The bowling alley smelled of stale popcorn, industrial cleaner, and the waxy perfume of rented shoes. Johnny stood at lane twelve, his fingers curling around the holes of a marbled blue ball that felt too heavy. The rumble of balls from other lanes was a constant thunder, punctuated by the clatter of pins and the groans or whoops that followed. He wasn’t looking at his own lane. His eyes were fixed two lanes over, at lane ten, where Paige Moretti was bending to pick up her own ball.
She wore a white tank top and those same black shorts, the ones that looked painted on. When she bent, the fabric pulled tight across her ass. She straightened, turned, and her dark eyes found his immediately, like she’d known exactly where he’d be looking. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She held his gaze for three full seconds—long enough for his stomach to tighten—before she turned and took her approach, her hips swaying with a rhythm that had nothing to do with bowling.
“Earth to Johnny.” Jim’s voice was a nasal intrusion. “You’re up. Again.”
Johnny blinked, looked down at his own lane. The rack was full. He’d forgotten he’d thrown a gutter ball. He hefted the blue ball, took two shuffling steps, and let it go. It hooked late, clipping only the seven pin. A sigh from his dad, Mitchell, who was keeping score with a grim focus. “You’re in your head, kid. Just aim for the arrows.”
But Johnny’s head was two lanes over. It was in the memory of her skin under his hands yesterday, the sound of her begging, the sharp sting of his palm on her ass. The leather bracelet on his wrist felt warm, a constant, subtle pressure. As he walked back to the ball return, he glanced again. Paige was leaning against the scoring desk, laughing at something Marla said, but her eyes slid back to him. She bit her lower lip. Deliberate.
Between games, the chaos swelled. Kids milled, parents called for orders of fries, the snack bar line snaked toward the arcade. Johnny’s mom, Karen, handed him a five. “Get yourself a Coke, honey. And see if Jim wants anything.”
He took the money, a path clearing in his mind. He didn’t go to the snack bar. He cut between lane eleven and twelve, the sticky carpet tugging at his sneakers. Paige saw him coming. She said something to Marla, who giggled and turned away, pretending to be fascinated by the animated scoreboard.
He stopped in front of her. The noise of the alley faded to a dull roar. Up close, he could see the faint sheen of sweat at her temples, the tiny silver hoops in her ears. She smelled like bubblegum and the alley’s cheap perfume, but underneath it was her smell—vanilla and something warmer.
“You’re staring,” she said, her voice low. A challenge.
“You’re wearing those shorts.”
“I know.”
“On purpose.”
Her smile widened. “Maybe.” She took a half-step closer. The space between them crackled. “You look tired. Long weekend?”
“You have no idea.”
“I think I do.” Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up. “Your second frame was pathetic.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
He didn’t answer. He let his gaze travel down her tank top, over the curve of her breasts, down to the waistband of those shorts. When his eyes met hers again, hers were dark, pupils wide even in the fluorescent glare. Her tongue darted out, wet her bottom lip.
“You should focus on your game,” she murmured, but she was leaning in.
“My game’s fine.”
“Liar. You’re throwing gutter balls.”
“Worth it.”
She laughed, a soft, husky sound that went straight to his groin. “You’re impossible.”
“Paige!” A sharp call from her lane. Her mother, a shorter, sterner version of Paige, was waving her over. “You’re up!”
Paige’s expression didn’t change. She kept looking at Johnny. “After,” she said, the word barely audible. “Last game. Don’t go anywhere.”
She turned and walked back to her lane, the sway in her step exaggerated just for him. Johnny stood there, the five-dollar bill crumpled in his fist, his blood humming. He finally got the Cokes. When he handed one to Jim, his brother squinted at him. “You’re all red. You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You were talking to Paige.” Jim’s voice was full of awe and suspicion. “For like, five minutes.”
“So?”
“So nothing.” Jim took a loud slurp of his drink. “Just saying.”
The third game was an agony of waiting. Johnny bowled on autopilot, his body performing the steps while his mind replayed the feel of her, the taste, the way she’d gasped his name. Every time he looked over, she was there—stretching, tying her hair up, leaning over to whisper to Marla. Each movement was a promise. He could see the edge of her black bra strap under the white tank when she reached for her ball. He threw another gutter.
“Johnny, for cryin’ out loud,” Mitchell grumbled, erasing the score. “What is with you tonight?”
“Sorry.”
Finally, the last frame. The electronic fanfare of the scoring system played a tinny victory song for the winning team. Chairs scraped. Parents started gathering coats. Johnny didn’t move. He watched as Paige said something to her mother, then grabbed Marla’s arm and started weaving through the crowd toward the front doors. She didn’t look back at him. She didn’t need to.
“Help me with the bags, son,” Mitchell said, handing him a duffel of bowling balls.
“I gotta… use the bathroom,” Johnny said, hefting the bag. “I’ll catch up.”
“Make it quick. Your mother’s tired.”
Johnny carried the heavy duffel through the lobby, past the arcade where kids were still feeding tokens into machines, and pushed out the main doors into the cool night air. The parking lot was a sea of cars under orange sodium lights. He spotted his mom’s station wagon, a brown Volvo, parked three rows back. And there, leaning against the passenger side, were Paige and Marla.
He walked over, the duffel thumping against his leg. Marla saw him first and giggled, nudging Paige. Paige pushed off the car. Her expression was all innocence. “Hey. Need a ride?”
“My parents are right behind me.”
“Oh.” She glanced at Marla. “We were just waiting for my mom. She’s talking forever.”
Marla’s eyes darted between them, her smile knowing. “I’m gonna… go see if she’s done.” She skipped off toward the alley doors, leaving them alone.
The moment the door swung shut behind Marla, Paige’s posture changed. The casual slouch vanished. She closed the distance between them in one step. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You took forever.”
“I had to carry the balls.”
She reached out and ran a finger over the leather bracelet on his wrist. “You still have it on.”
“Told you I would.”
Her finger traced up his forearm, a light, burning touch. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday all day. In class. At lunch. Everywhere.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m still sore.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. His cock, already half-hard from watching her all night, thickened painfully against his jeans. “Paige…”
“They’re gonna be out here any second,” she said, her eyes flicking to the alley doors. “Your parents. My mom.”
“I know.”
“So we have about ninety seconds.” Her hand left his arm and drifted to the front of his jeans. She palmed him through the denim, her touch firm, knowing. He sucked in a breath. “Unlock the car.”
“What?”
“The car. Unlock it. Get in the back. I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling good and went to lie down.”
“They’ll check.”
“Not if I’m sitting in the front seat talking to them. They’ll believe me. I’m convincing.” She squeezed him, and stars burst behind his eyes. “Do it. Now.”
He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, his hands shaking. He clicked the unlock button. The Volvo’s lights flashed once. Paige pulled the rear door open. “Get in. On the floor. Behind the front seats. And be quiet.”
He tossed the duffel bag into the footwell of the front passenger seat and crawled into the back. The carpet smelled of old fries and wet dog. He curled himself into the narrow space behind the driver’s seat, his heart hammering against his ribs. A second later, Paige slid into the front passenger seat and pulled the door closed.
Through the windshield, he saw the alley doors open. His parents emerged, Jim trailing behind, followed by Paige’s mother and Marla. They were talking, laughing. They approached the car.
Paige rolled down her window. “Hey Mrs. McHale. Johnny wasn’t feeling too good. He said his stomach was weird. He’s lying down in the back.”
“Oh, honey,” Karen’s voice came, laced with concern. “Was it the fries?”
“I don’t know,” Paige said, sympathy dripping from her voice. “He just went really pale. I told him I’d sit with him on the way home.”
“That’s sweet of you, Paige. Mitch, pop the trunk.”
The driver’s door opened. The car sank under Mitchell’s weight. The engine coughed to life. Johnny held his breath, curled in a ball, his face inches from the back of the driver’s seat. He could see the back of his dad’s head. The car reversed, turned, began the crawl out of the parking lot.
“You doing okay back there, Johnny?” Karen asked, half-turning.
Paige answered for him. “He’s asleep, I think. Better not to bother him.”
“Poor kid. Probably just exhausted from the weekend.”
The car fell into the rhythm of the road. The radio was on low, a classic rock station. Johnny didn’t move. He could hear Paige’s breathing from the front seat. He could see her hand, resting on the center console, her fingers tapping a slow, silent rhythm.
Ten minutes into the drive, on a dark stretch of road lined with trees, Paige shifted. “Mrs. McHale? Would it be okay if I climbed back there to check on him? Just to make sure he’s not… you know.”
“Of course, dear. Just be careful.”
“I will.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt. In the dim light from the dashboard, Johnny saw her turn and kneel on the front seat. Then she was climbing over the center console, into the back. She moved gracefully, silently. She didn’t go to the other seat. She lowered herself onto the floor, into the space beside him. The car was dark, the only light coming from passing streetlights that flashed through the windows.
She lay down facing him, her body pressed along his. Her face was so close he could feel her breath. Her eyes were black pools in the shadows. She didn’t say a word. Her hand found his, guided it under her tank top, over the smooth skin of her stomach, up to the cup of her bra. Her breast was warm, heavy. Her nipple was already a hard peak against the lace. He circled it with his thumb, and she closed her eyes, a silent shudder going through her.
Her own hand went to his jeans, found the button, popped it open. The zipper came down with a rasp that sounded deafening in the quiet car. She slipped her hand inside, under the waistband of his boxers, and wrapped her fingers around his cock. He was fully hard, aching. Her touch was electric. He bit down on his own lip to keep from making a sound.
She began to stroke him, slow, firm pulls. Her other hand came up and covered his mouth, her fingers pressing gently against his lips. A warning. A promise. He could smell her skin on her fingers. He turned his head and kissed her palm. She increased the pace of her strokes, her thumb swiping over the slick head of his cock with every upstroke. Pre-cum leaked, making her movements smoother, wetter.
He pushed her tank top up, over her breasts. The bra was a flimsy barrier. He hooked a finger under the cup and pulled it down, freeing her breast. He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath she tried to stifle. He sucked, licked, bit down gently. Her hips bucked against his leg.
From the front seat, his dad cleared his throat. “Should be home in about fifteen.”
“Okay,” Karen said. “Paige, honey, everything alright?”
Paige’s hand left his mouth. “He’s okay,” she called back, her voice remarkably steady. “Just sleeping hard.” Her hand never stopped moving on him, the rhythm becoming urgent, desperate.
She was breathing heavily now, little puffs of air against his neck. He could feel her own heat through her shorts. He slid his hand down, over the curve of her hip, under the waistband of her shorts and underwear. She was soaked. Slick heat greeted his fingers. He found her clit, swollen and hard, and circled it. Her whole body jerked. She buried her face in his shoulder to muffle a moan.
They moved against each other in a frantic, silent dance. Her hand on his cock, his fingers on her clit, their mouths seeking any patch of skin they could reach. The car swayed around a corner. The radio played a guitar solo. His mom murmured something about stopping for gas.
Paige’s breathing hitched. Her thighs clamped around his hand. “I’m gonna…” she breathed into his ear, the words hot and ragged.
“Do it,” he whispered back, his voice raw.
He pressed harder, faster. Her body went rigid. A series of violent tremors wracked her, silent but for the catch in her throat and the way her nails dug into his back through his shirt. She came against his hand, her cunt clenching around nothing, wetness flooding his fingers.
As her spasms subsided, her hand on his cock became frantic. She was panting, her forehead damp against his cheek. “Come for me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please. I want to feel it.”
He was too close. The pressure had been building since he saw her in the alley, a tight coil in his gut. Her words, her touch, the risk, the smell of her—it was too much. His hips bucked into her fist. A low groan tore from his throat, a sound he couldn’t suppress.
“You kids okay back there?” Mitchell’s voice, sharper now.
Paige froze. So did Johnny, teetering on the very edge.
“Fine!” Paige squeaked, too high. She cleared her throat. “He just… mumbled in his sleep. Bad dream, I think.”
Her hand was still wrapped around him, a vise of heat. She didn’t move. They lay there, suspended, listening. His dad grunted, apparently satisfied.
Paige’s eyes found his in the dark. They were wild, triumphant. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Now,” she commanded, her voice a velvet threat. “Quietly.”
She gave him three more strokes, tight and fast. The orgasm ripped through him, blinding, obliterating. He saw white behind his eyes. His body arched, every muscle locking. Cum pulsed out of him, hot stripes painting her hand, his stomach, the inside of his jeans. He bit down on the fabric of his own sleeve to keep silent, the taste of cotton and salt filling his mouth. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of intense, shuddering release.
When it was over, he collapsed, boneless, gasping for air. Paige slowly withdrew her sticky hand. She brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean, her eyes locked on his. Then she wiped her hand on the car carpet.
They lay there in the aftermath, tangled in the footwell, the smell of sex and sweat thick in the enclosed space. The car slowed, turned into their neighborhood.
Paige quickly pulled her tank top down, adjusted her bra. She reached over and gently zipped his jeans, buttoned them. Her touch was tender now, almost clinical. She leaned close one last time. “My house. Tomorrow after school. The window.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
The car pulled into their driveway. The engine cut. Doors opened. “Paige, your mom’s probably waiting,” Karen said. “I can drive you the two blocks.”
“That’s okay, I’ll walk. Thanks for the ride, Mr. and Mrs. McHale.”
Paige climbed over the seat, smooth as a cat. She opened the door and slipped out. “Feel better, Johnny!” she called, a picture of innocent concern.
Johnny waited until his parents and Jim had gone inside, the porch light flicking off. Then he slowly, painfully, uncurled himself from the floor. He sat up on the backseat. His clothes were a mess. He could feel the cold, sticky wetness against his skin. He looked out the window. Paige was already a silhouette disappearing down the dark sidewalk. He touched the leather bracelet. His heart was still pounding. The car was filled with the ghost of what they’d just done.
He got out, closed the door softly, and walked toward the quiet, ordinary light of his house.
The next day, the final bell rang with the sound of a prison break. Johnny didn’t go to his locker. He walked straight off school grounds, across the empty lot, past the rusted chain-link fence, and into the quiet suburban maze of streets that led to Paige’s house. His backpack felt like an anchor. He dropped it behind the big hydrangea bush at the corner of her property, the one that was all brown sticks this time of year. The house was silent, her mother’s car gone. The broken window on the side was pushed open an inch, a dark slash in the white siding.
He hoisted himself onto the low roof of the porch, the shingles gritty under his palms. The window slid up without a sound. He ducked inside, his feet hitting her carpet. The room smelled like her—vanilla shampoo, clean laundry, and underneath it, the faint, sweet musk he knew was just her. He turned.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her school clothes—a tight black sweater and a plaid skirt. She wasn’t smiling. Her dark eyes were fixed on him, wide and waiting. She’d been sitting there, just waiting. She didn’t say hello.
Johnny crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t kiss her. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed. She fell back onto the bed with a soft gasp, her hair fanning out on the pink comforter. He followed her down, his knees landing on either side of her hips, pinning her in place. He grabbed her wrists, gathered them in one of his hands, and pressed them down into the mattress above her head. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose and fell, rapid.
“Hi,” she whispered, a challenge in her voice.
He didn’t answer. He held her wrists tight, his grip firm enough that she couldn’t slip free. With his other hand, he pushed her skirt up her thighs. She wasn’t wearing tights. Her skin was smooth, pale. He pushed the fabric higher, to her waist, exposing her white cotton underwear. He hooked a finger in the waistband and pulled them down, over her hips, down her legs. She lifted her hips to help him, a quick, eager arch. He tossed the underwear aside. It landed on her desk chair.
He looked at her. She was spread out beneath him, skirt bunched at her waist, completely bare. A flush was creeping up her chest, staining her throat. Her lips were parted. She was watching him, her eyes black and unblinking.
He released her wrists. Before she could move, he slid down her body, his jeans rough against her inner thighs. He pushed her legs apart, wider, and bent his head between them.
Paige made a sound—a sharp, choked-off gasp. Her hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the red waves. She didn’t pull. She held on.
He didn’t tease. He put his mouth on her, his tongue flat against her. She was already wet, slick and hot. The taste of her flooded his senses—salty, musky, uniquely Paige. He licked a slow, firm stripe from her opening up to her clit. Her whole body jerked. Her thighs clamped around his head, not to push him away, but to hold him there.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, the words trembling.
He did it again. And again. He settled into a rhythm, his tongue circling her clit, then dipping lower to taste her deeply, then returning. He used the flat of his tongue, the tip, gentle pressure then firm. He listened to her breathing, to the little hitches and moans she tried to swallow. Her hips began to move, rocking up against his mouth, seeking more.
Her hands tightened in his hair. “Johnny.”
He ignored her. He focused on the feel of her, the swollen heat of her clit under his tongue, the way her cunt grew wetter with every pass. He slid a hand under her ass, lifting her slightly, changing the angle. He pushed his tongue inside her, just a little, and she cried out, a real sound this time, loud in the quiet room.
“Shhh,” he murmured against her, the vibration making her shudder.
“I can’t,” she whimpered. “It’s too much.”
He pulled back. He blew a soft stream of cool air across her wetness. She gasped, her back arching off the bed. He looked up her body. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her teeth were sunk into her bottom lip. Her knuckles were white where she gripped his hair.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.
Her eyes flew open. They were glazed, desperate.
He held her gaze as he lowered his mouth to her again. This time, he sucked her clit gently between his lips. Her hips bucked. A high, thin whine escaped her throat. He sucked harder, flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside her, deep, curling them. She was tight, clenching around him, drenching his hand.
“Please,” she begged, the word breaking. “Please, I’m gonna…”
He fucked her with his fingers, slow and deep, while his mouth worked her. He could feel the tension coiling in her, the tremors starting in her thighs. Her begging dissolved into incoherent sounds. Her body was bowstring-tight, every muscle straining.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her, adding pressure. He sucked hard, his tongue a relentless rhythm.
Paige came with a shattered cry. Her body convulsed, her cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses. Wetness flooded his hand. She thrashed her head side to side on the pillow, her back arched so high only her shoulders and heels were touching the bed. The sounds she made were raw, animal, completely unrestrained. He kept his mouth on her, gentling his touch but not stopping, drawing out the waves until they subsided into weak shudders.
She collapsed, boneless, gasping for air. Her hands fell from his hair, landing limp on the bedspread. Her chest was heaving. A fine sheen of sweat coated her skin.
Johnny slowly withdrew his fingers. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawled back up her body. He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against her cheeks. Her lips were swollen. She looked utterly wrecked.
After a moment, her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at him, her gaze hazy and soft. A slow, dazed smile touched her mouth. “Hi,” she said again, her voice hoarse.
He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow. She could taste herself on his tongue. She moaned into his mouth, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was different now—softer, grateful, drowning.
When he finally pulled back, she was staring at him with a kind of awe. “Where did that come from?”
He didn’t know. He shook his head slightly, his own heart hammering against his ribs. The power he’d felt, holding her down, reducing her to that wild, begging creature—it was a drug. He was still buzzing with it.
She reached between them, her fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. He helped her, popping it open, shoving the denim and his boxers down over his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and aching. He’d been hard since he walked into the room.
Paige wrapped her hand around him, stroking him once, twice. She was still slick from her own climax, her touch slippery and perfect. “I need you inside me,” she whispered, her voice still ragged. “Now.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock nudging against her wet entrance. He looked at her face, at her parted lips and dark, wanting eyes. He pushed forward, sinking into her in one slow, deep stroke.
She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. She was so wet, so hot, so tight. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against hers. He stayed there for a moment, letting them both feel the fullness, the perfect fit. He dropped his forehead to hers, their breath mingling.
“Move,” she pleaded, her voice a husk of sound.
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged every nerve ending along with him. Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist, locking him to her. She met every thrust, her hips rising to meet his. The room filled with the sound of their breathing, the soft slap of skin, the wet sound of him moving inside her.
He fucked her like that for a long time, a steady, relentless pace that built the heat between them layer by layer. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth. She whispered filth in his ear, words that would have shocked him a month ago but now just made him thrust harder. “You feel so good.” “Fuck me harder.” “It’s yours.”
His control began to fray. The coil in his gut pulled taut. His thrusts became shorter, faster, more frantic. Paige sensed it. Her hands clutched at his back, her heels digging into his ass, urging him on. “Come inside me,” she panted against his ear. “I want to feel it. Please, Johnny.”
Her words broke the last of his restraint. With a ragged groan, he drove into her one last time, deep, and held there as his orgasm tore through him. White light exploded behind his eyes. His body locked, every muscle seizing as he emptied himself into her, pulse after hot pulse. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, muffling his cry against her skin.
He collapsed on top of her, spent, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She held him, her arms tight around him, her legs still wrapped around his. They lay there, slick with sweat, hearts pounding against each other’s ribs, breathing in ragged unison.
Slowly, the world came back. The sound of a car passing outside. The hum of the furnace kicking on. The smell of sex, thick and intimate in the small room.
Johnny softened inside her. He made to move, to pull out, but Paige tightened her legs. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Stay.”
So he stayed. He rolled slightly to the side, taking his weight off her but staying connected, his cock still nestled inside her warmth. She curled into him, her head on his chest. Her hand found his, their fingers intertwining. She brought their joined hands up and kissed the leather bracelet on his wrist.
They didn’t speak for a long time. The afternoon light through her window shifted, growing softer, gold. Johnny traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. He felt peaceful in a way that was deep and quiet, a calm that went all the way to his bones.
“My parents are at my aunt’s until seven,” she said finally, her voice sleepy.
He nodded, his chin brushing her hair. “Okay.”
“We should get up. Clean up.” She didn’t move.
“We should,” he agreed. He didn’t move either.
Another minute passed. Then five. Johnny felt himself drifting, the exhaustion of the day and the intensity of the sex pulling him toward sleep. Paige’s breathing had evened out. He thought she might be asleep.
Then she spoke, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. “I’ve never done that before.”
“What?”
“Let someone… do that. Be like that.” She tilted her head back to look at him. Her eyes were serious. “I liked it.”
He didn’t know what to say. He kissed her forehead. “Good.”
She smiled, a small, private thing, and settled back against his chest. “Don’t get a big head about it.”
He laughed, a soft huff of air. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Eventually, the practicalities won out. They untangled themselves. Johnny went to her attached bathroom and cleaned up with a damp washcloth. He brought one back for her. She took it from him, her eyes meeting his in the mirror over her dresser. There was a new understanding there, a silent acknowledgment of the line they’d crossed.
They got dressed in the quiet room. Johnny pulled on his jeans, fastened the bracelet she’d given him. Paige put on a pair of soft gray sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt that swallowed her hands. She looked younger like that, more like the thirteen-year-old she was.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
They went downstairs to the kitchen. Paige made them grilled cheese sandwiches, standing at the stove in her socks. Johnny sat at the kitchen table, watching her. The domestic normalcy of it was almost stranger than what they’d just done upstairs. She put the sandwiches on plates, cut them diagonally, brought them to the table with two glasses of milk. They ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the crunch of toast and the ticking of the wall clock.
When they were done, she took his plate. “Your turn to wash.”
He did the dishes while she wiped down the counters. They worked around each other in the small kitchen easily, without talking. It felt practiced. It felt like something they’d done a hundred times.
Back in her room, with the last of the daylight fading, they lay on her bed again, this time on top of the covers. Paige put her head in his lap. He played with her curls, winding them around his fingers.
“Marla knows,” she said after a while, staring at the ceiling.
“Knows what?”
“About us. About… everything. She saw us get in your mom’s car yesterday. She’s not stupid.”
Johnny’s hand stilled. “Is she gonna say anything?”
“No. She thinks it’s romantic. She’s jealous.” Paige said it matter-of-factly. “But she’ll want details. I’ll have to give her some. Not the real ones.”
The idea of Marla knowing, of anyone knowing, sent a cold thread of anxiety through his gut. Their secret had felt absolute, a world contained entirely within the two of them. Now it had a witness.
Paige felt his tension. She looked up at him. “It’s okay. She’s cool. She won’t tell.”
He nodded, not entirely convinced, and went back to playing with her hair.
The room grew dark. Paige reached over and clicked on her bedside lamp, a soft pink glow that pushed back the shadows. She sat up, cross-legged, facing him. “We should probably…” She gestured vaguely toward the window.
“Yeah.” He didn’t want to go. The thought of leaving this warm, secret room for his own quiet house, for his homework, for the pretending—it felt like a physical weight.
She leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like grilled cheese and milk and her. “Tomorrow,” she said against his lips.
“Tomorrow,” he echoed.
He climbed out the window, the night air cold on his face after the warmth of her room. He dropped to the ground, his sneakers crunching on the frost-stiffened grass. He retrieved his backpack from behind the hydrangea bush. He looked up at her window. She was silhouetted there, watching him. She lifted a hand in a small wave.
He waved back, then turned and started the long walk home, the ghost of her taste still on his tongue, the memory of her surrender a live wire under his skin.