Summer, 1985

The air is thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle, the kind of summer haze that makes everything feel slow, heavy, like the world is waiting for something to happen. The sound of your parents’ laughter drifts from the patio, blending with the clink of silverware and the hum of a conversation you’re supposed to be a part of. But you’re here instead, sprawled out on a picnic rug in Hannah’s backyard, your body sinking into the warmth of the sun-soaked fabric.

She’s sitting beside you, one knee bent, her loose white button-up rolled at the sleeves, collar open just enough to hint at the line of her collarbone. She looks different like this—like herself. Not the girl in pressed skirts and Sunday tights, not the girl who bows her head in prayer next to you at church. Just Hannah.

You tilt your head to look at her, the sun catching on the honeyed strands of her brown hair, her sharp jaw working as she bites into a strawberry. Her lips stain red, and she flicks her tongue out, slow, deliberate, to catch the juice before it drips. You swallow hard.

Your dress has ridden up slightly, the hem teasing at the tops of your thighs. You know she notices. The way her gaze lingers, the way she shifts, fingers pressing into the rug like she’s steadying herself. There’s a tension between you, thick and unspoken, the kind that shouldn’t exist but does anyway.

She brings another strawberry to her lips but pauses, holding it between her fingers. “Want one?” her voice is lower now, softer, like a secret.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. She doesn’t hand it to you. Instead, she leans down, the scent of strawberries and her mother’s expensive cologne filling your lungs. She holds the fruit to your lips. You hesitate, just for a second, before biting down. The taste bursts on your tongue, sweet and tangy, but it’s not just the fruit making your head spin. It’s her.