing into the mass of people.
"Dude," Marcus says, nudging his arm. "Cliché much? You're staring."
"Shut up," Ethan says, but there's no bite in it.
He looks at his hand—the hand that held her waist. It still tingles.
3:47 PM to 4:15 PM. Less than thirty minutes.
Ethan Cross doesn't believe in destiny. He believes in statistics, calculated risks, and verifiable data. But as he turns to leave the park, feeling a strange emptiness in his chest where his heart used to be, he knows one thing with absolute certainty.
His perfect, structured life just ended.
And something infinitely more interesting has just begun.