Phone-first, face-second, full-body collision with what felt like a wall made of warm muscle and expensive fabric.
She stumbled. Caught herself. Looked up.
Purple eyes.
That was the first thing. Before the face registered. Before her brain assembled the features into something recognisable. Just — purple. Vivid. Impossible.
Looking down at her with an expression of mild amusement, the way you'd look at a kitten that had just headbutted your shin.
Phei?
Of course.
Of course it's him.
He turned fully — unhurried, unbothered, the collision having affected him about as much as a light breeze affects a cathedral — and smiled.
Not the full smile the one she'd seen him deploy on the screaming women and the selfie-seekers.
Something smaller. Quicker.
The polite, easy smile of a man who'd been bumped into by a stranger and genuinely didn't mind.
"You're fine," he said. A very sweet, soft calming voice. Warm. Amused in a way that didn't feel like mockery. "Go on ahead."
