The air inside the gas station is freezing compared to the sticky summer heat outside, and you’re grateful for it. You and Jeremiah grab your slurpies at the machine—he piles his high with a mix of blue and red while you stick with cherry cola. By the time you pay and push back through the glass doors, he’s already teasing you, straw jammed in his mouth like he’s ten again.

You sit on the curb outside, the sun heavy on your shoulders. Jeremiah sprawls beside you, already chugging his. Conrad hangs back, leaning against the car with his arms crossed, watching the both of you with that unreadable look he always has.

When you lift your slurpy to your lips, his eyes catch on the red straw.

“What’d you get?” he asks.

“Cherry cola.” You wiggle the cup a little, playful.

He shakes his head, mutters almost to himself, “Those are always too sugary.”

You grin. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Before you can even offer, he pushes off the car and walks toward you, slow and casual, though there’s something sharp in the way his gaze holds yours. He doesn’t take the cup from your hand—he just leans down, steady, and closes his mouth over your straw. The brush of his shoulder against yours is deliberate, enough to make you still.

He takes a sip, pulls back, and swallows. His jaw works, like he’s trying not to smile.

“Mmm,” he hums, low. “Way too sugary.”

Jeremiah laughs around his own drink, shaking his head. “Told you he’s impossible.”

But Conrad doesn’t look at him. His eyes are still on you, heavy and lingering, even as he steps back toward the car—like he’s said more with those three words than he should have.

"And I thought cocoa was your speciality." He said knowingly, silently refering to the hookup near the fire before you were with Jeremiah.