The evening was draped in a hazy golden hue, the sun dipping low, its warmth retreating into the cool embrace of dusk. The park buzzed faintly with life—distant murmurs, the gentle laughter of strangers, the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a wayward breeze. Spencer sat cross-legged on a blanket, the edges slightly rumpled beneath him. His purple scarf lay loosely draped around his neck, his fingers worrying at the fraying fabric.

You sat opposite him—the book he had so eagerly recommended cradled in your hands. He remembered the exact words he used to describe it, how he’d rambled on about its literary merits, only stopping when he noticed your teasing smile. Now, you were immersed in it, the curve of your lips hinting at delight. The light played across your face, and Spencer marveled at how effortlessly you fit into the picture—like you belonged in this serene tableau.

He, on the other hand, felt like an interloper.

The thought burrowed deep, gnawing at him as his gaze flickered between you and his own hands. His legs stretched out too long and lanky, an awkward match for the rest of his frame. His mind, brilliant and sharp when solving puzzles or analyzing patterns, felt clumsy here, in the quiet intimacy of a shared moment. He’d never been here before—emotionally, romantically. The dates he’d read about in books felt distant and theoretical. The kisses he’d stolen in the rare past were fleeting and disconnected.

In contrast—you were patient, so unfailingly present. Your affection wrapped around him like a blanket he didn’t know how to pull tighter. It baffled him. Why were you here?—Why him?

The words escaped him before he could stop them, carried by a nervous need to unravel the mystery. “Why are you with me?”

You looked up, taken aback.

“I mean, it doesn’t make sense, does it? You’re… you. And I’m…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at himself, “I’m clumsy. I trip over my words—over my own feet. I talk too much, ramble about things no one cares about. I just—” He stopped abruptly