Evan glanced at me, surprise flickering across his face. I'd never told him I'd mentioned his art to my parents, had never admitted how often I found myself describing the careful way he moved his pencil across paper or the intense concentration that transformed his entire face when he was drawing.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I'd love to see them sometime,” Mom continued, either not noticing his discomfort or choosing to ignore it. “Nate's always going on about how talented you are.”
“Mom,” I warned, but she just smiled at me with that knowing look that suggested she saw things I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
“What? It's true. You do.”
Evan was looking at me with an expression I couldn't read, something soft and wondering that made my heart beat too fast. I cleared my throat and stood up quickly.
“I should show Evan my latest photos,” I said, desperate to escape whatever was happening.
“Of course,” Mom said, still wearing that knowing smile. “You boys go ahead. I'll handle the dishes.”
I led Evan upstairs to my room, hyperaware of his presence behind me, the way he had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling in the hallway. My room felt smaller with him in it, cramped in a way that had nothing to do with physical space and everything to do with the way my awareness of him seemed to expand to fill every available inch.
“Sorry about that,” I said, closing the door behind us. “Mom gets enthusiastic about new people. Especially ones she thinks are good for me.”
Evan's eyes sharpened at that, but he didn't comment. Just looked around my room with interest, taking in the photos tacked to every available wall surface, the camera equipment scattered across my desk, the general chaos of someone who'd never quite mastered the art of organization.
“It's not much,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about the unmade bed and the pile of clothes in the corner that I'd been meaning to deal with for weeks.
Evan shook his head and spoke without reaching for his notebook. “It's you.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I'd intended. “I guess it is.”
We ended up sprawled across my bed like we owned the world, homework abandoned in favor of something that feltinfinitely more important. Evan had claimed the spot by the window, one arm tucked behind his head while he stared at the ceiling like it held answers to questions he'd never learned how to ask. I'd taken the other side, close enough that if either of us moved wrong, we'd end up tangled together in ways that would probably short-circuit what was left of my brain.
The late afternoon light painted everything gold, turning my cramped room into something that felt almost magical. Like maybe this was what contentment looked like—two seventeen-year-old boys pretending the world outside didn't exist.
“I used to think small towns were where dreams went to die.” I said, voice pitched low because loud felt wrong in the amber quiet.
Evan made a sound that might have been amusement. “And now?”
“Now I think maybe they're where you figure out what's actually worth dreaming about.”
That earned me a sideways look, something soft and considering in his expression. “Very philosophical for a Tuesday afternoon.”
“I contain multitudes.” I grinned up at the ceiling. “Walt Whitman said that. Well, sort of. I'm paraphrasing.”
“I know who Walt Whitman is, city boy.”
The teasing in his voice made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Shocking,” I shot back. “Here I thought you rural folk only read truck manuals and... I don't know, farming almanacs?”
“You're an ass.” But he was almost-smiling when he said it, the expression transforming his whole face.
“Yeah, but I'm a charming ass. There's a difference.”
We fell into comfortable silence after that, the kind that didn't need filling. Outside, Hollow Pines was settling into evening—distant sounds of people heading home from work,the occasional car rumbling past, the eternal whisper of wind through pine trees that seemed to be this town's background soundtrack.
“Can I ask you something without you going all mysterious and brooding?” I said eventually.
Evan's eyebrow arched. “Depends on the question.”
“What's the weirdest thing about growing up here? And don't say the people—that's too easy.”
