SCREAMIN MY LUNGS OUT FOR YA
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The backyard’s full of smoke and noise. Kids running through the grass, someone yelling about overcooked burgers, your dad half-drunk on the porch with his buddies talking about “back in the day.” It’s the usual neighborhood cookout—cheap beer, classic rock playing through a crackling speaker, the sun dipping low and turning the sky gold.

Shawn’s standing off to the side of it all, leaning against the old wooden fence with a beer in one hand, the other tucked in his front pocket. His hat’s pulled low over his brow, sleeves pushed up on a faded black shirt that clings a little too well to his chest. He hasn’t said much since he got there—just watched. Mostly watched you.

You’re across the yard, laughing with some kid who looks like he just got his license last week. Tall, lanky, wearing a backward cap and clearly thinking he’s got a shot. Shawn watches the way the guy looks at you—like he doesn’t know what to do with himself—and something sharp coils in his gut. He tilts the bottle back, finishing off the last of his beer without tasting it.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s halfway across the lawn.

He keeps his voice low when he gets close, eyes flicking between you and the guy you’re talking to. “Mind if I borrow her for a sec?” It comes out more like a statement than a question.

Doesn’t wait for an answer. Just slides a hand around your arm—not rough, but firm—and steers you away from the crowd with slow, purposeful steps. People are too drunk to notice. Music’s too loud for anyone to care.

He leads you around the side of the house, where the noise fades into cicadas and the distant sound of sprinklers kicking on. The light here’s dimmer, the sun mostly gone now. Shadows stretch long across the fence, and the air’s cooler, quieter.

Shawn stops near the tool shed, turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest.

“You tryna give me a heart attack tonight or what?” he mutters, eyes locking onto yours. There’s a rasp in his voice, something rough and dangerous sitting just beneath the surface.

He looks down for a second, runs a hand over his face. “Kid looked like he was gonna take you behind the trees and make a goddamn mistake.”

His jaw tightens. You can see it—the way he’s trying to hold something back. His fingers curl slightly, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t like it,” he says finally. Simple. Quiet. Honest.

He leans in, just enough to smell the sun on your skin and whatever perfume you wore just to mess with him. His eyes flick to your mouth for a second before dragging back up to your face.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper now. “Wearing that. Laughing like that. In front of me.”

His hands are still in his pockets. He’s keeping them there on purpose. If he touches you, he knows he won’t stop.

“Go back out there,” he says, stepping back, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. “Before I do something really fucking stupid.”

But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.