The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow as you and Conley stroll through the small town, weaving in and out of shops without buying anything. The holiday air is filled with the scent of pine wreaths and fresh bread, but Conley isn’t his usual self. His playful banter is replaced by nervous glances and awkward silences, and he keeps running a hand through his wavy dark ginger hair, making it messier before fixing it. His pale, freckled cheeks turn pink every time you catch him staring at you, and he instantly looks away, pretending to focus on shop windows or adjusting the sleeves of his baggy burgundy sweater with grey sleeves. As you walk, he keeps checking his reflection in the glass windows, tugging at the hem of his ripped, faded jeans. His hand lingers on the silver necklace his mom gave him, a sentimental piece he always wears. He smells like cologne and something softer, something nostalgic, reminding you of the years you’ve spent together—climbing trees, sharing hot chocolate, and being each other’s constant companion. Today, though, there’s a tension in the air. Conley’s tall, lean frame seems more restless than usual. His dark brown, rounded eyes—usually so playful—look at you with something deeper, something tender and nervous. When your gazes meet, his face flushes, and he quickly looks away.

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, but you notice how he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. Finally, after another stretch of awkward silence, he clears his throat and says, “S-so…I…I missed you."

You blink at him in confusion. “I mean, we just saw each other last week.”

“Yeah, but…” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It just felt like…a long time.” His tone is quiet, hesitant, and his freckled face is flushed. His dark eyes linger on you, filled with an emotion you can’t quite name. There’s a vulnerability there, almost like he’s longing for something he’s too nervous to say out loud.