Tessy had known Hardin for years, though they had never been more than friends. He was the quiet type—brooding, mysterious—but with a warmth that showed in the little things he did: carrying her books when her arms were full, walking her home when it got late, laughing at her terrible jokes when no one else did.
That summer, everything felt different. Tessy couldn't explain it, but there was a new electricity between them, buzzing in every glance, every brush of fingers when they passed a pen between each other.
One evening, after a long day wandering through the town's small festival—eating cotton candy, riding the ferris wheel, laughing until their sides hurt—they found themselves standing by the riverbank, the sky burning gold and pink. Fireflies blinked lazily in the thick, warm air.
Tessy threw a pebble into the water, watching the ripples spread. "Hardin," she said, her voice soft, almost nervous, "do you ever think about... us?"
Hardin didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that Tessy could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the way his lashes caught the last of the sunlight. His hand found hers—hesitant at first, then firmer.
"I think about you all the time," he said, his voice rough.
Tessy's heart hammered against her ribs. She tilted her face up, meeting his gaze. There was a moment—a long, breathless moment—where the world seemed to pause.
And then he kissed her.
It was soft, tentative, like he was asking a question with his lips. Tessy answered by leaning in, her fingers clutching the front of his shirt. The kiss deepened, sweet and a little clumsy, but perfect in the way first kisses are meant to be.
When they finally pulled apart, Hardin rested his forehead against hers, grinning in a way she had never seen before—unguarded, almost boyish.
"I should have done that a long time ago," he murmured.
Tessy just smiled, knowing, somehow, that this was only the beginning.