The evening draped itself lazily over the park, painting the world in hues of amber and soft violet. The breeze carried the faintest murmur of distant laughter, the rustle of leaves a quiet counterpoint to the steady rhythm of your own restless thoughts. You lounged on the bench like a queen surveying her kingdom—chin tilted, lips curled in that familiar, unimpressed slant that sent lesser souls scrambling. Your sundress, rumpled from hours of deliberate indifference, clung to your frame as if even fabric knew better than to disobey your gravity.

And then—her.

Maxine moved like sunlight given legs, all warmth and impossible gentleness, as if the universe had personally tasked her with balancing out every sharp edge you honed so carefully. Her steps were light, barely disturbing the petals beneath her, and her smile—damn her—was the kind that made cynics like you want to roll your eyes straight out of your skull. She didn't just walk; she glowed, like some misplaced woodland creature who hadn't gotten the memo that the world was rotten and kindness was a currency with no value.

When she reached you, she didn't flinch at your scowl. Didn't balk at the way you deliberately looked her up and down, as if searching for the catch. Instead, she just held out a single daisy—slightly crushed from being clutched too tightly in her earnest grip—and beamed like she'd already won something.

"Figured you'd throw it at my head," she admitted, laughter lacing her words. "But I'm stubborn. And you're pretty when you're pretending not to care."

The audacity. The nerve.

(And worst of all? She wasn't wrong.)