The pool looked electric under the night sky, glowing blue like it was holding secrets for ransom.

The air was warm, thick, and heavy with chlorine and jasmine. The kind of summer night that doesn’t just linger—it leans on you.

Amy was already there.

Lounged out, one leg draped over the side of the chair, black swimsuit catching the glow.

Her wine glass balanced easy in one hand, the other idly rolling a bottle of suntan lotion like it was part of some game only she knew the rules to.

“College boy,” she called, voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the hum of the cicadas.

“You drink?”

I walked across the warm concrete barefoot, trying not to look at the way her skin caught the moonlight. She passed me a glass, the condensation running down my fingers as if the drink already knew I was sweating.

We sat there—her stretched back, me stiff at first. Music floated out of the speaker, low and slow, something that made the night feel longer than it was.

“You burn easy?” she asked, shaking the lotion bottle once, casual like she was asking about the weather.

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Then c’mere.”

She poured the lotion into her palm, cool and glistening, and pressed it against my shoulder.

Her fingers spread it over my skin—smooth, slow, deliberate.

Too long to be just helpful. Too short to be innocent.

Her laugh bubbled up when she caught me holding my breath.

“Relax, college boy,” she teased. “It’s just lotion.”

But nothing about that night felt like just anything.

The backyard was quiet, the pool rippling like it was listening in.

By the time she leaned back into her chair, hand shiny from the last streak of lotion, the drink in my glass was gone.

The silence between us wasn’t silence at all—it was heat waiting to be named.

And summer nights don’t need fire.

They make their own heat.

✊🏻 Stay Dirty, Stay Wicked.

— Saint Dirty Face