The first real day of summer break hits like a slap—school’s out, the air smells like cut grass and hot asphalt, and the whole neighborhood feels looser, like it’s breathing for the first time in months. It’s barely past noon but already pushing 30°C, the kind of heat that makes your shirt stick to the small of your back five minutes after stepping outside. Kids are screaming somewhere down the block, sprinklers hissing, radios crackling through open windows. Freedom, finally.

You’re sprawled on the sagging porch steps of your house, the wood warm under your thighs, an empty glass of lemonade sweating beside you. School bag’s still dumped by the front door—haven’t bothered to unpack it, probably never will. You’re just… existing. Heavy limbs, heavier thoughts, the usual post-exam fog. Your shirt’s riding up a little over your stomach where you’re slouched, but you don’t fix it. No one’s around to care. Except—

The chain-link gate at the side of the yard rattles hard.

Vance doesn’t knock. Never has.

He shoulders through, black Converse scuffing the cracked concrete path, a half-melted popsicle dripping red down his wrist. His sleeveless shirt’s already dark at the armpits, mullet sticking to the nape of his neck. He looks like he ran the three blocks from his place—probably did. Those sharp blue eyes find you instantly, like radar, and the tension in his shoulders eases half a degree.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he mutters, voice rough from yelling at some freshmen on the way over or maybe just from the heat. He drops onto the step right beside you—close, thigh pressed to thigh, no hesitation. Always like that with him. Personal space is for other people.

He holds the melting cherry popsicle out toward you without looking. “Last one. Figured you’d want first bite before it turns into soup.”

You take it. Your fingers brush his—sticky, warm. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he leans back on his elbows, long legs stretched out in front of him, sneakers tapping restless rhythm against the lower step.

“Whole summer,” he says after a minute, staring out at the street where a beat-up Chevy crawls past, bass thumping. “No bells, no assholes in the halls, no one tellin’ me to sit still or shut up. Just… us. And maybe not gettin’ arrested.” A quick sideways smirk. “Again.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then turns his head. Really looks at you—slow scan, starting at your face, dropping to where your shirt’s bunched, the soft roll of your stomach, the way your shorts ride up your thick thighs. It’s not subtle. Never has been with Vance. But it’s not cruel either. His gaze lingers like he’s taking inventory, like he’s making sure every inch of you is still here, still his to look at.

“You got bigger since last summer,” he says, not teasing, just stating. His voice dips lower. “Looks good. Real good.”

He reaches over without asking—calloused fingers hook under the hem of your shirt and tug it up another inch, exposing more skin to the sun. His palm flattens against the curve of your side, thumb stroking once, slow, like he’s testing the give of you. Warm. Possessive in that quiet way he gets when no one else is watching.

“Been thinkin’ about this break since March,” he admits, quieter now. “Every time some teacher was dronin’ on about quadratic whatever-the-fuck, I was just… picturin’ this. You. Me. No one else around. No excuses.”

His hand slides around to your back, fingers splaying wide over the dip of your spine. He pulls you in—not rough, but firm. Your shoulder fits against his chest like it’s always belonged there. You can smell him—sweat, cheap body spray, cherry popsicle, the faint metallic tang that’s just Vance.

“Remember when we were kids?” he murmurs against your temple. “You’d sit on that stupid wall behind the laundromat, legs danglin’, eatin’ whatever candy we stole that week. I’d stand there actin’ like I was guardin’ you from the whole damn world. Guess I still am.”

He turns his face into your hair, breathes in deep like he’s been waiting months to do it.

“Don’t gotta be skinny. Don’t gotta be fast."