Chapter 5: Dog Walks and Window Games

The days after the rainy confession blurred into a sweet, aching haze. Every evening the dog walks became ritual—Luna’s leash taut between you, pulling your bodies closer with every joyful lunge. You started wearing the tiniest cotton shorts, the kind that rode up with each step and left the lower curve of your ass bare to the warm night air, paired with thin tank tops that clung to your breasts like a second skin. No bra. Jake noticed. His eyes would linger on the sway of your hips, the way the fabric stretched across your nipples when the breeze hit, and his cargo shorts would thicken noticeably by the second block.

Your arms brushed constantly now—deliberate on both sides. His bicep grazed the side of your breast when Luna yanked left; your bare thigh pressed against his when she zigzagged right. Conversation stayed light, but the undercurrent crackled. He’d tell you about a lecture on soil science; you’d tease him about the way his shoulders still carried the tension from the yard. Every time your skin met, heat bloomed low in your belly, slick gathering between your thighs by the time you reached your gate. You never kissed again. Not yet. But the almost of it hung in the humid air like thunder waiting to break.

Tuesday night everything shifted. The walk had been longer than usual, Luna exhausted and happy, Jake’s hand brushing the small of your back as he said goodnight at your door. You’d gone upstairs flushed and restless, the tank top already peeled halfway off before you remembered the bedroom window. The blinds were still half-open from the morning—wide enough for the streetlight to spill across your bed like an invitation. You told yourself you’d close them in a minute.

Instead you stood in the soft glow, facing the mirror on your dresser. The tank came off slowly, fabric whispering over your nipples until they pebbled tight. You arched just a little, letting the cool air kiss your skin. Then the shorts—hooked thumbs, shimmying them down over the swell of your hips, bending at the waist so the denim dragged deliberately. Naked now, you turned slightly, running your hands up your own sides, cupping your breasts, thumbs circling the aching peaks. The glass reflected everything: the curve of your waist, the dark triangle between your thighs already glistening, the way your lips parted on a soft sigh.