Friday nights in the park were a tradition. Cheap cider, cheaper speakers, and whatever company showed up. This particular Friday, better company than usual rolled up with the sunset.
Her name was Skye—of course it was—and she arrived with a two-liter bottle of White Lightning, a Bluetooth speaker blasting grime, and the kind of energy that made everyone sit up straighter.
Petite thing, barely came up to my shoulder, but she walked like she was six foot. Red hair—real, not dyed, you could tell by the freckles—tiny denim shorts, a crop top that said "PRINCESS" in rhinestones, and trainers that had seen better days.
"Who's this?" she asked, dropping onto the grass next to me like she'd been invited.
"Connor. You?"
"Skye. Like the island." She cracked open her cider, took a long swig. "You don't look like a Connor."
"What does a Connor look like?"
"Dunno. Softer, maybe. You look..." She squinted at me, considering. "...like trouble."
"Takes one to know one."
She grinned—all crooked teeth and mischief. "True that."
The night wore on. People came and went. The cider flowed. By midnight, it was just me and Skye, lying on the grass, watching stars that the light pollution couldn't quite drown out.
"You ever think about leaving?" she asked, voice soft from the alcohol.
"The park?"
"The estate. This town. All of it." She waved a hand vaguely. "Going somewhere nobody knows you."
"Sometimes. You?"
"All the time." She rolled onto her side, facing me. "But then I'd miss nights like this."
Her hand found mine. Our fingers intertwined without either of us commenting on it.
"Skye."
"Connor."
"Can I kiss you?"
"Took you long enough to ask."
She tasted of cheap cider and expensive dreams. The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, but it escalated fast—her hand in my hair, my hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer.
"Not here," she breathed. "Copse over there. More private."
She grabbed my hand, grabbed the half-empty cider, and led me through the darkness to a cluster of trees at the edge of the park. Hidden from the path, from the streetlights, from everything but the stars.
"Better," she said, pushing me against a tree and resuming the kiss.
Her body pressed against mine—all compact curves and surprising strength. I grabbed her arse, lifted her slightly, felt her legs wrap around my waist.
"Fuck, you're strong," she murmured approvingly.
"Comes with the job."
"What job?"
"Tell you later. Busy now."
I set her down, turned her against the tree, kissed down her neck while my hands explored. Under the crop top, she wasn't wearing a bra—just small, perfect tits with hard nipples that she pressed into my palms.
"Yes—that's good—"
My hand slid lower, into her shorts. No knickers either. Just hot, wet readiness.
"Came prepared, did you?"
"Hoped something like this would happen." She gasped as my fingers found her. "Saw you earlier—thought, 'yeah, I'd do that.'"
"Romantic."
"Shut up and touch me."
I did. My fingers worked her while she braced against the tree, her moans echoing through the empty copse. She came fast—the alcohol had clearly lowered her inhibitions—but she wasn't done.
"Your turn." She dropped to her knees, had my jeans open in seconds. "Been thinking about this since you handed me that first drink."
Her mouth was hot and eager, her technique messy but enthusiastic. Red hair bobbed in the darkness, her eyes looking up at me, catching moonlight.
"Fuck—Skye—"
"Want you," she said, pulling back. "Got a condom?"
"Yeah."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
We managed somehow—her shorts around her ankles, me holding her against the tree, her legs wrapped around me. The bark scraped my hands, but I didn't care. She was tight, wet, and making sounds that were going to get us arrested.
"Quiet—someone'll hear—"
"Don't care—fuck me—"
I gave her what she wanted, each thrust pressing her harder against the tree. She bit her lip, bit my shoulder, bit back the screams that wanted to escape.
"Close—already—don't stop—"
She came with a shudder that shook the whole tree, her body clamping down on mine. I followed seconds later, muffling my groan against her hair.
We stood there for a moment, connected, breathing hard. Somewhere in the distance, a drunk group sang something unrecognizable.
"Well," she said eventually, "that's one way to end a Friday."
"Best Friday in a while."
She kissed me—soft, sweet, a contrast to everything before. "Give us your phone."
I did. She tapped in a number.
"There. Call me sometime. When you're not drunk and I'm not covered in tree bark."
"Promise."
She walked me to the edge of the park, kissed me once more under the streetlight.
"See you around, Connor."
"Count on it, Skye."
She disappeared into the estate, red hair catching the last of the light.
I walked home with the taste of cheap cider and a number that I'd definitely be calling.
Some weekends are better than others.