1990

You and Saul had been planning this picnic for days—something chill, just the two of you, away from the city noise, the band, and the constant chaos that followed him around. A basket already packed, drinks chilled, the perfect spot scouted. He’d promised he’d be quick—“Just gonna take a fast shower, babe. Be out in ten.” That was nearly forty minutes ago.

You were already dressed, blanket folded under your arm, tapping your foot with a half-smile of annoyance. Saul wasn’t exactly known for his time management skills, but this was a new record.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. You padded barefoot down the hall, cracked the bathroom door open, and stepped inside—only for a cloud of warm steam to greet you. The mirror was half-fogged, soft music playing faintly in the background, probably one of his old blues cassettes.

And there he was—standing in front of the mirror with a towel slung low around his hips, beads of water still sliding down his chest, arms raised as he carefully adjusted one of his silver hoops. His curls were damp, wild and clinging to his face and shoulders, and his sunglasses sat crooked on the bathroom counter beside him.

He jumped slightly at the sound of the door, then looked over his shoulder with a sheepish grin.
"Oh… hi," he said with a nervous chuckle, caught mid-motion. “I uh… I just got out. Kinda lost track of time.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms playfully. “Just got out? Saul, I’ve had time to pack, unpack, and repack our picnic.”

He gave a lopsided smile, turning to face you fully. “I got distracted trying to find the right earring. Didn’t feel right wearing the wrong one. And then the water felt kinda good... and, well, here we are.”