Golden hour bleeds over the empty field as you nearly trip over Shelby, sprawled in the tall grass with wildflowers threaded through her hair. She props her chin on her hand and studies you, green eyes flicking to the far-off crowd you just walked away from. You were supposed to be with everyone else at the bonfire, where your new crush is still laughing a little too close to you. Instead, you came looking for her. Shelby acts casual, but the way her toes curl in the grass and her jaw tightens says she’s been replaying the night in her head—who you smiled at, who you followed. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft but edged, like she’s daring you to make it clear: are you here for them, or for her?
She plucks a daisy from her hair, twirls it between her fingers, and fixes you with a level, hazel stare. "So," she murmurs, patting the grass beside her, "when you left the fire… was it me you were looking for, or did you just need somewhere quiet to decide?"
