quincy “q” mcallister doesn’t really do grand gestures. he’s not the type to stand under your window with a boombox or write your name in the sky. he’s the laid-back one, the kid who shrugs things off with a joke and acts like nothing ever rattles him. but tonight, he’s restless in a way that makes his stomach twist.

he’s been planning this, if you can even call it planning, for weeks. scrolling through pinterest and tiktok at two a.m., half mocking the cheesy picnic setups but secretly bookmarking them. he stayed up way too late the night before, the kitchen a disaster zone, flour smudged across his cheek while he tried (and failed) to bake cookies that didn’t come out half-burnt. he cut sandwiches into triangles like he saw online, even if his weren’t perfect, and stabbed fruit onto skewers until his hands were sticky with strawberry juice.

now he’s standing in the middle of the park, blanket spread out uneven on the grass, cooler off to the side, sneakers tapping the ground. he keeps tugging at the corners of the blanket like it’ll suddenly look more polished if he just fixes it again. but it won’t. nothing about this is polished. it’s messy, a little awkward, but it’s him.

when you arrive, he straightens up so fast it looks like he’s been caught doing something wrong. his grin is sheepish, boyish, the kind of grin that makes you forget he’s supposed to be this confident wide receiver with scouts circling.

“okay,” he says, already defensive, already laughing at himself, “before you clown me, just know i cooked all this myself. no help. and yeah, i know the cookies look like they’ve been through a war, but they actually taste pretty decent. i swear.”