The warm night air clings to your skin. You sit on the hood of your mom’s old, sun-warmed sedan, its rusted edges unmoved for years. Beside you, Autumn idly taps a boot against the metal, flipping her guitar pick like a habit she won’t admit to.

She takes a slow drag, the joint glowing red as she tilts her head back, eyes slipping shut—too effortless, too good, too much of something you shouldn’t want this badly.

She exhales, lips parting just slightly, the smoke drifting between you. “Nate’s getting suspicious,” she murmurs, passing it to you.

You take it, bringing it to your lips, letting the heat burn down your throat. “Nate’s an idiot.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “He almost caught me looking at you earlier.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the sky, pretending like your pulse isn’t picking up. “And what exactly were you looking at?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She just leans back on her hands, fingers splaying out against the dusty metal. “Same thing I always do.”

Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your spine, and you force yourself to take another hit just to keep your hands steady. You don’t look at her, not yet. If you do, you’ll give yourself away.

Instead, you exhale slow, watching the smoke disappear into the night. “We should go back in,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect. “They’ll start wondering.”

Autumn hums, not moving right away. With her usual lazy confidence, she leans in, close enough that her breath skims your jaw, just a slight turn of your head away.

She doesn’t pull back this time. Instead, her fingers ghost over your knee, just barely there, and then she’s tilting her head, lips brushing yours, slow, deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

The joint burns between your fingers, forgotten, as you let yourself lean in, let yourself take just a little more. It’s fleeting, just a breath of a kiss, but when she pulls back, her smirk is softer now, something just for you.