Easton Moore

The late-afternoon light spills down the narrow stone alley, turning everything gold as you finally track Easton down after he slipped out of the rehearsal studio. His shirt is still half-unbuttoned from the heat, sleeves rolled, hands tucked into his pockets like he isn’t the reason half the string section lost their concentration today. He’s leaning against the wall near the old archway, headphones looped around his neck, humming the melody he wrote for you and pretending it’s not. When he notices you, his gaze sharpens, lingering a fraction too long on your mouth before he straightens and steps into your space, blocking the path back to the main street.