#andybrenner

The sun hit just right as Kaila stepped out of the car, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose, enough to showcase a hint of her chocolate eyes and quirked brow ( full of...judgement?? ) Her sundress catches the breeze like it knew it was being watched. She looked every bit the glowing Mexican goddess she was—bronzed, unbothered, and five minutes fashionably late, as any mother of a teen.

The bistro’s patio was bustling, all bright tiles and hanging plants, but her eyes landed on him immediately: The boyfriend.

She smiled—slow, easy, dangerous. "Well," she said, sliding into the seat across from them, "this should be fun."

@andybrenner. xoxo

She contemplates --"Hm...Mom and I have been looking at getting matching butterflies..."

kissy kissy. @andybrenner.

The string lights twinkle overhead, casting gold across the open barn and the dusky sky beyond. Music drifts lazily from the speakers—something slow, something old, something that knows how to wrap around two people like a memory.

Kaila hadn’t planned to dance. She’s been hosting all day, her feet aching in her boots, curls a little frizzy from the heat and laughter and the firepit’s glow. But Andy’s hand found hers without asking, without pressure—just a soft tug, just a trust me.

And now they sway.

There’s no choreography to it. No leading or following. Just the quiet, natural rhythm of two people who’ve been orbiting each other for a while now, pulling close and pulling back, the space between them filled with words they haven’t said yet.

Kaila’s head tilts, and she laughs softly at something he muttered—some teasing remark that slides through her like warm cider. She doesn’t even remember what it was. It’s not important. What is important is how he’s looking at her now, like maybe he knows. His hand rests light at her back, her fingers tucked into his shirt where no one can see.

The air between them shifts. Thickens. And it happens slow. Eyes lock. Breath hitches. Their foreheads almost touch.

And their lips—God, their lips hover like they’ve done this before in a dream. Like they’ve always been meant to meet here, between fiddle strings and fireflies.

They don’t kiss.

Not really. Just the suggestion of one. A breath’s worth of space. A whisper’s weight.

Kaila’s lashes flutter. Andy swallows hard. They pull apart before anything else can happen, but they both feel it. That electricity. That sharp little ache in the chest.

They don’t say a word as the song ends. Just smile—too slow, too knowing—and step away into the hum of the night like nothing happened at all.

↳ comparing heights

Jakob’s behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing ink that tells stories no one asks about anymore. The place smells like old wood, lemon oil, and a hint of burnt espresso from the machine he refuses to upgrade. Outside, the Portland rain taps against the windows in rhythm with the muted thump of bass bleeding from the back studio.

He’s polishing a glass, humming something half-formed, when the door swings open and the jingle of the bell breaks the stillness. He glances up, half expecting a delivery or another regular ducking in from the rain, but instead—it’s him.

Andy. - the new Kelly? -- no. No because, Kaila swears he's different.

The guy Kaila’s been talking about. The one who drops lunch off like clockwork, who makes her laugh in that soft way Jakob hasn’t heard since high school. The one who, if Jakob’s honest, he’s been waiting to meet—not for confrontation, but for clarity.

Andy steps in, a classic brown paper bag in hand, damp from the drizzle. He’s got a kind of rough charm, that tattooed, good-hearted look Jakob’s seen before in backstage mirrors and dive bar crowds.

Jakob leans on the counter, head tilting, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“So you’re the man with the sandwiches,” he says, voice low and even, as if he's testing a microphone, “She didn’t tell me you were tall. That’s messed up.”

He offers a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet but is working its way there. There’s no hostility—just a quiet protectiveness, the kind that comes from knowing someone since before the world made them hard. A beat. The hum of music behind them, the clink of the ice machine starting up. Jakob sets the glass down and finally sticks out a hand.

“I’m Jakob. I’ve known Kaila since she was twelve and fearless. We used to make music that could’ve broken speakers. Now I just sell overpriced whiskey to sad men and try not to get in her way.” He's being modest, he owns the place, the studio in the back and in fact is a well-to-do musician and producer.

His gaze lingers just a moment too long. Protective, measuring. Then he softens.