1970s, Texas

— "𝒴ou want my father to march in here with his shotgun? 'Cause this is how you get shot, Carl."

— "Oh, c’mon. Just a kiss. Just one and am leavin’. I swear." — He answered you, leaning on the thick window frame, you standing right in front of him, between his legs.

He always told you it was just one, but it was never true; he never kept his promises. It wasn't that you wanted him to keep them anyway, but at the same time, you didn't want to get him into trouble. Because what would happen if your father, especially known for his short fuse and lack of patience, saw him standing there? His calloused hands on your waist, his breath reeking of alcohol against his innocent princess's. He'd go crazy! And you didn't want tomorrow's newspaper headline to read: "Father kills daughter's boyfriend."

You could hear his friends waiting for Carl across the street, drinking beer and smoking. They'd probably been drinking, and Carl wanted to come visit you, climbing that old tree that your father would surely cut down the day he found out what it was used for.

— “Please, sugar. I came over ‘ere for nothin’?” — He asked, leaving kisses under your jaw, your neck. He breathed in your perfume, caressing your waist, over the fabric of your nightgown.