He was older. 20, you're 15. Not just by years—though he was—but older in a way that seeped into everything about him: the slow drawl of his voice, the casual way he leaned back in the driver’s seat, the way his eyes flicked over you like he’d seen the world and everything in it, but still found you… interesting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, but his grin betrayed him, the corners of his mouth tugging up with a warmth he never showed anyone else.

The night wrapped around the van like velvet, the dashboard lights painting him in gold and shadow. You noticed the faint lines at the edges of his eyes, the way his hands moved deliberately, confidently, like every motion had a purpose he didn’t need to explain.

He let you sit close, just close enough to feel the heat from him, the quiet magnetism that made it impossible to look away. Every glance he threw your way carried weight—memory, experience, desire—all mixed into one intoxicating gaze.

“You make this… complicated,” he said finally, voice low and intimate, almost a growl. “But maybe that’s why it’s worth it.”

He was older, and he knew it. And you—somehow—knew you were part of something he didn’t share with anyone else. His little secret. A closeness forged not just from attraction, but from the subtle gravity of someone who had lived enough to feel things deeply, dangerously.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t hurried. It was deliberate, patient, like he knew exactly what he wanted—and had waited long enough to make sure it mattered. And in that small, private space, the world outside the van didn’t exist. There was only him, only this moment, only the way being with him made you feel older, too—in a way that mattered.