The water at the trailer had gone out again.

Eddie had kicked the pipes twice before giving up, swearing they were held together by rust and spite. Uncle Wayne just sighed, scratching the back of his neck like that might make payday come faster. But it wouldn’t. Not until Wednesday. Two more days of dry sinks and no smooches—not unless Eddie wanted to marinate in sweat and lake scum.

And so: Lover’s Lake.

You pulled up just before sunset, the sky dipped in amber and cotton-candy pink. Crickets chirped in the high grass. The lake shimmered like poured silver, framed by willows and cattails that rustled every time the breeze passed. The air smelled green—moss and leaves and something older, something soft.

Eddie was already barefoot at the water’s edge, jeans rolled up to his knees, curls pulled back in a lopsided tie. He turned at the sound of your car door and offered a sheepish grin.

“I’m only doing this,” he muttered, “because I want to kiss you and not smell like moldy socks.”

You raised your brow and lifted the plastic tote from the passenger seat. “Then it’s a good thing I brought supplies.”

Inside: shampoo, conditioner, a washcloth, and your favorite peach-scented soap—the one Eddie claimed made him feel like he was dreaming under orchard trees.

He blinked. “You serious?”

“Deadly.”

“You spoil me.”

“Someone has to.”

The water was cold in that first startling way. You stepped in, teeth clenched, then looked back to see Eddie hovering at the edge like a kid about to fake a stomachache during swim class.

“Jesus Christ, it’s freezing.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

He splashed in beside you, cursing, and let out a high-pitched squeal when the water hit his waist.

“I feel like I’m about to confess something,” he said, wading deeper. “Like I’ve seen the light. Like I’m about to start a folk band.”

You laughed and held out the washcloth.

Eddie knelt in the shallows, hands on his knees, hair bowed like a prayer. You massaged shampoo into his scalp with gentle fingers. The lake rippled around you both, slow and warm now that the shock had passed. His eyes fluttered closed. A low groan escaped his throat.

“No one’s ever washed my hair before,” he murmured.

You smiled, still working the lather. “They’ve been missing out.”

He opened one eye. “You’re gonna make me fall harder.”

“Already too late.”

You rinsed the soap away with lake water cupped in your palms, then added conditioner. Your fingers slipped through his tangled curls with care. When you moved on to the washcloth, lathered with peach-scented soap, he leaned into you like gravity had changed direction.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you could’ve judged me. Could’ve said this was gross or weird. But you didn’t.”

“I won’t. I’ve lived it too. Just… with a slightly better water heater.”

He laughed, water dripping from his chin. “You’re not gonna tell anyone I showered in a lake like a raccoon, right?”

“Only if you stop stealing my soap.”

He reached for you, still damp, still Eddie—every edge softened in the golden hour light.

You kissed him.

And for a moment, there was only the ripple of water, the hush of wind in the trees, and the taste of peach on your lips.