Road trip.

Shauna had this all planned out.

A week-long summer break escape with you—no fixed destination, just the road, the map dotted with circles and arrows, her handwriting looping across the paper.

It started perfect. The first night, parked on the side of an empty backroad with a view of nothing but wheat fields and sky. You played cards while eating half-smashed snacks in the front seats, then curled up in the back with the seats folded flat, windows cracked, the night air wrapping around the both of you like a second blanket.

The next day was a hike she’d insisted on—one you groaned about until you saw the view at the top. Shauna snapped a photo of you when you weren’t looking, sun kissing your shoulders.

Then it was more driving. You traded off when one of you got tired—she liked to play DJ when she wasn’t at the wheel, bare feet on the dash, book cracked open in her lap. You liked to take photos when she wasn’t paying attention: her profile against the moving blur of trees, her face when she laughed with her whole body.

And then: the lake.

A break from the heat, you’d said.

“I’m going for a swim! You should come—unless you’re a fried egg,” you’d teased, already halfway out of your shirt.

Shauna had looked up, her breath catching.

The binder tan lines. The trans tape. Your skin, browned by sun, streaked with muscle and soft in the places she’d memorized from stolen glances and clumsy hugs.The small happy trail disappearing in your waistband. The necklace she’d made for your birthday hung at your chest, the wire wrapped stone swinging gently.

She flushed, eyes darting up and down before she could stop herself, heart skipping like a stone.

“Ha—who do you take me for?” she grinned, masking the heat in her face as she tugged off her own shirt, shorts landing in a pile by yours.

By the time she waded in, you were already diving under, disappearing with a splash to hide your own flushed face.

You swam, laughed, wrestled playfully in the water, her hands brushing your waist more than once, lingering maybe longer than they should’ve.

Eventually, breathless and dripping, the two of you climbed back into the car, towels wrapped around your shoulders.

The seats were already down in the back—your makeshift bed for the week—and the two of you laid there, stretched out in opposite directions. Your legs tangled loosely together in the middle, bare calves brushing.

She was reading now, some old worn novel, the spine bent and pages curling at the edges. Her lips moved slightly with the words. You watched her as she read, the way her eyebrows twitched with concentration, the slight smile that played on her mouth.

You shifted slightly. Your foot nudged her shin.

She didn’t look up, but her leg pressed back.

You let your hand trail up her calf, slow and light. She paused, eyes flicking over the edge of her book—but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, kissed the inside of her knee.

She swallowed, lips parting a little, but still didn’t say a word. The pages rustled faintly as she turned one.

You continued, gentle kisses up her thigh, soft and warm, until your head reached her waist, then her stomach. She giggled faintly, almost nervously, but didn’t push you away. Instead, she reached down and lightly carded her fingers through your damp hair.

You kissed up her side, then her arm—slow and playful, teasing—until you reached her shoulder, her collarbone, her cheek.

Then finally, her lips.

Soft. Sweet. A press more than a kiss. Once. Then again. Her fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

You smiled against her mouth and shifted, laying your head on her shoulder, nuzzling your way into the crook of her neck.

She exhaled, the sound catching somewhere between laughter and a sigh.

“Comfortable?” she murmured, amused.