One Last Good Idea
The city was still clinging to summer, but just barely.
The heat had broken a few days ago, and now the nights were cooler, kissed with a breeze that hinted at sweaters and early dusks. The kind of night that made Meg restless.
She sat on the fire escape, legs dangling into nothing, a bottle of cheap wine between her knees. Flynn had wedged himself into the space beside her with all the grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
"I still say we break into the Natural History Museum," he said, sipping straight from the bottle like it owed him something. "Big fake dinosaur bones. Infinite hiding spots. It's got everything."
Meg snorted. "You'd get caught in like, twenty minutes."
"Please. I'd blend in. I've got a very innocent face."
"Your face literally says 'please frisk me.'"
Flynn grinned, sharp and easy. "You wound me, Nutmeg."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. The nickname had stuck months ago, and somehow it never made her flinch the way others did. It was stupid. It was sweet. It was his.
Below them, the city buzzed soft and low. People moved like currents, warm light spilled from restaurants, and the skyline glittered like it was showing off.
They'd spent the whole day doing nothing of importance - wandering street fairs, sharing greasy food from paper plates, trying on sunglasses they didn't buy, flirting with strangers just for fun. The kind of day that left your feet sore and your heart full.
Meg leaned her head back against the metal railing, wine warming her limbs. "I wish it could always feel like this."
Flynn was quiet for a beat, watching her. "It doesn't?"
She cracked one eye open. "You know what I mean."
He nodded, slow. "Yeah. I do."
There was something fragile in the quiet that followed. Like if they said the wrong thing, it might break.
Flynn twisted the bottle in his hands, suddenly uncharacteristically serious. "Where would you go if you left?"
She blinked. "The city?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. Just pack up and go. I'd find a shitty little beach town. Start over. Paint seashells. Sell postcards."
Meg laughed, soft. "You'd go stir-crazy in a week."
"Probably." He grinned again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Still. Nice thought."
She looked at him - really looked. He was tan from too many days outside, windblown, the faintest hint of exhaustion under his charm. And something else too. Like he wanted something he didn't know how to ask for.
"Is this your one last good idea?" she asked.
Flynn glanced sideways at her, lips twitching. "Maybe. You in?"
Meg hesitated.
There was a version of the world where she said yes. Where they ran. Where none of it - the brokenness that hadn't found her yet - ever touched her. But that version of the world felt far away. Even now. Even here.
She nudged his knee with hers. "Only if we steal the postcards first."
Flynn barked a laugh and tipped his head back to the stars. "Deal."
They passed the bottle between them a while longer, not saying much. Just the creak of the metal, the hum of the city, the easy rhythm of two people who knew each other bone-deep.
When the bottle was empty, and the chill had started to bite at bare skin, Meg tucked her arm through his.
"Come on, thief," she murmured. "Let's go inside."
And Flynn, who would never admit how much he needed to hear something just like that, followed her in without a word.
Postscript: Still Summer
The apartment was warm from the day's heat, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze whisper through. Meg kicked off her boots, peeled her jacket off like she'd been waiting all day to shed the weight of it. Flynn followed behind, loose-limbed and quiet.
The glow of the bedside lamp was soft and yellow, casting long shadows across the worn wood floor. The fan whirred lazily in the corner, half-hearted against the fading summer.
Meg collapsed onto the bed like she belonged there, limbs spread like she was claiming the space. "I think I'm still drunk," she mumbled.
Flynn leaned over her to flick the light off. "You were drunk before we even got to the sunglasses stand."
She cracked a grin. "Those were good sunglasses."
"You looked like a mob wife."
"That was the goal."
He dropped beside her without asking, the way he always did. No boundaries left to cross between them, just the easy comfort of shared silence.
They lay like that for a while. Back to back. Breathing in sync. The kind of quiet that didn't demand anything from either of them.
Flynn spoke into the dark. "You ever think about what comes next?"
"Not really," Meg said. Then, after a beat: "Maybe that's the problem."
He turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. "You're not a problem, Nutmeg."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached for his arm, dragging it around her waist like a lifeline. He didn't resist.
There was nothing romantic in it, not really. Just something steady. Something soft.
She closed her eyes, his breath at her neck, the weight of him grounding her.
The city hummed outside the window. Somewhere, far away, the world was already beginning to turn.
But here, in the moment, in the hush before the fall - Meg let herself feel safe.
Just this once.
Author's Note: Thank you SO much for reading this far.
I hope you're enjoying Meg and Flynn's dying days of summer as I much as I did writing them. I always loved the idea of putting these two together but it wasn't until writing this scene that I really started to fall for them a little.
Happy to say that they both have much more to come. Although maybe not quite as golden-hour tinged as these early moments.
I'll be back soon with the first autumn breezes.
Write soon!
CB