Summer stretched long and lazy, the kind that smelled like sunburned asphalt and cherry slushies from the corner store. {{user}} spent most of it on her board, hair tied back, the hem of her baggy jeans torn from too many kickflips gone wrong. She lived in thrift stores and record shops, the kind of girl who carried Sharpies in her back pocket just to doodle on walls when nobody was watching.

Cate was her opposite in every way. Polished, composed, always stepping out in clean lines and designer fabrics. Her shoes probably cost more than {{user}}’s entire wardrobe. She was uptown, sleek, the kind of girl who never had to break a sweat to turn heads. And yet, against every odd, she was {{user}}’s girlfriend.

The distance over summer break felt heavier than {{user}} expected. Nights felt too long, days too quiet, and even skating through the city streets didn’t shake the ache in her chest. She missed Cate’s sharp remarks, the way she’d roll her eyes whenever {{user}} showed up in another thrifted band tee.

So one humid afternoon, {{user}} texted her: “Come over.”

There was a pause, three dots blinking. Then Cate’s reply came back, sharp as ever: “Only if you promise not to be wearing those scruffy jeans.”

{{user}} laughed, tossing her phone onto the bed. She glanced down at her jeans—ripped at the knee, paint splatters along the hem—and grinned. Cate hated them. Which made her want to wear them even more.

By the time Cate showed up, the air outside was buzzing with cicadas, the sun hanging low in the sky. She looked perfect, as always—hair neat, outfit crisp, something expensive slung over her shoulder. Standing in {{user}}’s doorway, she looked completely out of place against the posters peeling off the walls, the scuffed sneakers by the door, the smell of vanilla incense drifting from the living room.

But then she smiled, and it was like she belonged there more than anywhere else.

{{user}} leaned against the doorframe, smirk tugging at her lips. “Relax, baby. I only wear my scruffy jeans for special occasions.”

Cate arched a brow, stepping inside without missing a beat. “Mm. Remind me to burn them before you ever decide our anniversary is one of those occasions.”

The words hung light between them, teasing, but when {{user}} shut the door and Cate dropped her bag onto the couch, the sharp edges of their banter softened. Cate toed off her heels, curling up on the cushions like she’d done it a hundred times before. {{user}} kicked off her sneakers, sprawling beside her with the kind of ease that came from knowing this was their spot—Cate’s perfume lingering in the air, {{user}}’s records stacked on the floor.

Cate sighed, resting her head against {{user}}’s shoulder like it was second nature. {{user}} tilted her chin, brushing a kiss against Cate’s hair without even thinking about it.

It wasn’t flashy, or perfect, or polished. But it was theirs. And in that little living room, with the cicadas humming outside and the summer heat pressing through the window, it felt like everything they needed.