It started with a text that shouldn’t have meant anything.

**Emily:** “You alive or buried in spreadsheets?”

**Ryan:** “Define alive.”

**Emily:** “Blink twice if kidnapped by Excel.”

**Ryan:** “Can’t. Hands full of formulas.”

Emily smiled at her phone, sitting in the subway, knees bouncing with caffeine and nerves. It wasn’t a date—at least, that’s what she kept telling herself. It was “helping him choose lighting fixtures for his new office project.” Totally platonic. Totally safe. Totally a lie.

Ryan was waiting outside a hardware store on Canal Street, looking like he belonged in a catalog titled *Functional Yet Endearing.* He waved as she approached.

“You ready for your thrilling afternoon in fluorescent hell?” he asked.

“Born ready,” Emily said. “I live for comparing light bulbs.”

They walked into the store, greeted by an explosion of LED panels and overly enthusiastic salesmen. Emily squinted. “I think I just met God. And he’s dimmable.”

Ryan laughed. “See that? That’s efficiency.”

“No,” she said, pointing at a chandelier shaped like an octopus. “That’s a cry for help.”

They spent two hours debating color temperatures, brightness, and the philosophical difference between “warm white” and “soft white.” Emily made shadow puppets against the wall while Ryan actually took notes. She knocked over one display, he caught it mid-fall, and for a second, they both froze—his hand still on hers, both of them laughing too hard to pretend it didn’t mean something.

Afterward, they walked down toward Chinatown. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts and wet pavement. Emily stopped at a street cart. “Two bao, please,” she said.

“Only two?” Ryan teased. “You’re losing your edge.”

She handed him one. “You talk too much for a man who eats like a calculator.”

“Calculators don’t eat.”

“Exactly.”

They sat on the curb, eating, watching traffic crawl by. A street musician nearby started playing a saxophone, the kind of sound that makes the city feel like it’s winking at you.

Ryan took a breath. “You ever feel like the city’s testing us?”

Emily raised a brow. “Constantly. It’s like living inside a group project.”

The next week, chaos decided to make things interesting.

Jess had organized a “staff karaoke night” as a team-building exercise—which in Velvet Room terms meant “a legal reason to drink on a Tuesday.” She cornered Emily. “You’re coming.”

“I hate karaoke.”

“You love attention.”

“I love *controlled* attention.”

Jess grinned. “Then you’ll love this. Ryan’s coming too.”

“What? How—”

“I invited him.”

Emily gawked. “You invited my chaos variable?”

Jess shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

By eight, the private room was full of noise and bad decisions. Jess was halfway through a passionate version of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Ryan sat in the corner, half laughing, half horrified.

Emily plopped beside him. “Still think you understand chaos?”

“Rapidly revising my data.”

Jess shoved a mic in Ryan’s hand. “Your turn, engineer boy!”

He raised a hand. “I don’t sing.”

“Neither do I,” Emily said, grabbing the second mic. “That’s what makes it art.”

They ended up doing a duet of “I Got You Babe,” wildly off-key, laughing through half the lyrics. By the chorus, the room was chanting along. Emily doubled over laughing; Ryan’s voice cracked so hard he surrendered. When it ended, everyone cheered. He bowed dramatically. “Thank you, New York. I’ll be retiring immediately.”

Emily grinned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only because you are.”

Later, outside, rain started to fall again—the universe’s favorite mood lighting. Jess waved them off with a wink and disappeared into a cab.

They ran under an awning, laughing, breathless. Emily shook water from her hair. “Gravity and weather have terrible timing.”

“Maybe they just like us wet,” Ryan said, then winced. “That came out wrong.”

Emily burst out laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. “Oh my god, you’re *adorable* when you panic.”

“Remind me to delete myself.”

“You wish.”

They stood there, grinning, rain clattering against the metal awning. Then, quietly:

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Tonight was… fun.”

“Fun’s good,” he said. “Predictable’s overrated.”

She met his eyes, and something in her chest shifted again—the same pull, the same stupid rhythm.

The next few days blurred into late nights and messages that lasted until sunrise.  

She told him about the weird regulars who swore her cocktails were therapy.  

He sent her photos of Pascal sitting in his laundry basket “doing taxes.”  

They joked about starting a podcast called *Order & Chaos.*

But the real test came on a Friday.

Ryan had invited her to a corporate event—one of those suits-and-small-talk things she swore she’d never attend. But he’d looked so hopeful she couldn’t say no.

The ballroom at the Midtown hotel looked like wealth had been inflated with boredom. People in sleek clothes held champagne like trophies. Ryan met her at the entrance, tie slightly crooked, smile nervous.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.  

“Absolutely not,” she said. “But I brought sarcasm, so I’ll survive.”

They navigated the crowd. Someone mistook her for the catering staff; someone else asked if she “came with the lights.” Emily whispered, “I feel like I crashed a robot convention.”

Ryan grinned. “You make it look better.”

Halfway through the evening, he introduced her to his boss, a man named Grant with the charisma of a fax machine. Emily, trying to be polite, said, “Nice tie. It’s very… geometrical.”

Grant blinked. “Thank you?”

Ryan choked on his drink.

They excused themselves quickly. “You’re going to get me fired,” he said, laughing.  

“Relax, he probably liked it. Engineers love geometry.”  

“Yeah, not when it’s on their neck.”

They stood near the balcony, city lights stretching below them. Emily leaned on the rail. “You actually do this for fun?”  

“Fun’s a strong word. Survival’s closer.”  

“Well,” she said, nudging him, “you survived me. You can survive this.”  

“Barely.”  

Something about the night softened then—her laugh quieter, his gaze longer. The crowd blurred, the city below hummed. He reached for her hand, hesitated, then let it rest beside hers on the rail. Not touching. Not yet.

The next morning, Emily woke with her phone buzzing. Jess again.

**Jess:** “He likes you.”  

**Emily:** “How do you even—”  

**Jess:** “You left your scarf at the bar. He picked it up. That’s basically engagement.”  

Emily smiled at the screen, shaking her head. She didn’t know where this was going, only that she didn’t want it to stop.

Across town, Ryan looked at the same scarf folded on his counter. Pascal was sitting on it, purring like approval.

“Yeah,” Ryan murmured. “Terrible timing.”

But maybe timing wasn’t the point anymore.