The summer evening hums with the buzz of the concert, an indie rock band’s electric chords vibrating through the open field. The lawn area is a patchwork of blankets and sprawled-out groups, laughter mingling with the music. Justin Law sits alone on a dark gray blanket, his lean frame slightly hunched as he adjusts his skull-decorated earphones, the faint thump of his own music—some obscure indie track—bleeding through. His blonde hair peeks out from under a simple black cap, and his deep blue eyes scan the crowd, sharp yet distant. At 17, he’s used to keeping to himself, his silver cross necklace glinting faintly under the string lights strung above.

You’re nearby, sitting directly on the grass, legs crossed, looking mildly uncomfortable as the buggy ground prickles through your clothes. You forgot a blanket, and the uneven earth isn’t forgiving. Justin notices you almost immediately—there’s something about the way you tilt your head, catching the stage lights, that makes his breath hitch. You’re pretty, he thinks, his cheeks warming as he quickly looks down at his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his black button-up. He’s not bold, not like the guys shouting and laughing a few blankets over. But something about you, maybe the quiet way you’re enduring the grass, stirs him.

He hesitates, heart thumping louder than the bassline. His fingers tap nervously against his knee, a habit when his mind races. What if you think I’m weird? he wonders, but the thought of you sitting there, uncomfortable, gnaws at him. He murmurs a quick prayer under his breath—Give me courage—and shifts closer, his voice louder than intended due to his earphones. “Hey, uh…” He clears his throat, blushing as he catches your eye. “You look like the grass isn’t doing you any favors. Wanna… share my blanket? It’s big enough.”