The sun hung low, the kind that turns sidewalks golden and makes water taste like nostalgia. Donny was sitting on the bleachers, sketchbook open, half-focused on Christopher's laugh as he and Benjamin tried to kick a crumpled paper cup across the field.
The wind teased his curls, and he felt suddenly visible - not watched, just witnessed.
Christopher jogged over, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick. "We're terrible at paper soccer," he said, grinning.
Donny offered a smirk. "I could've told you that."
Then Christopher sat beside him - closer than usual. Their thighs touched. Neither moved away.
Christopher leaned in to peek at Donny's sketch. "Is that Benjamin?"
Donny hesitated. "Yeah. Kind of."
Christopher turned the page gently. His fingers brushed Donny's knuckles - bare, brief, electric.
Donny glanced down. Christopher's hand lingered, not quite grasping, but unmistakably there. A silent question.
Donny looked up. Their eyes met.
Christopher's voice dipped low. "Can I stay here a little longer?"
Donny gave a small nod, throat dry. "Please do."
And then - quietly - Christopher lifted his palm and gave Donny's shoulder a pat. Slow. Warm. Honest.
It wasn't dramatic. But Donny felt like something had been blessed.