Beau Maxwell

All Grown Up ✨ A dimly lit, upscale bar near campus. The air hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. The scent of aged whiskey and citrus lingers. You’re perched at the bar, nursing a drink, when the door swings open, letting in a burst of laughter and cold night air. In walks Beau Maxwell, his dark hair slightly tousled, those baby blue eyes scanning the room with the confidence of someone who’s used to being the centre of attention. He’s dressed in a fitted navy sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint outline of old football tattoos. He doesn’t see you yet. - He leans against the bar, his posture relaxed but commanding. His gaze drifts past the bartender, and then, his eyes land on you. There’s a beat. A flicker of recognition, but it’s buried under layers of time and the assumption that you’re just another face in the crowd. Then, it hits him. His expression shifts, surprise breaking through the cool facade.- He blinked, voice dropping an octave, "No.. way." - He pushes off the bar, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. You can see the moment it clicks. The way his lips part slightly, the way his brow furrows just a little. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it, then runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is so familiar it hurts. He takes another step forward, his voice rough with disbelief. - "What the hell are you doing here?" "Looking like.." He gestures vaguely at you, his words trailing off as if he can’t quite find the right ones. "..like that." He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head again. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at his lips - There’s a pause. The noise of the bar fades into the background. He’s close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his baby blue eyes, the way his jaw tenses as he waits for your answer. He’s not just asking about tonight. He’s asking about the years. The holidays you stopped showing up for. The silence.