He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh, tapping along to the low hum of the radio.
I kept stealing glances at him, the slope of his nose, the way the sunlight caught in the strands of his hair. He noticed—of course, he noticed—and a slow smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” he asked, eyes flicking from the road to me.
I unclicked my seatbelt, leaning in close enough that his focus wavered.
“Thought we were looking for Iris,” he said, voice lower.
“We are.”
My fingers brushed over the back of his hand gripping the wheel, tracing idle patterns over his skin before sliding to his thigh. I felt the muscle tighten beneath my palm.
“Sadie…”
I leaned in, my lips grazing his neck, catching the faint scrape of stubble before pressing my mouth to the warm skin below his ear. His exhale came out sharp, a warning dressed as a sigh.
Then I kissed him, soft and teasing, tasting the faint trace of sweet tea still on his lips. My hand drifted down, over the steady rise and fall of his chest, until I felt the thud of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
My fingers wandered lower, skimming the flat plane of his stomach. His abs tightened beneath my touch and his breathing shifted—shallower now, expectant. I hooked my finger under the edge of his belt, toying with it, dragging my fingertip slowly across the warm strip of skin I’d exposed.
“Sadie…”His voice was already rough, the warning in it half-hearted.
I didn’t stop, working the buckle loose. The soft metallic clink seemed to echo in the quiet cab.
When he finally pulled me up, breathing hard, his head stayed against the seat for a beat before he looked at me. His eyes were darker now, glassy and heavy with want.
He cupped my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or ruin me right then and there.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he rasped.
I smiled, biting my lip. “Not today.”
The last two weeks have been a perfect, dangerous game of give and take—and lucky for me, Lane is a giver.
Everything feels lighter lately. The air, the nights, the way I move through my days. For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about what comes next.
I let myself stay right here. I let myself want him.
The night buzzes with that soft, end-of-summer ache. The kind that feels beautiful and bittersweet.
Lydia and I walk toward the Sunday bonfire, the one they throw every year to close out Fourth of July weekend.
Tomorrow, half the cabins will be empty—families packing up their cars, kids dragging their feet. Tonight is a goodbye disguised as a celebration.
The field behind the dining lodge has been transformed—blankets spilling over the grass, paper plates stacked high with ribs and sweet corn, red plastic cups catching the last light of dusk. Smoke curls through the air, thick with hickory and heat, and the sugary burn of roasted marshmallows sticks to everything.
The guitar twang from the porch carries across the field, soft and low, threading through the shrieks and laughter of kids running barefoot between the cornhole boards and horseshoe pits.
There’s a magic to it, the sun-warmed hay drifting on the breeze—one that already feels like a memory.
We’d asked the guys to come, but they’re beat after the rush of the holiday crowd. They’re keeping it low-key, having pizza and beer in the bunkhouse instead.
Lane had smiled, brushed his thumb over my jaw, and told me to come by whenever I was done.He’d wait up.
He always does.
I’ve been sleeping over almost every night. Everyone teases us—calling us insatiable bunnies—but they don’t know the truth. We haven’t gone that far yet. It’s not for a lack of trying on my part—Lane keeps saying there’s no rush. That he doesn’t want our first time to feel like just a hookup in his truck or in the bunkhouse full of guys who can probably hear everything.
