March, Week 2 — Saturday
—
Evan’s hands were already warm when he pulled up in front of Salma’s house.
Not from the drive — from nerves.
He shut the engine off and sat there for half a second longer than necessary, breathing in through his nose like he was bracing himself for something big. When the front door opened and Salma stepped out, jacket zipped halfway, hair loose, smiling like this was something she’d been looking forward to all morning, the nerves didn’t go away.
“Hey,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Hey,” he replied, voice steadier than he felt.
She buckled in and glanced around the cab, then looked back at him. “So… where are we going?”
Evan pulled away from the curb, eyes on the road. “Somewhere beautiful.”
Salma watched him for a second, then smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “I like that.”
The drive unfolded easily. Music low. Windows cracked. The scenery thinning as the road opened up. Evan drove like he wanted the moment to arrive intact. Salma didn’t ask again where they were going. She didn’t need to.
When he finally pulled over, the place looked like it had been waiting for them — open grass, a line of trees just starting to hint at spring, sunlight spreading across the ground like it had nowhere better to be.
Salma let out a quiet, amazed sound. “Evan…”
“Hold on,” he said, already hopping out and grabbing a folded blanket from the back.
He led her a short way off the path. When they crested the small rise, everything was already set up.
The blanket laid out neatly. A basket to one side. Paints and brushes arranged carefully, like someone had practiced placing them — and then practiced again.
“You did all this?” she asked.
Evan shrugged, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I, uh… I asked one of your home ec people what would be good to make. Picnic-wise. I didn’t want to mess it up.”
Her smile widened, eyes bright with something like awe. “You asked for help?”
He laughed under his breath. “I asked for a lot of help.”
She laughed too, stepping closer, taking it all in. “This is really beautiful.”
Something in his chest loosened at that. “I’m glad.”
They sat together, legs stretched out, shoulders close but not pressed. The food was simple but thoughtful — familiar flavors, warm and comforting instead of showy. Salma took a bite of something and looked up at him.
“Yeah,” she said. “You did great.”
Conversation came easily after that. Slower than school, softer than routine. They talked about things they hadn’t circled before — small stories, half-formed thoughts, things that felt safer out here. Time moved differently, like it had agreed not to rush them.
Eventually, Evan reached for the paint.
“I thought,” he said, hesitating, “I could show you. If you want.”
Salma eyed the brushes. “I’m bad at that.”
“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to be.”
She smiled. “Okay. Show me.”
He scooted closer, guiding her hand gently, explaining without correcting. Salma laughed when the colors blended into something messy and unexpected, when paint smudged onto her fingers.
“This is terrible,” she said, grinning.
“It’s not,” Evan said. “It’s just… yours.”
They kept painting, teasing each other lightly. Evan insisted a paint streak on her sleeve was “intentional.” Salma told him he was lying and tried to wipe it off, only making it worse.
“Stop,” she laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re objectively wrong.”
“I’m an artist,” he said. “I don’t do objective.”
She laughed again, leaning forward to grab a napkin at the same time Evan reached for it from the other side.
They laughed, still a little breathless, still close.
Evan pulled back just enough to look at her. He hadn’t planned on leaning in — it happened like a question he didn’t realize he was asking. He hesitated, just a beat.
She closed the distance and kissed him, quick and soft and slightly crooked, like it surprised her too.
When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything.
Evan shook his head once, still grinning like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Salma laughed quietly and bumped her knee against his.
They stayed like that for another moment, the afternoon settling back around them like nothing had been disrupted — only improved.
When they finally packed up, Salma folded her painting carefully.
“I’m keeping this,” she said.
As they walked back toward the truck, Salma reached for his hand without looking. Evan’s fingers laced with hers easily, like it had already been decided.
The drive home felt quieter — not awkward, just full.
March, Week 2 — Saturday
—
Salma decided early not to ask too many questions.
When Evan said somewhere beautiful, she let the words settle and trusted them. She watched the road instead — the way his hands stayed steady on the wheel, the way he glanced over like he was checking that she was still there.
Seeing everything set up made her chest ache in a good way. Not because it was impressive — but because it was thoughtful. Because he’d tried. Because he’d wanted this to be right.
Sitting with him felt different from school. From habits and routines and half-stolen moments. This was chosen.
Painting beside him was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Not because she was good at it — she wasn’t — but because she didn’t have to be. When she messed up, Evan smiled like that was part of the point.
The kiss happened without announcement. Without planning. One second laughter, the next closeness, and then suddenly —
She smiled afterward more than she spoke.
Walking back to the truck with her hand in his felt easy. Natural. Like the day had gently nudged them somewhere new and neither of them had resisted.
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