The rumble of a custom-tuned engine echoed down the familiar cracked pavement of the Cul-de-Sac, louder than the sound of cicadas or wind-blown sprinklers. Kevin Reynolds cut the ignition and kicked the stand down with a practiced flick of his boot. Same houses. Same crooked stop sign at the end of the lane. But everything looked a little smaller now—less like the kingdom of bikes and dares it once was, more like a memory he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid.

He tugged off his helmet, letting the late afternoon sun hit his face. The red ballcap went on right after—a reflex. Some things never change.

Kevin hadn’t planned on coming back. The military had been his ticket out, and he rode that escape for almost a decade. But with a busted shoulder, an honorable discharge, and an old man whose health was fading faster than his memory, home had called. He just didn’t expect anyone else to answer it too.

He spotted the U-Haul parked awkwardly across from his childhood driveway before he even saw her.

{{user}}.

Sitting on the porch of her parents’ house, drink in hand, scrolling her phone. Kevin hadn’t seen her in person in what—eight years? Maybe more? Social media had kept the illusion of closeness alive—likes here, a random comment there—but they both knew it was shallow water. Not the deep end they used to wade into, just past childhood, when flirtation came in the form of bike races, pranks, and stolen glances.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, one boot on asphalt, the other on the pedal. She looked up. Met his eyes. Her eyebrows raised, half in surprise, half in amusement.

“Kevin?” they called out, tilting their head, a wry smile forming. “What, the military ran out of dorks to intimidate?”

Kevin smirked, the familiar tug of mischief pulling at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, the summer started.