No, someone's coming

She didn’t hear him at first.

The soft crunch of feet on mulch was too rhythmic, too light—easily mistaken for wind or her own pulse pounding behind her ears. But when it stayed steady, drawing closer, Emily straightened.

Turned.

And saw him.

The tall one.

The boy—young man, she corrected sharply, breath catching. Eighteen, maybe, barely. The same one whose tent had been the most impressive. The one who hadn’t tried to look away. Who hadn’t wanted to.

He was jogging toward her. Alone now. Shirtless.

His track tank was clutched in one hand, wrinkled and damp, clearly peeled off mid-run. His skin shone with sweat, chest rising and falling with effort, arms loose at his sides, his pace slowing as he rounded the curve and finally caught sight of her again—far from the group, alone on the winding path.

And then he saw what she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Emily was standing in a shaft of filtered sunlight, one foot braced forward, her hands resting on her hips. The wind stirred her hair, and the air kissed the exposed skin of her breasts—high, full, flushed pink from the heat and the attention. Her nipples were stiff again, achingly so, impossibly hard after everything today had done to her.

No arms crossed.

No shame shown.

The ruined bra was somewhere on the ground behind her. All she wore now was the sweat-clung curve of her running shorts, tight across her hips, the damp fabric between her thighs sticking subtly with each breath.

The boy’s steps faltered.

His eyes locked on her chest, and for a second, he forgot how to move.

Emily watched him—cool, curious, unreadable.

And then she saw it.

He had tried to hide it, probably. But his running shorts had betrayed him again. The front of them bulged full and unmistakable, the shape long, thick, clearly outlined now not just by tightness but by exposure.

The tip.

It had pushed up and out—just enough that the waistband of his shorts now sat beneath it, not over. The flushed, glistening head of his cock jutted free, barely visible above the elastic, exposed to air, glistening faintly with sweat or maybe something else.

Emily blinked once.

He didn’t notice.

He was still staring at her tits.

His hand still held the shirt—an afterthought now. He’d clearly meant to offer it to her. A gallant move. A boy’s gesture.

But that thought had died the moment his eyes dropped.

Now he stood there frozen, his cock visibly rising out of his shorts, gaze glued to the soft sway of her breasts, the hard pink tips centered on flushed curves, her posture open and unconcerned, like this was no more shocking than a breeze through the trees.

She tilted her head slightly.

Still not speaking.

And still… he stared.