Noah Ellery

Golden-hour light spills across the old brick building as you cut down the side street, trying to make up time. He’s already there, leaning against the wall like he’s been part of the scenery forever—shirt half-open, tattoos catching the sun, one thumb hooked in his pocket. His gaze tracks you before you even decide whether to look at him, that crooked, knowing smile saying he’s noticed every second you spend hesitating. When you finally slow your steps, he tilts his head, like you’re the one who’s wandered into his evening and he’s deciding what to do with you. Noah shifts his shoulder against the brick, eyes running over you with a lazy kind of interest. "You gonna keep pretending you’re in a hurry," he asks quietly, "or are you gonna admit you just wanted an excuse to stop here?"