A on propose accident

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Zoid and Luke ambled hand-in-hand through the park, a comfortable silence weaving between them. Zoid’s blue hair, usually a vibrant beacon, was softened by the golden light, and Luke’s blond mop seemed to catch every stray ray. It was a picture of quiet contentment, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of their initial encounters. They were lost in their own bubble, the gentle rustle of leaves and distant laughter the only soundtrack to their shared peace.

Then, a sharp, familiar voice sliced through the tranquility. “Luke? Is that really you?”

Zoid’s grip tightened instinctively on Luke’s hand. Marilyn. The name itself was a sour note in their otherwise harmonious melody. She emerged from the dappled shade of an oak tree, a vision in a fitted sundress that clung to her like a second skin. Her smile, when it landed on Luke, was saccharine and possessive, but when her gaze flicked to Zoid, it hardened into something sharp and appraising.