The world came back in pieces. First the sound—a high, thinning whine like a kettle giving up, collapsing into itself until it was just the hiss of surf against sand. Then the light, that familiar purple-white bloom of the teleporter's beam, fading from the inside of his eyelids. Then the heat. Not the dry burn of the beam, but something else—humid, heavy, salted. It pressed against his skin from every direction at once.
Jimmy's eyes snapped open.
The sky was wrong. A bruised orange-gold, shot through with bands of deep violet, and a sun that hung lower and larger than any sky he'd ever calculated, spilling warmth across a beach that stretched in both directions until it curved out of sight. Pale sand, nearly white, fine as powdered sugar, still holding the day's heat. And behind him, the teleporter—his teleporter, his design, his careful calibrations—sat tilted in the sand, its outer casing blackened along one seam, thin ribbons of smoke curling up from the vent grille. A low crackle came from somewhere inside it, like fat dripping onto a hot element.
Something soft brushed his arm. He looked down.
His stomach dropped through the sand.
He was naked. Completely, utterly, scientifically naked. The kind of naked that left nothing to the imagination, because there was no imagination involved—it was all just there, in the open air, catching the alien breeze. His pale skin, the dusting of freckles across his shoulders, the lean architecture of a body built for lab stools and blueprint tables, all of it on display like a biology exhibit he hadn't signed up for.
His hands flew down. Covered what he could. Which wasn't much.
"What the—" His voice came out two octaves higher than usual. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "What in the name of—"
"Jimmy!"
The word hit him like a static charge. He spun.
Cindy Vortex stood six feet away, and she was just as bare as he was.
His brain short-circuited. Not metaphorically—he could practically hear the surge, the blown fuse, the acrid smell of a processor that had just been fed a problem it had no equations for. Cindy. Cindy Vortex. His rival. His nemesis. The girl who'd beaten him at the science fair three years running and never let him forget a single one of those losses. She stood there on the pale sand with her blonde hair falling in soft waves over shoulders that were suddenly, impossibly bare, and she was looking at him with those sharp hazel eyes wide as saucers.
Then they narrowed.
"This is your fault, Neutron!"
The familiar accusation snapped something back into place. His hands stayed where they were—cupped, strategic, desperately inadequate—but his jaw found its footing. "My fault? My fault? You're the one who tripped over the coolant line!"
"I tripped because you left the coolant line stretched across the lab floor!" She took a step toward him, and the movement did something terrible to the light across her body, and he had to look at the sky. The sky was safe. The sky had no curves. "You and your stupid, haphazard, completely unprofessional—"
"Haphazard?" His voice cracked on the word. He felt his face go hot. "My teleporter has a ninety-seven-point-three percent success rate across all tested configurations! That's not haphazard, that's—that's—"
"That's you not watching where you're going!" She gestured wildly at the smoking machine. "We were arguing, you backed up, I tripped, and now we're—" She stopped. Her eyes went wide again. She looked down at herself. "Oh no."
"Oh no" was an understatement. "Oh no" was the kind of thing you said when you realized you'd left your homework at home. This was something else entirely. This was the kind of situation that required new vocabulary.
"The beam must have—" Jimmy's throat was dry. He swallowed, tried to marshal his thoughts into something resembling scientific order. "Clothing isn't part of the teleportation matrix. It's a biological transport system, keyed to organic matter. Fabric and synthetic materials get—they get left behind. Or scattered. Or—" He gestured vaguely at the air. "It's a known limitation. I was working on a fix."
"You were working on a fix." Cindy's voice had gone flat. Deadly. "You knew this could happen. And you still—"
"I didn't think it would happen! The probability of a mid-transit argument causing a destabilization event was—" He did the math in his head, automatically, the numbers clicking into place. "Point zero three percent. That's within acceptable parameters!"
"Acceptable parameters?" She took another step toward him. Then another. Sand shifted under her bare feet, making soft sounds that seemed far too loud in the quiet between them. "Jimmy, we're naked. On an alien planet. With a broken teleporter. And you're telling me about acceptable parameters?"
"Well, when you put it like that—"
"Put it like that? How else would I put it?" She was closer now. Close enough that he could see the way her chest rose and fell with each hard breath, the way the afternoon light caught the edges of her hair and turned them gold. Close enough that he could smell her—something clean and sharp, like the soap from the lab's decontamination shower, mixed with the salt of the sea air. "We're stranded, Jimmy. We don't know where we are, we don't know how to get home, and we don't have any clothes."
"We have the teleporter." He pointed at the smoking wreck. "It's damaged, but I can fix it. I can fix anything. I just need—" He looked around, cataloging resources. Sand. Sea. Sky. A broken machine. Two naked teenagers. "I need tools. And time. And maybe a schematic or two."
"You need to stop talking."
The words came out low. Quiet. Not like Cindy at all.
Jimmy blinked. "What?"
Cindy's gaze had dropped. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. She was looking at him—at his chest, at the lean planes of muscle that years of hauling equipment and climbing into test vehicles had given him, at the pale skin with its scatter of freckles. Then her eyes snapped back up to his face, and something in them had changed. The anger was still there, but it was different now. Warmer. Heavier. Like a current running beneath the surface of a river.
"I said," she repeated, her voice steady, "you need to stop talking."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.
She took another step. Then another. The distance between them shrank from feet to inches, and Jimmy could feel the heat of her body now, radiating across the small space between them. His hands were still cupped in front of him, a futile gesture of modesty, but she wasn't looking at his hands. She was looking at his face. At his eyes.
"We need to fix this," he managed. His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated himself for it. "The teleporter. We need to—I can fix it, I just need to assess the damage, and maybe if I can find some conductive material, I could—"
"Fix it later."
The words stopped him cold.
Cindy's hand came up. Slow. Deliberate. He watched it move through the air between them, watched her fingers extend toward his chest, and his heart was doing something arrhythmic that he would have loved to analyze if his brain weren't currently occupied with the sight of her approaching hand.
Her palm pressed flat against his skin.
The contact was electric. Her hand was warm—warmer than the alien sun, warmer than the sand beneath his feet—and it spread across his chest like a brand, fingers splayed over his sternum. He could feel his own heartbeat hammering against her palm. Could feel the faint tremor in her fingers, the only sign that she wasn't as composed as she looked.
"Cindy—" His voice came out strangled. "What are you—"
"Fix it later," she said again. Her eyes met his, and the heat in them was unmistakable. Unmissable. The kind of heat that had nothing to do with the alien sun and everything to do with the two of them standing here, bare and breathing, on a beach at the edge of the known universe.
The argument died. Completely. Utterly. It didn't even have the decency to sputter out—it just vanished, like someone had flipped a switch, leaving only the hiss of the surf and the crackle of the dying teleporter and the impossible, electric silence between them.
Her hand stayed on his chest. Her eyes stayed on his. The next move hung in the air, unspoken, unresolved—and Jimmy had never been less sure of what he was going to do next in his entire life.
The silence stretched, and Jimmy became acutely aware of every individual point of contact where her palm met his skin. The heat of her hand had seeped into his sternum, spreading outward in slow rings, and he could feel the faint callus at the base of her thumb—the one she'd gotten from years of gripping lacrosse sticks and lab equipment with the same fierce determination. He'd never noticed it before. He'd never been close enough to notice anything about her, not really, not like this.
A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his ribs, and he felt it travel, felt the air against the wet trail it left behind. The alien sun pressed down on his bare shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the weight of her gaze. She was looking at him like he was a problem she was trying to solve, and Jimmy had been on the receiving end of that look a thousand times across classroom debates and science fair judging tables—but never like this. Never with her hand on his bare chest and nothing between them but air and the smell of salt.
The teleporter crackled behind them, a sharp pop that made him flinch, but Cindy didn't move. Her eyes never left his face. He could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat, a quick flutter against the pale skin, and it occurred to him that she wasn't as calm as she looked. Her fingers pressed a fraction harder against his sternum, and he felt the tremor in them again—fine, almost imperceptible, like a tuning fork that had been struck and was still singing.
His hands were still cupped in front of him, a useless shield that had become increasingly irrelevant over the past thirty seconds. He was acutely aware of the weight of them, of the way his knuckles brushed against his own thighs, of the fact that he was standing naked in front of Cindy Vortex and she had her hand on his chest and neither of them was screaming anymore. The argument had burned out like a spent rocket booster, and what was left in its place was something he didn't have a name for.
"Cindy," he said again, and this time her name came out steadier, almost normal. "What are we doing?"
Her lips parted. Closed. She looked down at her own hand, at the way it lay against his skin, pale against his freckled chest, and something crossed her face—a flicker of surprise, as if she hadn't quite registered the contact until now. But she didn't pull away. Her thumb moved, a small unconscious stroke across his pectoral muscle, and Jimmy's breath caught in his throat.
"I don't know," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost wondering. "I don't know what we're doing."
The admission hung between them, raw and honest in a way that felt more naked than their bodies. Jimmy had heard Cindy Vortex admit defeat exactly once in his life—when she'd conceded the regional science fair after her volcano model had erupted prematurely and covered the judges' table in baking soda paste. This was different. This wasn't defeat. This was something else entirely, something that made his stomach feel like it was full of static.
The surf hissed behind them, a rhythmic push and pull that seemed to match the beat of his heart. He could smell the alien sea now—briny and strange, with a mineral edge that reminded him of the copper sulfate solutions in his lab. Mixed with it was the scent of her, that clean sharp soap smell, and underneath it something else, something warm and faintly sweet that he'd never been close enough to notice before. His nostrils flared, and he watched her eyes track the movement.
"You're staring," she said, but there was no bite in it. Her thumb moved again, tracing a small arc across his skin, and he felt the sensation all the way down his spine.
"You're touching," he replied, and was surprised by how steady his voice came out.
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. It wasn't her usual smirk—the one she deployed before dismantling his arguments in class—but something softer, almost shy. "So I am."
The alien sun hung low on the horizon now, a swollen orange disc that cast long shadows across the pale sand. Jimmy could see the scorch mark where the teleporter's beam had touched down, a dark bloom against the white, and beyond it the smoking wreck of his invention. He should be thinking about that. He should be cataloging the damage, calculating repair timelines, figuring out how to get them home. Instead, all he could think about was the warmth of her palm against his chest and the way her breath had gone shallow and quick.
She was going to kiss him. The thought arrived in his head with sudden, crystalline clarity, and he knew it was true the way he knew that water boiled at a hundred degrees Celsius at standard pressure. It was in the way her eyes had gone dark at the edges, in the way her lips had parted slightly, in the way her weight had shifted forward onto the balls of her feet. Cindy Vortex was going to kiss him, and Jimmy Neutron had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
His mind, the one that could calculate orbital trajectories and reverse-engineer alien technology, had gone completely, utterly blank. Every equation, every formula, every half-formed theory about the nature of the universe had been replaced by a single, overwhelming data point: Cindy Vortex was about to kiss him.
And then she did.
Her lips met his, soft and warm and tasting faintly of salt from the sea air, and Jimmy forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to think. Forgot everything except the impossible, electric fact of her mouth against his. She kissed him like she was solving a problem—methodical at first, testing, probing, as if she expected him to dissolve into a puddle of stammering goo at any moment. And he very nearly did.
But then her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape, and she pulled him closer. The kiss deepened. Changed. Became something less like an experiment and more like a discovery.
Jimmy's hands, still cupped uselessly in front of him, unfurled. They rose on their own accord, bypassing his conscious brain entirely, and settled on her waist. Her skin was warm under his palms, smooth and soft, and he felt her breath hitch against his mouth when his thumbs brushed the jut of her hipbones.
She tasted like the ocean and something sweeter underneath, and Jimmy found himself leaning into her, chasing that taste like it was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking. Her lips parted, and he followed her lead, clumsy and uncertain, his heart hammering so hard he was sure she could feel it through his chest.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Cindy's eyes were wide, her lips pink and slightly swollen, and there was a flush spreading across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the alien sun.
"That was—" Jimmy started.
"Don't." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't ruin it with science."
He closed his mouth. Her finger stayed where it was, a light pressure against his lower lip, and he could feel the faint tremor in her hand again. She was nervous. Cindy Vortex, the girl who could dismantle his arguments in seconds flat, who never backed down from a challenge, who had once arm-wrestled a visiting alien ambassador and won—she was nervous. Because of him.
The realization did something strange to his chest. Made it feel tight and full at the same time, like his ribcage had suddenly become too small for everything he was feeling.
Her finger traced the line of his jaw, feather-light, and Jimmy shivered. Actually shivered, like he'd been dipped in liquid nitrogen. He watched her eyes track the movement, saw the way her pupils dilated, and some distant, analytical part of his brain noted that she was looking at him the way he looked at a particularly elegant equation.
"Cindy," he said, and her name came out rough, scraped raw. "What are we—"
"I told you." Her hand slid to his shoulder, fingers curling into the muscle there. "Stop talking."
She kissed him again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it. Her mouth claimed his with a ferocity that made his head spin, her teeth catching his lower lip, her tongue sweeping across the seam of his mouth until he opened for her without thinking. The taste of her flooded his senses—salt and heat and something that was purely, unmistakably Cindy—and Jimmy made a sound low in his throat that he would have been mortified about if he'd had any brain function left to spare.
Her body pressed against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like a live wire. The soft weight of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her hip beneath his palm, the way she fit against him like she'd been designed for exactly this—it was too much. Not enough. Both at once.
His hands moved on their own, sliding down the curve of her back, feeling the dip of her spine, the swell of her rear. She gasped against his mouth when his palms cupped her, and the sound went straight to his groin. He was hard—had been hard since the moment her hand first touched his chest, if he was being honest—and now, pressed against her like this, there was no hiding it.
Cindy pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and her breath came in quick, shallow pants. She looked at him the way she looked at a problem she was determined to solve, and then her gaze dropped. Lower. Lower still.
Jimmy felt heat flood his face. "I—that's—it's a physiological response, it doesn't mean—"
"Jimmy." Her voice was hoarse. "Shut up."
She dropped to her knees in the sand.
His brain short-circuited again. Completely. Utterly. He watched, frozen, as she knelt before him on the pale sand, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her hazel eyes looking up at him through her lashes. The alien sun caught the edges of her hair, turning them gold, and she looked like something out of a dream—or a very specific kind of fantasy that Jimmy had never admitted to having.
"Cindy, you don't have to—"
"I know." Her hand closed around the base of his cock, and Jimmy's words died in his throat. Her fingers were warm and sure, exploring him like she was cataloging a new specimen, and every brush of her skin against his sent sparks up his spine. "I want to."
She leaned forward, and Jimmy forgot how to exist.
Her tongue touched the tip of him first—a tentative, experimental stroke that made his knees buckle. Then her lips closed around him, hot and wet and incredible, and Jimmy had to grab her shoulders just to stay upright. She took him into her mouth slowly, inch by agonizing inch, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft, and the sensation was so overwhelming that he saw stars.
Not metaphorically. Actual stars. The kind that exploded behind his eyelids when he squeezed them shut.
She pulled back, then took him deeper. Her hand worked the base of him in a rhythm that seemed instinctively perfect, while her mouth focused on the sensitive head, her tongue tracing patterns that made his hips jerk involuntarily. He could hear the wet sounds she made, the soft suck and release, and the sound was so obscene, so intimate, that he felt his face burn.
"C-Cindy—" His voice cracked. "That's—you don't have to—"
She pulled off him just enough to speak, her lips brushing the tip of his cock as she said, "I told you to stop talking, Neutron."
Then she took him deeper. Deeper than he'd thought possible. Her nose pressed against his pelvis, her throat working around him, and Jimmy made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper. He could feel himself hitting the back of her throat, could feel her swallowing around him, and the sensation was so intense that his vision went white at the edges.
"Cindy—I—you're going to—" The words tumbled out of him, broken and desperate. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to—"
She looked up at him. Her eyes met his, dark and knowing, and she didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Her hand moved faster on his shaft, her mouth working him with a determination that was so purely, quintessentially Cindy that he felt something crack open in his chest.
He came with a strangled cry, his hips bucking as he spilled into her mouth. She took it all, swallowing around him, her throat working as she drank him down, and Jimmy watched her through a haze of static and starlight. When she finally pulled off him, her lips were slick and swollen, and there was a drop of his cum at the corner of her mouth that she wiped away with the back of her hand.
"Oh," Jimmy said weakly. His legs felt like they'd been replaced with jelly. "Oh, wow."
Cindy rose to her feet, a flush high on her cheeks, and there was something new in her eyes. Something fierce and hungry that made his spent cock twitch with interest despite everything.
"Your turn," she said, and her voice was rough, scraped raw. "I want—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I want you to touch me."
Jimmy's brain, which had just barely started to reboot, short-circuited again.
She took his hand. Led it to her breast. His palm cupped the soft weight of her, felt the hard peak of her nipple pressing against his skin, and Jimmy forgot every equation he'd ever known.
Her breast fit perfectly in his hand, warm and soft, and he could feel her heartbeat under his palm, quick and fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. The sound went through him like a current, lighting up nerves he hadn't known he had.
"Cindy," he breathed, and her name felt like a prayer on his lips. "You're—you're so—"
"Jimmy." Her voice was strained, almost desperate. "Please."
He didn't know what she was asking for. Didn't know what he was supposed to do. But his hands seemed to know on their own, moving with a confidence that his conscious mind certainly didn't possess. He cupped both her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples, and watched her head fall back, watched her lips part on a soft moan.
"Is this—" He swallowed. "Is this okay?"
"Yes." Her hands came up to cover his, pressing them harder against her. "God, yes. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He explored her with the same methodical attention he applied to his inventions, cataloging every reaction, every shiver, every soft sound she made. He learned that she liked it when he circled her nipples with his thumbs. That she gasped when he pinched them gently. That she moaned when he leaned down and took one in his mouth.
The taste of her was salt and something sweet, and the sound she made when his tongue touched her nipple was worth more than any patent he'd ever filed. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, and Jimmy felt a surge of power so heady it almost made him dizzy.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention, and Cindy made a sound that was almost a sob. "Jimmy—please—I need—"
"What do you need?" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his lips slick with her skin. "Tell me."
Her eyes met his, and there was something raw and vulnerable in them that he'd never seen before. "I need you to touch me. Down there. Please."
Jimmy's mouth went dry. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and let his hand slide down her stomach. Her skin was warm under his palm, trembling slightly, and when his fingers reached the thatch of blonde curls at the junction of her thighs, she made a sound that was half gasp, half whimper.
"Is this—" He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Jimmy." Her voice was fierce, even through the breathlessness. "If you stop now, I will never forgive you."
He didn't stop.
His fingers parted her folds, and he felt her—slick and hot and so wet that his touch slid easily through her. She gasped when he found her clit, her hips bucking against his hand, and Jimmy watched her face as he explored her. Watched her eyes flutter shut. Watched her lips part on ragged breaths. Watched the way her body responded to every touch, every stroke, like she was an instrument and he was learning to play her.
"More," she breathed. "Please, Jimmy, more."
He slid one finger inside her, and she clenched around him, hot and tight. The sensation was incredible—the feel of her, the sound of her moans, the way she moved against his hand—and Jimmy felt himself growing hard again despite having just come.
He added a second finger, and Cindy cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Yes—right there—don't stop—"
He didn't stop. He curled his fingers the way he'd read about in the biology texts he'd definitely not checked out from the library for personal reasons, and Cindy's whole body shuddered. Her inner walls clenched around him, and she cried out his name as she came, her body arching against him, her thighs trembling.
Jimmy watched her, transfixed. Watched the flush spread across her chest. Watched her lips part on soundless cries. Watched the way her body surrendered to the pleasure he was giving her.
When she finally stilled, her eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, and she looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
"That was—" she started.
"Don't." He echoed her earlier words back at her. "Don't ruin it with words."
A laugh bubbled up out of her, surprised and bright, and she pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like salt and victory. When she broke away, her eyes were shining.
"I want more," she said. "I want—" She hesitated, and for a moment she looked almost shy. "I want you. All of you. I want to feel you inside me."
Jimmy's heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "Cindy, are you sure? Because—we're young, and this is—I mean, we're not—we don't have any—"
"I'm on the pill." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was reciting a chemical formula. "For my skin. And I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He stared at her. "You've done the math?"
"I've done the math." Her hand slid down his chest, past his stomach, closing around his cock. He gasped at the contact, his hips jerking. "Now are you going to make me wait, or are you going to fuck me?"
Jimmy's higher brain functions shut down completely.
He kissed her, hard and desperate, and she kissed him back with equal fervor. They sank to the sand together, a tangle of limbs and heat, and Jimmy found himself positioned between her thighs, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick entrance.
Cindy looked up at him, her eyes dark with want, and nodded.
He pushed inside her.
The sensation was overwhelming—hot and tight and so incredibly wet that he slid in almost effortlessly. Cindy gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and Jimmy froze, terrified he'd hurt her.
"Are you—"
"Move." Her voice was strained. "Please, Jimmy, move."
He moved.
Slowly at first, pulling out until only the tip remained, then pushing back in with a care that made his muscles burn with the effort of restraint. But Cindy wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the friction was so exquisite that his control shattered.
He thrust into her with a rhythm that was clumsy and desperate and perfect. The sound of their bodies meeting, the wet slap of skin against skin, filled the air along with their ragged breaths and broken moans. Cindy's nails raked down his back, and the sting only made him harder, made him thrust deeper.
"Yes—Jimmy—yes—" Her words came out in fragments, broken by gasps and moans. "Don't stop—please—I'm so close—"
He could feel her tightening around him, could feel the flutter of her inner walls that signaled her approaching climax, and he drove into her harder, faster, chasing the edge with her.
"Come with me," he gasped against her ear. "Please, Cindy, come with me."
She did. Her body arched beneath him, her inner walls clenching around his cock in waves, and the sensation sent him over the edge with her. He spilled inside her with a groan that was almost a sob, his hips pumping through the aftershocks, filling her with everything he had.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together on the alien sand, both of them breathing hard. Jimmy could feel her heart beating against his chest, could feel the pulse of her body still fluttering around him.
"Well," Cindy said finally, her voice hoarse and satisfied. "That was certainly a more productive use of our time than arguing."
Jimmy laughed, the sound surprised and bright. "I think that's the first time you've ever admitted I was right about something."
She swatted his chest weakly. "Don't push it, Neutron."
He pushed himself up on his elbows to look at her. Her hair was spread out on the sand like a golden halo, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, and she looked so beautiful that his chest ached with it.
"Cindy," he said, and the word felt different now. Heavier. More important. "I—"
"I know." She reached up and touched his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Me too."
The alien sun sank lower on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet, and Jimmy lay there with Cindy in his arms, feeling the weight of what had just happened settle over them like a blanket. The teleporter still smoked behind them. They were still stranded on an unknown planet. But somehow, none of that seemed to matter as much as the girl looking up at him with soft eyes and a softer smile.
"We should probably figure out how to get home," she said eventually.
"Probably." He didn't move. Neither did she.
"Later," she decided, and pulled him down for another kiss.
Jimmy let himself be pulled, let himself sink into the warmth of her, and for the first time since the teleporter had malfunctioned, he wasn't thinking about calculations or repairs or escape routes. He was thinking about her. About them. About the fact that, stranded on a barren beach planet with the girl who'd been his rival for as long as he could remember, he'd somehow found something he hadn't even known he was looking for.
The alien sun kissed the horizon, and Jimmy Neutron kissed Cindy Vortex, and for a moment, neither of them had anywhere else they'd rather be.