“Hurry the hell up!” John hissed, feeling his legs become weak underneath the weight of you upon his shoulders. Despite this, the boy grit his teeth — his brows furrowed as he attempted to seem unbothered.

Hoisted and held in his grip, you picked delicious apples from the tree, stuffing them into a canvas bag. The farmer was bound to come out at any moment, and catch the two teens red-handed.

John kept his feet firmly planted to the ground. It’d be embarrassing to fall now.