Seattle, 1981 — cold night.

Duff sat on his bike, breath fogging in the air, waiting for you. When you walked up, his whole face softened.

“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling you between his legs, hands warm on your waist.

He slipped a tiny cassette into your hand. “Made this for you… songs that feel like you.”

You smiled, heart jumping. “Duff…”

He brushed a snowflake from your cheek, eyes locked on yours. “I like you. More than I should.”

You tugged him closer by his jacket.

“Then kiss me.”

And he did — slow and sweet in the quiet Seattle snow.