The fluorescent lights of the bowling alley painted the parking lot in an ugly orange glow. Paige pressed her back against the cool vinyl of the minivan's rear seat, her heart hammering in her chest from the rush of the joke. Through the tinted window, she could see Johnny and Jimmy standing on the cracked asphalt, their silhouettes cut against the spill of light from the building's entrance.
"They're gonna kill us," Marla whispered, but she was grinning, her blue eyes bright with mischief. She had her hand on the door handle, ready to unlock it the second things got real.
Paige shook her head, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Not yet." She watched Johnny through the glass—the way he stood with his hands in his pockets, his narrow shoulders hunched slightly, that flannel shirt she'd been staring at all day. He wasn't pounding on the window like Jimmy. He was just watching. Waiting.
Jimmy's fist thumped against the driver's side window. "Come on, Marla! This isn't funny!"
Marla bit her lip, her resolve weakening. Paige reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. "Wait."
Johnny stepped closer to the van. He didn't knock. He just stood there, his face half-lit by that ugly fluorescent glow, and looked at her through the glass. His eyes met hers. Brown. Quiet. Not angry. Curious.
"Hey Marla," Paige said, her voice dropping low. She didn't break eye contact with Johnny through the window. "What sounds do you think boys make? When they're, you know." She let the question hang. "Having sex."
Marla's breath caught. "Paige—"
Paige leaned forward, her knees pressing into the back of the driver's seat. She was wearing that black mini skirt she'd picked out this morning, the one that rode up when she sat down, the one she'd seen Johnny's eyes drift to more than once today. The dark green tank top hugged her chest, and she knew it. That was the point.
She pulled the door handle. The lock clicked open. The door swung out, and Johnny's face was right there, close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose.
"Hey Johnny," she said, her voice a low murmur. "What sounds do you make when you're having sex?"
The words left her mouth before she could stop them. They hung in the air between them, heavy and electric. She felt her cheeks flush, but she didn't look away.
Johnny blinked. Once. Twice. Then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You wanna find out?"
The air left her lungs.
She stared at him. He stared back. The joke evaporated, replaced by something hot and terrifying and real. Her pulse, which had been racing from the rush of teasing, now hammered for a different reason entirely.
"Paige?" Marla's voice came from somewhere far away. "What's going on?"
Paige didn't answer. She turned to Marla, her eyes wide, her skin flushed. "Get out."
"What?"
"Get out of the van, Marla." Her voice was steady, but it didn't sound like her own. It sounded like someone braver.
Marla stared at her, confusion and realization warring on her face. Then she looked at Johnny, who was still standing in the open door, his expression unreadable. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah." Paige didn't blink. "I'm serious."
Marla hesitated. Then she slid across the seat, grabbed Jimmy's hand, and pulled him away from the van. The door swung shut behind her, and they were alone.
The minivan felt smaller suddenly. The air thicker. Paige could hear the distant clatter of bowling pins from inside the alley, the hum of the cooling engine, the sound of her own breathing.
Johnny didn't move. He stood in the open door, one hand on the frame, his red hair catching the light. "You sure about this?"
She swallowed. "Are you?"
He didn't answer with words. He climbed into the van and pulled the door shut behind him. The click of the latch was louder than anything else in the world.
He slid into the seat beside her, close enough that she could smell him—laundry detergent and something else, something warm and clean. His knee brushed hers. She didn't move away.
"You been teasing me all day," he said quietly. Not an accusation. A statement of fact.
"I know."
"Why?"
She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were trembling. She pressed them flat against her thighs to still them. "Because I wanted you to notice me."
"I noticed." His voice was low, rough around the edges. "I been noticing for months."
Her breath caught. She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight. He was nervous too. She could see it in the way his hands sat still on his knees, in the way he was holding himself so carefully.
"I wore this skirt for you," she said. The words came out before she could stop them. "This top. I wanted you to look at me."
"I looked."
"I know." She bit her lip. "Did you like it?"
He let out a breath, almost a laugh. "Paige."
"What?"
He shook his head, but he was smiling now. That small, quiet smile that made her chest ache. "You know I did."
The silence stretched between them. The air was thick with everything they hadn't said. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
"I've never done this before," she whispered.
"Me neither."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." He looked at her, really looked at her, and she felt seen in a way she'd never felt before. "I'm sure."
She reached out. Her hand found his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and calloused. The touch sent a shiver through her, sharp and electric.
"Johnny."
"Yeah?"
"I want to." She squeezed his hand. "I want to with you."
He didn't say anything. He just leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His lips found hers—gentle, tentative, the softest brush of skin against skin. She felt her eyes flutter closed, felt her whole body lean into him like she'd been waiting for this all her life.
The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and she felt the heat of his palm against her skin, felt the slight tremor in his fingers. He was nervous. So was she. But that made it better, somehow. Realer.
She pulled back, breathing hard. "Wait."
He froze. "You okay?"
She nodded, her chest heaving. "I just—I need a second."
He pulled his hand back, giving her space. She watched him settle into the seat, watched the way his Adam's apple moved when he swallowed. She could see the outline of him through his jeans—hard, straining against the denim. The sight sent a rush of heat through her, pooling low in her belly.
"You're nervous," she said.
"Yeah." He laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Terrified, actually."
"Me too." She reached out, her hand hovering over his thigh. "Can I?"
He nodded, his throat bobbing.
She pressed her palm against his jeans. He was warm, the fabric rough under her fingers. She could feel the hardness of him against her hand, and the reality of it made her stomach flip. This was real. This was happening.
"Paige." His voice was strained. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." She squeezed gently, and his breath hitched. "I want to see you."
He didn't stop her. She fumbled with the button of his jeans, her fingers clumsy and shaking. He reached down and helped her, his hands covering hers, guiding them. The zipper slid down, and she pushed the denim down his hips, revealing the cotton of his boxers, the hard line of him pressing against the fabric.
She hesitated. Then she hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled.
He sprang free—thick, hard, the tip glistening in the dim light. She stared at it, her pulse racing. She'd never seen one before. Not like this. Not in person.
"You okay?" His voice was soft, careful.
She nodded, her mouth dry. "Yeah. I just—" She reached out, her fingers brushing against him. He was hot, silky, the skin smooth over the hardness beneath. He gasped, his hips jerking slightly. "Did that hurt?"
"No." His voice cracked. "God, no. That felt—" He trailed off, his eyes squeezed shut.
She wrapped her hand around him, learning the weight of him, the shape. He groaned, low and rough, and the sound went straight through her. She wanted to hear it again.
"Johnny."
His eyes opened. They were dark, pupils blown wide.
"I want you to touch me too."
He didn't need to be told twice. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. His fingers slid under the hem of her tank top, brushing against the bare skin of her stomach. She shivered at the contact, her breath catching in her throat.
"Is this okay?"
"Yeah." She lifted her arms, and he pulled the tank top over her head. The air hit her skin, cool and sharp. She was wearing a lace bra—pale pink, the one she'd stolen from her older sister's dresser. She'd put it on this morning, hoping. Dreaming.
Johnny's gaze dropped to her chest. His hands trembled as he reached for her, his fingers tracing the edge of the lace. "You're so beautiful," he whispered.
She didn't know what to say to that, so she kissed him instead. Harder this time, hungrier. His hands found the clasp of her bra, fumbling with it until it came loose. The straps slid down her shoulders, and the fabric fell away.
His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. She gasped, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. His lips closed around her nipple, and a sound escaped her throat—something between a gasp and a moan. She felt it everywhere. The heat of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his tongue, the way it made something deep inside her ache.
"More," she breathed. "Please."
He moved to the other side, giving it the same attention, his hand sliding down her stomach, over the waistband of her skirt. His fingers found the hem, pushing it up, revealing the bare skin of her thighs.
"You're shaking," he murmured against her skin.
"I'm not scared." She took a breath. "I'm just—I want this so bad it hurts."
He raised his head, meeting her eyes. "Me too."
She reached down, her fingers finding the waistband of her skirt. She pushed it down over her hips, her underwear following—plain cotton, the kind she wore every day. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but the way he looked at her made her feel beautiful instead of bare.
He shifted, positioning himself over her. The head of him pressed against her thigh, hot and hard. She felt a rush of wetness between her legs, the ache deepening until it was almost unbearable.
"Are you sure?" he asked one last time.
She answered by guiding him with her hand, positioning him at her entrance. He was slick against her, the pressure sending a shudder through her entire body.
"Slow," she whispered. "Go slow."
He nodded, his jaw tight. He pushed forward—just an inch, just the tip—and she felt the stretch, the burn, the sharp moment of intrusion that made her gasp. He stopped immediately, his forehead pressing against hers.
"You okay?" His voice was ragged, barely a whisper.
She took a breath. And another. The pain was there, sharp and real, but underneath it was something else. Fullness. Connection. Him.
"Keep going."
He pushed deeper, inch by agonizing inch. She felt herself opening for him, accommodating him, and when he was finally fully inside her, they both stopped moving. Just breathing. Just being.
"I really likeyou," he said. The words came out like a confession, like he hadn't meant to say them but couldn't help it.
She looked at him—his face, his eyes, the way he was holding himself so still for her sake. And she knew it was true. She felt it too.
"I really like you too," she whispered.
He started to move. Slow at first, tentative, learning the rhythm of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sensation shifted from pain to something else entirely. Pleasure. Sharp and building, coiling low in her belly like a spring winding tighter and tighter.
His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps against her neck. She could feel him everywhere—his weight, his heat, the steady rhythm of his hips. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, and the small sound of pain he made only pushed her higher.
"Johnny—"
"I'm close." His voice was broken. "I can't—"
"Me too." She didn't know what it meant, not really, but she felt it building, cresting, and when it broke, it was like a wave crashing through her. She cried out, her body arching against his, and she felt him shudder above her, felt him spill into her with a groan that sounded like relief and surrender and love all at once.
They lay there afterwards, tangled together in the back of his parents' minivan. The windows were steamed. The pins were still clattering in the distance. And Paige Moretti, thirteen years old and changed forever, pressed her face into Johnny's chest and listened to his heartbeat slow from a gallop to a steady rhythm beneath her ear.
His hand traced lazy circles on her back. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that the silence wasn't already saying.
Outside, a car door slammed. Voices. Laughter. The world coming back into focus.
Johnny shifted beneath her. "We should probably get dressed."
She didn't move. "Five more minutes."
He laughed, quiet and warm, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Okay." His arm tightened around her. "Five more minutes."
Two hundred miles from home. A minivan in a bowling alley parking lot. The first of a thousand secrets they would keep together.
Five minutes stretched into ten. Ten into twenty. And somewhere in that quiet, stolen space, they both knew this wasn't just a moment. This was a beginning.
A car door slammed somewhere across the lot. Not close—but close enough. Paige's eyes snapped open, her heart lurching against her ribs. Johnny stiffened beneath her, his hand stopping mid-circle on her back.
"Was that—" she started.
"No." His voice was rough. "Different sound. Theirs is the blue one, two rows over." He shifted, wincing as he pulled out of her. She felt the emptiness immediately, the sudden cool air against her damp skin.
They untangled in silence, grabbing for clothes. His boxers were twisted inside out. Her underwear had ended up on the floor of the front seat, and she had to crawl over the center console to reach them, her knees pressing into the sticky vinyl. The skirt went on wrong the first time—backward—and she had to stop, breathe, try again.
"Your shirt's inside out," she said, not looking at him.
He glanced down. "Shit." He pulled it off and flipped it, his pale chest catching the dim light from the bowling alley. She watched him for a second too long. The memory of his skin against hers was still fresh, still humming in her blood.
He caught her looking. A small smile tugged at his mouth. "See something you like?"
"Shut up." But she was smiling too.
A sharp knock on the window made them both jump.
Paige's heart stopped. She turned, expecting Mr. or Mrs. McHale, their faces red with fury.
It was Marla. Grinning like a cat.
Paige exhaled so hard she almost coughed. Johnny ran a hand through his hair, trying to look casual. He failed.
Marla opened the side door and leaned in, her blue eyes sweeping over them with theatrical slowness. "You two look… flush."
"We were just—" Paige started.
"Talking. We were talking." Johnny's voice cracked on the last word.
Marla raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And that's why your fly's undone, McHale?"
Johnny looked down. His zipper was indeed halfway down. He yanked it up so fast he probably caught something, because he winced.
Marla laughed—a high, bright sound that carried across the parking lot. "Relax. Your parents are still inside. They just ordered another pitcher." She climbed into the van, settling into the seat behind them, her knees pulled up to her chest. "But they'll be out in maybe fifteen minutes. So you've got time to compose yourselves."
Paige shot her a look. "Marla."
"What? I'm just saying." Marla's grin widened. "You guys were in here for, like, an hour. The windows are steamed. You look like you ran a marathon." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "So. How was it?"
Paige felt heat climb up her neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit. You kicked me out of the van, Paige. You don't kick me out for nothing."
Johnny cleared his throat. "We just hung out. Talked. Listened to music."
"The radio's off." Marla pointed at the dashboard.
Silence.
Paige wanted to sink into the seat. The vinyl was still warm from their bodies. She could smell him—sweat and something else, something intimate—and she knew Marla could smell it too.
"Look," Marla said, her voice softening. "I'm not gonna tell anyone. But you two are terrible liars. So you might want to practice your innocent faces before your parents get here." She pulled a compact mirror from her purse and held it out. "Here. Fix your hair. You've got mascara smudged."
Paige took the mirror. She did look wrecked. Her curls were wild, her lips red and swollen, her cheeks flushed. She looked like someone who had been thoroughly kissed. Thoroughly everything.
She dabbed at her eyes, trying to fix what couldn't be fixed.
Johnny leaned over, his voice low. "You look beautiful."
She met his eyes in the mirror. The way he said it—quiet, certain—made her chest tight. She handed the mirror back to Marla.
"Okay," Paige said, turning to face her friend. "We need a story. If they ask why we were in here so long."
Marla tapped her chin. "Say you were talking about school. Or that Johnny was helping you with homework."
"It's summer."
"Then say you were fighting. A big argument. That's why the doors were locked. Embarrassing teenage drama." Marla grinned. "Parents hate that. They won't ask for details."
Paige nodded. It wasn't a bad plan. "And you'll back us up?"
"I'll say I heard yelling and left because it was awkward." Marla winked. "I'm a good actress."
Johnny let out a breath. "Thanks, Marla."
"Don't thank me yet." She looked at Paige, her expression shifting to something more serious. "But, Paige—you okay? For real?"
Paige blinked. The question caught her off guard. She glanced at Johnny, then back at Marla. "Yeah. I'm okay." She paused. "I'm more than okay."
Marla studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Good." She leaned back in her seat. "Then I'm happy for you. Both of you."
Outside, a set of headlights swept across the parking lot. A blue minivan—the McHales'—turned into the row, moving slowly, searching for a spot.
"They're early," Johnny muttered.
All three of them froze. Paige's heart started hammering again.
"Okay," Marla said, her voice quick. "Act natural. You guys sit on opposite sides. I'll be in the middle. We'll be talking about something boring."
Paige slid to the far seat, putting distance between herself and Johnny. The space felt wrong—she wanted to be pressed against him, feeling his warmth. But she kept her hands in her lap, her back straight, her face as neutral as she could manage.
The minivan pulled into the spot next to them. The engine cut. Doors opened.
Mr. McHale stepped out first—a tall man with Johnny's red hair, graying at the temples. He stretched, cracking his back. "Good game, boys. You owe me a rematch."
Mrs. McHale followed, laughing. "You lost by forty points, Mitch. You don't get a rematch."
They walked toward the van, and Paige forced herself to breathe. She caught Johnny's eye for half a second. He looked terrified. She almost laughed.
The side door slid open. Mrs. McHale's face appeared, round and kind. "Hey, kids. We grabbed you some fries." She held out a greasy paper bag. "Marla, you staying for dinner? We're doing burgers on the grill."
Marla beamed. "I'd love to, Mrs. McHale."
Paige took the fries. The bag was warm in her hands. Real. Normal. She clutched it like a lifeline.
Johnny's mom climbed in, settling into the driver's seat. "Everyone buckled?"
A chorus of clicks.
The engine turned over. The air conditioning hummed to life, blasting cold air across Paige's overheated skin.
She looked out the window as the bowling alley slid past, the neon sign fading in the rearview mirror. She could still feel him inside her. The ache was there, low and sweet, a reminder she would carry for the rest of the night.
Johnny's hand found hers in the dark of the back seat. His fingers interlaced with hers, warm and steady.
She looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his face calm.
But his thumb traced a slow circle on her palm.
And she knew.
This was just the beginning.