I slip it into my jacket pocket, its weight both reassuring and slightly terrifying. He's protecting me even as he's teaching me to protect myself.
"Tell me the first rule," I whisper. "How do I survive out here?"
Draco's hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the knit of my sweater. "Rule one: stay close," he says. "Rule two: match my pace. If I stop, you stop. If I move, you move."
Close isn't a problem. Not tonight.
Later, as we descend into the Lexington line at 77th, the station gasps a deep-bellied roar of wind. The air smells like hot metal, old rain, and something electrical. Lights flicker. A saxophone wails a mournful scale from somewhere I can't see.
People flow around us, a river of coats and backpacks and liquor. He angles me to the inside of the stairs, body between me and the swell of commuters, palm steady on my waist. My heart's an unruly drummer in my chest, equal parts nerves and giddy, stupid joy.
"Keep your bag in front," he murmurs at my ear, breath warm. "Wrist through the strap. Feet shoulder-width on the platform so you can't get shoved off balance."
"I thought you were a magician, not a bodyguard."
"Magicians are just thieves who decided to be honest about it," he says, mouth tipping. "It's all misdirection and hands. The city runs on both."
The platform is a different ecosystem entirely. A woman in scrubs naps sitting up, chin on her chest. Two teenagers share a single set of earbuds and try not to smile. A man in a paint-splattered jacket clutches a bouquet of grocery-store flowers like it's a trophy he fought for.
A violinist plays under the peeling green column numbers—something aching and beautiful that makes my throat tight. People drop coins without looking. Draco pauses, fishes change from his pocket, and lets it ring the bottom of the case. Not much, but the gesture feels… reverent.
"Why?" I ask softly.
"Because he's working," Draco says. "And it matters."
The train bursts into the station in a howl of wind and squeal of brakes. Doors yawn open; we're swept inside. Metal poles, scratched windows, a row of ads promising better skin, better teeth, better life. The seat is plastic-cold through my jeans. Across from us, a toddler in a puffy jacket kicks his boots against the bench in time with the carriage's rattle.
The train jerks; my shoulder bumps Draco. I don't apologize. He doesn't move away.
"Breathethrough your mouth if the smell bugs you," he says, voice low enough for just me. "If someone asks for money, you don't have to answer. Look busy—phone, map, me. Never fumble with your purse." A pause, then lighter: "Bonus rule: don't get hypnotized by the tile work. Easy way to miss your train."
"It's beautiful," I admit, then flush when he smirks like he's caught me staring.
The train barrels downtown, local stops ticking by—68th, 59th, Grand Central, Union Square. Each station is a small world unto itself, people flowing in and out like a tide.
When a tall man stumbles and starts shouting nonsense words at the space above our heads, Draco's arm comes around me. Not dramatic, not possessive. Just sure. I can feel every place we touch: hip, ribs, the skimming line of his forearm. The frantic parts of my brain go quiet, the volume knob twisted down to zero.
"Eyes here," he says, tipping my chin toward his mouth—dangerous—and then higher, to the route map above the door. "See the green line? That's us. Six train all the way down. Numbers tell you local or express, but the color tells you which track."
"You're good at this."
"Survival's my party trick," he says, like it's a joke. It doesn't sound like one.
When we surface at Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall, the night hits with a colder edge. Streetlights smear gold over leaves and stone. The bridge rises ahead like lace and steel—the gothic arches, the web of cables, the river moving dark and relentless below. Wind grabs at my hair and turns my sweater into a sail. I can't seem to stop smiling.
"We're really doing this," I say, breath flying away in little clouds. "I'm outside. At night. On purpose."
"Want out?" he asks, and his eyes search mine, serious now.
"Not even a little."
We walk the wooden planks, heels ticking. Couples drift by with linked fingers. Runners thud past with headlamps bobbing. A cyclist sneaks into the pedestrian lane and earns three creative curses in three languages. In the distance, the skyline lifts its bright jaw—steel and glass, teeth bared at the sky.
A man with a paper cup shakes it at passing feet. "Spare change?" His voice is rough as the sidewalk.
Draco stops. Counts the bills and coins in his palm. There doesn't seem to be much. He pours all of his change into it. Keeps two MetroCards, some bills, and a few quarters.
"That's almost everything," I whisper. My cheeks heat with shame, not for him but for me. "I didn't even think to bring money," I admit. "I've never needed to."
