Fan Behavior

Ekko's POV:

"Can you finally tell me where we're going?" Ekko asked, the sigh slipping from his lips a little louder than intended. His eyes flicked to the back of Powder as she moved ahead of him, her pace unhurried, her steps light and carefree, like she was floating just above the ground. She was holding a basket, swinging it in a way that made it look like she was some character straight out of a fairytale—grinning to herself, her joy so palpable that it made everything else around them feel a little brighter.

He tried to peer into the basket a couple of times, squinting as if he might catch a glimpse of the mystery inside, but each time she adjusted her grip, her arm swinging just a bit higher, keeping it out of his reach. It only made him more curious.

"Nope! You'll find out soon enough," she replied, her voice light, full of the same playfulness that danced in her every movement. She slowed down then, matching his pace, her shoes tapping lightly on the pavement in rhythm with his steps.

He let out a sharp exhale, his patience thinning. "You know I don't like secrets."

Powder, however, only offered him a sly grin, glancing back over her shoulder with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that made his heart stutter, like a spark had jumped from her gaze straight to his chest. "It's not a secret," she said, her voice light and teasing, "It's a surprise!"

He groaned, rolling his eyes in mock frustration. "That's the same damn thing!"

Her laughter bubbled up, warm and carefree, dancing through the air around them like a melody. It was the kind of sound that always seemed to tug at something inside of him, something he couldn't quite place, something soft and vulnerable that he didn't usually let anyone see. But it wasn't just the sound that caught his attention—it was her. His eyes followed her, drawn to her like gravity, the world momentarily fading into the background.

Today, she was different. Not in the obvious ways—she still had that same fire in her eyes, the same playful energy that lit up every room she entered—but there was something else. Something subtle, yet undeniable. She had always been beautiful in her own way, but now, it was as if she'd stepped into some new light, and suddenly the world seemed to revolve around her in a way it hadn't before. Her every movement carried an effortless elegance, a grace that wasn't forced but seemed to come naturally, like the universe itself had conspired to make her this way, to make her shine just a little brighter today.

It wasn't just the way she walked, though that was enough to make him lose his train of thought. It was the way the sunlight wrapped itself around her, casting a warm, golden glow that made her almost ethereal. The rays kissed the ends of her hair, the curve of her shoulders, and the way the light caught in the soft folds of her clothes, as if the sun itself was honoring her with its attention. It felt personal, like she was the only one who mattered in that moment. And in a way, maybe she was.

Ekko watched her, caught in the current of something he didn't know how to name, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. She wore her hair in two low, messy pigtails today, a soft cascade of waves that framed her face just right, brushing against her cheeks with every movement. It was so effortlessly casual, but in the way she wore it, it looked deliberate—perfectly imperfect, like every strand had its own personality. And that hairclip. That sparkling clip nestled in the fringe of her bangs was like a touch of stardust, a tiny constellation made just for her. It was shaped like a cluster of stars, twinkling in the sunlight, catching the light every time she moved, as if the universe itself had given her a gift to make her shine even more.

It wasn't just her appearance—though, honestly, her looks could have stopped the world in its tracks if it wanted to. But today, there was something different. It wasn't only the way she looked, but the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to exist in a state of grace that couldn't be entirely explained by the clothes she wore or the effortless beauty that seemed to follow her like a halo. It was something deeper, something almost ethereal, as though she was in tune with something beyond the scope of everything and everyone around her, as if she were tethered to the very pulse of the universe itself.

She moved through the space like she was gliding, each step lighter than the last, a quiet rhythm to her motions, as though the earth beneath her feet had no real hold on her. She didn't walk so much as she floated, the air around her bending to her will. Her dress, simple yet impossibly perfect, clung to her frame in the way only clothes seem to do when they were made for someone who wasn't meant to be of this world. It was a summer dress, soft and uncomplicated, its pale fabric catching the light in a thousand delicate threads of gold as it swayed with her every movement. It was almost weightless, as though it had been woven from the breath of a summer breeze itself, too light to be real. The hem floated out behind her like it was alive, a whisper of movement that couldn't keep up with the fluidity of her steps, trailing after her like it was reluctant to be left behind.

The color of the dress was a soft pastel, so faint and translucent it almost seemed to glow, a delicate shade of sky that captured the first light of dawn. It was the color of morning fog gently lifting as the sun stretched awake across the horizon, the kind of color that made you think of dreams—soft, impossible things that existed just beyond the reach of waking life. It billowed out around her, almost like it was trying to keep up with her spirit, her energy, as if the fabric were struggling to contain the vitality radiating from her. In that moment, she didn't just look like she belonged to this world—she seemed to come from some other plane entirely, as though she were a fleeting vision from a dream, just for a second, here in the waking world, before she would vanish again.

She made everything else seem so... ordinary in comparison. Ekko could feel it, that invisible pull she had on the world around her. She didn't need to try to make herself stand out; she did , naturally, without effort. Like a flame in the dark, she drew everything in, and in her presence, everything else seemed dim in comparison. He couldn't help but stare, couldn't stop his eyes from following her every movement. His focus would drift for a second—he'd try to look away, to pretend that he wasn't so caught up in her—but then something would catch his eye again. A tilt of her head, the way her lips curled into a half-smile, the sound of her laughter rippling through the air. It all made it so difficult to look at anything else, as if everything in the world could fade into nothingness, and it wouldn't matter as long as she was here.

It was almost unbearable, how beautiful she was, but not in the way that left you paralyzed by her presence, unsure of how to act. No, it was different with her. She didn't make him feel like he was small, like he couldn't reach her. She made him feel... alive. Like her beauty wasn't something to admire from a distance, but something to be experienced, something to feel in your bones, something that could make your heart race without explanation. Her beauty wasn't the kind that demanded adoration; it was the kind that left you breathless, left you with the unshakeable feeling that you'd never be able to see anything else in quite the same way again.

And yet, as impossible as it seemed, he wondered if she knew it. If she realized the way she had the power to make everything around her fade into insignificance, to make the world stand still simply by existing in it. The thought of it was almost surreal—he couldn't imagine that she could understand the full weight of the effect she had on people, the way she turned even the mundane into something extraordinary, the way she turned every simple action into something mesmerizing. But maybe that was the secret. She didn't know. Or, if she did, she didn't act like it.

There was something strange about Powder lately—something that tugged at the edge of Ekko's mind but refused to reveal itself. It wasn't like her usual shifts, those erratic swings between laughter and brooding silence that seemed to follow the ebb and flow of her moods or the chaos of the day. No, this was different. The energy she carried, that undeniable spark that made her eyes light up with mischievous schemes and left her voice bubbling with reckless excitement, had begun to fade. It was as though the very thing that made her her had slipped away, replaced by something quieter, heavier. It wasn't the same wildness—something had gone missing, and Ekko couldn't figure out what.

Her laughter didn't ring as loud. The things she used to do on impulse, the things that made her stand out, had become fewer and farther between. She was more withdrawn now, her energy muted as though there was some invisible weight pressing down on her, something she wasn't ready—or maybe able—to share. Ekko noticed it more with every passing day, a subtle shift that deepened his unease. It was as if she was holding something back, something that, if he could just get close enough, would finally spill out, but every time he tried, she closed herself off further.

It had been less than a week since that moment —the one that had replayed in his mind more times than he cared to count, each loop only making the sting in his chest more insistent. He hadn't meant for it to be a big deal. There had been no forethought, no intention behind his actions, not until after the fact. It all happened so quickly, so effortlessly, as if something in him had moved of its own accord.

It had started with one of her typical reckless stunts. Powder had scraped her hand again—nothing new there—but the sight of the blood welled up from the shallow cuts had bothered Ekko more than it should've. She always did that, downplaying her injuries like they didn't matter, laughing off the pain with a self-deprecating joke, trying to convince everyone—mostly herself—that it wasn't worth making a fuss over. It was the way she coped. The way she always coped.

But to Ekko, it was worth making a fuss over. Every scrape, every bruise, every hurt she tucked away made him want to fix it, to make it right, even if she was too stubborn to ask for help.

Without thinking, he'd reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against her skin as he gently turned her palm over, searching for the worst of the cuts. Her eyes rolled in the usual way, a playful sigh slipping past her lips as she muttered something about it not being a big deal, but she didn't pull away. The moment felt as ordinary as any other, the kind of small, shared gesture they'd exchanged countless times in the past. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Or at least, it hadn't been—until he felt something in him shift, a strange impulse rising up from deep inside, pulling his body into motion before his mind could catch up.

He bent his head, his lips brushing softly over the grazes on her palm. The kiss was brief, tender, just enough to soothe the scrape. His lips lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the warmth of her skin against him sparking something that he hadn't expected. His own breath caught in his throat as he pulled back, realizing what he'd done only after the moment had passed.

And then, everything went still.

Her hand had gone rigid in his grasp, her breath hitching as she froze, the air between them thick with tension. He glanced up, and it hit him all at once—the look on her face, the surprise, the confusion. It was a look he'd never seen from her before, and it caught him off guard in a way that made his chest tighten. For the first time, he saw her as something more than the reckless, wild, impulsive girl he'd grown up with. She was something else —someone else. The intimacy of the moment had cracked open something beneath the surface, something raw and unfamiliar, and she wasn't sure how to handle it.

Her gaze held his for a few long seconds, unblinking. There was a flicker of vulnerability there— real vulnerability—and Ekko wasn't sure how to respond. His mind raced, trying to catch up with the mess of emotions that had suddenly erupted between them, but before he could say anything, before he could even process what he was feeling, she pulled her hand away.

And then, something changed.

The Powder, who used to fill every silence with her constant chatter, her mischievous grin, and endless energy, was gone. In her place was someone unrecognizable, someone whose presence hung in the air like a weight, suffocating the space between them. Where there had once been a steady rhythm of easy words, the gap between them now felt thick and unbearable. It wasn't just that she wasn't talking. It was the way she refused to meet his eyes, as if the very act of looking at him might somehow shatter something fragile between them. Every time he tried to glance at her, her gaze flickered away—fast, sharp, like she was trying to escape whatever unspoken thing lingered there.

Her responses were clipped, terse, fewer and farther between. A single word where there used to be a sentence, a brief, distracted grunt where there had once been laughter. The easy camaraderie they used to share had dissolved into something stilted and awkward, the silence between them no longer comfortable but thick with things they didn't say. It was a silence that felt loud, like the echo of a bell that had rung and left a dull, empty vibration in the air, stretching longer and longer with every step she took.

It hurt more than he cared to admit—the way she pulled away from him, almost physically distancing herself with every step, as if she were trying to outrun him, or maybe outrun whatever was slowly unraveling between them. Her pace had quickened, and the faster she moved, the further he felt from her. It was like she was trying to get away from something she couldn't shake, something that lingered just beyond her reach, making her want to pull away from him even more.

What made it worse was how small the changes were, how easy it might have been to miss them if he hadn't been paying attention. The way she always walked with her hands free—gesturing with wild abandon as she spoke, or fidgeting with threads on her sleeves when she was lost in thought—had completely disappeared. Now, her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as if she was holding herself together by force, as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible. Like she was trying to shield herself from him.

The walk back to her house stretched on endlessly, each step dragging like a weight pulling him deeper into the pit of his own thoughts. Ekko could feel the warm air brushing against his skin, but it did nothing to soothe the burn in his chest. Every detail from earlier replayed in his mind with painful clarity, the images flickering like a broken film reel: the warmth of her hand slipping into his, the softness of her skin brushing against his lips, the way she'd frozen in that awkward stillness, unsure how to respond. He had thought it was the right thing to do in the moment, an impulsive gesture to show her how much he cared. But now, in the heavy silence between them, it felt like the worst decision he could have made.

Had he ruined everything? His mind spiraled with questions, each one more agonizing than the last. Had he made her uncomfortable? Had he disgusted her? The thought twisted in his stomach, gnawing at him with the ferocity of a hungry beast. Every time he tried to push the thoughts away, they came rushing back, louder, sharper. He could still feel the shock in her body when he kissed her, could still see the way her eyes had widened, her mouth parting like she didn't know what to do, didn't know how to react. I shouldn't have done that, he told himself again and again, but it didn't change the fact that he had.

By the time they reached her house, Ekko's heart was pounding in his chest, erratic, out of control, and he felt like he couldn't keep up with it. His hands were clammy, his legs tense, as though the very ground beneath him was starting to shift, threatening to throw him off balance. 

This wasn't right. This wasn't them . They didn't do this awkward silence, this distance that seemed to stretch between them now like an impassable canyon, each of them on opposite sides, neither knowing how to bridge it. They had never been this—this… awkward. They had always been able to talk, laugh, tease each other, but now, it felt like a wall had been built between them in the span of a heartbeat.

Ekko stopped a few steps away from her front door, his feet frozen in place as though he could will himself to stop feeling like he was falling apart. He hoped—desperately hoped—that she'd turn around. That she'd say something, anything, to break the tension that was settling in the space between them. But she didn't. She didn't even look at him. She just stood there for a moment, then quietly slipped inside, the door clicking shut with a sharpness that made Ekko flinch as though the sound had struck him.

He stood on the cracked sidewalk, his feet unmoving as he stared at the closed door in front of him. The air felt too thick, too still, and it pressed down on him like a weight he couldn't shake off. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there—minutes, hours, it didn't matter. Time had lost its grip on him. All he could focus on was the door, and the space between him and everything he wanted to say, everything he'd somehow managed to mess up.

He hadn't meant to cross a line. Not really. It had started off so simple, so easy—just the two of them, sharing a laugh, a moment. But now, all that seemed distant, slipping further out of reach the longer he stood here. The way she'd pulled away from him, the way her eyes had flicked over him without really seeing him—he couldn't forget it. She hadn't looked at him the same way since, and he couldn't tell if it was because of something he'd done, or something she just wasn't ready to face.

His fingers dug into the pockets of his hoodie, fists clenched as frustration bubbled up in his chest, hot and sharp. Why did he always mess things up? Why couldn't he just keep it simple, like it used to be? Why did he have to go and complicate everything? He thought about knocking, about demanding to talk to her, to fix whatever it was that had shifted. But the thought of it made his stomach twist. His feet felt like they were anchored to the ground, as if the weight of his own thoughts had turned them into lead. He couldn't bring himself to move—not when he wasn't even sure if she wanted him there anymore.

With a sharp exhale, Ekko turned away from the door, the action feeling strangely mechanical, as if his body were going through the motions while his mind refused to catch up. He started walking, his steps heavy, slow, like the city around him was moving in slow motion too. The streets were quieter now, the usual hum of the city a distant murmur that barely reached his ears. Everything felt muffled—like he was underwater, trying to swim but not getting anywhere. His thoughts swirled in dizzying circles, sharp and jumbled, each one cutting through him in a different way.

He didn't know how to fix this. Didn't know how to undo what had been done, or how to reach her when the distance between them had grown so wide it felt impossible to bridge. All he knew was that he missed her. He missed the Powder who had laughed too loud, the one who teased him just to see him get flustered, the one who made everything feel a little lighter, a little less... heavy. The thought of losing her, of losing them , gnawed at him like a constant pain in his heart. It was the kind of pain that didn't go away, the kind that followed him everywhere, making everything else feel dull in comparison. The idea that he might never get to hear her laugh like that again made his stomach twist in a way that was almost nauseating.

By the time Ekko finally pushed the door open to his apartment, the exhaustion of the day had settled into his bones, heavy and relentless. It wasn't just the physical fatigue—though that alone could have knocked him out cold—but the emotional weight of everything that had been building over the last few hours. His chest felt unnaturally empty, like something important had been torn away and the space it left behind was far too vast to fill. It was the kind of emptiness that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything at all.

The short walk from Powder's house to his own had been a blur, the streets passing in a haze of muted sounds and distant lights. He barely remembered the walk itself, his mind too consumed with thoughts that circled and spiraled, making it impossible to focus on anything around him. By the time he crossed the threshold of the apartment, it felt like even the air in the room had been sucked out, leaving him gasping for something to cling to.

The familiar creak of the door hinges was like a small comfort, a reminder that some things stayed constant, but tonight it felt hollow, as if even the sound was too tired to offer any reassurance. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and scented candles, that mix of earthy sweetness that always lingered in the apartment, reminding him of his attempts to make things feel homey, even when the world outside felt anything but. On most days, the smell would settle something deep inside him, a little flicker of comfort that made him forget about everything else. But tonight, they barely registered.

A soft, savory aroma drifted from the kitchen, unmistakable and warm, like his favorite dish simmering away on the stove. The scent of spices he knew all too well—comfort food, the kind that had a way of wrapping you in a sense of safety, even when the world outside felt wrong. On any other night, it might have made his mouth water, might have tugged him toward the counter to sneak a taste before the meal was even ready. But tonight, it was just another reminder of how small the space in his head had become, how little room there was for anything other than the chaos inside.

He dropped his bag by the door with a soft thud, the motion automatic, his hands moving of their own accord as if they knew the routine even when his mind couldn't keep up. The familiar weight of the bag hitting the floor didn't help, didn't ground him in any real way. He felt untethered, drifting somewhere between the reality of his apartment and the storm swirling in his chest.

The couch in the corner of the room seemed to call to him, the worn cushions practically beckoning him to sink into them. He didn't even hesitate before crossing the room, his steps heavy and slow. When he finally collapsed onto the cushions, it was like the weight of the world pressed him down into the fabric. The couch, familiar and forgiving, enveloped him with a comfort he didn't feel he deserved but gratefully accepted.

He leaned forward, his elbows sinking into his knees, and buried his face in his hands, hoping that if he could just block out the world for a moment, it might somehow make it easier to breathe, to think. His fingers gripped at his forehead, pressing hard, as if he could will the thoughts away, but it didn't work. The darkness behind his closed eyelids wasn't enough to drown out the noise in his head.

His breath was shallow, uneven. Every inhale felt like dragging something heavy through his lungs, and every exhale left him feeling no lighter. His thoughts were a tangled mess, threads of doubt and frustration looping around one another, tightening until it felt like they might strangle him. He didn't know where to start, didn't know how to pull himself out of the spiral.

"Rough day?"

The voice was low, roughened by age and cigarettes, and unmistakably Benzo's. Ekko hadn't even heard him come in. He could feel the weight of his father's presence before he even looked up—the way the older man filled the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual kind of ease that made it clear he was in no rush. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, his sharp eyes fixed on Ekko with a steady, unwavering intensity, as if trying to read him from across the room. Ekko could almost feel those eyes picking apart the layers of his exhaustion, his frustration, and the things he didn't want to talk about, peeling them away until all that was left was the raw, uncomfortable truth.

"Something like that," Ekko muttered, his voice muffled by his hands, though the words came out clipped, as if he was trying to push them away before they could settle. He knew Benzo wasn't fooled. He never was.

Benzo didn't say anything right away, but Ekko could feel his gaze lingering, assessing, the kind of look that saw more than Ekko wanted to admit. He hated that about Benzo sometimes—the way he could strip away the excuses and see straight to the heart of whatever Ekko was trying to hide. It made lying pointless. Not that Ekko could think of anything convincing to say even if he tried.

"Must've been more than 'something' to have you looking like that," he said, a quiet skepticism laced in the words, but there was also an undercurrent of something more—a kind of familiarity that hinted Benzo wasn't just asking to hear the words. He was waiting for the truth, whether Ekko gave it to him or not. "You wanna tell me what's going on, or are we doing the 'silent brooding' thing all night?"

Ekko let out a soft huff, the laugh lacking any real humor, a faint, bitter sound that barely reached the surface. He finally dragged his hands down his face, the motion sluggish, almost mechanical, as though even that small act took more out of him than he cared to admit. His eyes met the floor, gaze dropping to the old, scratched-up boards beneath his sneakers, unable to meet Benzo's steady stare for more than a second. "Just tired, I guess."

"Uh-huh." Benzo didn't buy it for a second. Ekko could hear the skepticism in his voice, could feel it in the way the older man's presence seemed to press against him, waiting for him to crack. For a moment, it seemed like Benzo might push, might call him out on the flimsy excuse. But then the older man sighed, a low, tired sound, and pushed off the doorframe.

"Alright," he said, his tone casual but laced with something heavier. "If you say so." He turned toward the kitchen, his movements deliberate, his steps slower than usual as though giving Ekko one last chance to stop him. When he didn't, Benzo kept walking.

"Dinner'll be ready soon," he called back, his voice still rough but warmer, like the promise of something steady, something familiar. "If you feel like talking, you know where to find me." You know you can trust me."

Ekko didn't respond. He just sat there, the weight of the silence pressing in on him like a thick fog. His hands rested in his lap, fingers stiff from being clenched too long. His gaze was fixed on them—on the way his knuckles were just a little too sharp, his nails a little too ragged. He didn't feel like looking up, didn't feel like meeting anyone's eyes. Not even his own.

Benzo's footsteps receded into the background, the soft shuffle of feet on worn floorboards soon replaced by the quiet hum of the fridge and the clinking sounds from the kitchen. It was almost like a distant lullaby, the kind that should be comforting, but tonight, it only highlighted how much of a mess he was in. His mind was spinning, a jumble of words, images, and half-formed thoughts that slipped through his fingers as fast as he could catch them. Frustration churned in his chest, but there was nothing to grab onto, no single thought to focus on.

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion around him, everything slightly out of sync. It made him feel strangely detached, like he was sitting just outside himself, watching everything unfold from a distance. He wasn't sure how much time passed—minutes, maybe hours—but it didn't matter. Nothing changed. The pressure in his chest didn't let up, and the air in the room grew heavier with each breath he took, the stifling quiet thick enough to taste.

Benzo's footsteps faded into the kitchen, the old man's presence fading with them. Ekko could still feel him there, though, like a quiet weight hovering in the background. Benzo always knew. Knew when to stay close, knew when to give him space. Knew when to press and when to pull back. It made Ekko feel exposed, laid bare in a way he didn't want to be, but there was something else buried underneath it all. Something soft, fragile. Gratitude. It was there, too, like a gentle tug on the edges of his awareness. He hated how Benzo could see right through him without a word, but maybe, just maybe, that was what kept him grounded. That was what made Benzo, Benzo.

He drew in a shaky breath, leaning back against the couch. His neck ached from the awkward angle, but he didn't move. His head tipped back until it rested against the wall, the coolness of the paint seeping through the worn fabric of his hoodie. He let his eyes fall shut, the darkness behind his eyelids a welcome escape. For a moment, he just breathed. In, out. Slow. He could feel the tension in his body begin to soften, just a little.  Maybe he'd talk to Benzo later. Maybe he wouldn't. But for now, it was enough to know he could if he needed to.

The night felt endless. Ekko could feel the minutes dragging on, each one heavier than the last, as though time itself had decided to stretch and distort just to make him suffer. Every corner of his room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing tighter with every breath he took. He was trapped in his own head, a loop of guilt and frustration repeating itself like a broken record, each rotation more unbearable than the last.

He used to have his nightly routines—his ways of making the world feel manageable again. When things got too chaotic, he'd bury himself in work, lose himself in a project until the rhythm of his hands became his only focus. Or he'd sit with a notebook, sketching until his fingers cramped, creating worlds that could make him forget the one he lived in. Sometimes, it was the comfort of an old, broken watch he could tinker with, the precise clicking of its gears grounding him. But tonight, none of that worked. His bed felt like a pit, every inch of it too soft, too still, and yet he couldn't escape the restless churn of his mind.

His eyes were fixed on the cracks in the ceiling, tracing them in patterns that seemed to dance the longer he stared. They felt like they were mocking him, those lines—reminders of how broken everything felt, how far he'd fallen from the comfort he used to find in the mundane. The silence around him was thick, oppressive, punctuated only by the faint hum of his phone vibrating against his bedspread as he picked it up yet again.

He stared at the screen, watching the tiny glow of it flicker in the dark room. He knew he had to say something. The urge to fix whatever had gone wrong between him and Powder gnawed at him, a constant, biting reminder that something was broken—something that couldn't be ignored. But the more he stared at the keyboard, the more lost he felt. What could he possibly say that would make any of it better? His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind struggling to find the right words, but it was all too much. Too much emotion, too much guilt, too much—too everything.

His thoughts spiraled again, the image of her face—the way she looked at him, the way she pulled back so suddenly—replaying in his head with every breath he took. The hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty that flickered just before she'd distanced herself. It was the way she looked at him, like she was trying to process something, something she hadn't expected. And the way her hand had felt in his, warm, soft… and how it all turned to ash when he kissed it like a damn idiot. Every time he thought about it, his stomach twisted painfully, as if he could feel the weight of it settling deeper into his chest.

He wiped a hand over his face, fingers rubbing at the exhaustion that clung to his skin like dust. He was staring at the screen again, the blinking cursor mocking him, daring him to send something that wouldn't be wrong. But no matter what he typed, it felt insufficient. Everything seemed too little, too late, too far gone.

"Hey, so… sorry I got weird earlier."

"I didn't mean to make things awkward."

" I promise I wasn't trying to—"

His jaw tightened, the muscles in his face working against the frustration clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead as if he could force the tension out, but it wouldn't leave him. None of the words he'd run through his mind, none of the apologies he'd practiced, felt right. Nothing would undo what had happened. Nothing would erase the awkwardness, the clumsy kiss that had left him feeling like a complete idiot. Sorry I kissed your hand, like some kind of fool, and made everything weird? He could already hear how hollow that would sound.

The weight of it pressed on him like a boulder, and with an exasperated sigh, he tossed his phone onto his chest, its screen glowing in the dark. His eyes followed the pattern of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, the ones he'd stuck there when he was a kid, before he'd grown out of thinking about constellations as anything less than simple dots in the sky. He'd meant to take them down years ago—his teenage self had been sure that they were too childish for someone his age. But now, lying there in the heavy silence of the room, they were the only things that felt solid, the only things that made sense in the chaos swirling around him. Small, simple, and constant.

He tried everything he could think of to get his mind off the mess he'd made. His fingers absently flipped through the pages of his sketchbook, the half-finished drawings doing little to distract him. He twirled a pencil between his fingers, its motion automatic, his eyes unfocused as the familiar click of the graphite on paper did nothing to break the tension in his chest. Desperation led him to pull out one of Benzo's old books, the ones with yellowed pages and fraying spines, and skimmed through passages, hoping to find something that would calm the frantic spiral of his thoughts. But nothing worked. The words in front of him blurred, his mind drifting right back to her, to Powder, and the way she had looked at him, eyes wide and searching, before she'd pulled away. The pain that had settled in his heart since that moment seemed to have taken root, and no matter what he did, it refused to leave.

Sleep felt like a distant, unattainable thing. His body was exhausted, aching for rest, but his mind was on overdrive. He lay flat on his back, his hands clasped over his chest as though holding his heart in place, and stared up at the ceiling. Shadows stretched across the walls, flickering and shifting with every passing second, growing longer and more distorted as time seemed to slow down. The room felt suffocating in the stillness, like the walls were closing in around him. He tried to focus on his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, each slow inhale and exhale, hoping that the rhythmic motion would lull him into sleep. But every time his eyelids fluttered shut, the thoughts would return, winding tighter, pulling him back into wakefulness. They tangled in his mind, relentless, as if they would never let him go.

He turned his head, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. It was late—too late to be thinking about this, to be lying there in the dark replaying every stupid, awkward moment. His fingers drummed nervously against the edge of his phone, but he resisted the urge to check it, knowing there was nothing there that would change how he felt. He just wanted it to stop. To not feel like he was stuck in this loop of regret, uncertainty, and the crushing weight of what he had—or hadn't—done.

Then, his phone buzzed.

The sudden sound was like a slap, jagged and disruptive, slicing through the fragile quiet of the room. Ekko froze, heart leaping into his throat, his breath catching for a split second before his fingers went searching for the device. The brief moment of disorientation made him fumble—it slipped, the smooth edges almost evading his grasp, but his hand shot out just in time, fingers closing around the cool, familiar metal with a jolt. He exhaled a shaky breath as he steadied the phone, his pulse already picking up speed.

Powder.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Ekko's stomach twisted in a knot, his heart skipping a beat. His mind rushed ahead of him, latching onto the worst possibilities before he had a chance to stop it. What if something was wrong? What if she was in trouble? What if she needed him and he hadn't realized? His thoughts circled faster, spiraling into darker places as he thought of the way she could retreat into herself, pulling away until even the words between them felt distant, hollow. He knew her better than anyone—he knew the weight of the world she sometimes carried on her shoulders, the silent storms she battled in the quiet of the night, the moments when the darkness inside her seemed to get too loud, too heavy. Some nights, she withdrew so deeply that not even his voice could reach her. And if this was one of those nights—

His pulse quickened as his fingers fumbled with his phone, unlocking it so quickly that his thumb nearly missed the screen. His thoughts were already a jumble, his fingers moving on instinct more than anything. When the message finally appeared in front of him, his breath caught in his throat. His heart stuttered for a moment, his hand instinctively tightening around the phone as if bracing himself for what he might find.

It wasn't what he had expected. It wasn't a cry for help, drenched in urgency and fear. There was no cold distance, no walls between them, no pushing him away like he feared. If anything, it was the exact opposite of what his anxious mind had conjured.

Her words were raw—unfiltered in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. She told him how much she appreciated him. How much he meant to her. She admitted she was confused, that she was still figuring things out, that she wasn't sure what to do with everything she was feeling. But the fact that she was saying it at all—that she was letting him see even a sliver of what was going on inside her head—made something tighten in his chest.

And then, at the very end of her message, tucked into the last line like it didn't carry the weight of the world, sat a single emoji.

And then, just when he thought he'd absorbed everything he could from her words, there it was—tucked at the very end, almost too small to notice.

A single emoji. A heart.

It was the simplest thing, wasn't it? Just a heart. A small symbol of affection. But Ekko couldn't shake the way it made him feel. It was almost absurd, how much weight one tiny emoji could carry. It wasn't even a declaration, not really. She didn't say it outright. She didn't even try to dress it up with flair. It was just... there. An afterthought, maybe, something casual to her—but to him, it was everything. It was a thousand words unsaid. And suddenly, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of his chest.

He read the message once, then again, and then a third time, just to be sure. His eyes skimmed the words, but each time they landed on that heart, it made his heart thud harder in his chest. Too hard. Too fast.

What was he supposed to do with that?

Her message didn't have the clarity he wanted. She didn't lay everything out on the table, didn't explain all the complicated parts. She didn't say what she wanted from him. But there was something else—the part about wanting him to come with her. She didn't go into detail. She just said she had a place in mind, somewhere important to her, and she wanted him there with her. That, at least, felt like an invitation.

But an invitation to what?

For a while, he lay awake, staring at his ceiling, the message replaying in his mind like a song on loop. He couldn't shake the feeling of warmth that kept creeping into his chest every time he thought of her words. Every time that heart emoji popped into his thoughts, it felt like the world tilted just slightly. He tried to tell himself not to overthink it, that it wasn't anything more than a simple gesture. But how could he not? How could he stop the flood of questions when the smallest thing—a heart, of all things—had the power to make him feel like everything was suddenly shifting?

The sun hung low in the sky, stretching shadows long across the cracked pavement as they walked. The evening air was thick with the scent of warm asphalt and the distant hum of the city settling into dusk. Powder hadn't told him much about where they were going—just that it was a surprise and that he'd better not try and guess, or else. But Ekko had a feeling he already knew.

She was different today. Not in a bad way. If anything, she felt lighter, like some invisible weight had been lifted off her shoulders, though he couldn't tell if it was gone for good or just set aside for now. Her usual jittery energy had softened into something steadier, something easier, and it felt like the first deep breath after holding it in for too long. She kept sneaking glances at him when she thought he wouldn't notice, quick, fleeting looks that vanished the second he turned his head. It wasn't like her to be subtle—she was usually all sharp edges and loud opinions, making herself known whether people were ready for it or not—but tonight, she hovered somewhere in between. A little more smiles, a little more attention, a little more… him.

Ekko wasn't sure what to do with that.

The basket swung over her arm with every step, the handle looped tight around her wrist, and she held it close, careful, protective, like it was something precious. He eyed it with curiosity, waiting for the right moment to poke at her defenses.

"You sure you don't want me to carry that?" He nodded toward it, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Looks kinda heavy."

Powder gasped, clutching the handle tighter like he'd just threatened to rip it away from her. "To risk you seeing part of the surprise? Never."

She let out a breathy giggle and skipped ahead, her shoes barely making a sound against the pavement.

"I'm not gonna look," he promised, holding up both hands in mock innocence.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her frown exaggerated. "You're a little liar, you know that?"

Ekko clutched his chest like she'd wounded him. "Wow. No faith in me whatsoever."

"None." She grinned, bright and quick, before picking up the pace again. "Just be patient. We're almost there."

Ekko could've pushed her. He could've asked the questions that hung in the air between them, pressed her for the words that had been on his mind just to ease his curiosity. But he didn't. Honestly? He was enjoying this too much to risk it. Powder in a good mood was a rare gift, as fleeting and unpredictable as a storm. The kind of thing that swept through and was gone before you could grasp it, leaving only the aftermath. And tonight? Tonight, she was smiling—really smiling. Her laugh was light, the kind of sound that made her seem just a little more like the girl he adored so desperately, the one who sometimes slipped past the chaos of her mind and let herself be... happy.

She was so many things, but in moments like this, when she was carefree and light, she was just… her. It felt like a small piece of the world had shifted into place, and everything else seemed to fall away.

And then there was the fact that it was him— him —who had made her this happy. A smile that was his to keep, even if just for a while. Every time she threw him a glance, those bright eyes catching his and her lips curving into that smile, he felt a warmth spread through him that made his chest ache. It was a dangerous warmth, the kind that could easily burn you if you weren't careful. But he didn't care. He was too caught up in the way it made him feel, like he was floating, like he was weightless and untouchable in a way he hadn't felt before.

It was almost laughable how much it affected him. He had never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was the one who kept things locked away, kept everything under wraps, always keeping a safe distance between his feelings and the world. But Powder… Powder had a way of pulling him into her orbit, and he couldn't stop it. She made him feel things . Things he wasn't used to feeling, things he didn't know how to name but was all too aware of.

It wasn't exactly what he wanted. Not really. He had dreams, fantasies, of what he wished they could be. He craved more. Much more. What they had, this special bond between them—it wasn't enough. Not really.  He wanted to pull her close, feel her small frame pressed against his. He wanted to kiss her, to kiss every inch of her face, to taste the warmth of her lips like it was the air he breathed.  It was embarrassing, the number of times he'd let those thoughts take over, how many times he lay awake at night imagining the kind of intimacy that others took for granted. 

But they weren't a couple, and they probably never would be, so what they had—this strange, beautiful thing between them—had to be enough. For now.

Ekko's instincts had an eerie way of being right, and as he walked alongside Powder through the winding streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew exactly where they were headed. The beach. It always came back to the beach, didn't it? The moment the warm air started to cling to their skin like an extra layer, when the sun seemed too heavy in the sky, it was like a silent agreement passed between them. The beach was their escape, their place to shed the weight of everything else.

The salty tang of the sea was carried on the breeze, the scent of brine and sun-bleached earth that filled the air as they walked. Ekko breathed it in deeply, savoring the way it seemed to clear his mind, like a reset button for his senses. He could almost picture it, the way the sand would feel beneath his feet: rough and warm, grainy, the kind of texture that slowly sank into your soles, grounding you in the present, reminding you that you were here, now. It was the kind of sensation that tied you to a place, to a moment, and nothing else seemed to matter. He could hear the soft thrum of the waves in the distance, crashing gently against the shore in a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the world itself. It was timeless, soothing, and in its sound, there was a quiet promise that everything else—every worry, every thought—could wait.

The beach had been a constant for as long as Ekko could remember. It was their place, a quiet refuge from the chaos of their lives, woven into the very fabric of their friendship. A place where the noise of the world didn't reach, where the sand and the sea washed away the weight of everything else. When they were there, it felt like everything made sense, like they could breathe deeply and just be . No obligations, no expectations, just the rhythm of the ocean and the steady presence of each other. It was simple, almost too simple, and yet, every time they went, it felt like something new. Something fresh. The kind of place you could return to a thousand times and always find a little bit more to love about it.

But tonight… Tonight felt different.

Ekko kept his hands in his pockets as he followed Powder through the winding streets, the air buzzing with the energy of the city around them. It wasn't quite the bustling rush of the marketplace or the usual buzz of nightfall; instead, there was a quiet anticipation hanging in the air, one that seemed to cling to Powder's every step. She walked ahead of him, her grin wide and teasing, a spark of mischief in her eyes, but there was something else there too. Something just a little too secretive. Powder was never one for understatement, and whenever that sly grin spread across her face, it usually meant she had something up her sleeve. Ekko knew it well—the kind of grin that hinted at trouble, at adventure, but fun trouble. The kind that made you roll your eyes but still smile, knowing full well you were in for a ride.

"Where are we headed?" he asked again, his voice casual, though there was an edge of curiosity that slipped through.

"Not telling," Powder shot back, her tone light but with a strange kind of certainty in it. She didn't slow down, didn't look back, but Ekko could feel her excitement radiating off her, infectious as always. It was the kind of energy that made you want to be part of whatever she was plotting, even if you had no idea what it was.

It was a familiar place, a regular one, even. So, he couldn't quite figure out why Powder had been so damn secretive about it. She had that little mischievous grin on her face when she told him to follow her, but it wasn't like this was some hidden treasure they had to unearth. They'd been here together more times than he could count. Sure, the beach might've been a bit more crowded this time of year, with more people crammed together under the sun, but it didn't make the place any less their own. They always managed to carve out a corner for themselves, whether it was slipping into the cool water on scorching afternoons or tossing a volleyball back and forth until they couldn't remember whose turn it was to serve.

Ekko had been ready to call her out, to make some teasing remark about how Powder had a talent for turning even the most casual outings into dramatic spectacles. He could already picture her rolling her eyes at him, maybe cracking a sarcastic retort in that way only she could manage. But then, just as he was about to speak, she did something unexpected.

She turned sharply, veering away from the familiar path that led them toward the beach. Ekko blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She didn't even slow down, her steps confident and deliberate, her gaze fixed ahead as if she knew exactly where she was going. The sudden change in direction left him pausing, confusion creeping up his spine. This wasn't like her—not really. She was always so carefree, so ready to let spontaneity take the wheel, but this time, there was a sense of purpose in the way she moved. It was as if she had a destination in mind.

"Hey, where are you going?" He called after her, his voice a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity. The playful tone he had planned on using faltered, replaced by the faintest thread of concern. He'd been expecting the usual—toward the stretch of sand where they'd spent afternoons lost in the rhythm of the ocean's crash and the quiet comfort of each other's presence. But no, Powder had other plans.

She didn't turn to answer right away. Instead, she continued on, her figure growing smaller in the distance as she walked with that familiar, sure-footed gait. He sighed, half irritated, half intrigued. He wasn't about to let her drag him off somewhere without knowing why, so he jogged to catch up, his feet kicking up loose gravel from the path.

As they moved farther from the beach, the trees started to encroach upon them, thick trunks rising from the earth like silent sentinels, blocking out the sun and casting long shadows that seemed to stretch with the deepening quiet. The sounds of the world beyond—the distant chatter of tourists, the familiar crash of the waves—faded into an eerie stillness. Here, in this corner of the city, it felt like they were entering a different world altogether. The trees whispered to each other, their leaves rustling like secrets exchanged between old friends.

"Are you going to kidnap me here, or what?" Ekko's voice broke the silence, though it carried more of his usual teasing bravado than any real fear. He raised an eyebrow, grinning in the hopes of pulling her into another lighthearted exchange, the kind of banter that always came easy between them. Powder didn't disappoint, her laughter bubbling up almost immediately, warm and unrestrained.

"Maybe on a different occasion," she teased back, though her words were laced with something softer, something that made Ekko pause. He couldn't quite place it, but there was a glint in her eyes—a familiar spark that made him wonder what was really going on in her head.

Confusion furrowed his brow, and he glanced at her, trying to make sense of it.

Powder's grin softened as she motioned for him to follow, weaving through the undergrowth with ease. She moved like she belonged here, like this place wasn't foreign to her, as if she knew every twist and turn beneath the thick layer of branches and vines. Ekko hesitated for just a second, a flicker of doubt running through his mind. He opened his mouth to ask where they were going, but something about her quiet confidence kept him from voicing the question. Instead, he swallowed it down, letting his curiosity—his perpetual need to understand what made her tick—take over. He followed.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours, as they walked deeper into the trees. The air grew cooler, the smell of earth and moss mixing with the faint, salty tang of the ocean, and the sounds of the city seemed to dissolve completely. It was only the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the occasional call of a bird that broke the heavy quiet.

Then, just as Ekko was beginning to wonder how much farther they would go, the dense thicket of trees parted, and he found himself standing on the edge of something unexpected. 

Before him lay a small, secluded beach, tucked between two jagged cliffs that rose up from the earth like ancient guardians. The cliffs weren't imposing or threatening, but their presence was undeniable, as though they had stood here for centuries, watching over this hidden pocket of the coast. They framed the scene perfectly, leaning in toward the water like two old friends, whispering secrets to the sea below. There was a sense of timelessness here, an energy that felt like it belonged to a different world entirely.

Ekko's breath caught in his throat as he took it all in. The sand stretched out before him, smooth and untouched, as if no one had set foot here for ages. The grains were pale, almost shimmering in the warm light of the late afternoon, each one a small, perfect piece of a larger puzzle. The ocean, a deep, tranquil blue, lapped gently at the shore, its waves curling in a slow, rhythmic pattern that seemed almost deliberate in its quiet repetition. There was a peace to the sound, a calm that filled the air in a way that was almost... sacred.

He stepped forward, his shoes sinking into the soft sand with each careful step. The cool breeze from the ocean tousled his hair, but it was the silence that wrapped around him the most. It wasn't the kind of silence that felt empty or hollow; it was a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that held no demands, no pressure. Just... calm. In a way, it felt like time had stopped here, like this place existed outside of the rush of the world, untouched by the chaos and noise that seemed to define everything else.

He glanced at Powder beside him, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the water. She was still, her expression unreadable, but there was something about the way she stood there—at ease, like this was where she belonged—that made Ekko's chest tighten with an unfamiliar warmth. It was rare to see her like this, the usual storm of thoughts and quick movements replaced by a kind of quiet reverence.

He swallowed, feeling the weight of his words before he even spoke them. "Wow," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. "This is... different."

Her lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, but she didn't immediately respond. She just stood there for a moment longer, eyes trained on the horizon as if she could see something there that Ekko couldn't. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than usual, almost reverent in a way that echoed the stillness around them.

"Yeah," she said quietly, her words trailing off as she let the quiet of the place fill the space between them. "I thought you'd like it." She paused, her gaze flicking to him for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes. "Sometimes, it's nice to get away from all the noise, you know? Just... have a space where it's just us. No one else."

Ekko nodded slowly, his eyes drifting back to the water, watching the waves break gently against the shore. It was a strange feeling, being here—like they had stumbled upon something that wasn't meant to be found, a place that didn't belong to the world they knew. It was a feeling of isolation, but not in the lonely way he usually associated with being alone. This was different. It was... a relief. An invitation to exist in this small, forgotten corner of the world, just for a little while.

Powder stepped onto the sand, her steps light but deliberate, the soles of her worn sandals pressing faint imprints into the soft grains before the tide of wind and motion erased them. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sun-warmed driftwood, the distant hush of waves folding over themselves filling the quiet between her thoughts. Above, the sky stretched endless and golden, streaked with the last embers of daylight, its colors bleeding into the horizon in warm hues of peach, amber, and violet. The ocean caught the light like scattered glass, waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic pulses, as if the entire world had settled into a slow, steady breath.

She barely noticed the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair, teasing them free from the barely-held-together mess of her pigtails. Her focus was on the small, tucked-away stretch of beach ahead—their beach. Not officially, of course, but it might as well have been. It was too hidden for most people to bother with, a little out of the way, a little too quiet. That suited them just fine.

In her hands, she still carried the basket—not particularly large, not especially heavy, but handled with a careful, deliberate grip. Like something inside might break if she wasn't careful. She could feel Ekko's gaze trailing after her from a few paces away, curiosity simmering in the space between them, though he didn't question it too much anymore. Maybe he'd given up on trying to understand the way her mind worked, or maybe he just trusted she'd get to the point eventually. Either way, he kept his distance, watching with that easy, unreadable expression of his, arms folded loosely across his chest.

When she reached the center of the place, she knelt down, setting the basket onto the sand with the kind of reverence usually reserved for something important—something that mattered. Then, with practiced ease, she pulled out a thick, patchwork blanket, the fabric worn but sturdy, softened by years of use. She unfurled it in one swift motion, the edges flaring out before settling against the sand, the colors—deep blues, faded reds, the occasional mismatched square of something floral—standing out against the pale shore. She smoothed it down with her palms, pressing out the creases, her expression oddly focused.

Ekko's eyes narrowed slightly, the slow, dawning realization making his chest tighten. A picnic.

It wasn't the first time he'd shared a meal outside—far from it. In fact, there had been plenty of those spontaneous, no-plans gatherings over the years, the kind that happened when the weather was good, when they were all looking for a break from the usual. He could picture them all now, scattered on blankets in the park, the grass beneath them still a little damp from the morning dew. There had been the times they spread out mismatched snacks, the contents of plastic bags half-crushed from being carried around all day—half-melted popsicles, bags of chips with a few crumbs left at the bottom, slices of bread with butter smeared on them just before they'd run out of anything else. The kind of meals that didn't need to be fancy, didn't need to be perfect. Just something to eat while the sun hung low, casting long shadows over the pavement and the sound of laughter filling the air.

Those moments had always been casual. Thrown together without much thought, almost accidental. And they were fun. The easiest sort of good times—nothing complicated, no strings attached, just the freedom of being outside with the people who felt like home.

This, though…

This had been planned.

Thought out.

Made with intention.

And entirely by her.

His arms loosened, hands slipping into the pockets of his shorts as he stepped closer, kicking at a stray shell half-buried in the sand. "So…" He tilted his head, studying her. "This a special occasion or somethin'?"

She didn't look up right away, still smoothing out the blanket, a little too focused on the motion. Then, with a slight shrug, she finally glanced at him, the corners of her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but close.

"Dunno," she said lightly, though there was something else beneath it, something unreadable. "Guess that depends."

Ekko almost didn't believe what he was seeing.

From afar, it had just looked like a picnic—something casual, something simple. But now that he was close enough to catch the finer details, he realized there was nothing casual about this at all.

The food was laid out like something straight out of those aesthetic posts Powder sometimes sent him with a half-joking we should do this —except this time, she actually had. And she hadn't just thrown things together, either. Everything had been placed with quiet, deliberate care, the kind of attention she usually reserved for tinkering with one of her little projects.

The sandwiches were cut into perfect halves, not jagged or haphazard, but crisp, clean lines that spoke to a level of intent far beyond just eating lunch. Their edges lined up so perfectly that it was almost as if they'd been measured, each slice a mirror of the other. The bread, soft and pillowy, looked too pristine to be real, and Ekko couldn't help but wonder if she'd spent extra time making sure they didn't get soggy, like she always did with the little things.

Then there was the fruit—oh, the fruit. It was a riot of color, bursting out of the glass dishes with such vibrancy that it could have been a painting. Or maybe more like a piece of jewelry, gleaming in the sun, the bright reds and oranges, the deep purples and greens, arranged so perfectly that they looked almost too beautiful to eat. But the way the light caught each piece, how the sunlight sliced through the tiny droplets of water still clinging to the skin of the grapes, made it clear that this wasn't just for show. This was her way of making even something as simple as fruit feel like a work of art.

And the cookies—those cookies were the real showstopper. Not just tossed carelessly into a bowl or spread out on a napkin. No, these had been stacked. Neat. Tidy. Each one was perfectly balanced on top of the other, like a tower of sweet, golden perfection. Ekko had to admit—he was impressed. Powder had a way of making everything seem effortless, but this? This took patience. Care. Something he hadn't expected from her in a million years.

And the glasses. The glasses were the last thing that made his heart stutter. She had taken them from the back of the cabinet—the delicate, carved ones, the ones that were so fragile she never seemed to use them, too afraid they'd shatter with a single wrong move. She'd poured the drinks into them, the liquid swirling inside, catching the light in a way that made them look like something out of a high-end restaurant. She always put those glasses out of reach, tucked them away with a sort of reverence, but tonight—tonight - they were on display, as if they were the most important part of this whole spread.

Ekko stood there for a moment, just taking it all in. The care in every detail, the effort in everything she'd done—it was more than he had expected. It was more than he had ever thought she was capable of, if he was being honest with himself. Powder had always been full of surprises, but this one? This one felt like a different side of her altogether.

It was… beautiful.

"You…" His voice trailed as he looked around again, as if blinking would make it all make sense. " You did all this?"

Powder didn't look at him right away. She was still fussing over the arrangement, adjusting the placement of a cookie, nudging a sandwich just slightly to the left, as if half an inch would make or break the whole thing. But at his words, her fingers hesitated against the rim of a glass.

"Yeah…" she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "This morning."

She didn't say it like it was anything special, but Ekko knew better. Powder didn't cook. She didn't prep meals. Half the time, she got impatient waiting for instant ramen, cracking open the lid while the noodles were still stiff and half-raw. And yet, here she was, setting out a spread that looked like something out of a bakery—not in the polished, perfect way, but in a way that felt real. Personal.

He lowered himself onto the blanket beside her, still absorbing it all, still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that Powder —who hated to cook, and once nearly set the microwave on fire because she got impatient—had done this .

The sight of the spread spread out on the blanket was nothing short of a quiet kind of magic. It wasn't perfect—far from it. The muffins were a little uneven, their tops puffed up at one side like they had risen too quickly. The edges of the cookies were a little burnt, but in a way that made them look like they had been made with care, not rushed. The soft glow of the sun lamp above them cast everything in a warm, cozy light, the kind that made the little imperfections somehow more comforting than anything polished. And there was something else in the air—something about the smell, the mixture of sugar and butter, something familiar but deeply personal.

Ekko's stomach twisted—not from hunger, though he was definitely hungry—but from a deep, almost jarring realization. This wasn't just food. This wasn't just Powder throwing something together in a hurry. She had put thought into it. She had taken the time. For once, she wasn't acting on impulse. She had created something—something that was, in its own way, an offering.

He slowly lowered himself onto the blanket beside her, the action feeling heavy, as if he were stepping into a scene he hadn't expected to witness. His eyes skimmed over the food again, trying to make sense of it, his mind slow to catch up with his feelings. Muffins, cookies, a tray of fruit. Powder hated to cook. She always had. So why the hell had she gone through all this trouble? Was it even possible to change so much in such a short time? Or maybe it wasn't change. Maybe it was something simpler—something more quietly profound.

His gaze lingered on the tray of muffins, their tops a little uneven, golden brown, and slightly crinkled. They looked like they had risen too high on one side, making them almost lopsided, but it only made them seem more… real. Like something that had been made by hands that didn't care about being perfect, but only about being themselves.

"I made the cupcakes you like."

Powder's voice cut through the stillness, quieter than usual, almost tentative. There was an uncertain quality to it, as if she was unsure of whether she should have said anything at all. Her words hovered in the air for a second, and when Ekko looked up, she was moved off to the side, her eyes a little wide as if she was bracing herself for his reaction.

"I had to scroll through our whole chat just to find the link you sent me," she continued, her voice growing a little more sure with each word, but the faint tremor still lingered in her tone.

Ekko blinked, his fingers tightening around the muffin in his hand as he processed her words. His mind scrambled for the memory of the link she was talking about. He couldn't recall sending it, not really. It must've been ages ago, during one of those long, late-night chats where they tossed whatever random thoughts and plans came to mind, no filter, no expectation. Things said and forgotten almost before they finished typing them. But the idea of Powder, scrolling through all of that just to make sure she got it right... it made something inside of him shift, warm and soft, like the gentle nudge of a memory that he hadn't even known was important until now.

"They don't look that good, though." Powder's words faltered, a little self-conscious as she rubbed the back of her neck, her posture twisting awkwardly, as if she was suddenly unsure of herself. "The blueberry jam kinda... exploded. Just leaked out everywhere while they were baking."

Ekko turned the muffin over in his hand, his thumb brushing against the uneven ridges of the top. The jam—dark and rich—had seeped out and spilled over the edges, staining the golden-brown crust with dark streaks that glistened, glossy in the light. He couldn't help but smile, despite the way the jam had run wild. The muffin's shape was a little off-center, the top sagging slightly to one side, and the filling was more a messy stain than a neat center.

But there was something in the imperfections that made it all the more real, more meaningful.

"They look perfect," Ekko said, his voice quieter than usual, carrying more warmth than he expected. He glanced up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment, and the lightness in his chest grew, blooming like a flower in the sunlight. "This is exactly how I like them."

Powder's face softened, her nervous energy ebbing away a little at the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she seemed to let herself relax, her shoulders dropping just slightly, like she was finally able to take a breath.

Her voice was hesitant at first, the words slowly unfurling as if they had to fight their way past the weight of something unspoken. She shifted in her seat, her fingers twisting around the delicate handle of a small, silver fork, her movements unusually careful. With a soft sigh, she speared a piece of mango from one of the glass containers sitting on the table between them. The vibrant orange fruit gleamed under the warm, low light, and for a moment, she seemed to get lost in the simple act of eating, her gaze flicking away as if gathering her thoughts before continuing.

"You know..." she started again, her voice steadier this time, but still carrying that quiet undercurrent of nerves. She popped the mango into her mouth and chewed slowly, as though buying herself time. When she finally met Ekko's eyes, there was something there—a flicker of uncertainty, but also a vulnerability that she didn't usually show. "Vi showed me this place a while ago. She said... this is where you bring someone special, and, well." Powder trailed off, her words tumbling out in a rush, her gaze dropping to the fork in her hand, turning it absentmindedly between her fingers.

She swallowed, then cleared her throat softly. "That's why I brought you here," she finished, her smile a little forced, like she was trying to push past the awkwardness in the air.

Ekko wasn't sure how to respond. His breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat as the words settled into the space between them. He had always prided himself on knowing exactly what to say in any situation—whether it was a quick joke, a casual remark, or something off-the-cuff to keep the conversation flowing. But this? This moment felt different. There was something in her voice, a weight to the words that hung in the air and made his usual quick wit evaporate. He couldn't think of anything clever. Nothing that seemed to fit. His mouth opened, then closed again, leaving him speechless.

Powder noticed his hesitation, her eyes darting to the side before she let out a small, awkward laugh, a nervous sound that made her fidget with the fork a little more. "I know I'm not good at telling people how I feel," she continued, the vulnerability in her voice growing more pronounced. "So, I figured... maybe showing you would make it easier." She paused, her gaze flitting to Ekko again, this time a little more uncertain. "I hope... talking about it will come naturally now. Because there are so many things I've been thinking about. About myself... about you... and, uh... us."

Ekko's fingers twisted the muffin wrapper in his hands, rolling it between his palms in a nervous rhythm, as if he could wring the words he needed from the crumpled paper. He stared at it for a moment, his gaze unfocused, the weight of the conversation pulling at him. He had practiced what he wanted to say, shaping his thoughts carefully so they would come out just right. But even with all that preparation, the words still felt fragile, like they might break apart before they reached her. This conversation mattered, and he couldn't afford to mess it up. He had to make sure his feelings came through, that she understood.

He cleared his throat, exhaling slowly before speaking. "That message... it really meant a lot. I'm so glad you sent it. You were so distant that day, and I, uh..." He paused, unsure how to phrase the next part. His stomach twisted as the words tangled in his throat. "I feared you might... hate me."

Powder's response was immediate, a soft but firm shake of her head, her eyes sparkling with something warm and reassuring. "I would never hate you," she said, her voice steady, though there was a nervous tremor underneath it. A smile spread across her face, one that was meant to ease him, to let him know everything was okay. But it was her next action that really caught his attention.

With a quiet, almost shy movement, she picked up a strawberry from the plate between them and speared it with her fork. Instead of eating it herself, she held it out toward him, offering it like it was something precious, something she wanted to share. Her eyes never left his, watching him with a quiet intensity, waiting for him to take it.

Ekko blinked in surprise. The gesture was unexpected, and for a moment, he didn't know how to react. His mind was still tangled with everything he'd just said, and here she was, offering him a strawberry like it was the most natural thing in the world. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion, and his pulse quickened as the distance between them seemed to shrink, just a little.

For a long moment, he just stared at the strawberry, unsure of what to do. The idea of her feeding him—offering him something so simple, yet so intimate—caught him off guard. He hadn't realized how much the gesture meant until she held it there, waiting for him to accept it.

But then he let himself soften, allowing himself to surrender to the moment. Slowly, he leaned forward, taking the strawberry from her fork, feeling the delicate weight of it. He bit into it, the flesh of the berry breaking under his teeth with a satisfying crunch. The sweetness hit him immediately, a burst of flavor that was almost too perfect to be real. It was like biting into summer itself—fresh, juicy, the kind of strawberry that tasted like it had been plucked straight from a garden, still warm from the sun.

He swallowed, meeting her eyes again, his chest tight for entirely different reasons now. She was watching him closely, waiting, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost shy. 

"For what, even?" she asked, her voice gentle but curious. "You're always here for me. You always make me feel like I matter." Her eyes softened, a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks. "And you're so cool and funny, and everything. I'm just... surprised you even hang out with me."

Ekko opened his mouth to respond, to tell her how much that meant to him, but before he could find the words, her hand brushed against his. It was just the briefest of touches, but it sent a shock of warmth up his arm, like static electricity crackling between them. He froze, his breath catching in his throat, but then she didn't pull away. Instead, she gently slid her palm into his, her fingers closing around his with a soft but purposeful pressure.

He couldn't move at first, couldn't breathe. The world narrowed to the feel of her hand in his, the weight of it grounding him in a way that felt both foreign and completely natural. He had never expected this. She had never done this before—not like this. Her hand, small and delicate in his, seemed to fit perfectly, like they had always been meant to be this way. The warmth of her touch spread through him, warming places he hadn't even known were cold.

Everything else around them faded into the background, the vision blurring, the muffled sounds of the world outside disappearing into the quiet intimacy of the moment. Time seemed to stretch out—slow, languid—and yet, at the same time, everything was happening too quickly for him to fully process. He felt his heart racing, thudding in his chest as though it might break free, as though he couldn't contain the flood of feelings crashing over him.

His fingers tightened around hers instinctively, as if afraid she might pull away, though he didn't want to let go. The pulse of connection between them was so strong, so undeniable, that it felt like the world had shifted just a little bit—like this, this moment, was something important. Something that had been quietly building between them all this time, hidden in the spaces of their conversations, their laughter, and now, in the gentle pressure of her hand against his.

Ekko's eyes lingered on their hands, still intertwined, as he slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. She wasn't looking at him; her head was turned to the side, her eyes fixed on something far off, but the flush creeping up her neck told a different story. Her ears were red—a sure sign of her embarrassment, something he'd come to notice over time. It was a soft, almost imperceptible shade, but to him, it was the most endearing thing in the world. The way her emotions betrayed her, even when she tried so hard to hide them, made him feel a warmth spread through his chest, something that felt like home. He wanted to freeze this moment in his mind, to hold it forever—her soft, hesitant expression, the redness on her ears that told him more than words ever could.

Her vulnerability in this quiet moment was beautiful to him, as much as it was painful. She was always trying to hide it—her emotions, her feelings—but there was no fooling him. She could pull away from his gaze, look anywhere but at him, but her body always told the truth. And that soft redness creeping up her neck, just enough to make her look like she was trying to hide her heart, was everything to him. The way she felt something, but was too scared to let him know, was the most endearing thing in the world. It was as if the world had cracked open for just a moment, allowing him a glimpse into her soul, the parts of her that even she didn't fully understand yet.

Everything felt surreal now, like they were characters in one of those romance novels Ekko had once laughed off as corny or characters from the pages of some long-forgotten fairy tale, the kind of story you only believed in when you were young and naïve. But now, sitting here with Powder, everything had shifted. The world outside seemed distant, irrelevant, as if time itself had slowed just for them. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, soft and gentle, like the slow turning of pages in a love poem. And he felt it in his bones—the undeniable, bittersweet truth that he wasn't dreaming. This was real. She was here, and they were here, together.

Powder let out a soft sigh, one that caught him off guard. It wasn't heavy, not quite, but it was filled with something fragile, something that made his heart ache in ways he couldn't explain. Her chest rose and fell sharply with the motion, and for a moment, Ekko felt like he was holding his breath, waiting for her to say whatever it was that was on her mind.

"I think that... maybe..." Her voice cracked softly, like a fragile thread she wasn't sure she was ready to pull. The hesitation in her tone was palpable, the uncertainty in her words hanging between them. She flicked a quick glance at him, eyes catching his just for a moment, and the warmth that radiated between them in that split second was enough to make his heart skip. But just as quickly, her gaze dropped, her eyes shifting down to the ground, as though she were looking for the right words to pull from somewhere deep inside.

"I think that maybe I want to try."