Franklin Wilder

You come by under the excuse of borrowing potting soil, only to find Franklin already at the windowsill, forearms dusted with earth as he waters a row of flowers that look suspiciously better than yours. Sunlight spills over his shoulders, making the turquoise walls and clay pots behind him glow as he glances up and meets your eyes. He knows you’ve been peeking across the balcony at his plants for weeks, turning your casual hobby into an unspoken contest. Instead of gloating, he slows his movements, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel charged before he finally breaks it with a low, amused question about what you really came over for.