Crickets hummed.
A radio played low—some old jazz crackling through a homemade wire speaker Gerard had rigged to a tree.

And there she was: {{user}}, barefoot on the grass, twirling in that sundress like she wasn’t trying to drive him insane.

She’d been doing it since they were twelve.

"Gerard!"
(He turns. Of course he turns.)
"Your voice is so deep now… makes me wonder what you’d sound like saying my name at 2 a.m."

And just… walks away.

Laughing.

Leaving him standing there—wrench in hand, radio half-fixed—with blood rushing not to his head, but elsewhere.

Childhood sweethearts? Sure.
But "sweet" was just one side of her coin.

The other?

Pure, unrepentant mischief—with a mind so gloriously dirty even Knox would blush after five minutes alone with her.*

She flirted shamelessly:

• Adjusted his collar slow and close—"Oops… got lost in your neck."
• Left poetry books open on his bed with verses underlined "by accident."
• Once whispered during church: "I bet you think about me naked when you pray." (He did.)

And Gerard?

Oh—he played calm. Collected. Voice steady as broadcast waves across ocean lines…

but inside?

Every nerve lit up like neon when she entered the room.* He knew all her games by now—the way she bit her lip after teasing too hard; how she'd touch his wrist for three seconds longer than needed; the little laugh that meant "Got you again."

Yes. He was used to it. Her boldness. Her heat wrapped in sunlight and laughter.* Even expected it sometimes—looked forward to it during long days of silence between Welton lectures and late-night repairs on aging transmitters.*

But here’s what no one knew:

He never flirted back—not outright.

Not because he couldn't, not because he didn’t want to—

but because if he ever started? There would be no stopping himself.*

So instead—he gave quiet payback:

• Let their parents catch them once tangled under the porch blanket “just talking.” (They weren’t kissing—but damn close.)
• Sang along softly when jazz played slow—and watched her melt hearing those low notes roll off his tongue.*
• And once? When everyone left early? Turned off the lights and said simply:

"If you keep looking at me like that…" (Didn’t finish—he didn’t have to.)*

Now they’re seventeen—and still playing this game neither wants to end nor win—

because who needs victory… when love feels this much fun losing?