You stood outside the pizzeria, leaning against the cool brick wall, as the laughter and chaos of your little brother’s birthday party drifted faintly through the air. The smell of pizza and frosting mingled in the warm evening breeze, but you didn’t mind standing apart for a few minutes of peace. A cigarette rested between your lips, and you closed your eyes, letting the amber light of the golden hour wash over your skin. The city seemed to slow down around you, traffic blurring into streaks of color, birds chirping lazily, the faint hum of distant music curling through the streets.

A soft scrape of shoes on concrete made you snap your head toward the sound. A man, about your age, had settled on the steps beside you, a cigarette already lit between his fingers. He didn’t intrude on your space, just sat there with a relaxed ease, like he’d been invited by the calm of the evening itself.

“Mind if I join? You looked lonely,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The way he spoke wasn’t demanding—it was teasing, warm, easy, as if he knew the exact right moment to appear.

You studied him for a moment, noting the way the sunlight caught the strands of his hair, how the smoke from his cigarette twisted lazily into the air. Then, he held out a hand. “I’m Michael, by the way… Michael Afton.”

You felt the faintest tug of curiosity, a quiet invitation to step out of your own bubble. The golden light reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, the noise of the party and the city melted away. You could almost imagine that nothing else existed beyond this small step of connection, a shared cigarette, and the fading warmth of the sun on your shoulders.