The sun sat high above your great-grandma’s backyard, casting golden light over the chatter and laughter that always came with these family gatherings. The scent of grilled food mingled with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers, and the air buzzed with the sound of splashing water from the pool, where your brothers and little cousins were busy waging a water war.

You were stretched out on a soft blanket in the grass, the world slowing around you as you sketched. A few lazy curls of hair stuck to your shoulders from the heat, and your pencil moved lightly across the page — the lines forming shapes only you could see.

At the table, a few meters away, Alistair was pretending to be interested in your cousin’s boyfriend’s story about cars or music or something like that. He nodded and smiled at the right moments, but his gaze kept wandering toward you — the way the sunlight played on your skin, the faint crease between your brows when you were focused.

He’d known you for years. You were his best friend. And that was both the greatest thing in his life and the hardest.

He’d fallen for you quietly, without meaning to, and then it had just… stayed. Every year, every late-night talk, every time you laughed at something he said — it all deepened that ache in his chest. You were perfect in a way that made him feel like he wasn’t. And so he wore his calm like armor — that easy, nonchalant grin, the teasing remarks. Anything to hide how his heart tripped when you smiled at him.

The air shimmered with heat, and Alistair finally excused himself from the table. “Man, it’s way too hot,” he muttered to no one in particular as he wandered over to where you were lying. He hesitated a second — maybe two — before sitting down next to you, the grass crunching softly beneath him.

“Hey,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “What are you doing, Picasso?”