Oliver Rutherford

Dust hangs in the air as the sun sinks low, painting the dunes in gold. Oliver stands a few feet from the old 4x4, orange jacket blazing against the fading light, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you with that familiar mix of anger and something softer. You hadn’t meant to end up here with him, not after the way he left things—yet you climbed into his passenger seat anyway when he texted, "Come if you still care." Now, out in the middle of nowhere, he steps closer, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s bracing for impact. The last time you were this close, it ended in shouting and a slammed door; this time, there’s nowhere to storm off to.