5:12 PM.
Ethan is sitting in a leather ergonomic chair that costs more than most people's cars, staring at a spreadsheet that represents a three-hundred-million-dollar merger. The numbers usually sing to him. They tell stories of efficiency, profit margins, and leveraged risk. It's a language he speaks fluently.
Right now, the numbers are just static.
All he can see is purple.
Bright, impossible, electric purple.
He rubs his temples. This is ridiculous. He's Ethan Cross. He focuses. He executes. He does not get derailed by a twenty-minute interaction with a girl who smells like vanilla and almost broke her neck in a public park.
"Sir?"
Ethan blinks, looking up. His assistant, Sarah, is standing in the doorway, clutching a tablet. She looks terrified. She usually looks terrified. Ethan demands perfection, and Sarah vibrates with the constant fear of not delivering it.
"Yes?"
"The conference call with the Tokyo partners starts in fifteen minutes. They're expecting the projections on the..."
"Cancel it."
The silence in the room is deafening. Sarah's mouth drops open. "Sir? This is the Yamoto deal. You've been working on this for six months."
"Reschedule it," Ethan corrects, standing up. He hits save on the blank spreadsheet he hasn't touched in an hour and shuts his laptop. "Tell them I had a family emergency. Tell them I have the plague. I don't care."
He grabs his jacket.
"Where are you going?" Sarah asks, her voice hitting a squeak of panic.
Ethan checks his watch. 5:14 PM. Sunset is at 6:02 PM.
"The bridge," he says.
He walks out of the office, leaving the perfection of his glass tower behind. He doesn't look back.
The city feels different now.
Before today, the city was just infrastructure to Ethan. Streets were arteries for transport; buildings were assets for valuation. But as he sits in the back of his sleek black sedan, drumming his fingers on his knee, the city looks... softer.
The cherry blossoms are everywhere. They coat the streets in pink snow. The late afternoon light is turning everything a deep, syrupy gold.
Golden hour.
That's what she called it.
The driver pulls up to the embankment of the river. The Old Iron Bridge spans the water ahead, a relic of the industrial age that somehow survived the modernization of the skyline. It's rusted in an artistic way, popular with tourists and brooding teenagers.
Ethan gets out. He tells the driver not to wait.
He walks onto the pedestrian path. The wind is colder here, whipping off the water. It cuts through his suit jacket.
There are couples holding hands. A guy playing an acoustic guitar badly. A group of tourists taking photos of the skyline.
But he doesn't see her.
Disappointment hits him. It's a physical blow, heavy in his gut.
He feels stupid. Of course she isn't here. She was just making conversation. Maybe you'll catch me again. It was a throwaway line. People say things they don't mean all the time. Ethan rarely does, but he knows humanity is generally imprecise.
He walks toward the center of the span, feeling increasingly idiotic with every step. He's the Senior Analyst at Sterling & Cross, wandering around a bridge looking for a girl whose last name he only half-knows. Aurora. Is that even a real name?
Then he sees the hair.
She's there. At the very center of the bridge.
But she's not taking pictures.
Violet is standing at the railing, her camera dangling from its strap around her neck, forgotten. Her hands are gripping the rusty metal so hard her knuckles are white.
She's frozen.
She's staring down at the water swirling forty feet below. The current is strong today, swollen from spring rains. Dark, churning water.
Ethan slows his approach. The playfulness from the park is gone. Her posture is rigid. Her shoulders are drawn up tight to her ears. She's vibrating with tension.
She looks like someone trying to solve a puzzle she's terrified to touch.
Ethan steps up beside her, keeping a respectable distance. He leans his elbows on the railing, looking out at the skyline, mimicking her stance without encroaching on it.
"Find your shot?" he asks.
Violet jumps. A sharp intake of breath.
She snaps her head toward him. Her eyes—amber and gold—are wide, dilated. For a split second, she looks at him with pure, unadulterated panic. Like she doesn't recognize him.
Then, recognition floods in. The tension in her shoulders drops about an inch.
"Ethan," she breathes. "With the Shiny Shoes."
"They're less shiny now," he notes, glancing down at his dust-scuffed oxfords. "I had to run a few blocks. Traffic."
She lets out a shaky laugh. It sounds brittle. "You ran? For a sunset?"
"For the photographer."
She stares at him. The wind whips a strand of violet hair across her face, sticking to her lip gloss. She brushes it away with a trembling hand.
"You're staring at the water like it offended you," Ethan observes. He keeps his voice level, calm. The same voice he uses to talk nervous investors off a ledge.
Violet looks back down at the churning river. She swallows hard.
"I hate deep water," she admits quietly. "And bridges."
Ethan frowns. "You said you came here for the view."
"I did."
"If you hate bridges, why come to the biggest one in the city?"
She turns to face him, leaning her back against the railing as if she can't bear to look at the drop anymore. "Because it's beautiful. And because avoiding things makes them scary. Facing them just makes them... uncomfortable."
"That logic is flawed," Ethan points out. "If I put my hand on a hot stove, it hurts. Doing it repeatedly doesn't make it 'uncomfortable,' it makes me an idiot."
She smiles then. It's smaller than the one in the park, but it's real. "Are you calling me an idiot, Ethan?"
"I'm calling you paradoxical."
"That's a big word for a Tuesday."
"It's a big bridge for a scared girl."
She looks at him, searching his face. He wonders what she sees. He knows what he looks like—stern, polished, too sharp around the edges. But she looks at him like she's trying to find something specific.
"You really came," she says, sounding surprised. "I thought you were just being polite."
"I don't do polite. I do efficient."
"Is chasing a stranger efficient?"
"I determined that the regret of not seeing you again would consume more mental bandwidth than the act of finding you. So, yes. Efficient."
Violet laughs. A real laugh this time. It rings out over the rush of the water and the traffic below, clear and bell-like. "Wow. That is the most unromantic romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."
"I'll work on it."
"Please don't." She shifts, her camera bumping against her chest. "It's charming. In a robot kind of way."
She pushes off the railing, turning her back on the water. She seems eager to get away from the edge. "Okay, Mr. Efficiency. You found me. The sun is setting. The golden hour is technically peaking right now. Smile."
Before he can protest, she raises the battered DSLR.
Click.
She lowers it, checking the screen.
"Hey," he protests. "I didn't authorize that."
"Too late. Captured." She tilts the screen toward him.
It's a good photo. The light hits the side of his face, softening the sharp angle of his jaw. He looks... focused. Intense. The background is a blur of rusty iron and golden sky.
"You look serious," she comments. "Like you're about to negotiate a treaty."
"That's my face," he defends.
"We need to fix that." She fiddles with the lens cap. "You look like you carry the weight of the world in those shoulders. What's in that briefcase you probably left in a very expensive car?"
"Spreadsheets. Projections. Responsibilities."
"Sounds heavy."
"It is."
"Well," Violet says. She steps closer. She's short, he realizes. The top of her head barely reaches his chin. "How about we trade? You carry my camera bag, I'll carry... absolutely nothing because I refuse to do math after 5 PM."
Ethan feels a corner of his mouth twitch up. "That sounds like a terrible deal for me."
"Ah, but I know the best ramen spot in the city. And it's cheap. And greasy. And perfectly unhealthy. My treat. Since you bought the coffee."
"I don't eat greasy food."
"Liar," she whispers. "You look hungry."
She's right. He is.
Not just for food.
The ramen shop is a hole-in-the-wall place squeezed between a laundromat and a vape shop. It smells like pork broth, garlic, and wet pavement. The windows are steamed up.
Ethan sits on a wobbly stool, trying not to let his tailored suit touch the sticky counter. Violet sits next to him, legs dangling, humming that tune again. It's familiar, but he can't place it. Something classical? No, it sounds more... wistful.
"Two Miso Specials!" she shouts to the chef, an old man who grunts in recognition.
"Regular?" the chef asks, eyeing Ethan.
"Extra pork for the suit!" she calls back.
She spins on her stool to face him. "Okay. Talk to me, Ethan. No stocks, no mergers. Who are you when you're not ruling the world?"
Ethan unbuttons his jacket. The atmosphere in here is thick and warm. It feels weirdly domestic.
"There isn't much else," he admits. It sounds sad when he says it out loud. "I work. I sleep. I run—to stay fit, not for fun. I read."
"What do you read?"
"Biographies. History. Architecture."
"Dry," she judges. "No fiction?"
"Fiction isn't real. It's lying for entertainment."
Violet gasps, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. "Blasphemy! Fiction is the only thing that's real. It's truth with a costume on."
"That sounds like something an art student would say."
"Guilty." She leans her chin on her hand, staring at him with those jarring, beautiful eyes. "I think you need more lies in your life, Ethan. The truth seems boring."
"What about you?" he counters. He wants to deflect the attention. Her gaze is too intense. "Why art? Why photography?"
The food arrives. Two steaming bowls the size of small planets. Violet immediately starts cracking wooden chopsticks apart.
"Because memories are slippery," she says. She blows on a spoonful of broth, steam curling around her nose. "My memory... it sucks. I forget things. Dates, names, where I put my keys."
Her smile falters for a microsecond.
"So I take pictures," she continues. "If I capture a moment, it's mine forever. It can't leave me. It's proof that I was there. That I mattered."
She says it with such quiet intensity that Ethan stops reaching for the soy sauce.
Proof that I was there.
"You matter," he says. It comes out before he filters it.
Violet freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth. She looks at him, blinking. "We just met, Ethan. You don't even know my middle name."
"Is it Rose? Lily? Something floral to match the theme?"
She laughs, defusing the moment. "Nope. It's Danger."
"Violet Danger Aurora."
"Has a ring to it, right?"
"It sounds like a comic book character."
"I'll take it."
They eat. Ethan finds himself relaxing in a way he hasn't in years. The soup is salty and rich. The noise of the shop—clattering dishes, slurping, chatter—fades into pleasant background radiation.
He watches her eat. She eats with enthusiasm. She gets a drop of broth on her chin and wipes it away with the back of her hand, unselfconscious. She hums while she chews.
She's messy. She's chaotic. She's everything he's disciplined himself not to be.
And he's absolutely fascinated.
"So," she says, pushing her empty bowl away. "Was the greasiness fatal?"
"I think I'll survive," Ethan says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Though my cardiologist might disapprove."
"Do you actually have a cardiologist at twenty-three?"
"Preventative maintenance."
She rolls her eyes. "You are seventy years old on the inside. I'm convinced."
"And you are twelve."
"Touché."
She checks her phone—a cracked screen model that looks like it's been dropped as many times as she has. Her expression falls.
"I have to go," she says. "My shift starts in an hour. The library waits for no one."
Ethan feels a surge of panic. He stands up too quickly, his stool scraping loud against the floor. "I'll drive you."
"Your car is probably halfway across town," she points out. "And I like the subway. It has texture."
"Texture implies dirt."
"Character!" she corrects. She grabs her camera bag. "Walk me to the station?"
"Lead the way."
The sun is fully gone now. The city lights have taken over—neon signs reflecting in puddles, headlights cutting through the dusk. The air is crisp.
They walk close together on the sidewalk. Their arms brush occasionally. Every time it happens, Ethan feels a spark jump between them. It's annoying. It's unscientific. It's wonderful.
"Hey," she says softly. They're standing at the entrance to the subway station. The stairs lead down into darkness. "Thanks. For... you know. The save. The sunset. The soup."
"The three S's," Ethan says.
"Exactly." She rocks on her heels, hugging her bag. "You're not what I expected, Ethan Cross."
"What did you expect?"
"Just... emptiness," she says frankly. "Rich guys are usually hollow. But you..." She reaches out, one finger poking him in the chest, right over his heart. "You're loud in here."
Ethan's heart hammers against her finger. "Is that a diagnosis?"
"It's an observation."
She looks up at him. The amber streetlights reflect in her mismatched eyes, making them glow. She looks ethereal. Temporary.
Ethan has a sudden, irrational fear that if she goes down those stairs, she'll disappear forever.
"Violet," he says. His voice is lower, rougher.
"Yeah?"
"Saturday."
She blinks. "Saturday?"
"There's a gallery opening in the district. Modern abstract. Probably terrible. The wine will be overpriced and the conversation will be pretentious."
Violet grins slowly. "You really know how to sell a date."
"I don't want to sell it. I want to spend it with you."
The honesty hangs between them.
Violet bites her lip. She looks down at her shoes, then back up at him. She seems to be calculating something—weighing risk against reward.
"Okay," she whispers.
"Okay?"
"Pick me up. But not in the black car. Something... louder."
Ethan laughs. "I'll see what I can do."
"Here." She grabs his hand, fishing a permanent marker out of her bag with her teeth. She uncaps it and scribbles a number on the back of his hand. Her handwriting is loopy and artistic. "Call me. So I know you're not a hallucination brought on by low blood sugar."
"I'm real," Ethan promises.
"We'll see."
She leans up. For a second, he thinks she might kiss him. His body tenses, anticipating. But she just presses her cheek briefly against his chest, listening, before pulling away.
"Goodnight, Ethan."
"Goodnight, Violet."
She turns and jogs down the stairs. He watches until her violet hair disappears into the underground gloom.
Ethan stands on the corner for a long time. He looks at the number written on his skin in black ink.
He pulls out his phone. He has meetings tomorrow. Board preparations. A flight to Hong Kong on Monday he needs to prep for.
He opens his calendar app and cancels everything for the weekend.
Then he looks up at the sky. It's dark now, no stars visible through the city light pollution.
For the first time in his life, Ethan isn't thinking about the future. He isn't planning his next five moves. He's just standing there, feeling the cold air in his lungs, listening to the echo of her laugh in his memory.
He lifts his hand, staring at the digits.
A drop of rain hits his face. Then another.
He smiles.
The forecast said clear skies. His data was wrong.
And he doesn't care at all.