A November wind bit into our skin as he walked me to his home, yet the air was of July, humid, thick enough with one-sided tensions to choke. We turned into a well-to-do development of homes, and I wasn't at all surprised; men with summer stares and smiles, faces free of tiresome worry lines, were sure to come from cul-de-sacs like the one we turned into, were sure to come from beautiful two-story homes with forest green front doors like the one he was opening for us now. He led the way confidently, as men with summer stress do, and showed me the way to his kitchen, where he offered me something to drink. I was fine, thank you, and as he grabbed himself a root beer from the fridge, I found myself a seat and set my books out in front of me. The pop-hiss of an opening soda can sounded just behind me, and though there was a more convenient seat just beside me, he took the chair across the table and set his sullen sights upon the surface below him, that beautiful summer stare dead in an empty zone.

An hour later, his eyes were in the same place, his lips having only opened long enough to utter the occasional monotone frustration.

"Here, it's like this. All you have to--" Finally, some emotion showed. He kicked at a table leg, pushing it inches closer to me angrily. My heart broke a little. I stood up and slid my book to his end of the table, bending over his shoulder to point at the problem, and said with utmost patience, "You just take this here and--"

But he had no more patience for any of it, and I felt his palms shove into my chest and push me into the edge of the table before I had a chance to feel any shock. "Why don't you just back to the fuck off?"

My heart jumped into my throat, but adrenaline flooded my veins, anger pulsating at him, and I stepped to him, shoving his chest in return. "A little defensive, don't you think?"

The thick July air snapped into shattered December icicles, and his summer stare blazed at me fore a mere moment before his fist hooked into my cheek, sending me sprawling. He advanced on me; and I clambered to my feet, blocking another blow. I was far too livid for heartbreak anymore; I was only trying to help, and here he was throwing punches. I was merely pointing out the fact that I had observed of him: he avoided male contact at all costs, and seemed to surround himself with women to throw any suspecting individuals off.

But as he walked toward me, the facts no longer mattered, and he received a hit of my own to his face.

He punched, I ducked and then dove, and all hell broke loose. Chairs were knocked across the floor as we tussled, fists thrown into sides, stomachs, faces. He grabbed a handful of my hair, and before I could block the impending punch, his summer stare locked onto mine, sending a November chill down my spine before his lips pressed forcefully into my own.

My heart exploded as an August sun, leaving me choking on June surprise. I couldn't breathe, couldn't see, my kisses found his on their own accord as I floundered for air, for life. The tussle hadn't ended, only the hands were exploring palms rather than diving fists, bodies close, closer, closest. My own body came to its most alert, and I pressed my hand down his abdomen, lower, lower down his body, even lower before a fist crashed into the side of my head, ploughing me off of him and setting stars to wink in front of my eyes. By the time I had collected myself enough to stand up, I found my bag stuffed full of all my books to be shoved into my chest.

"Get out."

That summer stare of his burnt into my own. "But-"

"Just get the fuck out!"

The anger having subsided, I had room for my heart to crumble, and I left as quickly as feet would allow.