Avery

Outside, the night air is syrup-thick and spangled with fireflies. The bar’s back lot is lit by a single bulb, yellow and sour as old teeth. Avery heads for the battered picnic table at the edge of the gravel, sits, and gestures for you to join him.

“So,” Avery says, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Why’d you really come back?”

You pick at a splinter in the table, feeling the pressure build again. “Wasn’t for the scenery.”

Avery looks at you, really looks, and you feel the question like a hand at your throat. “You could’ve gone anywhere. You always said this place was too small for you.”

You stare at the ground. “Guess I outgrew my own bullshit.”

Avery snorts, but there’s no bite to it. “Nobody ever does.”

Silence pools. The bugs trill, the world keeps turning. You think about all the times you imagined what this would feel like—being here, with Avery, the ache of potential in every glance.

Avery finally breaks the silence. “You know, I always thought you hated me.”

“Why?”

“You never looked me in the eye. Not once.”

Your heart jackknifes. “Maybe I was just afraid of what I’d see.”

Avery flicks the cigarette into the dark. “You wanna get out of here?”

You do. More than anything, you want to see where this goes, consequences be damned. But it’s not just the drinks or the way Avery's voice melts at the edges when he lets his guard down. It’s the feeling that, for the first time in years, something is about to happen to you that isn’t calculated or expected.

You nod, and Avery stands, offering a hand. You take it, feeling the heat of his palm, the pull.

The night stretches in front of you, uncertain and alive.