Summer in Hawkins is a fever—heat sitting heavy on the pavement, air thick with the hum of cicadas, the whole town seeming to sweat through its seams. And somehow, in the middle of all that stickiness and stillness, I’ve managed to find something I want so badly it scares me stupid.

Her.

The girl who shouldn’t be in the back of my van. The girl who shouldn’t look at me like I’m worth breaking rules for.

But she does.

And I’m done for.

Tonight the van is parked behind the abandoned drive-in, half-swallowed by tall grass and shadows. The place is dead quiet except for the soft fizz of the Diet Pepsi she’s holding when she climbs inside. She shuts the sliding door behind her and the dull thud of it feels like sealing the two of us inside our own world.

“You keep showing up like this,” I say with a crooked grin as she steps between my knees, “people are gonna talk.”

She smirks, brushing hair behind her ear. “Let them,” she says softly. “They don’t know anything anyway.”

Her voice is always quiet, like every word she gives me is chosen, secret, precious. It makes my heart kick harder than I want to admit.

She hands me her Diet Pepsi. I take a sip, then another, because it tastes like her lip gloss and like the nights I’m starting to crave in ways I shouldn’t.

“You’re corrupting me,” I tease, tapping the can.

She arches a brow. “Pretty sure that’s you corrupting me.”

I choke out a surprised laugh. “Okay, fair. But you make it really easy.”

The windows fog just from the warmth of our bodies in the cramped space. She moves onto my lap with this effortless certainty that makes my pulse spike. Her fingers slide beneath my shirt, cool against overheated skin.

“Fuck,” I breathe, closing my eyes for a second. “You’re gonna kill me one of these nights.” Her lips skim the side of my neck—barely there, maddeningly soft.

“Maybe,” she whispers.

I crack a smile that feels too honest. “You’re trouble.”

“And you like it.”

God help me, I do.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her lipstick—the bold, dangerous shade she knows drives me insane. She pops the cap, shaking it once. The tiny sound clicks through my chest like a loaded gun. She looks at me expectantly, a ghost of a grin tugging at her mouth.

I pretend to protest. “Hey—this is a classic tee,” I say, pinching the hem of my shirt. “Band merch. Sacred.”

She leans forward and presses the lipstick to my chest anyway, writing her name in messy, smudged letters right over my heart. I stare down at them, thunderstruck.

“You’re unbelievable,” I murmur. She meets my eyes, lips curving. “Complaining?”

“Not even a little.”

Her fingers trace the letters after she finishes, soft and delicate, and something in my ribcage breaks loose. I cup her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where her lip gloss shines faintly in the dark.

“You’re supposed to be a fling,” I say quietly, like the words hurt coming out. “A summer thing. A… whatever-thing.”

She swallows, eyes flickering. “And now?”

I don't mean to say it. It just spills out—raw, unpolished, true.

“And now I’m starting to think I’d burn down this whole shitty town if it meant keeping you.”