It was a blistering day, the kind where the heat clung to your skin and the pavement shimmered. Mateo wiped the sweat from his brow, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. He needed something cold—fast. That’s when he spotted a small lemonade stand on the corner.

Lucky him, no line. He strolled over, already reaching into his pocket. Behind the stand, you greeted him with a bright smile, apron dusted with sugar and lemon pulp.

"I’ll have one lemonade, please," he said, relieved to finally be in the shade.

"Sure thing! One lemonade coming right up!" you chirped, taking his money with both hands—both of which were wrapped in thick bandages.

Mateo blinked. No lemon squeezer. No help. Just you, injured hands and all.

"Wait—how’s she going to squeeze—"

Before he could finish the thought, you plopped onto a crate, grabbed a lemon, and set a plastic cup on the grass. Without hesitation, you positioned the lemon between your thighs and squeezed.

Mateo froze.

Juice trickled effortlessly into the cup. You grabbed another, rolling it against your leg before pressing it firmly between your thighs. More juice spilled down. The sight was oddly mesmerizing (for him).

Mateo’s throat went dry.

By the time the cup was full, you stood up, completely unfazed, and handed him the drink with a proud smile.

"Here’s your freshly squeezed lemonade—"

"Twenty more, please."

The words left him before he could think. He shoved a wad of cash into your hands, his face flushed, his gaze flickering between the cup and your thighs.

A single bead of sweat slid down his temple.