"Come on," he says, voice rougher than before. "There's more to see."
We walk again. The cables sing in the wind. A tourist takes a flash photo and apologizes to no one. The violinist from the subway has somehow migrated to the bridge approach; different song, same ache. Draco flips him a coin mid-step without breaking stride. "Always tip the soundtrack," he says. "Even if it's only a note."
"Can I ask something?" I say as we reach the Brooklyn side and turn back for the view.
"You can ask anything."
"When that man was shouting on the platform—you didn't look scared. You looked… alert. Like you were running numbers."
He considers. "Assess, don't assume. Anger isn't always danger. But I put you behind my arm before I did the math."
"Because I'm fragile?"
"Because you're mine to keep safe on nights like this." The words drop between us like a coin into deep water—clean, ringing, almost indecent. The possessiveness in his voice should scare me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly. No one's ever claimed me before. Tried to protect me, control me, manage me, yes. But claim me? Choose me? Want me to belong to them? Never. Before I can drown in the sound, he adds lightly, "Rule three: we watch out for each other."
"Okay," I say, throat tight. "Rule three."
We stand with the skyline in front of us, New York, all sharp edges and light. My phone buzzes in my pocket. An instinct warns me to ignore it. The buzz comes again, insistent.
I don't look at the screen. Don't need to. I know who it is, what it says—some version of concern wrapped in control. The drumbeat reminder that even my freedom has limits.
He sees my face change but doesn’t ask to look. Just slides his hand into mine like he's done it a thousand times and squeezes.
"You want to head back?" he asks. No pressure. No judgment.
Wind lifts the ends of my hair. The river keeps moving under us, indifferent to old rules and new ones.
"No," I say. The decision lands clean in my bones. "Not yet."
His smile is small and devastating. "Then we don't."
We detour down the Brooklyn side for hot churros and paper cups of chocolate so thick it’s like warm pudding. Cinnamon sugar dusts my lips; he wipes it away with his thumb and nearly curses under his breath. I pretend not to notice the way his jaw flexes, and he pretends not to notice the way I lean into the touch like a cat.
"Tell me another rule," I say.
He threads our fingers. "Rule four: when the world tries to rush you, make it wait."
We make it wait. We walk too slowly and talk too quietly and memorize small, stupid details: a sticker that says YOU ARE HERE on a lamppost; a padlock scratched with someone's initials; a mural we can only see half of from our angle. His stories are quick sketches—corners, alleys, hidden windows of the city—and I drink them like I'm thirsty.
On the way back toward Manhattan, a man with a guitar stands by the railing, fingers white with cold, singing a love song in a language I don't recognize. Draco listens through an entire verse. And then another. He has no money left except the quarters, and he drops them gently in the case, as though he's placing something fragile there.
"Still enough for train fare," he says, catching my look. "Relax."
We reach the Manhattan side. The bridge hums underfoot; traffic hisses; a siren wails somewhere, rising and falling like the city breathing. My phone buzzes again. And again. I slide it deeper into my pocket until it hits bone.
"Ready?" he asks. "City still owes you a train ride."
"Ready," I say. And it's true.
Back underground, the platform feels different. Familiar, almost. Draco shows me where to stand so the car doors will open in front of us, how to angle my body to shelter a space for two, how to read the map without moving my lips like a tourist. A man in a suit gives me a quick, dismissive once-over like I'm not worth the space I take up. Draco sees it and smiles at me anyway in a way that makes the suit irrelevant. Something shifts in me. I stand taller.
"Last rule for tonight," he says as the train howls in and the crowd swells. "You get to decide when it ends."
The doors open. People pour out, pour in. He waits for my nod before guiding me forward, a steady palm at the small of my back, his body an anchor in the churn.
When we find seats, the carriage jolts and lights flicker. He turns his head, mouth close to my ear, voice pitched low for me alone.
"Good first night out?"
