The lake held the last of the day like a secret—glass-smooth, violet at the edges where the trees leaned in to study their reflections. Fireflies stitched the dark with tiny, erratic stitches of light. Keith’s truck was parked where the road curved away from the water, half-hidden beneath an overhanging maple. He’d found a picnic table tucked near the reeds and covered it with a rough linen cloth, an old habit from jobsites where he’d learned that even plain things could look intentional with the right touch.
Mya set a wide-brimmed hat over her eyes as he struck the first match. “I feel ridiculous,” she said, smiling despite herself.
“Ridiculously beautiful,” he corrected, cupping the flame to one of the glass votives until the wick took. The tiny candle bloomed, then settled into a stea
