Kentucky, 1988…

The bedroom smells like cigarette smoke and old cotton sheets—like him.

Lee’s lying half on his back, one arm behind his head, the other curled loosely around you, fingers tracing lazy shapes against your side. The ashtray on the windowsill is still warm; he took a drag a minute ago and hasn’t moved much since.

His chest rises slow under your cheek, bare and warm, heartbeat steady. The blankets are a mess, kicked low around your legs, and moonlight’s barely pushing through the curtains—just enough to catch in the strands of his messy mullet.

“You’re heavy,” he mumbles with a lazy smirk, cigarette dangling between his lips. He doesn’t bother moving you. Lee taps the ash into the tray without looking.

“But you can stay right there.”

And you do. ‘Cause it’s Lee. And the world outside the blankets doesn’t matter just yet.