ellydash: (other OTP)
[personal profile] ellydash
Title: Made For Sunny Days
Author: [livejournal.com profile] ellydash  
Pairing: Sam Evans/Mercedes Jones
Rating: R
Word count: 5,105
Spoilers: Through the end of Season 2.
Warnings: None.

Summary: Some things grow in summer.

It’s June, and Lima steeps in wet heat.

Mercedes stands in front of the open freezer door every chance she gets, closing it only when her mother tells her that’s enough, she’s going to defrost tomorrow night’s chicken. Her father’s bad jokes get seasonal: baby, check outside, I think I see the devil dancing buck-naked in our driveway. Get it? Because it’s hotter than hell. She eats popsicles, cherry ones, until her tongue looks like a cartoon.

Thank God most of her gigs are at houses with air conditioning. Babysitting money is good money, too, a damn sight better than what she made last summer working at that little kids' camp, and now she gets to earn her cash where it’s nice and cool. Finn's got his lawn mowing thing, Kurt's working part time at his dad's shop, and Rachel's giving voice lessons, but Mercedes has them all beat. She's curled up on someone else’s couch with the air blasting, watching old movies late at night while Danny or Kayla or Nitra sleep upstairs, bringing in a dollar for every five minutes of The First Wives Club. Sure, her real home’s on stage with a big crowd hungry for what she’s giving, but sometimes Mercedes thinks this wouldn't be the worst fallback life plan, making a few bucks hanging out with Bette Midler. 

She orders pizza after the kids go to bed, no matter what house she’s at, no matter if she’s hungry or if the heat’s sitting sick in her stomach. It’s worth it, just to see Sam for a few minutes. Sometimes, if Murphy’s Pizza and Sushi To Go isn’t swamped with orders, he takes the time to make her a smiley face with pepperonis on top of her personal pie, maybe add some Parmesan hair, a mustache with a few red onion slices.

And if they catch a few quick kisses inside the foyer before he leaves on his next run, or long, slow kisses, or if Mercedes slides her hand over the map of his stomach, or if Sam’s fingers trace the swell of her breasts, over her t-shirt, who’s gonna know? She’s not telling.

It’s summer. Mercedes tries not to think about senior year, or the way Kurt and Rachel talk too much about New York, or all the upcoming lasts on her horizon. Those are itches she knows you can’t scratch. She’s happier than she’s been since their first sectionals win. She’s drinking root beer floats with awesome crazy straws. She’s falling asleep on thick, warm nights with her windows open, Sam behind her eyes, ceiling fan humming.


“Do another one,” she says, giggling, and reaches towards the front seat to turn down the volume on the radio. It’s dark as hell outside the car, and even though Mercedes knows there’s some kind of field out there, trees too, she can't see a thing. They've got their own private world. “Do Mr. Schue now.”

“Hello,” Sam says, and pulls her back towards him in the backseat, tucking her under the comfort of his arm. His voice is weirdly, impossibly deep. “I’m Mr. Schuester. I enjoy writing words on the whiteboard and my favorite color is vest.”

“You sound like Darth Vader.”

“I’m Darth Vader doing an impression of Mr. Schue,” he tells her, wounded by Mercedes’s lack of understanding, and then, deep again, “You have controlled your fear. Now release your anger. Only your hatred can destroy my vests.”

It’s so ridiculous that she laughs out loud, grin splitting her face as she burrows under the crook of his arm, and he laughs, too; turns his face up to his. She’s still a little stunned each time Sam kisses her, and more than a little stunned that she’s able to reach out and kiss him, just like that. None of it’s faded, none of the astonishment at Sam wanting her, or the pride that she’s found someone smart enough to notice what she’s worth, or the joy at the way her hand fits inside his, like one of those nestling dolls. She’d figured on being used to it, by now.

“I’m gonna pay you back for the movie,” Sam says, against her cheek, his breath a promise, and Mercedes shivers a little with pleasure before informing him, “Hell no, you won’t. I took you out tonight, remember? Besides, you said you wanted to put aside some of your pizza money for that heatstroke comic, so just keep your wallet in your pants and we’ll call this my treat.”

Deathstroke. It’s Deathstroke and the Curse of the Ravager.” She doesn’t have to look at his face to know he’s got that entranced look he always gets when thinking about comics. Or movies, or paintball, or Pokémon (which he swears up and down he doesn’t care about anymore, but Mercedes isn't convinced). “I still want to pay you back, though.”

“Oh, you are, honey,” she says, smiling, and turns his face with her fingertips, finding his mouth again. “Just keep this up.”

Passing headlights on the road behind them flicker briefly through her car. There’s faint sirens in the distance, and she barely registers the sound, all her body trained on the feeling of Sam’s hands, sliding around her back, pressing through her shirt and over the straps of her bra. They’re on their own planet, here. She doesn’t have to think about anything but him.

“I want to tell everyone,” Sam says, suddenly, pulling back, and oh, good Lord, this again. She sighs, leaning back against the seat. “It’s been almost a month since New York, okay? We have to tell them. I’m really getting sick of Puck trying to set me up with people because he’s bored with Lauren at wrestling camp. And saying I’m too broke to go out with girls isn’t working anymore, because he just tries to give me these weird tiny rolls of one dollar bills that smell like chlorine. Apparently ‘tips are way smaller when you’re a one-lady dude,’ whatever that means.”

Mercedes has about four different questions, but none of them have anything to do with what they’re talking about, and so she decides not to ask. “Look, I love our friends, and believe me when I tell you I’d take to the mat anyone who looked at them cross-eyed – ”

“That's kind of hot,” he says.

She socks him lightly on his shoulder. “My point is, they can be some ridiculous damn people. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with that yet.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he acknowledges, after a pause. “I mean, the other night when we were all at Breadstix, Santana asked me if I’d ever considered hooking up one of those vacuum cleaner attachments to my mouth to enhance my eating experience, and Puck got really excited about helping – ”

“No, what I mean is that they’ll make a huge deal about us being together,” she cuts in, snuggling back under his arm, listening to the squeak and protest of the car leather as she adjusts. “Rachel’s gonna come up with at least five duet suggestions for different occasions. Kurt’ll appoint himself our budget date planner. Puck’ll probably get that weird, gassy look on his face he has when he’s feeling something but doesn’t want to admit it. And Quinn – ” She stops. “Quinn might freak out. I just want to keep this private. Not forever, but can’t we just keep it to ourselves right now?”

“We have to tell them sometime, Mercedes,” he says, quietly, and presses his mouth against the top of her head. “The longer we wait, the weirder it’ll be when we do it. Besides, I think it’d be kinda awesome to have our friends be happy for us. Even if it gets all intense. Some of that stuff sounds cool, actually.” His words muffle into her hair. “I kind of like the idea of Kurt being our date planner. He might be good at it.”

He’s right, she knows, about the telling. (Kurt's date planning skills, too.) Sam’s good with this kind of stuff, with people, in a way she really admires. Usually Mercedes is too, but when it gets personal for her she can’t step back as easily.

“I just don't want to move too fast with this,” she tells him, still insistant, and in the end, that’s really what it’s about. Her world's changing. What's changed is for the good, for the best, even, but it's all tied up somehow with the way she’s starting to lift her foot off the grounds of McKinley, getting ready to take that first step into her future. She's someone’s girlfriend, now, and she's a senior, too, almost a grown woman. Coming clean puts all that into sharper focus. Rachel would faint with shock if Mercedes told her this, but there are some things that just don’t belong in the spotlight. 

“I like what we have.” His hand smooths over her thigh, fingers warm like day even through the denim. “I like it a lot. But I’ll like it better when I can tell everyone how amazing I think you are.”

“Damn right,” she says, grinning. “I’m the best you’ll ever know, and don’t you forget it.”

Sam’s hand slips a little higher on her thigh and he murmurs something pretty in his blue people language. Mercedes leans into him, says, without knowing exactly what she’s repeating but trusting that it feels right, “What you just said, same goes for me,” and he curls her back inside his arms, kissing the air out of her mouth. She pushes a slow hand through his hair. There’s a small breeze through the open car window, licking cool on her neck and shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, suddenly, against the corner of his lips, finding her breath again. Her agreement surprises them both. “Fine. We can tell them. But Sam, I swear to God, if Rachel starts in on how her dads are an interracial gay couple and how proud she is of us for figuring out that romance doesn’t have a color, I’m gonna hightail it out of there so fast you won’t even see my dust, let alone catch it.”

Sam squeezes her. “Deal,” he says, and the happiness in his voice lets her know she’s made the right decision. “Totally a deal. This is gonna feel so great.”

Mercedes won’t say I love you, because it’s really too soon for that. She’s not even sure if what she’s feeling is love, just that it’s everywhere and it makes her smile with the strength of it. That’s all right. She’ll tuck the words under her tongue until they’re both ready.


“I knew it,” Rachel shrieks, clapping her hands together with delight, and Brittany puts her hands over her ears. “I knew it all along!”

Several of the Lima Bean’s patrons turn around to stare, annoyed. Mercedes flaps her hand at Rachel, trying to hush her before the whole place knows their business. 

“No, you didn’t,” Kurt says, smiling at Blaine, next to him, and Blaine smiles back, the corner of his mouth quirking. Mercedes knows that smile; it’s the one that means they’ve talked about this before. Her whole life, she’s felt shut out by those kinds of smiles. “You said just last week that we should try to get them together. I’m absolutely thrilled for you both, by the way.” He sets down his iced mocha and raises his hands across the table in their direction, palms facing towards Sam and Mercedes in blessing. “May the road rise to meet your feet, may your coffee drinks be compatible, and may What Not To Wear and Battlestar Galactica never be on TV at the same time.”

“What I meant, Kurt,” Rachel retorts, just as Sam opens his mouth to respond, “was that I knew they’d be perfect for one another. Although, I have to say, I do have a fifth sense about these things, having had previous experience with clandestine romances, so it’s unsurprising that I happened to pick up on their connection.”

"Rachel, I think you're missing a sense," Blaine notes.

"Fashion," Kurt says, under his breath, and Rachel glares at him.

Brittany dips a finger in the whipped cream on top of her strawberry frappe, licking it. "I'm pretty sure senses only happen every ten years."

“Um," Sam tries.

It takes Rachel an impressive three seconds to recover and find the topic again. “I usually make it a rule never to quote Paula Abdul, because her lyrics lack significant emotional resonance, but Sam, Mercedes, it’s really just like she said: the two of you came together ‘cause opposites attract.”

"Actually, when you get down to it I don't think we're all that – "

“You do realize the song you’ve just quoted has an actual rapping cat in it, Rachel,” Kurt interrupts, sounding horrified, and Brittany’s eyes get slightly bigger as she says, “Lord Tubbington would be super into someone with a sense of flow.”

“Thanks, guys,” Mercedes cuts in, again, trying to grab onto the conversation before it runs off somewhere else she can’t find it, and Rachel grins at her, face sunny with approval and pleasure. “I’m so happy for you, Mercedes,” she says.

Mercedes feels a pang of remorse for her comments to Sam the other night. Rachel hasn’t mentioned her dads, not even once, or duets. She owes her girl. Maybe even a marathon of those Busby Berkeley musicals. Real penance.

“New York, huh?” Kurt asks, raising an eyebrow. “You know, thinking back, there were an awful lot of times when the two of you weren’t anywhere to be found. That explains a few things.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, flushing red. “It just kind of happened. We didn’t plan it or anything.” He reaches out between their chairs, grabbing her hand in his. She almost drops it before she realizes they can do that, now, and she squeezes back, instead.

“We can go on group dates!” Rachel sits up straight, seized by the idea. “Finn and I, you and Sam, Kurt and Blaine. Mike and Tina. Puck and Lauren, when she gets back from camp. Brittany and – “

“Lord Tubbington,” Brittany finishes, because Rachel’s suddenly stumbling over how to finish her sentence. “He’s my favorite date right now, even though we’re actually just good friends.”

“Lord Tubbington, okay. It’ll be difficult to all fit in one car, but Finn can borrow his mom’s van and I happen to be very petite and flexible, so I can fit in the tiny open trunk compartment if necessary.”

“Blaine could probably fit in there with you,” Kurt offers.

Blaine looks mildly offended.

“Well, you could. All I'm saying is that you’re an extremely portable person, Blaine. It’s a good thing.”

“Kurt, I’m not that small,” Blaine grumbles, “we can just take two cars, it’d be easier,” and Rachel reaches across the table to pat his arm, clearly empathizing. "This is why subways are the best form of transportation," she tells him. "You'll see."

“See?” Sam whispers in Mercedes’s ear, leaning in. “Told you. Nothing to worry about. Everything’s cool.”

She still feels a little exposed, especially with the way Rachel and Kurt keep watching her, looking weirdly proud like they’re her parents or something, and Blaine’s saying, “Oh, my God, you two are adorable,” but it’s not that bad, not really. The worst of it’s over. And damn, the happy expression Sam’s got is worth everything.

“You guys have really awesome faces,” Brittany informs them. “My face is the best, though.”

Sam curls his fingers inside her hand, stroking the palm, back and forth. “Thanks,” he says, smiling, “thank you, a lot,” and maybe it’s meant for Brittany, but he’s looking at Mercedes when he speaks.


It’s not completely over.

Her phone goes off that night while she’s dozing on a babysitting client’s couch, waking her up, and it’s Quinn’s name on the screen, accusing her before she’s even answered. Quinn hasn’t actually called her in months, not counting that one time in New York when she and Sam had snuck off right before a song-writing session and she’d had to lie about where they’d been. She knows exactly what this is about.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Quinn asks, sharply, before Mercedes manages to get out a greeting.

“I was going to.” Mercedes sits up, rubbing a hand over her eyes, too dazed from her nap to pretend she doesn’t know what Quinn means. “Eventually. And - look, don’t you try and take that tone with me. I don’t have to sit here and listen to you act all high and mighty when you haven’t bothered to say more than ‘boo’ to me in months.” She takes a breath. “How’d you hear?”

“Kurt sent everyone a mass text.” A pause. “With ten exclamation points.”

Of course he did. She smiles, pleased despite herself by Kurt’s enthusiasm for her and Sam. Well, at least that saves her the trouble of telling everyone else.

“Did you keep it from me because you thought I couldn’t take it?” Quinn continues. “I’m not some fragile little girl, Mercedes. I’m not going to fall apart just because someone who used to be my best friend is dating my ex-boyfriend.”

Oh. It’s not like she’s actively thought of Quinn as her best friend in a while, not since last summer, but to hear her say it like that still makes Mercedes’s stomach twist. “I know this might be a crazy shock to you, Quinn,” she says, slowly, “but not everything is all about you. Can you just be happy for me right now? Maybe think about someone else beside yourself, just for once?”

“I just don’t get it,” Quinn snaps, and Mercedes really, really wants to hang up. “The two of you have absolutely nothing in common. Nothing. You don’t care about sports, or science-fiction, or working out, and I'll bet he's never heard of Erykah Badu –” 

“Girl, don’t even pretend like you had any idea who Erykah was until I played her for you,” Mercedes interrupts.

“– and I know from experience he doesn’t know the first thing about fashion. What do you even talk about?”

“Why do you even care?” she fires back, and then lowers her voice. The last thing she wants is to wake up Olivia. “We talk about the same shit everyone else talks about. Our friends. Things we want to do when we get out of Lima. The damn weather. What So You Think You Can Dance would be like if it was set in space. Since when did people have to have everything in common to be in a relationship? I don’t remember you going on about James Cameron or ninjas or whatever when you and Sam were dating.”

Quinn sputters a little. “That’s different.”

“Yeah? Go ahead, tell me how.”

There’s silence, and Mercedes feels satisfaction surge in her chest.

“I am happy for you,” Quinn says, finally, but it sounds nothing like when Rachel’d said it, earlier that day, with all the warmth of honesty. “I want you to be happy, Mercedes. You deserve that. You do.” Her voice is quiet, words wobbling. Mercedes realizes she’s trying not to cry.

“Quinn,” she says, and stops. “We used to be so tight. What happened?”

A sniff on the other end of the line, no answer, and maybe that’s because Quinn doesn’t know. Mercedes sure doesn’t. She can’t figure out how they’ve gotten here from their evening movie marathons in her rec room, Quinn resting her head on Mercedes’s shoulder, her belly full and her eyes full with something else. There’s a gap between them she can’t cross.

They breathe together, quiet until Quinn says, “I miss us, too,” and Mercedes knows she’s not the only one looking back at what they've left behind, the things they couldn’t carry.


Her parents really like Sam. 

It’s nice they like him, she guesses, but it’s also embarrassing as hell, especially when the doorbell rings on the rare afternoon Sam’s got free and her mother gets this crazy big grin lighting up her face. "That must be your boyfriend, Mercedes,” she gushes, and, sure, Mercedes isn't anxious to leave home most of the time, but when Mama starts in with the teasing she can't help but want to run to her calendar and count the days 'til graduation.

Despite her best efforts, her dad usually gets to the front door first, throwing it open wide to reveal Sam, fidgeting foot-to-foot on her doorstep. It goes down the same way, every time. They've got this routine.

“How hot is it, Sam?” her dad roars in greeting, holding up a hand for Sam to high-five, and Mercedes protests, “Daddy, please don’t,” while a beaming Sam slaps her father’s palm. “It’s so hot chickens are laying fried eggs,” he announces, sounding pleased with himself.

Her dad always laughs, one of those loud guffaws that makes his whole body tremble, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, pulling him inside the house. “This kid is A-OK by me, baby girl,” he tells Mercedes, “A-OK. He can stick around. Sam, buddy, you hungry? Want a youwich? Hah! Get it?”

“Youwich!” Sam repeats, thrilled against all reason by the terrible pun. The same terrible pun. Every damn time.

Mercedes read an article online, once, a long time ago, arguing that girls usually date guys just like their fathers. She’d dismissed it as silly stuff. When she sees Sam joking with her dad, though, she’s not so sure.

Today, though, they’ve lucked out. Her folks are at a church fundraiser, under the impression she’s out with Rachel and Kurt, so she’s spared the awkward family chit chat and flustered promises, no, Mama, we’re not gonna get up to anything, yes, we’ll keep the bedroom door open, yes, we’ll keep our feet on the floor. Sam’s cheeks are red when she lets him inside the house, skin trying for the color of tomatoes, or cherry popsicles. Mercedes isn’t sure if it’s from the heat or anticipation.

“Crap,” he says, suddenly, as they’re walking towards her bedroom.

It’s the last thing she want to hear right before what she’s started to think of, with an accompanying flutter of excitement, as their private time. “What?” she asks, turning around in the hallway, a little worried something’s really wrong.

“I had this candle I was going to bring over for us.”

“It’s almost a hundred degrees outside,” she says, confused. “A candle?”

“A mood candle.” Now his cheeks are really red. “To, you know, set the mood. It’s from my mom’s bath collection. It smells like baby powder. I thought you’d like it?” His voice scales up, the question unavoidable.

Sometimes Mercedes talks before her tongue’s caught up fully with her brain. “Oh,” she blurts. “Sure. That sounds nice.” The smell of baby powder reminds her of diaper changing stations in department store washrooms, and that whole thing is probably under the dictionary entry for gigantic turn-offs. She’ll cross invisible fingers that he’ll forget the candle next time, and the next.

Her bedroom’s cooler than most of the other rooms in the house, since she’s grabbed every portable fan she could find and placed them in strategic locations: on top of the dresser, on the bedside table, on the floor, on the shelf of her bookcase. The curtains are closed, thick forest-green canvas blocking out a lot of the heat. The light, too. Everything in the room looks a little alien. Mercedes shuts the door, checking the old lock to make sure it won't pop open on her. Her parents aren’t due back for a couple of hours, but it's never too much trouble to take care.

Sam stands in the middle of her rug, ams hanging awkwardly at his sides. He smiles at her. “Hey, so I came up with a new one. Get ready. It’s good.”


“How hot is it?”

“You tell me, Sam.” She walks up to him, slowly, knowing he’s watching the sway of her hips, thrilling a little under his stare, and reaches out to touch his chest, fingers trailing over the cotton.

His mouth parts, slightly, and his tongue darts out to touch his lower lip. She can see a sheen on the pink skin. “It’s so hot - it’s so hot that Sauron’s taking a bath in some Visine.”

“That,” she says, leaning up to him, “is plenty hot, but I’ve got something a lot hotter for you,” and her mouth meets his, spreading in a smile as he takes her head in his hands; kisses back. She’s seriously getting the hang of kissing. It’s a lot easier once you stop thinking about it and just do.

Sam makes a small noise against her mouth, and it runs through her with all the joy of applause. His hands leave her hair, making a beeline for her breasts, cupping them firmly. After they’d crossed that threshold together, a couple weeks back, it’s never taken him more than a minute or two of making out to find them.

“These,” he says, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. “Mercedes, you have the most awesome, you know, things.”

Maybe she should feel weird about her breasts being called things, but right now she can’t be bothered, not when he’s so eager for her. Her nipples tighten under the enthusiasm of his fingers.

“You’re pretty great yourself,” she returns, sneaking her hands under his cotton shirt to find the planes of his back, tracing the muscle. He kisses down her jaw, little presses of his mouth on her skin leading towards her ear, and she tilts her head back for better access, breathing hard. Sam’s tongue licks out, wet and warm. “You taste like the beach,” he says, into her neck. “Like salt.”

She’s got enough time to wonder how he knows what a beach tastes like, since she’s about seventy percent sure Tennessee is landlocked and he’s never mentioned big family trips down to the Gulf or anything, but then he’s pushing his hips into her, hands moving to grip her ass over her dress, and she gasps as she feels how hard he is. Mercedes isn’t naïve, despite her relative inexperience. She knows exactly what their makeout sessions do to Sam, because they get her all worked up, too, in just the same way. She’s coiled tight like a spring ready to jump.

“Sorry,” he stammers, pulling back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I can’t really help it.”

“Me neither,” she says, and her heart hammers in her chest, nerves sparking at the step she’s ready to take. “Sam – can you touch me? Please?”

“I thought I was.” His eyes are wide. “I can keep doing that, though. I can do that for hours.”

“No, I mean –” She’ll have to spell it out for him. “I mean, like –” Mercedes reaches out for his hand and pulls it under her dress, resting it between her legs, where she’s warmer than the day outside; damp, too, even through her leggings. “Here. Like that.”

Sam groans at the contact, and immediately adjusts his hand so his fingers press up against her, into her wet heat, firm and searching. It’s exactly what she wants, and at the same time it’s nowhere near enough.

“Are you – because of me?” he asks, sounding breathless. “Just from me? Really?”

Her face is on fire. She buries it against the top of his chest, just below his collarbone, rocking against his hand. “Yes,” she says, embarrassment and joy all tangled together, and again, with the push of his fingers right near the spot that’s begging, “yes.”

It takes them next to no time at all to end up on her bed. It’s weirdly thrilling, rolling flush with Sam on top of the comforter she’s had since she was fourteen and dreaming of an impossible Taylor Lautner (and, if she’s being honest, an equally impossible Finn Hudson). Sam tugs at the bottom of her shirt, asking a silent question. She gives him an equally silent answer, sitting up halfway and raising her arms so he can pull the top over her head. Her breasts bounce a little in her bra as they’re freed. Sam immediately presses her back down into the bed, straddling her, leaning in, his mouth praising her skin.

“I just wanna live here,” he says, muffled. She can't see his face. It's lost in the valley of her cleavage.

Mercedes blushes, wriggling under his tongue. “Tit for tat,” she says, and instantly wishes she’d chosen another saying. “You need to lose that shirt before I claw it off your back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sits up straight, still bridging her body, knees on either side of her hips, and his fingers work quickly at the buttons of his t-shirt. The tight stretch of his chest and stomach is like food for her eyes and, if she’s being honest, for a few other parts of her, too. She loves the way his muscles angle down below his jeans, like they’re pointing her home.

“Well, look at you, baby,” she breathes, and strokes a finger down the little road of muscle bisecting his abdomen. It’s not like she goes crazy over built guys, normally – Taylor Lautner’s her one exception – but there’s something about the incredible effort Sam’s spent on his body that puts his softness front and center. It’s a body that’s obvious about needing to be liked, it’s a body that wants a lot of affection, and she’s got plenty of that to give.

“Like me?” He looks nervous, even though she's seen him shirtless before.

Love you, she almost says, but that’s a loaded phrase, and so Mercedes nods, instead, hoping the want on her face is enough to take over for words. From the way Sam’s looking at her, it’s plenty.

They’ve got countdowns launching all around them, sure, but there's a whole year still in front, stretching out full with everything that hasn't yet happened. It’s best, she knows, to make as much as they can out of the time they've got, not to look too far ahead. Mercedes can't worry about endings. She’ll miss this beginning right in front of her, in her arms and bed. She'll make her boy happy, for as often and as long as she can.

“Come back here,” she manages, and pulls him down. The day outside’s heavy with heat, but they’re light together.
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