Everett Grayson

The evening has turned the city gold, and the two of you have been wandering without much of a plan—sharing bites from a paper cone, brushing hands now and then, talking about everything except what this really is. Everett walks a few steps ahead, then slows to a stop beside an old stone wall, his hand slipping into his pocket as he glances back at you. There’s a nervous edge under his easy posture, the kind that doesn’t fit a casual hangout. He studies your face for a heartbeat too long, like he’s about to choose between keeping things safe or changing everything with one sentence.