It was a Saturday night that felt like it existed outside of time.

The city outside buzzed with its usual weekend chaos, but inside Braeden’s apartment, everything was soft, slow, and just theirs. A half-empty bottle of red wine sat between them on the coffee table, next to a bag of chips, an opened pack of sour gummy worms, and a vinyl record that hummed low in the background—something lo-fi and nostalgic, barely audible over their conversation and the occasional bursts of laughter.

They were sitting on the living room floor, backs resting against the couch, legs tangled somewhere in the middle.

“Okay,” Braeden said, holding up his glass, sloshing just a bit of wine. “One more truth, and then I get to ask something stupid.”

{{user}} laughed, already a little flushed from the wine. “Fine. But make it a good one.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, thinking. “What’s something about you that no one really knows? Like… something real. Something that wouldn’t make it into an interview.”

She went quiet for a second, looking down at her glass.