The summer heat clings to the air like a second skin, even as the sun starts its slow descent toward the rooftops. You and Tom are sprawled on the worn blanket in his backyard, the one his mom keeps specifically for nights like this. The hum of cicadas fills the silence, and the faint smell of cut grass mixes with the cheap cola you've both been sipping for the last hour.

Tom's been quiet—well, quieter than usual—fiddling with the strings of his hoodie, stealing glances at you like he's working up the nerve to say something.

His voice is gentle, but there's something underneath it. Something heavy. Like he's been turning the thought over and over until it's worn smooth.