It was just supposed to be jam.

Your grandma’s recipe—peach, by the looks of it, with sugar still crystallizing around the lip of the mason jar, hand drawn gingham square tied neatly over the lid. Clark had opened the door expecting maybe a neighbor, maybe silence. What he didn’t expect was you, standing there barefoot on the porch with the jar cradled in both hands like an offering, hair a little windswept, like you’d just sprinted through the cornfields instead of taking the gravel path.

“Gran made extra,” you said, with that half-smile you always wore when you pretended this was just a neighborly drop-off and not the fifth time this week you’d shown up unannounced.

“Lucky me,” Clark had said, and meant it.

That was almost two hours ago.

Now the jar sits half-empty on the counter, sticky spoon balanced inside it, and the sun’s dipped so low behind the trees that the kitchen’s gone all golden at the edges—light streaming through the screen door, dancing off dust motes in the air. The radio hums quietly, something twangy and old-school, and you’re perched on the counter in cutoff shorts and one of his flannels—stolen, probably, his hands sliding up the soft skin of your thighs, looking up at you like every bit the lost puppy he felt whenever he was around you.

“…We shouldn’t,” he said, hoarse, barely more than a breath.

And yet—his thumb traced your cheek, reverent. His mouth dipped to your throat, kissed the space beneath your jaw.

He kissed you like he needed to relearn what his body was for. Like he’d never known softness until your mouth found his. Like this—you—were something holy, and he wasn’t sure he had the right.

His thumb dragged just under the hem of your tank top, over warm skin he already knew by heart. He could feel your heartbeat there, fast as his own. His other hand curled at the base of your skull, holding you steady while his mouth moved against yours—hungry, but careful. Always careful. Like you’d shatter if he wasn’t.

But your lips found his again before he could finish, open and sure, and suddenly the counter was digging into your back and his hands were lifting you onto it without thought. His hips settled between your knees, your legs wrapping around him like instinct, and every part of him screamed to stay exactly where he was.

“{{user}}—“

But your lips found his again before he could finish, open and sure, and suddenly the counter was digging into your back and his hands were lifting you onto it without thought. His hips settled between your knees, your legs wrapping around him like instinct, and every part of him screamed to stay exactly where he was.

So he kissed back.

Like he couldn’t stop.

Like jam on the counter. Slow. Sticky. Sweet.