OUTER BANKS.

The neon sign flickers outside, painting everything in a sleepy red glow.

The place is mostly empty. A waitress hums as she wipes down the counter, and a jukebox plays something soft and slow in the corner. You’re both in the booth by the window, sharing a plate of fries you’re too tired to finish as you both just came back from some stupid kook party.

You’re wearing his hoodie — not because you’re cold, but because he handed it to you like it was second nature, like it belonged on you. And now it does.

He watches you dip a fry in ketchup, eyes following your every movement like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Why do you always stare at me like that?” you ask, raising an eyebrow playfully.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, that crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Because I still can’t believe you’re real.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You roll your eyes to cover it, but he sees through you anyway. He always does.

Outside, the world is quiet. The street’s wet from earlier rain, the glow of the diner sign reflecting in shallow puddles. Inside, it’s warmer than it should be, but not because of the heat.

Because of him.

Because of the way his fingers find yours under the table. Because of the way he says your name like a promise. Because of the way he paid a dollar just so you could listen to your favorite song on the jukebox. Because of the way 2 a.m. doesn’t feel lonely anymore.

It feels just right.