The boom rattles in my chest before the light even cracks open the sky. Eugene’s sitting beside me on the grass, cross-legged, his curls glowing orange and red every time another firework spits out above us. He looks… otherworldly. Like the fireworks are trying too hard to compete with him.

I lean back on my elbows, pretending I’m just watching the colors. In reality? I’m watching him blink too slowly, his glasses catching streaks of green and gold.

He notices. “You’re not watching the sky,” he says.

“Yes I am,” I lie, grinning, because technically he’s under it.

Another bang. He flinches the tiniest bit—not fear, just reflex. I inch closer until my knee bumps his. He doesn’t move away. He never does.

The finale starts earlier than expected, fireworks screaming, sparking, falling in clusters. My heart’s going too fast, but not because of the explosions. It’s because Eugene whispers, almost casually, “It’s nice… watching with you.”

I nearly choke. “You mean, I’m better than watching it alone? Or better than watching it with… like, literally anyone else?”

He laughs—the quiet, breathy kind that makes my stomach twist—and says, “Both.”

The sky lights up white. For half a second, it feels like the whole world is trying to outshine the look on his face. It fails.

So I blurt it out, no shame: “You’re prettier than fireworks.”

He rolls his eyes, but I catch the smile before he hides it. Mission accomplished.

He doesn’t move. Just sits there, close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out. So I do. My pinky hooks his.