“Almost”

The back of Kevin’s car had become your hiding place.

It wasn’t glamorous. The seatbelt always dug into your side, and the air was either too cold or too hot depending on how long you left the engine running. But it was yours. Yours and his. And it was the only place where the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing.

That afternoon, you were skipping sixth period. Again. Kevin didn’t even question it anymore. He just handed you the aux cord, let you play whatever soft, sad music you always gravitated toward, and parked behind the empty baseball field lot—far enough from the school that no one would care, but close enough that the fear of being caught still added a thrill.

The windows fogged quickly.

Kevin leaned back in the seat, legs spread, head turned to watch you pull your sleeves back. His eyes didn’t linger on the faded scars this time. He just held out his hand.

You took it.

And then, without needing to say anything, you leaned forward, climbed over the console, and straddled his lap.

His hands found your waist like muscle memory. Yours tugged at the hem of his hoodie, slipping underneath just to feel skin. Warm, soft, real.

He kissed you like he hadn’t kissed anyone else. Not like he needed something from you—but like he needed you. Your mouth, your breath, your brokenness, all of it.

You moaned into his lips, soft and low, one hand gripping the back of his neck.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, the words muffled against your jaw.

You stilled for half a second—because love still scared you, even when it came from him—but you didn’t pull away. You kissed him harder instead.

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers cold against your spine. You gasped a little at the contrast. He smiled into the kiss, cocky and sweet, the way he only got when it was just the two of you and no one else existed.

Then—a knock on the window.

You froze.

He did too.

You turned just enough to see the shadow of someone standing outside the fogged glass—blurry, tall, moving slightly.

Kevin’s eyes widened. He mouthed: “teacher?”

You scrambled off his lap, your heartbeat in your throat. You tugged your hoodie down, fixed your hair, wiped at your swollen lips with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

Kevin cracked the window. Just an inch.

“Everything okay in there?” The voice was deep. Male. Probably one of the campus security guards.

“Yeah,” Kevin said, his voice surprisingly steady. “She was just having a panic attack. I was helping her breathe.”

The silence stretched. You looked down at your lap, your chest still heaving.

Finally, the man grunted. “Alright. Just don’t park here too long. School’s still in session.”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin said.

The figure walked away.

As soon as he was gone, Kevin turned to you.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Yeah,” you said, voice shaky. “That was… close.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Kinda hot though.”

You laughed, cheeks flushed for a different reason now.

He reached out, brushing your hair back from your face, more tender now. Slower.

“Next time,” he said, “somewhere with a bed.”

You nodded, resting your forehead against his. Your voice was barely audible:

“Next time.”

And even though the moment was over, the tension still clung to your skin like fog on the windows—warm, charged, and unforgettable.