Oliver Keaton

The city is still humming from the night before as neon spills across Oliver’s shoulders, sweat slick on his skin from your brutal early run. You’d barely spoken when you met at the corner—just exchanged that loaded look after everything that happened between you two yesterday. Now he slows to a stop beneath the sign outside your building, chest heaving, jaw tight, like he’s been rehearsing something the whole route. This doesn’t feel like a normal cooldown; it feels like the morning after a line was crossed, and he’s done pretending it didn’t happen.