"Take off your pants."

Though I do think that we should probably talk about that kiss he'd just given me, breaking a large number of our rules, I don't think the discussion should start with those words.

We were not greeting each other, and it definitely lasted longer than three seconds... and yes, there was some tongue involved. Not a lot, but it was there. I noticed it. I usually notice when foreign objects enter my mouth. I did not imagine it either!

The only thing I imagined was my heart skipping enough beats to render me unconscious for a moment.

I blink at Ethan, the shock and horror his instruction inspires probably showing on my face. He arches his eyebrows and cocks his head, indicating my muddy shorts to clarify his order.

"You're dirty; you're not getting on my baby in that state," he smirks, and now I know he's messing with me. "You can keep on your undies unless they're dirty too."

I narrow my eyes at him and scoff very unfemininely. "You look worse," I inform him, and when his grin broadens into a full 1000-megawatt smile, calling his dimples out to play, I hastily add, "If you take off your pants, you're dead!"

Glaring at him, I step closer to the motorcycle and, turning, I wipe my bottom against it and then, facing it again, press muddy handprints at artistic intervals and finally, leaning over onto the seat, I wiggle my torso all over it, transferring as much wet mud as I can. I'm making it nice and dirty while Ethan presses his lips together, giving me a narrow-eyed, long-suffering look, watching my creativity with folded arms.

"It's a dirt bike, Ethy; it literally has the word dirt in its name."

He doesn't acknowledge my cleverness; he just turns away from me and snatches up the shirt I'd hung from the bike's handlebar earlier.

"Thanks for the show," he grins, turning to look at me. "That was pretty hot. Here, put this on," he surprises me before I can comment, handing me the clean, dry t-shirt. To be honest, I am dreading the windy ride home wearing the wet t-shirt, currently clinging to me like a second skin.

"It will just get dirty too," I say, looking down at my smeared, wet top and holding his out to him to take back.

"Take that one off first, obviously," he says, and when I just gape at him, he gives a dramatic sigh and turns his back to me. "Go ahead," he says, and after making sure that he is not somehow watching me in one of the bike's rear-view mirrors, I quickly change tops. It feels good to have the sun-warmed material against my skin, and it smells surprisingly good too. I smile when I recognise the fragrance of the cologne I'd given him for his birthday earlier this year. It suits him so well.

"Thanks," I say, and when he turns to face me again, I run my eyes over his mud-streaked chest and abdomen, hastily averting my gaze when a cocky grin sneaks onto his face.

I'm not admiring him!

'Wh-what about you? You're going to be c-cold," I point out, and now it is clear to him too that I wasn't just enjoying the view; I was making a medical assessment. The only reason he is still giving me that knowing grin is because he's a moron.

"Nah, I'm hot-blooded," he shrugs, taking my wet top from the motorcycle seat where I'd draped it. That is true; Ethan is seldom, if ever, cold, even in winter; he rarely bundles up, while I often have to wear layers in summer. I watch with growing confusion when he wrings out the worst of the water and pulls the t-shirt on over his head.

"What are you doing?!" I giggle, shaking my head.

It's a really old t-shirt with a Barbie fairy on the front, it is faded, and the fairy has lost most of her sparkle, but she is still there, waving her wand and grinning a little dementedly now, probably as confused as I am to find herself plastered on Ethan's chest.

Yes, it is depressing that I still fit into some of my childhood clothing, but it always consoles me when I remember that this specific t-shirt was a few sizes too big for me when I bought it more than five years ago. I grew into it over the years, and it is now finally almost the right size...

Unlike Ethan's t-shirt, which is more of a dress on me than a top, mine is of little use to him. He barely managed to pour himself into it. On him, it is an extremely tight-fitting crop top, only just covering his upper chest, and his biceps are going to split the sleeves open any second.

"I can't ride around town half naked," he answers my question, giving me a scandalised look, causing me to laugh even more.

"Oh, my word! You're always riding your bike around town half-naked."

"Yeah, but now I have my girlfriend with me, and I have to think about her reputation." I'm not sure, but he actually seems to be serious. Well, at least partially, which leaves me feeling marginally touched by the gesture.

"Nahte, what do you think it is going to do to my reputation if we're seen leaving this area wearing each other's shirts?"

He is blinking at me, not comprehending the implications at first and then the penny drops, and he narrows his eyes, grinning again. "It will be very good for my reputation."

I try to glare at him, but I really cannot look at him wearing the Barbie fairy stretched tortuously thin over his chest anymore. It is too disturbing and, in an extremely perverted way, rather hot with all those muscles showing up all over the place over there.

"Ethan, please take that off," I beg, burying my face in my hands.

"Really? You're always telling me to put on some clothes."

"That's when you're wandering around wearing only a towel, making me nervous."

"Seeing me in a towel makes you nervous?" he grins, giving me the Ethan look that only works on his simpering fans, not on mature, sophisticated, desensitized victims of his obscenities, such as myself.

"Fear of you losing the thing is what makes me nervous," I say, feigning indifference, while I loop the strap of the bag containing our shoes and phones crossways over my shoulder and waist. Ethan takes one of the helmets dangling from the motorcycle handles and plops it on my head, strapping it in place.

Riding on the back of his motorcycle towards the mudflats was a little awkward, but he was wearing his big t-shirt at the time; now he is barely wearing a top, and my fingers keep on connecting with his skin, causing my brain to drown in unwelcome memories of that kiss he'd given me.

I cannot afford to think about it, but no matter what I try, it just keeps on pushing its way into my thoughts. Memories of Ethan are as obnoxious as the boy himself.

What upsets and confuses me is that it was supposed to suck! Why didn't it suck? It hasn't sucked even once! Why doesn't any of this suck? It should! It's weird, isn't it? Am I that lonely that I could actually enjoy moments of light intimacy with a cave-dweller like Ethan?

While the environment around us shifts and changes from natural to urban as we speed along the quiet road, I force-feed my brain with memories of all the most annoying interactions I've ever had with Ethan through the years. I find it highly disturbing that the only thing my efforts are achieving is to make me giggle to myself.

"Are you okay?" Ethan asks, stopping at a traffic light and turning slightly to check on me.

"No," I answer honestly. "I haven't been okay since the bridge situation on Friday."

"Kicks, did you get really hurt when we fell off the rock?" he asks, sounding truly worried. "I thought you were fine."

"Ethan, I don't think I've been fine since the day I met you 12 years ago."

"What?"

"Nothing, the light's green," I mutter, tightly wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning my head against his back, forcing him to return to his original position.

He doesn't park the motorcycle at the kitchen door, as he always does. Instead, he veers off the driveway into the narrow alley between the fence and the wall bordering his bedroom.

"Thank you, Ethy," I say, dismounting and fumbling with the strap of the helmet. "For everything." I shake my hair loose when my head is finally freed from captivity and slip the bag off my shoulder, placing it on the motorcycle seat so that I can remove his shoes and phone from it.

I postpone the task in favour of helping him unwind a section of the garden hose from the spool mounted on the wall when it gets stuck, the way it always does. Ethan takes such good care of his motorcycle, but I don't feel bad about getting it all muddy; it always looks a lot worse after virtually every excursion he goes on with his friends.

"It was fun," he says, pointing the hose pipe nozzle at his feet, and then he pulls the trigger at its base, bringing it up, directs a strong spray of sun-warmed water at my feet and legs. It is only warm for a few seconds, and then it is ice cold.

"Ethan!" I yell in shock, though I now realise that I should've seen this coming. I gasp and splutter, trying to protect my face with my arms, when he runs the water up and down my body, stepping around me to cover me from all sides.

"What?" he asks, finally stopping the flow. "Your feet and your ass were dirty. Were you gonna walk into your house like that?"

He does have a point.

"I don't generally walk on my head," I huff, watching water drip from my hair onto my nose and feeling a multitude of little rivers running from my scalp down my neck. "And you could've warned me and done it with a little less enthusiasm!"

Ethan shrugs, grinning at me. "You look really hot wearing my shirt; I tried to cool you down," he says, making absolutely no sense at all. "I was helping."

I hold my hand out for the hosepipe, and he gives it to me, standing with his arms and legs spread, a willing target, while I rinse the mud from his body, putting in a lot of enthusiasm of my own.

"You're an idiot," I say when I stop the water and hand him the nozzle.

"I already know," he shrugs. "You're always telling me that."

I step back when he leans towards me, clearly about to give me my goodbye kiss.

"You've already had all the kisses you're getting today, and future ones are up for debate," I babble defensively, suddenly struggling to breathe properly again. It's the cold water dripping from every part of my body, causing me to gasp like a dying fish.

That is all it is.

"I didn't hear you complaining," Ethan says in a husky voice, his eyes tracing every line of my face as if he is trying to memorise it to draw later, even though he cannot even draw a crooked line. His irises are once again swallowed by the darkness that freaked me out so badly earlier, and not ready to understand what is happening to him, I take another step back.

"You caught me off guard," I mutter and spinning on my heel, I hurry to the opening in the fence our parents wisely created years ago to make travel between our yard and theirs easier after I got hurt while climbing the fence with the twins.

I hear Ethan calling my name, and instead of causing me to turn back, the sound spurs me into a sprint to our back door.

♂♀