It’s too hot for clothes, too bright for shame. The bottle’s sweating in my hand, condensation sliding down my wrist before you take it from me.
We drink fast—green apple, lemon pulp, peach fuzz—bubbles bursting against our lips like kisses we don’t have time to finish. The fizz is messy, impatient, catching in your throat with that half-laugh, half-gasp.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. I watch the drip run down your arm. We’re leaning into each other, warm skin to warm skin, the air thick with sunscreen, cut grass, and the quiet pop of another cap coming loose.
This isn’t romance. It’s survival. And survival tastes damn good.
Pair with grilled corn slicked in butter, chilled melon torn apart with your fingers, or whatever’s cold enough to share in the shade.
