"...as we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for..."

Dylan’s breath was heavy and humid; it came in quick gasps and long drawn-out exhales which he breathed against my ear and neck as our bodies pressed together in that dusty attic room. That summer, the summer I was fourteen, was the hottest I’ll ever remember, with the heat of the day winding itself up the back staircase of that old house and trapping itself in my room. Mom and Dad fought like warring countries back then, and the only escape I found was in the nights Dylan would sneak through the kitchen door and up the stairs to me.
It always happened without warning; I would wake from dreams of pink trees and green skies to callused palms sliding across my stomach and soft lips pressing against the spot where my jaw met my neck. We spoke no words within those walls, just moved and touched and kissed. The freckles on Dylan’s tan shoulders seemed to burn up through the layers of his skin, and I would find a new one every few seconds. He lay on his stomach as I played connect-the-dots, tracing my fingers along his spine and the places where his wings should have been.
Dylan turned so we were nose to nose, breathing in my exhaled sigh. His green eyes glinted in the flat twilight of my bedroom—the plate glass windows hadn’t been washed in ages and the dusty film across them filtered moonlight the same way a sieve might drain the water away from freshly washed strawberries. Noses touching gave way to lips touching and we tumbled again. Dylan’s fingertips, rough from helping his father with the farm, walked across my naked body so deftly that I didn’t even notice his calluses. His hand was at my neck, sliding around and entangling itself in my hair to hold my head against his shoulder. I kissed his collarbone then, tasting the salty beads of sweat that formed there.
When it was over, Dylan and I lay spread-eagled on the bed, both of us staring at the ceiling and the dimly glowing stick-on plastic stars I’d glued there years ago. We tossed in sleep under tangled covers until dawn began to split the sky. Then Dylan slowly retreated from me, with quiet kisses at the top of the stairs, promising of other trysts to come.
He showed up on the back porch later that day with a fistful of radiantly blue cornflowers. “For you, ma’am,” he said, handing them to my mother. She gasped and pretended to be flattered by his meager offering, fluttering off to fill a vase with tap water. “And you, sir,” he continued as he handed my father hand-hewn maple box with inlaid cypress trim. Dad examined it carefully, running his fingers across the seams of the wood to check the joinery. I watched the proceedings from the back staircase, perched on the second stair from the top, knees to my chest. “Sir, I’d like permission to date your daughter.”
My father sat back and looked at him, “Coulda fooled me, son. I thought you already were.”
Panic washed over Dylan’s face as he stammered, “Um, no, sir.”
“Well, y’all spend enough time together, you might as well be.”
Dylan knew that was as good of a blessing as he was going to get, and he thanked my father and began to leave. As he passed the screen door he saw me at the top of the stairs and flashed me a grin and a thumbs-up.