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🍦 Short Story: The Ice Cream Man
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 13:00:14 +0000 UTCHey baby 💕
This one is a little playful, a little slow-burn, and totally summertime fantasy-core. You know I love a good flirtation story—and this one practically wrote itself after I started craving something sweet 🍦
Let me know what your favorite ice cream flavor is!
With sticky fingers and a wicked smile,
– Anna
~~~
It started with a craving.
Not for anything big. Just... something cold. Something sweet. Something that would melt on my tongue and make me forget how ridiculously hot it was outside.
I was laying on the couch in nothing but a tank top and shorts, legs sticking to the fabric, windows open but no breeze to speak of. That kind of July heat that makes you feel like you're melting into your furniture.
And then I heard it.
That sound—the soft, nostalgic music of the ice cream truck, faint but unmistakable, weaving its way through the neighborhood like a siren song.
I shot up.
And yes, I ran outside barefoot like a kid who didn’t care what her neighbors thought. Hair messy, tank slightly askew, and no plan except: get to that truck before it disappears around the corner.
The pavement was warm on my feet, and the sun was already roasting the top of my shoulders by the time I spotted the truck idling just a few houses down.
I slowed as I got closer, not quite running—but not exactly walking either.
And then... I saw him.
He was leaning against the side of the truck, arms crossed, head tilted like he was sizing me up before I even said a word.
Maybe late 20s, early 30s. Definitely not what you'd expect behind an ice cream window. He wasn’t wearing a uniform—just a black tee stretched over a broad chest, and a backwards cap that made him look more like a guy you’d flirt with at a bar than someone serving Bomb Pops to kids.
He smiled when he saw me approach.
“Let me guess,” he said, his voice low and a little amused. “Rocket Pop. Or maybe something classic, like a Choco Taco?”
I smirked. “Wow, you profiling me based on my ice cream energy?”
He shrugged. “Gotta read the customer.”
I leaned on the small counter, eyes narrowing playfully. “And what do I look like I’m in the mood for?”
He paused.
A beat too long.
His gaze dipped for just a second—lower than my eyes—and then back up.
That smirk deepened.
“Something cold,” he said finally. “But messy. Something that drips down your hand if you’re not fast enough.”
That sent a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the weather.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll take a chocolate-dipped cone, smartass.”
He laughed, and I swear it was the kind of sound that could make your stomach flip if you weren’t careful.
“Coming right up.”
He disappeared for a moment, and I fanned myself casually, pretending not to be fully aware of how much I was enjoying this ridiculous flirtation with a stranger in an ice cream truck.
When he came back, he handed it to me—cone in one hand, napkin already ready in the other. Gentlemanly. Dangerous.
I took the cone, our fingers brushing for half a second.
He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.
“Thanks,” I said softly, bringing it to my lips.
The first bite was cold and sharp and exactly what I needed.
He didn’t move, just leaned against the truck again, watching me with this quiet amusement like he was enjoying the show more than he should’ve been.
“Hot day,” I offered, licking a drip off the side.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I think it just got hotter.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Do you use that line on all your sweaty customers?”
He tilted his head. “Just the barefoot ones in short shorts who sprint after my truck like it’s a life-or-death situation.”
I laughed. “What can I say? I take my cravings seriously.”
There was a silence then—not uncomfortable.
Just the kind that hangs between two people who both know something subtle just shifted.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And he looked at me the same way.
Like maybe this was more than just a quick sugar fix.
Like maybe I wasn’t the only one craving something else entirely.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He smiled. “Ethan. You?”
“Anna.”
“Anna,” he repeated slowly, like he was trying it on. “Nice name for a girl who takes ice cream way too seriously.”
I rolled my eyes, biting into the cone again.
More chocolate flaked onto my lip and he reached—without asking—and wiped it off with the edge of the napkin he’d been holding.
I froze.
His fingers were warm. Gentle.
And for a split second, I forgot how to breathe.
He must’ve noticed, because his expression shifted.
He didn’t step back.
“Tell me something,” he said, voice lower now. “What would you have done if I’d already driven away?”
I blinked. “Probably yelled something dramatic. Like ‘I needed that!’ and collapsed in the grass.”
He smiled, but his eyes didn’t leave mine.
“What if I said I needed this too?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t need to.
Instead, I broke the last bit of cone between us and held it out to him.
He took it. His fingers brushed mine again. Slower this time. Intentional.
He popped it into his mouth without breaking eye contact.
We both just stood there. In the middle of a sunbaked cul-de-sac, with kids laughing down the street and sprinklers hissing on nearby lawns.
And something about it—about him—about this ridiculous, unexpected moment...
It made me bold.
“Any chance you’ll come back down this street again tomorrow?” I asked.
He grinned.
“For you? I might just park right outside.”
Comments
Darius McElroy
If I was the ice cream driver, I'd speed past every day just to see you chase me down.
