It was the annual Zion Hill church picnic—collard greens, gospel choir, and enough heat in the air to make the sweet tea sweat.

You was fixin’ your plate when Stack walked up—paper fan tucked under your arm, sun dress clingin’ just right, that summer heat makin’ every little movement feel slower, softer. He didn’t even bother with the food table. Just made a straight line to you.

“Don’t look now,” he said, real low, “but I think I just found somethin’ sweeter than Miss Claudine’s peach cobbler.”

You turned, gave him a look—half-smile, half-warning—but Stack didn’t flinch. He was grinnin’ like a kid in a candy store, gold tooth flashin’, arms crossed like he already knew he was trouble.

“Didn’t know you was gon’ be out here today,” he added, glancin’ around. “If I did, I’da put on my best shirt… maybe got here early to snatch you a plate before all the good chicken was gone.”

Kids were runnin’ around, somebody’s auntie was shoutin’ out bingo numbers, and the deacon’s dog kept barkin’ near the grill—but none of that mattered. Not with Stack standin’ close, that cologne of his clingin’ to the air, that slow drawl curlin’ under your skin like heat off the pavement.