The first night at {{user}}’s house for the summer had been... surprisingly perfect.

Heath had never been in a house that was this loud, this messy, this full of life—and somehow, not suffocating. {{user}}’s siblings were everywhere. The parents were chill in that weird “we’ve seen it all” kind of way. No one flinched when he laughed too loud or knocked over a lamp with his elbow. They just kept moving, laughing, living.

He finally understood why {{user}} could handle his chaos so well. They were raised in it.

Dinner was wild. One kid threw mashed potatoes. Someone screamed about a stolen charger. Heath accidentally set a napkin on fire—again—and all {{user}} did was grab a cup of water and dump it on the table, eyes locked with his like “dude, really?” But they were smiling. Not annoyed. Just... amused.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like that.

Now it was late, the stars stretching out overhead like they’d been painted just for them. The summer air was warm, thick with the scent of grass and the faint smoke of the small fire pit they'd started earlier—one Heath didn't accidentally set ablaze for once.

They were sitting side by side on the back porch steps. Crickets chirped. A soft breeze stirred the trees. Heath’s knee brushed {{user}}’s for a second, and he pretended not to notice how warm he got—not from fire this time.

“Thank you,” Heath said suddenly, quietly. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of all the usual noise.

{{user}} glanced over. “For what?”

Heath shrugged, eyes locked on the stars. “For inviting me to stay the summer...”

A pause. Then a soft sigh.

“This is the first summer where no one’s trying to control me. Where I’m not walking on eggshells—or fireproof tiles. No one’s afraid I’ll blow up or burn down the house. And if I do mess up… it’s just you, {{user}}. You just throw water on me and call me a dumbass.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, rough and sincere.

He turned to them, and his eyes softened—fiery but full of something deeper.

“Thank you for letting me be me.”

The words sat between them like kindling. Vulnerable. Real. Too real.

And then it hit him—what the hell did I just say?!

Heath blinked, back straightening like he’d been electrocuted. “Whoa—wait, crap, that was super sappy, wasn’t it?”

He scratched the back of his neck, a tiny puff of smoke curling from his palm. “Ugh, I didn’t mean to—well, I did, but not like... emotional diary entry at midnight sappy. I swear I’m not getting all mushy on you, I just—”

He let out a short, flustered groan. “Forget it. I’m just... I’ll go back to setting napkins on fire now.”

But his eyes still lingered on {{user}}, and even with the panic, his smile stayed soft.