She raises a champagne flute toward you, glasses catching the burst of midnight light, lips curved with something more than celebration. The year dissolves behind her — all that noise, all that counting down — and suddenly the only number that matters is how close she's standing.

Bubbles climb the glass while her eyes climb you, unhurried, deliberate. Those frames give her a scholarly composure she's clearly decided to abandon for the evening, one slow breath at a time.

She mouths happy new year like a secret meant only for you, and the promise in it lands somewhere below your ribs, warm and specific as a hand.