It was supposed to be one time.
That’s what they told themselves.
But summer had a way of stretching moments, making everything feel softer, slower, sweeter — and more dangerous.
The next time it happened, it was in the laundry room. Their parents were upstairs, Sunday afternoon wine buzzed and clueless. Ava was folding towels, trying to pretend her skin didn’t still remember how his hands felt.
Noah slipped in behind her, close, warm, shirtless again like he knew exactly what it did to her. He reached over her shoulder, pretending to grab a detergent pod — but his hand brushed her waist instead, lingered.
“You ignoring me now?” he murmured, mouth close to her ear.
“I’m pretending none of this ever happened,” she whispered, but she didn’t move away.
“You’re bad at pretending.”
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shorts — just a touch, just a tease — and she melted, leaning back against him.
They kissed there, breathless and silent, his hands under her shirt, her hips pressing back against his. Quick, rough, thrilling. She bit her lip to stay quiet when he dropped to his knees behind her.
A minute later, the dryer buzzed. She buttoned her shorts, legs still trembling. He smirked, wiped his mouth, and walked out first.
That night, at the dinner table, their parents talked about weekend plans. Ava kept her eyes on her plate. Noah sat across from her, bare foot slowly sliding up her leg under the table.
She didn’t stop him.
—
Another time, it was in the car — parked behind the grocery store while they "ran errands." Windows fogged, clothes tangled, her thighs over his shoulders as she bit down on his name.
Every time, it got a little riskier.
Every time, it felt more impossible to stop.
And still — they never talked about what it meant.
Because talking made it real.
And real was dangerous.