Page 18

18

WARREN

THAT FIRST SUMMER—THE LAST NIGHT

It’s too late to be out here, and we both know it.

The sky’s gone black, the stars burning low and steady above us, flickering in and out of sight behind thin streaks of cloud. The grass is cool beneath the blanket we dragged from my trunk, but the warmth of the day still lingers in the dirt, rising in lazy waves.

There’s a pond to the right of us, maybe fifteen yards off. It’s not natural—just a runoff catch that the grounds crew carved out years ago to keep the lower fields from flooding. Now, it’s overgrown and murky, full of bullfrogs and dragonflies, with the occasional beer can half-sunk in the reeds. But tonight, it’s still. Quiet. Reflecting pieces of the sky like it’s trying to matter.

Quinn’s stretched out beside me, flat on her back, her arm draped loosely over her stomach. Her hair’s fanned out over the blanket, dark against the faded plaid, and she smells like sunscreen and mint gum and cherry almond shampoo.

We’ve been here for hours. Long enough for the bonfire we half built to sputter out, leaving behind nothing but ash and embers. It’s quiet now, just the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

“You’re gonna miss me,” she says suddenly, her voice light, lazy.

I snort, shifting onto my side to face her. “Yeah?”

She grins, her eyes still on the sky. “So much.”

I let my fingers drift across her arm, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge of her wrist bone. Her skin is warm, sun-kissed and soft. “You’re acting like I’m never gonna see you again. We’re going to the same school.”

Quinn hums like she’s unconvinced. “It’ll be different.”

“You mean because I won’t get to watch you sass entitled rich guys for tips?”

She turns her head, arching a brow. “Please. That’s your favorite show.”

“I mean ...” I shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

Her grin widens. “Told you. You’re gonna miss me so much.”

I don’t answer right away, just let my fingers wander higher, curling lightly around her elbow, my thumb brushing the inside of her arm. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips, fast and unsteady.

“Very true,” I say quietly.

This summer has been its own little world. Familiar, self-contained, easy to hold on to.

At work, we move like clockwork—circling each other, trading quips, slipping notes into each other’s pockets when no one’s looking. And outside of work, it’s the same. Familiar. Steady. Something I can trust to make sense, no matter what else doesn’t.

Because our time together has been contained. A set number of days stretched across shifts at Sycamore, late-night drives, and mornings spent lying in the grass behind the club, still half-asleep. Even if we didn’t want to crawl inside each other’s skin, we’d still be practically forced to. The job keeps us in each other’s orbit.

But all of that’s about to shift.

College is different. It’s loud and sprawling, full of people and choices and space. No shifts to anchor us. No break room glances. Just an open campus and too many directions we could go.

And even with her lying next to me, close enough to touch, the thought of losing this—of losing her—wraps tight around my ribs, solid and sharp.

“You’re gonna miss me, too,” I murmur.

Her eyes drop, fingers tracing something invisible against my arm. “Maybe.”

I smile, trailing my touch lower, down to her wrist. “Maybe?”

She exhales, soft and slow, like she’s buying time. “I’m not good at . . .” Her voice dips. “At keeping people.”

I know what she means. She doesn’t have to explain.

I’ve seen it in the way she keeps her distance even when she’s standing right next to someone. The way her messages go unanswered, her friendships left half-formed. Like if she never gets too close, it won’t hurt when people leave. Like if she doesn’t hold on, she can’t be the one dropped.

“You won’t lose me,” I say.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She swallows, her gaze rising to meet mine.

I reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flick to my mouth, but I don’t move to kiss her. Not yet. I let my fingers drift down instead, brushing her jaw, skimming the side of her throat, tracing the gentle dip of her collarbone. Her breath hitches, her body stills, and her eyes go soft and dark all at once.

“You always do that,” she whispers.

“Do what?”

“Get in my head. Touch me like . . .” She hesitates, like saying it aloud might crack something open. “Like you’re memorizing me.”

I smile, low and quiet. “Maybe I am.”

I’ve been memorizing her all summer—every freckle scattered across her shoulder, the faint scar on her thumb, the curve of her spine when she leans over the pool rail. The sound she makes when she laughs too hard. The way she looks at me when she’s trying not to.

We’ve spent weeks like this—kissing until we’re dizzy, pressing into each other behind storage sheds and late-night corners, her hands in my hair, mine under her shirt. Always skimming the edge but never falling over it.

And God, I want her. Not just her body. All of it. Her fire, her bite, the mess she tries to hide and the softness she doesn’t know how to offer.

But more than anything, I want this.

This moment.

This closeness.

This is my chance to mean something irreplaceable to her before the summer ends.

My hand drifts lower, tracing the thin strap of her tank top where it curves against her shoulder. She exhales, breath shaky, and her fingers hook into the belt loops of my jeans like she needs something to ground her.

Then she moves—just enough to close the space between us, her lips brushing mine, soft and warm with the faint taste of Dr Pepper. It’s not a desperate kiss. Not rushed or messy. It’s slow and unhurried, the kind that feels like a conversation.

Her fingers slide into my hair, nails grazing my scalp, and I groan low in my throat. My hand slips under the hem of her shirt to find the bare skin of her waist.

She’s warm everywhere. In her breath. In her skin. In the way she leans into me like she was always meant to fit there. My hand slides higher over her ribs, fingertips brushing the edge of her bra.

Quinn makes a soft, breathy sound against my mouth, something caught between a sigh and a whimper, and it damn near undoes me.

I pull back, just barely, just enough to see her face. My breathing is rough, uneven. “You okay?”

She swallows, blinking like I’ve knocked something loose in her head. “Yeah,” she says, voice shaky.

I smile and run my thumb over her bottom lip. “You sure?”

Her eyes flick to my mouth again. “Yeah, but I might die if you don’t kiss me right now.”

I laugh, low and rough, and kiss her again—deeper this time, like I’m trying to pour every unspoken thing straight into her mouth.

She pulls me closer, one thigh sliding between mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders as my hand slips down her side, fingers curling around the back of her thigh. Her breath grows ragged. Her mouth softens, slows.

I’m losing myself in her. In the weight of her body, the heat of her skin, the soft sounds she keeps giving me like secrets. She shifts halfway on top of me, her fingers tangled in my shirt.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

I drag my thumb down her side, following the curve of her waist. “Quinn,” I murmur.

“Mmm?”

“I—”

The words stall in my throat when her hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribs. My head tips back, and her mouth finds my neck, leaving slow, open-mouthed kisses over my pulse.

Her hand drifts lower, teasing along my stomach before brushing the waistband of my jeans. Then she cups me through the fabric, fingers tracing every inch, every line.

My cock twitches. My whole body tightens.

“Jesus,” I groan, fingers digging hard into her hip, like I can anchor myself to her and keep from coming apart.

Quinn laughs, quiet and breathless, her mouth still against my throat. Her teeth scrape just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Told you you’d miss me.”

“Don’t start,” I mutter.

But I’m smiling, and so is she, and I didn’t know it could feel like this. Not like this .

Not easy in the sense of simple because Quinn Rose is anything but. She’s sharp where I’m soft, defiant where I hesitate. She pushes, she dares, she burns. She’s a storm I never saw coming and never want to outrun.

But this moment—her mouth on mine, her fingers fisting my shirt, her breath catching in my ear—feels easy. Like something I don’t have to explain. Like something that’s always been ours, even before it began.

And that’s what terrifies me most. The hope that it’ll still feel like this when summer ends. That whatever this is won’t fall apart once we leave this stretch of heat and chlorine and quiet corners behind.

Because I don’t know how I’d handle losing her. I don’t know how I’d survive going from this to nothing at all. From the heat of her breath to cold silence. From everything she is to the empty space she’d leave behind.

She’s everywhere. In the way I wake up thinking about her. In the way I scan the pool deck, waiting to spot her ponytail in a crowd. In the way my body shifts when she’s close, like it’s already tuned itself to her.

And if I lose that—if I lose her —I don’t know how to stop looking. I don’t know if I ever could.