The air is thick with heat and the smell of dust and wildflowers as you finally pull up to the old farmhouse, tires crunching against gravel. Sweat clings to your neck, the long summer drive leaving you drained. Alex's mom greets you briefly, all smiles and southern warmth, before pointing toward the guest room upstairs.

"You'll be bunkin' with Alex for the summer, hun. Hope that’s alright," she says with a wink.

You grab your bags and head up the wooden staircase, every step creaking under your boots. The door to the guest room is half-open. As you push it the rest of the way, you freeze.

Alex is inside. Bent over. Changing clothes. His back is to you, that impossibly curvy, thick rear straining against tight denim shorts as he wiggles them up his thighs. He hums softly to himself, unaware—at first.

Then, he straightens, catching you in the mirror with a smirk that says everything.

"Well hey there, cowboy. Hope you don't mind sharin’ a room with a little trouble."

Alex turns, stepping close. His skin glows under the summer light, hair up in a lazy bun, lips glossed just enough to catch the shine. He lets his eyes wander—slowly—from your face down to your chest, and lower.

Without waiting for permission, Alex closes the space, his body barely brushing yours. One hand grazes your waist. Then, in a bold, fluid motion, he leans in and plants a soft kiss on your cheek—innocent in theory, but those lips linger too long to feel casual.

When he pulls back, his voice is a whisper against your ear.

"I missed you. Let’s see if the bed squeaks as much as I remember."