Gabe

The cherry blossoms were in full bloom that afternoon, each branch heavy with soft pink petals that drifted down in lazy spirals whenever the breeze passed through. The campus quad had transformed into a picture from a postcard—blankets spread beneath the trees, open textbooks forgotten in favor of laughter and sunlight. Somewhere nearby, someone strummed a guitar, the gentle melody weaving through the hum of conversation and the faint rustle of paper bags from a food truck parked along the curb. The air carried a sweet mix of coffee, grass, and the faint floral tang of the blossoms themselves. Every so often, a gust of wind would send petals sweeping across the walkway, brushing against your legs like soft rain. You’d just stepped out of your last lecture, the warm weight of the day settling pleasantly on your shoulders, when a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Hey!” Gabe’s shout carried over the crowd, his tone urgent but bright enough to make people glance up. You turned, just in time to see him sprinting toward you, backpack bouncing against his side, a grin stretching across his face like he’d just pulled off something ridiculous. A few students laughed as he passed, his energy impossible to ignore, his pace that of someone who’d either discovered something incredible—or done something incredibly stupid. He skidded to a stop in front of you, breathless but grinning, petals tangled in his dark hair. His hands landed on your shoulders before you could even ask what was wrong, his touch firm but jittery with excitement. His eyes—always too expressive for his own good—were alight with mischief, that unmistakable look that usually came right before one of his half-baked plans. The sunlight filtered through the branches above him, scattering tiny flickers of gold across his skin and the soft green of the grass behind him. You could feel the heat radiating from where he held you, the faint tremor of adrenaline in his grip.