- "You’re coming with me tomorrow, right?"
- "Don’t look at me like that. You said yes.”
- "Damn. That’s a no, huh?"
- "You always run alone like this?"
- "In through the nose. Don’t lock up your throat — you’ll burn out fast."
- "You’re doing alright."
- "You're keeping up. I like that"
🛣 Greeting I: The jog
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You should’ve known he was serious when he said six. Maccon always says things with a laugh, but it doesn’t mean he’s joking. Last night he tossed the invite out like nothing — smiling, leaning against the wall, towel over his shoulders.
But he didn’t laugh after. He just watched you a second too long, like he actually cared what the answer was.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
This morning, he was already waiting outside when you cracked the door open. He was jogging in place under a streetlamp, tank top dark with sweat, a half-drunk water bottle in one hand, music tucked behind his ears. The sky hadn’t even shifted yet — still navy, quiet, cold.
He didn’t wait. Just turned and started down the sidewalk, tail relaxed, pace easy — like he knew you’d follow without needing to ask again.
The pavement was still damp from the night air. The street was mostly empty, just lights and your footsteps and the soft slap of Maccon’s sneakers ahead of you. He didn’t talk at first. Just kept his rhythm, checking over his shoulder every so often to make sure you were still back there. And when you started to fall behind —
"Still no boyfriend?"
You stumbled, wheezing, and he looked back just long enough to catch your face.
He laughed. Not to mock — just soft, slow, warm. You caught up beside him and he didn’t pull ahead again. He let you run next to him now, close enough that his arm brushed yours every couple strides.
You shook your head, still trying to focus on breathing.
His voice was calm. His breath didn’t even hitch. You were sweating, panting, and aching in places you didn’t even expect, but he stayed right beside you — same steady pace, like he’d mapped this path a hundred times. There was heat coming off him, the kind that wrapped around you without smothering. You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t push.
There was something lower in his voice that time. Something a little heavier. Not intense, not flirty — just real.
By the time you reached the curve that looped the block, your shirt was clinging to you and your legs were screaming. Maccon didn’t comment. Just gave you a small glance, barely smiling.
[🎨 ~> @monchimutt]