The first cramp hits me as we swing side by side on the rusted chain swings, the evening light turning the grass orange. I ignore it. Bite down on the inside of my cheek and push it away. But the pressure builds slow and heavy, a deep ache low in my gut that says no, no, no, not now, not here, not with her right next to me saying something about the clouds looking like cotton candy.

I nod. Say "yeah" like I heard her. But I didn't. All I can feel is the weight shifting inside me, that familiar dread blooming from somewhere deep, a pressure that won't be ignored much longer. The swing creaks under me. My knuckles are white on the chains.

"You okay, Miller?" Her voice cuts through the static in my head. I glance over. Maya's stopped swinging, her dark eyes fixed on me, one eyebrow cocked. She sees too much. She always sees too much.

"Fine." The word comes out high. I clear my throat. "Just—leg cramp. From the walking earlier."

She doesn't look convinced. But she pushes off again, her sneakers scuffing the gravel, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

The pressure doubles. A hot, urgent pulse low in my bowels that makes my stomach clench. I squeeze my thighs together, rock forward on the swing, try to hold it in with sheer willpower. But it's too far gone. The cramp twists, hard and insistent, and I know—I know—I'm about to lose this fight.

My hands shake on the chains. Sweat beads on my upper lip. I should stand up. Walk away. Excuse myself. But my legs won't move. The pressure builds until it's a physical presence, a tide rising, and then the first wave breaks.

It comes out hot and heavy. A thick, solid mass that pushes against my underwear, fills the seat of my pants with a warmth that spreads fast. I feel the weight of it settling, the fabric stretching, the bulge becoming unmistakable. The release is visceral, almost a relief—a surrender that my body takes without asking permission.

I stop swinging. Freeze. The pressure eases, but the weight stays, heavy and wet against my skin. The smell starts almost immediately, rising from the fabric, sour and earthy, a scent I know too well. My stomach flips.

Please don't notice. Please don't notice. Please—

"Shawn."

Her voice is soft. Curious. Not accusatory. But it lands like a punch.

I don't look at her. Can't. I stare at my sneakers, at the gravel between the swings, at anything but her face.

"What's that smell?"

She sniffs. I hear it. A small, deliberate inhale, and then a pause.

"No, seriously. What is that?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. I don't smell anything." My voice is thin. A lie so obvious it hurts.

She sniffs again. I hear her shift on the swing, the chains clinking. "It's like—" She trails off. Then, quieter: "Shawn."

I stand up. The movement is awkward, stilted, because I'm trying to keep my legs together, trying to hide the shape of what's in my pants. The warm weight shifts against me, and I feel it press against the fabric, a dark stain already blooming through the khakis, spreading down my thigh.

"I gotta go." My voice cracks. "I forgot—I have to—my mom—"

I start walking. Fast. Toward the parking lot, toward the trees, anywhere away from her. The slide's metal surface is still warm as I pass it, but I don't stop. I just move, one foot in front of the other, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Behind me, I hear the swing creak. Then footsteps on gravel.

"Shawn. Shawn, wait."

Her voice is closer now. She's following. My heart hammers. I walk faster, but I can't run—not with the load in my pants, the thick weight pressing against my leg, the smell following me like a shadow.

"Shawn, stop." Her hand catches my wrist. Gentle. But firm.

I stop. I have to. Because she's holding me, and I can't pull away without turning around, and I don't want her to see my face.

"Look at me."

I shake my head. My throat is tight. My eyes are burning.

"Please."

Something in her voice breaks through. Not teasing. Not sharp. Soft. Like she's asking, not demanding.

I turn. Slowly. My eyes stay on the ground, on her sneakers, on the gravel between us. I can smell myself. The thick, earthy stench rising from my pants. I know she can smell it too.

"Shawn." She says my name again, and this time it's barely a whisper. "Did you—"

She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to. The stain on my pants has spread, dark and wet, the khaki gone brown, the fabric clinging to my thigh. I want to disappear. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

But she doesn't let go of my wrist.

"It's okay," she says. And she sounds like she means it.

I shake my head. "It's not. It's not okay. I—" My voice breaks. "I can't—I keep—"

I don't have words. I just stand there, shaking, my face hot, my eyes fixed on the ground, waiting for her to leave, to laugh, to say something cruel.

But she doesn't.

She steps closer. Her hand moves from my wrist to my shoulder. Squeezes. "I'm not going anywhere."

I look up. Her eyes are dark and steady. She's not smiling. Not smirking. Just looking at me like I'm human, like I'm still a person, even with shit in my pants.

And for a moment—just a moment—I believe her.