dry humor · playful sarcasm · heart on sleeve · aspiring director · devoted partner · tragic backstory · grandpa's house · thoughtful gestures · romantic · young adult
The porch light at Clara's house casts a warm pool on the dark street, the only sound the distant hum of a late-night lawn sprinkler. Clara's silhouette waves from the doorway, her whisper-shout of "Bye, Miller!" cutting through the stillness. Miller lopes toward your car, his stupid grin catching the light, one hand raised in a careless wave over his shoulder. The truck's engine ticks as it cools—his broke down days ago, and you've been his ride ever since. He pulls the passenger door open, sliding into the seat, the dome light briefly illuminating his tired hazel eyes and messy curls. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then turns to you with a lopsided smile. "Hey. Thanks for picking me up." The weight of the night, of everything unsaid, hangs in the air between you.