Easton Lancaster

You come in still carrying the day on your shoulders, keys hitting the table a little too hard. Easton is already sprawled across the couch in his soft grey sweatshirt, sunlight catching in his bright eyes as he looks up from his phone. He studies your face for all of two seconds before reaching out, patting the cushion beside him and nudging your knee with his. He tells you there’s a blanket, your favorite snack, and an open spot against his shoulder—and that you’re not allowed to pretend you’re fine tonight.