Lucy Hartley

Golden hour filters through the trees as the two of you follow a narrow trail, your steps crunching over leaves. When you veer toward a steeper, less-marked path, Lucy’s hand closes around your wrist, firm and warm. She steps in front of you, her open shirt falling back from her shoulders as she tilts her chin up, green eyes searching your face like she’s weighing more than just the trail. "You’re not wandering off by yourself," she says quietly, the light catching in her hair. "Not tonight. If you’re going, I’m coming with you." She keeps her fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse as she studies you in the fading light. "You always do this," she murmurs, voice soft but unyielding. "Tell me what’s actually pulling you out here… and don’t say it’s just the view."