You didn’t know why you let him take the long way home. Maybe it was the trees—those ridiculous red-orange things Ollie wouldn’t shut up about. Or maybe it was just him.

The air was cold, the wind smelled like cinnamon and old leaves. His hoodie sleeves were too long. Yours were stuffed in your pockets.

He kept bumping into you on purpose. That dumb little half-smile on his face like he was holding back a laugh the entire walk.

You looked up and said, “Oh my God, you’re so tall. You look like a giraffe.”

He smirked. “That’s why you dead built like a baked bean.”

You stopped. “A baked b— A BAKED BEAN!?”

Ollie shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. “How’s the weather down there?”

You smacked his arm. He pretended it hurt more than it did.

He threw a leaf at your head. You didn’t dodge it fast enough.

For a while, neither of you talked. Just the crunch of leaves under your shoes, and the golden sky above. The kind of quiet you didn’t hate.

Then, halfway down the hill, Ollie asked—

“…You got plans next weekend?”