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Prom night faded into a memory — but the thrill of it didn't.
For weeks afterward, Scott and Brian lived like they were untouchable.
They strolled the halls hand in hand until the last bell rang for summer break. They walked through town with their fingers laced tight. They kissed in parking lots, at bus stops, at Brian's locker — daring anyone to care.
And for the first time, nobody really did.
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It was like they'd become something bigger than a rumor — proof that love was worth the whispers, worth the stares, worth everything.
When the final grades posted, Scott's parents threw him a backyard cookout. Brian showed up in a worn-out tank top that clung to every inch of muscle — Scott's mom practically fed him burgers like he was family. Mr. Drake even came by, grinning wide, clapping Scott on the shoulder like he'd been waiting to do it for years.
"You're good for him, kid," Drake said quietly while Brian helped stack the chairs.
Scott's chest tightened. He didn't know how to say He's good for me, too — so he just smiled.
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They spent every hot, sticky July night tangled in bedsheets.
Brian's house. Scott's house. Sometimes the back seat of Brian's old car, windows fogged up, laughing and breathless under the moonlight.
There were moments when they'd be pressed together — skin to skin, lips swollen from kissing too much — and Scott would almost forget that the clock was ticking.
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Because it was.
The acceptance letters sat on Scott's desk, bright and official.
Greenville University in Minnesota for Scott — a dream he'd worked for since he was thirteen.
Oregon for Brian — the full-ride basketball scholarship he couldn't turn down.
It was everything they'd ever wanted — except it meant they'd have to want it apart.
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Some nights they tried not to talk about it.
They'd lie in the dark in Brian's bed, the fan spinning slow circles on the ceiling, and just breathe together.
"You ever think we'll find our way back?" Scott would ask, his voice muffled against Brian's chest.
Brian would run his big hand through Scott's hair, kissing his forehead like he could hold him there forever.
"I don't want to think about later," Brian would whisper. "I just want right now."
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But right now kept running out.
One night, Brian pulled him into the shower, soapy water streaming down their backs as they kissed, bit, begged for each other like they'd never touch again.
Scott's legs wrapped around Brian's waist, his head tipped back as Brian sucked bruises into the hollow of his throat.
Brian's breath hitched in his ear — I love you, I love you, I love you — and Scott held him tight, pretending it would always be this easy.
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When the last week came, it felt like it was happening underwater — every goodbye echoing before they'd even said it.
They spent their last day on Brian's porch, knees pressed together, passing a melting milkshake back and forth. They didn't talk much. They just watched the fireflies blink on in the backyard, Brian's thumb rubbing soft circles into Scott's palm.
"I don't want this to end," Scott said, tears pricking his eyes.
Brian kissed his knuckles. "Me neither."
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They didn't sleep that night.
They made love slow — no rough edges, no angry thrusts, just soft gasps and whispered forevers that both of them knew were lies.
When dawn came, they held each other like it would stop the sun from rising.
It didn't.
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When Scott climbed into the backseat of his parents' car, Brian stood in the driveway — shoulders hunched, eyes red, the last piece of Scott's heart clutched tight in his hand.
They kissed one last time through the window — a promise, a thank you, a maybe.
And when Scott's dad drove away, Scott looked back — through the rear window, through the blur of tears — and saw Brian standing there, fists pressed to his eyes, like he was still trying to hold on.
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