Steve’s backyard wasn’t crowded or loud—just the soft hum of music from a speaker near the pool and the quiet laughter of two of his friends stretched out on lawn chairs. The string lights above the patio cast a warm glow, reflecting off the still water. It felt casual, almost too casual, and you weren’t sure why that made you more nervous.

You and Steve weren’t dating. You hadn’t labeled anything. But there had been stolen kisses before—pressed against his car, lingering too long at his front door—and now he’d invited you over like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything.

Steve hovered near you most of the night, bumping his shoulder against yours, teasing you under his breath, eyes always flicking back to you like he couldn’t help it. Every now and then his fingers brushed your arm, just enough to make your stomach flip.

You stood near the edge of the pool, looking down into the water, when Steve leaned in close behind you.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, voice low and playful, “it’s not that cold.”

You laughed and shook your head. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit, Harrington.”

He grinned at that, the kind of grin that always meant trouble. Before you could react, he nudged you—lightly at first, like he was joking. You turned to protest, and that’s when he pushed just enough for you to lose your balance.

“Steve—!”

The world tipped, and suddenly you were hitting the water with a sharp splash. The cold shocked the breath right out of you. When you surfaced, hair plastered to your face and clothes heavy with water, you heard laughter—but it wasn’t cruel, just surprised and a little guilty.

Steve was already at the edge, crouched down, concern flashing across his face beneath that stupid, charming smile.

“Okay—okay, I’m sorry,” he said, holding out his hand. “That might’ve been—”

You grabbed his hand, and instead of pulling you out, he let himself fall forward with a laugh, crashing into the pool beside you. Water splashed everywhere, and his friends groaned from their chairs.