When we leave finally leave the movie theater, we’re greeted with the sight of Madison Square Garden to our right and the Empire State Building only a block ahead of us. The city is filled with glittering lights, bright against the backdrop of the late winter evening.

New Yorkers bustle past us, talking, laughing, living.

This city is so alive, it’s like a pulsing heart, beating louder and louder until it drowns out everything else.

“This city is so beautiful,” Emmitt says quietly, voicing my thoughts aloud. He has his camera out again, taking a picture of the stores lined up down the block.

I look at him, his eyes reflecting the lights of New York City, and something clicks into place in my head—he’s also beautiful. Maybe just as much as this city.

Oh. Oh.

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly, and I don’t know which I’m talking about anymore. “It is.”

Emmitt turns to look at me and whatever he was going to say dies on his lips, his entire attention focused on me.

For a moment, the world quiets. There is no one else except for me and him, him and me, at the heart of a city that’s more beautiful than words can ever describe.

It’s him reaching for me, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he tucks away an errant curl of hair. It’s me resting my hand atop his, halting his movements if only for a bare second. It’s us swaying toward each other, sharing the same air, taking a breath at the same time.

It’s him tilting my chin up, me closing my eyes, us leaning closer and closer and closer—

—and then he’s kissing me.

It’s just the barest touch of our lips, easy in its simplicity, until someone says, “Yangyang?”

I jump away, holding a hand to my chest in sudden fright. A woman is staring at us in question, her eyes wide.

My jaw works as I try to respond but I don’t remember how to speak, much less form a coherent sentence.

“Mum?” Emmitt asks, his cheeks flushed. I don’t doubt mine are as dark as his, if not worse. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you would be home by six,” Claire Gong says, blinking at us in clear surprise. She’s dressed in a pantsuit, her hair pulled into a tight bun, but there are warm laughter lines around her eyes. “I was worried, so I—”

“Oh my God, Mum, you did not track my phone again,” Emmitt says, groaning. “I’ve told you before, that’s a huge invasion of privacy. I’m an adult, I can handle myself without you hunting me down because I didn’t answer your texts for a few hours.”