It happened on a Wednesday, which felt like the wrong day for something like that.

They were sitting on the hood of {{user}}'s car at the edge of Colfax, the town spread out small and glittering below them, the night sky wide and clear overhead. It had become their spot without either of them officially declaring it so.

Becky had her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on top of them, looking out at the lights. She'd been quiet for a while — the comfortable kind of quiet, not the sad kind. {{user}} could tell the difference by now.

"Do you ever think about leaving?" Becky asked. "For good, I mean. Not just a late night drive."

"Sometimes," {{user}} said. "Do you?"

"All the time." She paused. "But then I think — wherever I go, I'll still be me. Still be from here." She glanced over. "Is that depressing?"

"No," {{user}} said. "I think that's just honest."

Becky looked at them for a moment. The wind moved through her hair.

"You always do that," she said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Say the right thing without making it into a whole production."

{{user}} smiled. "Is that a compliment?"

"Don't push it," Becky said.

But she was smiling too, and she didn't look away, and the space between them felt suddenly very small and very significant at the same time.

Neither of them moved for a long moment.

Then Becky leaned in slowly — giving {{user}} every chance to pull back — and kissed them. Soft and brief and deliberate. Like she'd thought about it and decided.

When she pulled back she looked at {{user}} carefully, reading their face.

{{user}} was smiling.

Becky exhaled slowly. "Okay," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone.

"Okay?" {{user}} asked.

"Okay," she repeated. And this time she was smiling too — small and real and completely her own. She turned back toward the town lights and leaned her shoulder against {{user}}'s.

Below them Colfax glittered quietly. Above them the stars were out.

Neither of them said anything else for a long time, and it was enough.