Back To You

Not a date (9)

I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

Not Olivia. Not Jackson. Not even myself, really.

But when Tayler texted "Pick you up at 7. Don't be late," I didn't question it. I didn't overthink it.

At least not out loud.

But by 6:42, I was in front of the mirror for the third time, adjusting my shirt, smoothing my hair, and rolling my eyes at my own reflection.

It wasn't a date.

Except it felt like one.

The flutter in my chest said so.

The nerves pooling in my stomach said so.

Even the way I double-checked my phone for new messages that weren't there said so.

At 6:59, I heard the knock.

I opened the door slowly, like maybe if I eased into it, the night wouldn't feel so heavy with what-ifs. But there he was, leaning against the frame, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans like he wasn't nervous at all.

His eyes scanned my face and lingered for a second too long.

"Relax," he said, with that maddening half-smile. "You look fine."

"Fine?" I raised a brow, folding my arms. "That's all I get?"

He chuckled under his breath. "Okay — more than fine."

I gave him a small, smug smile. "Better."

⸻

He didn't say where we were going.

Just motioned toward his car like I already knew the drill. I slid into the passenger seat, letting the soft hum of the engine and the barely-there music fill the silence between us.

The windows were cracked, letting in the warm breeze of a summer night that hadn't quite cooled down yet. Tayler drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely in his lap, like he was completely at ease.

I wasn't.

Not in a bad way. Just... hyper-aware. Of everything.
The way the sun dipped below the horizon in the distance. The way he hummed softly to the beat of a song I didn't recognize. The way his knee bumped mine when we turned a corner, and neither of us moved away.

We didn't talk much at first.

But it wasn't awkward.

It was just... easy. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that scared me a little. Like no time had passed at all.

After about fifteen minutes, he turned off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as he pulled into a quiet overlook tucked into the hills. There wasn't much — just a weathered fence, a sloping view of the city, and the kind of silence that felt intentional.

You could see everything from here.

Golden light stretched across rooftops, the skyline tinted in orange and soft purple, fading into navy at the edges. Cars moved like fireflies in the distance. It was beautiful in the kind of way you don't talk about — you just feel it.

He hopped out of the car and leaned against the hood like he'd done it a hundred times before. I joined him, perching beside him, arms folded, heart quietly pounding.

"No one else really comes here," he said, watching the horizon. "It's kind of... mine."

"Your secret spot?"

He glanced at me. "Used to come here after practice. Or when everything felt too loud."

I didn't say anything. But I understood.