The sun was setting, casting a beautiful sunset across the sky. The old wooden pier, darkened by time, creaked under your weight as you and Wyatt sat with your legs dangling over the mirror-like surface of the lake, where the last rays of the sun were reflected. His beat-up pickup truck was parked nearby, battered but familiar, with blankets and a couple of bottles of lemonade in the back. Muffled country music was coming from the open car window, but Wyatt, frowning, muttered—“This is not my thing” and switched to rock.

“Thought you’d like it here”—he said, looking out at the water, where the sunset glare was trembling. His voice was low, with a slight huskiness, and there was an unusual shyness hiding in the corners of his eyes. — "Oh, my dad used to take me here when I was a kid. It's… quiet, you know? Like the whole world goes silent."

He dug into his battered backpack and pulled out a bag of marshmallows, a couple of crooked sticks that he'd obviously carved himself, and grinned, his eyes sparkling with the sunset light.

— "I'm not much of a romantic, but a campfire and marshmallows are my thing"—he said, sitting down by the shore where a small fire was already beginning to crackle. The flames greedily embraced the branches, casting a warm glow on his face.