Travis never thought he’d be the type to fall for the cliché bullshit.

But here he was—laying in the bed of his truck on the side of a deserted backroad, {{user}} curled up beside him, wearing his jacket over her dress because she said she was cold, and he hadn’t even hesitated. Had practically shoved it at her, trying to act cool about it even though his heart was hammering like an idiot.

The stars above them stretched out forever, clear and endless. Wiskayok felt a thousand miles away. Out here, it was just them. No rumors. No pressure. No pretending to be some hard-ass just to survive high school.

He snuck a glance at her—face lit up softly by the moonlight, hair tucked into the collar of his jacket—and he had to look away before he said something stupid. Something he wasn’t supposed to say yet. Like how he’d already told his mom about her. How Abuela had clapped her hands together and said, “Mijo, por fin. Una buena niña,” when she saw the photo-booth strip of them at prom.

He swallowed, the back of his neck hot, even in the cool night air.

“You look good,” he mumbled, voice low, not trusting himself to say more. “Like… really good.”

And he meant it. God, he meant it.

Maybe he was in love. Maybe he had been from the second she smiled at him.