You were still fastening the last button of your outfit when you heard the tap on the window. He knocked in the same way he always did it. Three knocks, pause. Two more. Your heart thudded against your ribs.

Stack had whispered it low that morning, right behind the church as you slipped him a peach from your apron pocket. 
“Come by the juke tonight, mama… we gone drink somethin’ sweet, and I’ma dance you ‘til ya sweat.” 
You’d blushed so hard it stung. Now, your hair was done just right, perfume sprayed on with generosity, and your heart beat wild as you slid open the window. He was already waiting beneath it, that toothpick between his thick lips. His eyes dragged slowly over you like he was tryna memorize the moment.

“Damn,” Stack murmured with a crooked grin, helping you down gentle. “Cmon down, sugar. I’ll catch ya.”

You were breathless when you landed in his arms, both of you half-laughing as you fixed your hem, his hands sliding down to steady your waist.

And then— 
“Get your hands off my baby!” A voice like thunder. A cocked shotgun behind it. Your daddy.

He stood there on the porch with his gun raised. His tattered robe was flapping in the night wind like a mad prophet come down from the mountain.

Stack froze. One of his hands stayed on your hip, the other lifted slowly, showing your father that it was empty. An attempt to show him that he’d meant no harm whatsoever. But he lets out a breath through his nose, sucking his teeth in disdain, even as the barrel leveled at his chest.

“Shit…” he mumbles under his breath. “Evenin’, sir,” he said low.

Your father cut him off before he could utter anything else. “You knew not to come ‘round here again. Boy, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Stack’s brow twitches and he mumbles another slick comment. “Right to it, huh?”

Dear god, he’s going to get himself shot.