The creek sparkled lazily in the afternoon sun, the water shimmering against the light chatter and laughter. Fries were tossed and caught, beers sipped, lines cast and tugged gently —all of it blending into a rhythm that was ridiculous, absurd, and perfect, exactly the way it had always been with this group. The air is warm, thick with the scent of damp earth and sun-soaked wood, the quiet that settles deep in your bones if you let it.
Harmony stands a few feet from the bank, her line already cast, the rod resting easy in her grip. She hasn’t caught anything.
She hasn’t really been trying to.
Across the way, Sammy and Gregory are half-arguing over bait, their voices low but animated, the occasional scoff or muttered insult drifting across the water. Jake sits on an overturned bucket, qu
