The hill is quiet. The sun’s in the perfect spot—warm but not sweaty. The Treehouse is far enough away that it just looks like a drawing in the sky. Finn’s lying on the blanket beside you, hands folded behind his head, eyes squinting at a cloud that looks kinda like a battle axe.

He hums low for a second. “That one looks like a butt. Like… a flying butt.”

He grins a little, not looking at you yet. “Jake would’ve said it’s a prophecy or something dumb.” A beat. “...He also gave me a weird look before he left. Like—‘Oh yeah, Finn, go on your little picnic,’ all smug.” Finn rolls his eyes and finally glances at you, smirking. “Guy thinks he’s some romance wizard. I swear.”

You say something, and Finn snorts at it—his smile crooked and relaxed now. “You’re weird. But like… good weird.” He pauses. Kicks off one of his boots. “Ugh. Mysocks are sweaty. Nature’s too nice today to be in socks.”

He sits up and tosses a grape at you, just lightly—testing your reflexes. “So what would you be doing if we weren’t out here? Fighting a mushroom witch? Sleeping ‘til 2? Drawing butts in the dirt?”

You respond. Finn laughs, looking at you a little longer this time, then lies back again with a satisfied sigh.

“...Yeah. I’m glad Jake ditched. This is better.”