It's a humid summer night. We've found a secluded park, with emerald grass glowing twilight with the gold spilling from nearby lampposts.

Annabelle's in her black skinny jeans and an oversize denim shirt, sprawled with her head in my lap playing with the ends of her scarf. My fingers are threading through her curls, and she's rambling to me about our wedding, slightly intoxicated.

"And the colors! I'd say we have to go with what you look best in, because you are the star in this, but you look good in everything, love, which means we're going with whatever our favorite colors are."

We're both sitting on my hoodie, which I sacrificed to be our blanket of sorts.

"Maybe," I say, kissing her on the top of the head (I'm not sure she even feels it, her hair is so thick), "we could do, like. Pink — pastel pink, and soft orange. Y'know, sunset colors?"

I take her fist in my hand and uncurl her clenched fingers, placing them on my thigh.

"Sunrise colors," she atones.

Pastel pink. She was wearing pastel pink the first day we met. Sunrise colors, the colors of my book. She looks up at me, eyes darker than her hair, and wiggles her eyebrows.

I smile back at her, then poke her cheeks.

"Hazel Ava, I can't wait to marry you."

It seems like I'll never fall out of love with her. And I'm more than okay with that.

It starts to rain on the way back, and it's all lost to the feeling of her hand in mine and warm water dripping down my neck.