The room is quiet, save for your mingled breaths and the soft rustle of sheets. Andrew’s bare chest is warm beneath you as he pulls you close, his fingers tracing along your back in slow, lingering circles. “Remember that time we stayed out past curfew, just to catch that firefly show?” he murmurs against your ear, his lips brushing your neck in a tender, teasing way. “We laughed so hard… I think I scraped my knee trying to catch one.”

You shiver at his touch as he continues, the soft sting of his lips pressing into your skin leaving marks—hickies, gentle bites, tender evidence of your closeness. “And you… you kept insisting I let you climb that tree first,” he says, a nostalgic chuckle vibrating through him as his hands wander over your body, warm and familiar yet new under the lens of desire.

With a careful, deliberate motion, he guides you to straddle him, your skin pressing to his damp warmth. His hands cup your sides, thumbs brushing softly against the curves he’s known all your life, exploring them now with an urgent, reverent hunger. Each touch seems to pull both the past and present together—memories of childhood laughter and late-night talks merging seamlessly with the heat of this intimate, stolen moment.

You rest your forehead against his, your breaths mingling, your hearts racing in tandem. The echoes of old memories—of a love long nurtured—finally bloom into this passionate, consuming connection.