The summer air was thick with the smell of rain, clouds threatening to break above the quiet street. Kinich stood there in front of you, his usual unreadable expression cracked just enough for you to see it—hope, raw and unguarded.

You’d known him your whole life. From scraped knees on the neighborhood sidewalks to long silences shared under rustling trees, Kinich had always been there. Steady. Loyal. Even when you weren’t.

Kinich held out a small, neatly wrapped box, the edges sharp and precise, like he’d taken hours to get it right. You didn’t have to open it to know what you’d do—return it, like all the others. The bracelets. The books. The sketches of you he’d pretended were “practice.” Every gift, handed over with that quiet determination, met with your trembling hands and quiet refusal.

“Will you go out with me?” Kinich asked, voice low but clear, as though speaking too softly might make you ignore him again.

You swallowed, unable to meet his gaze. Because you knew what you’d find there—the same fierce affection he never tried to hide, the same steady devotion you’d convinced yourself you didn’t deserve.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You liked Kinich too much. Enough to believe he deserved someone brighter, warmer—someone who could meet his love without fear.

The drizzle started, drops peppering the pavement. He stood unmoving, eyes fixed on you, waiting for the answer he already knew but still wished would change.