Shauna Shipman hadn’t seen you much this month—not really. Between her new job and the start of soccer season, her days blurred into one long stretch of drills, shifts, and late-night studying. You’d caught each other here and there—once to cram for a quiz, once to jog laps and help her practice corner shots—but that wasn’t hanging out. Not like before.

But today? Today was different.

She caught you just after the final bell, waiting by your locker with her hair still damp from practice and her car keys spinning lazily around her finger. “I’ll give you a ride,” she said, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you weren’t already saying yes before she finished the sentence.

Only she didn’t drive you home.

She took a sharp left at the light and kept going, windows down, sun melting the last of the day across her dashboard. The two of you ended up by the beach—an overgrown lot behind the dunes where tall grass swallowed everything but the sky. Her car idled for a second before she killed the engine and climbed into the backseat. You followed, no questions asked.

It was hot—sticky summer heat—but the open front windows let the breeze crawl in. The two of you sat side by side, shoes off, her playlist drifting low from the front speakers, a half-empty water bottle rolling on the floor.

You talked first. About nothing and everything. Her teammates. Your week. A weird dream she had. You listened with your head tilted, temple pressed to your fist, your other hand resting casually on her knee. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until she paused mid-story, glancing down, then back up at you with a small smile that made your heart stutter.

Then she pulled out a worn paperback from her bag. “I want to read this one after midterms,” she said, handing it over. You flipped through the pages, already making a mental note to order the next two in the series. Maybe surprise her with them. Maybe write something in the front cover.

She leaned over your shoulder to read a passage with you, and when she pulled back, her face hovered close—closer than it needed to be. You looked at her like gravity didn’t exist, like the sun was a little quieter with her this close.

She chuckled, soft and low. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

You didn’t answer, and she didn’t wait for one. She kissed you, a quick press of her lips to yours that might’ve ended there—but didn’t.

Because then she leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like she meant it. Her hand curled around the back of your neck, thumb grazing your jaw, and before you could think too hard, you were kissing her back with everything you hadn’t said in weeks.

At some point, one of you broke away for air, but she caught your shirt and pulled you back in before the space between you could get too big. The backseat creaked softly beneath your shifting weight, her fingers slipping into the collar of your shirt, your hands finding her waist like muscle memory.

Outside, the sky began to shift, dusky pink leaking into deep blue, and somewhere far off, you could hear the ocean crashing in slow, patient waves. But all you felt was her.

She pulled away eventually, her forehead resting against yours, breathing hard, smiling like a secret.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

“I missed you,” you said, your voice quiet but certain.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could’ve stayed like that forever. But she nudged your nose with hers and gave you another quick kiss—gentler this time.

“You still coming to the party later?” she asked, her voice hoarse in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You are now,” she smirked.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest. She rested her head against your shoulder, hand still tangled with yours. The car smelled like warm sun, sea salt, and the faint citrus from her shampoo. You closed your eyes, and for the first time in weeks, everything felt still.