The minivan’s AC had been dead for weeks, so Johnny’s house smelled like hot vinyl and his sweat. A single bulb hummed in the kitchen, casting sharp shadows across the cracked linoleum where a fan pushed thick, still air across my damp neck.
Marla had gone to find the bathroom, leaving me alone with Johnny in the narrow hallway. His hand brushed mine, light, barely there, and I felt it in my chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Just hot.”
He looked at me for a long second, then jerked his chin toward the back door. “Backyard’s got shade. Big tree.”
I followed him through the kitchen, past the humming fan, past the stack of mail on the counter. The screen door groaned when he pulled it open.
The backyard was small, fenced in, with a single oak in the corner that dropped shadows across the patchy grass. He sat down under it, back against the trunk, and I sat next to him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
“Your mom home?” I asked.
“Works until six.” He picked at a blade of grass. “Jimmy’s in his room. He won’t bother us.”
The way he said it made my stomach tighten. Not in a bad way. In the way that meant he’d thought about this too.
“Marla’s cool,” I said. “She won’t say anything.”
“I know.” He looked at me, and his eyes were soft, the way they got when he was thinking about something he couldn’t say out loud. “Paige.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitated. His hand moved toward mine on the grass, then stopped. “I keep thinking about last night.”
My breath caught. “Me too.”
“Not just the—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I mean, yeah, that too. But. You know. All of it. The way you looked at me. The way you said my name.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “You said you loved me.”
“I meant it.”
I looked down at our hands, inches apart on the grass. “I meant it too.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The fan hummed through the screen door. A bird called somewhere down the block.
“People are gonna judge,” he said finally. “When they find out. My mom. Your parents. Everyone.”
I looked up. “You think we’re wrong?”
“No.” He said it fast, firm. “I don’t. That’s the thing. I thought I would. I thought I’d wake up today and feel gross about it, or guilty, or like I’d done something bad.” He shook his head. “I don’t. I feel—” He stopped, searching for the word. “Right.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“I was the one who was supposed to be the responsible one,” he said, almost to himself. “I was the one who was gonna wait. Who was gonna do the right thing.”
“You did do the right thing.”
He looked at me.
“You waited,” I said. “You didn’t push. You let me decide.”
His hand moved the last inch and covered mine. His fingers were warm, callused, steady.
“I don’t regret it,” he said. “I don’t regret you.”
The words settled in my chest like something solid, something real. I turned my hand over under his, laced our fingers together.
“Me neither,” I said.
We sat like that for a while, hands linked, shoulders almost touching. The shade shifted as the sun moved, and the air stayed thick and heavy, and I didn’t want to move.
“Johnny?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens now?”
He was quiet. His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We figure it out.”
“People are gonna find out eventually.”
“Probably.”
“Are you scared?”
He thought about it. “Yeah. A little. But not enough to stop.”
I turned to look at him. His face was serious, his jaw set, but his eyes were soft.
“Quit judging me,” I said, and it came out lighter than I meant, almost teasing.
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re sitting there judging yourself. I can see it. That little crease between your eyebrows.” I reached up and touched it, just for a second. “Stop.”
He caught my hand before I could pull it back. Held it against his chest. His heart was beating fast.
“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I’m judging everyone else.”
I laughed, surprised. “That’s worse.”
“Maybe.” He smiled, small and crooked. “But it feels better.”
I leaned into him, my head against his shoulder. He shifted, arm coming around me, pulling me closer. The tree bark was rough against my back through his shirt, and his hand was warm on my arm, and the whole world felt like it had shrunk down to just this patch of grass, just this moment.
“I like you, Paige,” he said. “Not just the sex. I like you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. I like talking to you. I like the way you laugh. I like that you’re not afraid to say what you want.”
I pressed my face into his shoulder so he couldn’t see my expression. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Don’t cry.”
“Too late.”
He laughed, low and warm, and his arm tightened around me. “I’ve got you.”
I stayed there, breathing him in—sweat and soap and something clean underneath. His hand moved in slow circles on my arm. The fan hummed. The bird called again, closer this time.
“Marla’s gonna come looking for me,” I said.
“Let her.”
“Your mom’s gonna be home soon.”
“Not yet.”
I lifted my head. He was looking at me, eyes dark, mouth slightly open.
“Johnny.”
“Paige.”
I kissed him. Soft, slow, my hand finding his jaw. He made a sound low in his throat and kissed me back, his fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me closer.
The kiss went on longer than it should have. Longer than we had time for. But neither of us pulled away.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine.
“We should probably go back inside,” he said.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
“Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you said something. That first night. At the alley.”
I smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t run.”
He laughed, soft. “I thought about it.”
“I know.”
He kissed my forehead, then stood, pulling me up with him. His hand stayed in mine as we walked back toward the house.
I looked at him as he opened the screen door. He looked back, and there was something in his eyes—not guilt, not doubt. Certainty.
The screen door groaned shut behind us.
The screen door groaned shut behind us, and the kitchen swallowed the afternoon light. The fan still pushed warm air across my neck, but now it carried the smell of something cooking—old grease, maybe, or dust heating on the stove.
Johnny's hand was still in mine. He stood there, looking at me, and I could see him thinking—weighing something behind his eyes.
"Come on," he said, and tugged me gently toward the hallway.
I followed without asking where. The linoleum gave way to carpet, worn thin in the middle, and the walls closed in around us. His room was at the end of the hall—door half-open, a sliver of blue light from the window falling across the floor.
He pushed the door open wider and let me step in first.
It was small. A waterbed against the wall, sheets rumpled, a pillow with no case. A desk cluttered with schoolbooks and a half-empty glass of water. A poster of some band I didn't recognize, curling at the corners. The window faced the backyard, and I could see the oak tree we'd been sitting under, its branches swaying slow.
He closed the door behind us. Not all the way—just enough for the latch to catch, leaving a sliver of light from the hallway. The click of it was soft but final.
"My mom'll be home in an hour," he said. "Maybe less."
"Okay."
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at me like he wasn't sure what to do now that we were here. The fan in the kitchen hummed through the wall. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned.
"You can sit," he said, nodding at the bed. "If you want."
I sat. The mattress dipped under me, springs sighing. He stayed where he was for a second longer, then crossed the room and sat beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the heat off his arm.
"This is your room," I said.
"Yeah."
"It smells like you."
He laughed, low and embarrassed. "Is that a good thing?"
I thought about it. "Yeah. I think so."
He looked at his hands, then at me. "I didn't mean to—I just thought it'd be quieter in here. That's all."
"I know."
The space between us felt alive, humming with everything we'd said under the tree and everything we hadn't said yet. I could hear him breathing—slow, steady, like he was trying to keep himself calm.
"Paige."
"Yeah?"
"Can I kiss you again?"
I didn't answer with words. I just leaned in, and he met me halfway, his hand finding my jaw, gentle, like I was something fragile. His lips were warm and soft, and he kissed me slow—not hungry, not desperate. Like he had time. Like he wanted to remember it.
I put my hand on his chest. His heart was pounding under my palm. Hard. Fast. He pulled back just enough to look at me, and I saw it again—that certainty in his eyes. No doubt. No guilt.
"I like this," he said. "Being alone with you."
"Me too."
He smiled, small and real, and then he kissed me again. Deeper this time. His hand slid into my hair, and I leaned into him, my fingers curling into his shirt. The world outside—the fan, the house, the clock ticking toward his mom coming home—all of it faded.
His other hand found my waist, resting there, not moving. Just holding. Like he was grounding himself.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, and I could feel his breath on my lips.
"I keep thinking," he said, "someone's gonna tell us to stop. That it's wrong. But it doesn't feel wrong."
"It doesn't."
"It feels like the only thing that's made sense in a long time."
I pulled back to look at him. His eyes were dark, serious, and I could see the weight he'd been carrying—the fear of judgment, the guilt he'd expected but never felt. I wanted to tell him it was okay, that I wasn't going anywhere, that I didn't care what anyone thought.
Instead, I just said, "Me too."
He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his lips on my skin. The fan hummed. The bird outside called again. And for a moment, it was just us—alone in his small room, the world held at bay.