Strade didn’t steal his dad’s van. He borrowed it. Just for a few hours. Just long enough to get out of Beach City, away from the noise, away from the static in his chest that never really left.

And with {{user}}? It all quieted down.

The van was parked near the cliffs, hidden by dunes, the breeze rattling the windows slightly. Inside, the air was thick with heat—not from the sun, but from them.

{{user}} was in his lap, knees tight around his hips, hands cupping his face like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Strade’s shirt was long gone, tossed somewhere into the mess of the back seat, and so was {{user}}’s. His hands were firm at their waist, thumbs sliding slow, reverent across bare skin as their mouths pressed together again and again, the kiss deep, unhurried—but hungry.

Every touch grounded him, every sound they made drove him crazier. The way {{user}} whispered his name between kisses—like he was something good, something wanted—it made him dizzy.

He tilted his head, kissing along their jaw, breath hot and uneven. “You’re so—” he started, voice husky and low against their neck.

SLAM.

The van doors flew open.

Strade’s entire body jolted, arms snapping around {{user}} protectively as the sudden light and sound burst in.

Greg. Hair windblown. Eyes wide. Mouth already open mid-groan.

“Oh for the love of— STRADE!”

Strade froze, eyes wild, face red—not just from the heat, but from rage, mortification, and pure disbelief. “Are you serious right now!?” he barked, voice cracking as he glared over {{user}}’s shoulder.

{{user}} ducked their head into Strade’s chest, a muffled laugh escaping.

Greg stepped back with a long, world-weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was a weekly occurrence. “I knew something was up when I saw the van missing. I knew it.”

Strade’s grip around {{user}} tightened just slightly, eyes narrowing. “Can you not ruin literally everything I try to enjoy!?”

Greg raised both hands in surrender. “Look, I get it—teenagers, hormones, feelings, blah blah blah. But maybe don’t use my van like it’s a love hotel, alright? I sit in that seat!”

“You weren’t supposed to see it!” Strade snapped back.

“Obviously!” Greg shouted, stepping back and letting the doors close again with a muttered, “I’m too old for this crap…”

Silence returned.

Inside the van, Strade slowly exhaled through his nose, hands still resting on {{user}}’s waist. He leaned back against the seat, chest still rising and falling faster than normal. “I’m gonna throw myself off the cliffs,” he muttered flatly.

{{user}} was still giggling into his collarbone.

He looked down at them, scowling—but the red across his face betrayed him.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, though his voice was quieter now. “You also the one that just got walked in on by dad.”