They sat on the hood of his car, parked behind the pitch, where the town's noise couldn't touch them. The autumn air had cooled, curling the edges of her breath into visible threads. She didn’t know how to start. But she had to.

"I think we should stop," she said, voice soft, almost drowned by the night wind.

Johnny turned his head slowly, like he already knew what was coming but didn’t want to meet it just yet. “Stop what?”

“This. Us. Whatever this is.”

He let out a breath and looked away, jaw tightening. “Right.”

She picked at the hem of her sleeve. “It’s not fair. I said friends. I meant it. I didn’t think I’d—” She swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this.”

Silence. Heavy and strange.

She looked at him, expecting him to nod, maybe say yeah, okay, maybe pretend it hadn’t meant anything to him either.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned his whole body toward her, leaned in close—close enough for her to see every flicker in his eyes—and said, voice low and raw:

“How can I be your friend when I know the way you taste?”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cruel. Just honest in that way that made it hurt more.

"How am I supposed to sit next to you in class," he added, quieter now, "and pretend I haven’t had you in my arms? That I haven’t memorized the sounds you make when you say my name like it means something?"

She blinked fast, lips parted, but no words came out.

Johnny didn’t press. Didn’t beg. Just stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked away, leaving her on the hood of his car with her heartbeat in her throat and a goodbye she never expected to feel this much like a confession.