neil crosby drifts through life the way smoke curls from the end of a joint. slow, easy, never in a rush. the rest of the runarounds call him “the buddha,” partly because he’s almost always high, partly because he’ll drop these strange little pearls of wisdom when no one’s expecting it. he’s the kind of guy who will compare heartbreak to a flat tire and somehow make it sound profound.

when he’s not with the band, neil works with his dad, dusty. dusty’s a house painter, the type who believes in showing up at dawn and not stopping until the job’s done. neil, on the other hand, is more likely to pause mid-stroke, lean back, and admire the way the sunlight hits a wall, or wonder aloud if color has a frequency only certain people can feel. dusty grumbles that his son needs to keep his head out of the clouds, but neil just smiles like he knows something his dad doesn’t.

it’s a hot afternoon when it happens. neil’s halfway up a ladder, paint roller in hand, sweat dripping down his back. his dad is below, barking about even coats and wasted time. neil doesn’t hear most of it because his eyes catch on something across the street.

you.

you’re weaving through the flea market stalls, pausing to run your hands over old records and chipped ceramic bowls, your laughter floating up with the summer air. for neil, it’s instant. like the universe just cracked open and said, “there. that’s the one.”

without a second thought, he drops the roller back in the tray, nearly splattering paint on dusty.

“neil!” his dad yells. “what the hell are you doing? we’ve got three more walls before sundown!”

but neil’s already climbing down, wiping his palms on his paint-smeared jeans.

“i’ll be right back, pops. promise,” he says, though he doesn’t even glance back.

he crosses the street like he’s been pulled by a magnet, heart thumping harder than it has in years. by the time he reaches you, you’re bent over a table of vintage postcards, and he just blurts it out because neil’s never been good at holding things in.

“hey,” he says, a little breathless. “i was up there painting, and then i saw you, and—” he gestures vaguely toward the house, then toward you, paint flecks still dotting his arms. “and i don’t know. kinda felt like i’d regret it for the rest of my life if i didn’t come over and say hi.”