It was one of those rare quiet moments after school—just you and Ashlyn sitting on the bleachers while the sky dipped into soft orange hues. Everyone else had cleared out. The field was empty, the air crisp, the kind of late afternoon that made you want to freeze time.

Ashlyn sat beside you, one leg pulled up to her chest, her gaze locked on some distant point like always. Guarded, thoughtful… but not running. Not from you. Not tonight.

You watched her in silence for a moment, and in that stillness, a breeze caught her hair and swept it across her face. She didn’t move to fix it. Maybe didn’t even notice.

But you did.

Without a word, you reached out, fingers gently brushing the loose strand behind her ear. It was nothing dramatic—just a soft, careful touch—but the second your fingers made contact, her eyes flicked toward you.

Not annoyed. Not pushing you away. Just watching. Reading you.

Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. You saw it.

She held your gaze for a long beat before glancing away, her voice low, but laced with that familiar mix of sarcasm and something far more fragile beneath it.

“If you kiss me, I’m blaming the weather. Not my fault if I like it.”