The first week of February feels like a long, gray hallway leading to a single door. Johnny walks through it at school, through the chatter about Valentine’s plans, the construction paper hearts taped to lockers, the faint, cloying smell of chalk dust and cheap perfume. He feels settled in a way he didn’t know was possible. The frantic, secretive energy of the fall has burned down to a steady, warm coal in his chest. Paige is his girlfriend. Everyone knows. No one is fighting it. It’s almost boring.
Almost.
He’s leaning against her locker Tuesday afternoon, waiting. She’s at her volleyball practice. The hallway is emptying out. A couple of junior girls from his English class pass by, their arms full of books. They glance at him, then at Paige’s locker decorated with a single, silly sticker of a cartoon frog, and offer small, knowing smiles. He nods back. There’s no malice in it. Just acknowledgment. He’s the high school guy with the middle school girlfriend. The math doesn’t scandalize them; it intrigues them. He sees it in their eyes: a flicker of a memory, of being thirteen and looking up.
“Planning something big, McHale?”
Johnny turns. It’s Derek, one of the few guys from the bowling team who’d given him a hard time back in October. He’s leaning against the lockers opposite, a smirk playing on his face, but it lacks its old edge.
“For what?” Johnny asks, his voice flat.
“Valentine’s. Duh. Gotta impress the child bride.”
There it is. The old dig. But it sounds rehearsed, like a habit Derek can’t quite break. Johnny just looks at him. He doesn’t feel the old defensive heat. He feels… nothing. “We’re going to Antonelli’s,” he says, simple fact.
Derek’s smirk falters. “The nice Italian place? On a Tuesday?”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence. Derek pushes off the lockers. “Well. Have fun, man.” He walks away, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The exchange is over. It’s not acceptance, exactly. It’s surrender. Johnny’s relationship is a fact of the landscape now, like the cracked tile near the water fountain. You just step around it.
Paige finds him there five minutes later, her hair damp at the ends from a post-practice shower, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She smells like soap and sweat and her. “Hey,” she says, and her smile is immediate, unguarded. It still does something to his stomach, that smile. A pleasant, familiar lurch.
“Hey.” He pushes off the locker. “How was practice?”
“Brutal. Coach is a sadist.” She falls into step beside him, their shoulders brushing. “Your brother is lurking by the front doors with Marla. He looks constipated.”
Johnny snorts. “He’s probably working up the nerve to ask her to be his Valentine.”
“Oh god. Should we save her?”
“Nah. Let nature take its course.”
They collect Jim and Marla, who are indeed standing in an awkward, silent bubble of adolescent agony. The walk to their houses is easy. The dynamic is established. Johnny and Paige walk slightly ahead, in their own world but not hiding it. Jim and Marla trail behind, their conversation a staccato burst of “Yeahs” and “Totallys.”
At the corner where they split, Marla giggles and says, “See you guys tomorrow!” She darts off. Jim shoves his hands in his pockets, mumbles, “Later,” and heads for home. Paige loops her arm through Johnny’s. The late afternoon sun is weak but present, cutting long shadows across the sidewalk.
“So,” she says, swinging their joined arms slightly. “Antonelli’s.”
“You still good with that?”
“Are you kidding? I get to wear my black dress. The one with the straps.” She leans her head against his shoulder for a step. “My mom already said it was okay. She even offered to drive us.”
Johnny nods. The planning is mundane. A reservation made by his dad over the phone. A borrowed tie. It’s all so normal it feels like a performance, but the performance is for them now, not for anyone watching. “I got the card,” he says.
She stops walking, turning to face him. Her dark eyes are bright. “What kind?”
“The non-musical kind.”
“Good. I hate the ones that play that tinny song.” She bites her lower lip, a gesture that is both thoughtful and unconsciously seductive. “I got yours too.”
“Is it covered in glitter?”
“Maybe.”
“It’ll get all over my room.”
“That’s the point, dummy. So you’ll think of me every time you see a sparkle in your carpet.” She grins, that wild-child grin that started it all, but it’s softened now, directed inward at their private joke. He kisses her, right there on the sidewalk. It’s a Tuesday. It’s comfortable. It’s theirs.
Dinner at his house that night is a quiet affair. His mom has made meatloaf. The TV is off. The weight of the fall, of her tears in the kitchen, has settled into a kind of watchful calm. She asks about his day. He tells her about the reservation confirmation. Mitchell looks up from his plate. “You need cash, son? It’s not cheap.”
“I’ve got it, Dad. Saved from cleaning Mrs. Gable’s driveway.”
“Good man.” Mitchell goes back to his meatloaf.
Karen watches Johnny, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the way he holds his fork. He’s not her little boy. He hasn’t been for months. But the frantic fear has receded, replaced by a maternal vigilance that is almost peaceful. She knows where he is. She knows who he’s with. It has to be enough. “Will you be home after?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yeah. Paige has a test Thursday.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Later, in his room, Johnny lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. The familiar crack in the plaster looks like a lightning bolt. He thinks about the van. The cold vinyl seats. The way her skirt had ridden up. The terrifying, exhilarating leap into the unknown. Now he knows the map of her body in the dark. Knows the sound she makes when he hits the right spot. Knows the weight of her head on his chest after. It’s not less. It’s more. The mystery has just changed shape.
He picks up the phone and dials her number. She answers on the second ring, breathless. “Hey.”
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Trying to find my black heels. One is, like, missing. I think it’s a conspiracy.”
He smiles. “I’m just lying here.”
“Thinking about your awesome card?”
“Yeah. And other stuff.”
“What other stuff?” Her voice drops, gets softer, intimate through the wire.
“The van.”
A pause. He can hear her breathing. “What about it?”
“Just… how fucking scared I was.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Me too.” Another pause. “I’m not scared now.”
“I know.” He closes his eyes. “That’s what I’m thinking about.”
Wednesday passes in a similar haze of anticipation. At school, he sees Marla in the hallway with a group of eighth-grade girls. They erupt into giggles as he passes. One of them, a bold one with braces, calls out, “Good luck tomorrow, Johnny!” He gives a small wave, feeling like a zoo exhibit, but a benign one.
After his last class, he finds Paige waiting by his locker. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I found the shoe!”
“The world is at peace.”
“It was under my bed. With, like, three dust bunnies the size of actual bunnies.” She grabs his hand. “Walk me home?”
They take the long way, through the park where the trees are skeletal against the gray sky. Her hand is warm in his. They don’t talk much. The comfortable silence is its own language. When they reach her porch, she turns to him. The late afternoon light is fading, painting everything in shades of blue. She looks up at him, her face serious.
“Tomorrow night,” she says. “It’s just dinner, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But it’s our first Valentine’s.”
“I know.”
She nods, as if confirming something to herself. Then she rises on her toes and kisses him, not a quick goodbye kiss, but a slow, deep one that tastes like cherry lip balm and promise. Her body presses against his, a familiar, perfect fit. He feels the stir of want, low and warm. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark. “Okay,” she whispers. “See you tomorrow.”
He walks home in the gathering dark, his blood humming. The normalcy is a shell. Inside, the coal is still burning, hot and steady. He lets himself in. The house smells like laundry detergent and baked potatoes. His dad is watching the news. His mom is grading papers at the kitchen table. Jim is in his room, probably agonizing over his own Valentine’s card for Marla. It’s all so ordinary.
Johnny stands in the doorway of the kitchen, watching his mother’s pen move across a worksheet. She looks up, sensing him. Her expression is soft, questioning.
“Everything set for tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She puts her pen down. “You’ll have her home by nine-thirty?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
She studies him for another second, then a small, genuine smile touches her lips. It’s a little sad, a little proud. “Okay. I hope you have a nice time.”
It’s permission. It’s blessing. It’s her letting go of the rope, inch by painful inch. He nods, his throat tight. “Thanks.”
Up in his room, he takes the card out of his desk drawer. It’s simple. Red. No glitter. He opens it and stares at the blank inside. The pen feels heavy in his hand. He thinks of the van, of her question hanging in the cold air, of his own reckless, surprising answer. He thinks of every day since. He puts the pen to the paper.
He writes: *You still wanna find out?*
He signs his name. He doesn’t need to write more. She’ll know. She’ll know it’s not a question about sex. It’s a question about everything that comes after. Every tomorrow. Every Valentine’s. Every ordinary Tuesday. He slides the card into its envelope, seals it, and places it carefully on his desk. Outside his window, the night is complete. He lies down, hands behind his head, and waits for the day to come.
The alarm clock buzzes, a harsh, mechanical sound in the dark. Johnny’s hand slaps it silent. He lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Valentine’s Day. The air in his room feels different. Charged.
He showers, the hot water doing little to settle the low hum in his veins. He dresses with more care than usual—a clean button-down, dark jeans, the leather jacket Paige says makes him look less like a scarecrow. He checks his reflection. His hair is a lost cause. He leaves it.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells of coffee and toast. His dad is already gone for work. Jim is shoveling cereal into his mouth, a crumpled, homemade card on the table next to his bowl. Karen is packing lunches. She looks up as Johnny enters.
“Big day,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yeah.”
She hands him a lunch bag. “There’s an extra cookie in there. For energy.” A ghost of a smile. It’s her version of a peace offering, a mother’s blessing wrapped in wax paper.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Jim swallows a mouthful. “You gonna give it to her at school? The card?”
“No. Tonight.”
“Boring,” Jim declares, but there’s no malice in it. Just the observation of a younger brother who thinks everything should be a public spectacle.
The walk to school is cold and bright. Johnny’s breath plumes in the air. The red envelope is in the inside pocket of his jacket, pressed flat against his chest. He feels its corners with every step.
He sees her before she sees him. She’s at her locker, talking to Marla. Paige is wearing a skirt today, despite the cold. It’s black, tight, hitting mid-thigh. A red sweater hugs her curves. She looks like a Valentine. Marla is giggling, clutching a small bouquet of carnations wrapped in cellophane.
Paige turns, sensing him. Her face lights up, a real, unfiltered smile that reaches her dark eyes. She says something to Marla, who giggles again and scurries off. Then Paige is walking toward him, her steps quick, purposeful.
“Hey,” she says, stopping close. Her eyes scan his face, his clothes. “You look nice.”
“You too.”
“It’s today,” she says, as if he might have forgotten.
“I know.”
She bites her lower lip, a gesture that’s equal parts nervous and excited. “I got you something. But you have to wait.”
“Me too.”
Her gaze drops to his jacket, as if she can see the shape of the envelope through the leather. “Okay.”
The school day is a formality. A series of rooms and voices he moves through like a ghost. His mind is elsewhere—on the van’s cold vinyl, on her porch in the blue light, on the table at Antonelli’s waiting for them tonight. In history class, he catches himself tracing the shape of a heart in the margin of his notebook. He scratches it out.
At lunch, they find a quiet corner of the cafeteria. She unwraps a sandwich. He opens his bag, finds the cookie. He breaks it in half and gives her a piece. She takes it, their fingers brushing. A simple touch. It still sends a current through him.
“Nervous?” she asks, nibbling the cookie.
“No.” He thinks about it. “Not about tonight. About the card.”
“Why?”
“It’s stupid. Just… words.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not stupid.” She looks down at her half of the cookie. “Words are the scary part.”
The final bell rings like a starting pistol. The hallways are a chaos of shouted plans and rustling paper flowers. Johnny shoulders his backpack and makes for his locker. Paige is already there, leaning against the neighboring lockers, waiting.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just gotta drop this off.” He works his combination, swaps out books. When he closes the metal door, she’s right there. Close enough to kiss. The hallway is emptying around them.
“I want my present now,” she whispers.
“Tonight.”
“Now.” Her hand finds his, tugs. “Come on. Just for a minute.”
She leads him, not toward the exit, but down a quieter corridor, past the art rooms, to a recessed doorway that smells of chalk and floor wax. It’s their spot. The one they’ve used a handful of times for quick, desperate kisses between classes. She pushes him gently against the door, her body following, pinning him there.
“Paige,” he starts, but she kisses him. It’s deep and hungry, her tongue finding his, her hands fisting in the front of his jacket. He groans into her mouth, his own hands settling on her hips, feeling the firm curve of her through the wool of her skirt. She grinds against him, a slow, deliberate roll of her pelvis that makes his breath catch. He’s hard instantly, achingly so, the denim of his jeans suddenly too tight.
She breaks the kiss, her lips swollen, her breath coming in short puffs against his chin. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with want. “That’s my pre-present,” she murmurs. Her hand slips down, palming him through his jeans. He jerks, a sharp intake of breath. Her fingers curl, applying a firm, knowing pressure. “Think about that. Until tonight.”
She lets go, steps back. Adjusts her sweater. She looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly pleased with herself. Johnny leans against the door, trying to will his body back under control. The front of his jeans tents obscenely.
“You’re evil,” he manages.
She grins, that wild, teasing grin from the beginning. It’s been a while since he’s seen it so clearly. “You love it.” She turns and walks down the hall, her hips swaying, not looking back.
He takes a minute, breathing deep, staring at the fluorescent lights overhead. The hum in his veins is a roar now. He finally pushes off the door and walks to his next class on unsteady legs, the ghost of her hand still burning against his cock.
Somehow, he makes it home. The house is empty. He goes straight to his room, drops his backpack, and takes the card from his jacket. He holds it, the paper warm from his body. He thinks of her in that hallway, the press of her, the heat in her eyes. The question inside the card doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. It feels like a vow.
He lays out his clothes for dinner. He checks his wallet. He looks at the clock. Time has turned to glue.
At five-thirty, he hears the front door open, his dad’s heavy tread, his mom’s lighter steps. The normal sounds of evening. He goes downstairs. Karen is in the kitchen, starting dinner for her and Mitchell. She looks at him, takes in his shirt, his combed hair.
“You look handsome,” she says softly.
“Thanks.”
Mitchell claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” It’s his standard line, delivered with a wink.
“So, nothing, then?” Johnny says, the old sarcasm a comfortable shield.
His dad laughs. “Smartass.”
At six-fifteen, Johnny puts on his jacket. The card is secure in the inner pocket. He checks his reflection one last time. His heart is a drum against his ribs.
“I’m going,” he calls into the house.
Karen appears in the hallway. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him, her eyes soft and sad and proud all at once. She nods.
He steps out into the cold evening. The sky is a deep, velvety blue, the first stars pricking through. He walks to Paige’s house, his hands in his pockets, his fingers tracing the edge of the envelope. The world feels sharp, vivid, every detail in focus. The crunch of frost under his boots. The smell of woodsmoke from a chimney. The golden squares of light from the houses he passes.
He reaches her porch. The light is on. He takes a deep breath, the air cold in his lungs, and rings the bell.
The door opens, but it’s not Paige. It’s Linda Moretti, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from mild surprise to a warm, knowing smile. “Johnny. Right on time.”
“Hi, Mrs. Moretti.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, suddenly aware of his posture.
She steps back, holding the door wide. “Come in, it’s freezing. She’s just finishing up. You look nice.”
“Thanks.” He steps into the familiar warmth of the hallway, the smell of garlic and tomatoes from the kitchen. He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. The card in the inner pocket rustles softly.
Linda leans against the wall, crossing her arms. The dish towel is still in her hand. She studies him, her dark eyes—so like Paige’s—soft but assessing. “Antonelli’s, right?”
“Yeah. Seven o’clock reservation.”
She nods. “Good. A real date.” A pause. “You nervous?”
He meets her gaze. “A little.”
“Don’t be. She’s been vibrating since she got home from school.” Linda’s smile turns wistful. “You’re good for her, you know. She’s… settled. In a way I didn’t think was possible for her.”
Johnny doesn’t know what to say to that. He just nods.
“Okay,” Linda says, pushing off the wall. Her voice drops, just for him. “Just… have fun. Be kids. It’s Valentine’s Day.” She gives his arm a quick squeeze before turning toward the kitchen. “Paige! Your date’s here!”
Footsteps thump on the stairs. Then she’s there, at the bottom of the staircase, and Johnny’s breath catches.
She’s wearing a dress. It’s simple, black, with thin straps and a skirt that falls just above her knees. It clings to every curve—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the roundness of her hips. Her hair is curled, falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing a little makeup, just enough to make her eyes look huge and dark. She looks older. She looks incredible.
“Hi,” she says, her voice a little breathless.
“Wow,” is all he can manage.
A blush creeps up her neck. She does a little spin. “Okay?”
“More than okay.” He finds his voice. “You look… amazing.”
She grins, that wild, pleased grin, and closes the distance between them. She smells like perfume and shampoo. “You clean up pretty good yourself, McHale.” She smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. Her touch burns through the cotton.
“You kids have your coats?” Linda calls from the kitchen doorway, a reminder of the world outside.
Paige rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She grabs a wool coat from the closet, and Johnny helps her into it. His fingers brush the back of her neck as he lifts her hair free. She shivers.
“Bye, Mom!” Paige calls.
“Home by eleven!” Linda’s reply follows them out the door.
The cold air hits them like a wall. Paige links her arm through his as they walk down the porch steps. “Eleven,” she mutters. “Like we’re twelve.”
“It’s a school night,” Johnny says, playing along.
“You sound like my mother.” She leans into him, her body a solid, warm line against his side. “So. Antonelli’s. Fancy.”
“It’s got tablecloths.”
“Ooh, tablecloths.” She squeezes his arm. “I’m impressed.”
The restaurant is only a few blocks away, a small Italian place with red-checkered curtains and candles in Chianti bottles on the tables. It’s warm and crowded, buzzing with the low murmur of other couples. The hostess leads them to a small booth in the back. Johnny slides in across from Paige.
She picks up the menu, but she’s looking at him over the top of it. The candlelight flickers in her eyes. “This is nice.”
“Yeah.” He can feel the card in his jacket, hanging on the coat rack by the door. A quiet weight.
They order sodas and lasagna. When the waiter leaves, there’s a silence. Not awkward, but full. The kind of silence that happens when you know someone so well you don’t need to fill every second.
Paige reaches across the table. Her fingers find his, lacing through them. Her skin is warm. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For this. For planning it. For… wanting to.” She looks down at their joined hands. “Most guys our age would think this was lame.”
“I’m not most guys.”
She looks up, her smile soft. “No. You’re not.”
The food comes. They eat, talking about nothing—school, a stupid movie, Jim’ latest obsession. It’s easy. Normal. The kind of date he imagined but never really believed he’d have. He watches her laugh, the way her nose scrunches, the way she twirls pasta around her fork. He’s so full of feeling it feels like his chest might crack open.
When the plates are cleared, the waiter brings the check. Johnny pays with cash from his wallet, the bills smoothed out carefully. Paige watches him, her chin resting on her hand.
“Ready?” he asks.
She nods. They get their coats. Outside, the cold is sharper now, the stars brighter. Instead of turning toward her house, Johnny nods down the street. “Walk for a minute?”
“Sure.”
He leads her, not with any real destination, just wanting to stretch the night. They end up at the chain-link fence that borders the middle school’s playing field. It’s deserted, the field a vast, dark expanse under the moon.
Paige leans back against the fence. It rattles softly. “Here?”
“It’s quiet.” He stands in front of her, close. He can see her breath in the air between them. “I have something for you.”
Her eyes widen. “Besides dinner?”
He pulls the card from his inner pocket. The envelope is slightly bent from the walk. He holds it out. “It’s dumb.”
She takes it, her fingers brushing his. “It’s not dumb.” She turns it over, then carefully slips a finger under the flap and tears it open. She pulls out the card. It’s store-bought, a cheesy heart on the front. She opens it.
Her eyes scan his handwriting. He watches her face. Sees her breath catch. Sees her lips part. She reads it once, then again, slower. When she looks up, her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “Johnny.”
“It’s just words,” he says, his throat tight.
She shakes her head, clutching the card to her chest. “It’s not.” She takes a shaky breath. “You asked if I’d be your Valentine. For real. Not just today.”
“Yeah.”
“And you said… you said you’d keep being mine. Even when it’s hard. Even when we’re not new anymore.” Her voice is a whisper. “You wrote that.”
He nods, unable to speak.
She pushes off the fence and closes the small distance between them. She doesn’t kiss him. She just presses herself against him, her face buried in the front of his jacket, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. He holds her, his chin resting on the top of her head. He can feel her trembling.
“I love you,” she mumbles into his chest.
“I love you, too.”
She tilts her head back. The tears are tracking through her makeup now. “I got you something, too. But it’s at home.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Can we go back? To my house? My mom’ll be in her room. We can… be alone for a while.”
The meaning hangs in the cold air. The pre-present from the hallway. The promise of tonight. The hum in his veins returns, louder now. “Yeah.”
They walk back quickly, hands linked, not talking. The night feels charged, electric. Linda’s bedroom light is on upstairs when they let themselves in. The living room is dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the blinds.
Paige toes off her shoes. She takes his hand and leads him to the couch. “Sit.”
He sits. She disappears into the hallway and comes back a moment later with a small, clumsily wrapped box. She hands it to him, then curls up next to him, tucking her feet underneath her. “Open it.”
He tears the paper. Inside is a small, clear plastic box. And inside that, on a bed of cotton, is a key. A simple silver key on a cheap keychain that says ‘#1 Boyfriend’ in bubbly letters.
He picks it up. It’s cool in his palm. “What’s it for?”
“The front door.” Her voice is soft. “My mom gave it to me. For emergencies, or if I forget mine. I had a copy made.” She looks at him, her face serious in the dim light. “So you can always come in. No ringing the bell. No waiting. You just… belong here.”
The weight of it settles in him. Heavy. Real. He closes his fingers around the key. The metal bites into his palm. “Paige.”
“It’s not a joke,” she says quickly. “I know it’s not a house key or whatever. It’s just… this house. With me.”
“It’s perfect.” He leans over and kisses her. It’s slow, deep, a seal on the promise. When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark. “Thank you.”
She takes the key from his hand and sets it on the coffee table. Then she turns back to him, her hands coming up to frame his face. “My turn for my real present.”
She kisses him again, but this time it’s different. Hungrier. Her tongue slides into his mouth, and he groans, his hands going to her waist. She shifts, swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him on the couch. The black dress rides up her thighs. He can feel the heat of her through his jeans.
She grinds down against him, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. The friction is exquisite, maddening. He’s hard, straining against his zipper. His hands slide up her thighs, under the hem of her dress, finding the bare skin of her hips. She’s not wearing tights. Just skin, smooth and warm.
“Paige,” he breathes against her mouth. “Your mom…”
“Is upstairs. With her TV on.” She nips at his lower lip. “She knows. She gave us until eleven.” Her hands work at the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one. Her palms slide over his chest, his stomach. Her touch is fire. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Since the hallway.”
She leans back, just enough to pull her dress straps down her shoulders. She’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts spill free, full and pale in the dim light. He stares, his mouth dry. She takes his hands and places them on her. The weight of her is perfect. Her nipples are hard against his palms.
“Touch me,” she whispers.
He thumbs her nipples, and she arches into his hands, a soft gasp escaping her. He bends his head, taking one into his mouth. She tastes like salt and perfume. She tangles her fingers in his hair, holding him there, her hips moving in a slow, restless rhythm against his erection.
“Johnny,” she moans. “I need you. Now.”
He lifts his head. Her eyes are glazed, desperate. He helps her shimmy out of her dress, pushing it down over her hips until she can kick it free. She’s completely naked on his lap. He runs his hands over her, memorizing the feel of her—the curve of her ass, the dip of her spine, the softness of her stomach.
His own clothes feel like a prison. She seems to understand. She gets off his lap just long enough for him to stand and shuck his jeans and boxers. His cock springs free, thick and aching. When he sits back down, she doesn’t hesitate. She straddles him again, her knees on either side of his hips.
She reaches between them, her fingers wrapping around him. She guides him to her entrance. He can feel how wet she is, the slick heat against his tip. She looks into his eyes, holding his gaze.
“For real,” she whispers, echoing the card. “Not just today.”
Then she sinks down onto him.
It’s a slow, breathtaking slide. The tight, hot clasp of her. The fullness. He groans, his head falling back against the couch. She takes him all, until he’s buried to the hilt inside her. She stays there for a moment, both of them breathing hard, adjusting. Her inner muscles flutter around him.
She starts to move. A slow, rocking grind of her hips. Up and down. Each stroke is a revelation. The drag of her walls around his cock. The wet, soft sound of their joining. The heat building where their bodies meet.
He grips her hips, helping her, meeting her thrust for thrust. The pace builds. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her breasts brushing his chest with every movement. Her breath is hot against his neck, coming in ragged pants.
“You feel so good,” she gasps. “So deep.”
He can’t speak. All he can do is feel. The coil of pleasure tightening low in his gut. The sweat beading on his skin. The way her body opens for him, accepts him, claims him. He slides a hand between them, his thumb finding her clit.
She cries out, her rhythm stuttering. “Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”
He circles the swollen nub, matching the pace of her hips. Her movements become frantic, desperate. Her nails dig into his shoulders. Her moans are loud, unchecked. He knows he should care about the noise, but he doesn’t. He’s lost in her. In the feel of her coming apart on top of him.
“I’m gonna come,” she whimpers. “Johnny, I’m—”
Her body seizes. A sharp, broken cry tears from her throat as she clenches around him, a series of pulsing, rhythmic contractions that milk his cock. The sensation is too much. It tips him over the edge.
His own orgasm hits, a white-hot wave that crashes through him. He thrusts up into her, deep, as he empties himself inside her with a guttural groan. Pleasure radiates out from his core, leaving him trembling, boneless.
She collapses against him, her face buried in his neck. They’re both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. He holds her, his arms wrapped tight around her, feeling her heart hammer against his chest. His cock is still inside her, softening, but he doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want this moment to end.
Slowly, the world comes back. The faint sound of a TV from upstairs. The tick of the clock on the wall. The smell of sex and perfume in the air.
Paige lifts her head. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a wild mess. She looks utterly wrecked. Beautiful. She smiles, a slow, sated smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He laughs, a breathless, incredulous sound. “Yeah.” He brushes a damp curl from her forehead. “You okay?”
“Mmm. More than okay.” She shifts, wincing slightly as he slips out of her. She curls against his side, her head on his shoulder. They sit in the dark, tangled together on the couch, sticky and spent. The key glints on the coffee table. The card lies beside it, open to his handwriting.
“I meant it,” he says quietly. “All of it.”
“I know.” She traces a pattern on his chest. “Me too.”
They stay like that until the clock ticks closer to eleven. Then, moving slowly, they clean up with tissues from the box on the end table. They dress in silence, the intimacy of the act as profound as what came before. He helps her back into her dress, his fingers lingering on the zipper at her back.
At five to eleven, he puts on his jacket. The key feels heavy in his pocket. She walks him to the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.
“Yeah.” He kisses her, soft and slow. “Goodnight, Paige.”
“Goodnight, Johnny.”
He steps out into the cold. The walk home is quiet. His body feels used, alive. His mind is calm. When he lets himself into his own house, it’s dark and still. He goes upstairs, the key warm in his hand. He places it carefully on his nightstand, next to his alarm clock.
He gets ready for bed. Washes his face. Brushes his teeth. When he lies down in the dark, he can still smell her on his skin. He closes his eyes. The question from the card doesn’t feel like a question anymore. It feels like an answer. One he already knew. One he’ll keep giving, for real. Not just today.