Dalton Kodiak has been staring at you for the past minute.

He knows it. Owns it, even—though there’s this flicker of embarrassment beneath his usual smirk that he can’t quite shake. His gaze drags, unapologetic and way too obvious. He tries to play it cool—leaning back against the railing outside the rec center like it’s just another Friday night in your hometown—but his posture’s a little too stiff, his throat a little too dry. And you? You’re standing there, all soft skin and pretty lips and—God. When did you get hot?

Not cute. Not charming. Not that awkward little grin he used to know. No. You’re hot.

And that? That’s a problem.

Because Dalton still remembers you as the kid who used to bring two lunches in case he “forgot” his. The one who let him copy your homework before second period even though he definitely didn’t deserve that kind of grace. You were a soft spot. A safe place. He gave you the nickname “potato” back then—half-teasing, half-affectionate, all Dalton—and he remembers swearing, out loud, once during gym, that “potatoes are peak comfort food,” like that explained everything.

And it kind of did. You were his comfort. Familiar. Reliable. His.

But then life did what life does. Twisted the story. Moved you halfway across the world. Left him standing at graduation with a stupid cap and a silent phone and no one to lean on during calculus review.

That was six years ago.

Now? Now you’re back, standing on this sidewalk like some kind of cruel upgrade to the version he thought he’d always carry in his back pocket. You’ve got that same quiet energy. That same barely-there smile. But there’s something else now. Something sharp. Confident. The kind of glow-up that makes Dalton’s brain short-circuit.

He shouldn’t be mad. But he kind of is.

You weren’t supposed to change. You weren’t supposed to come back like this—glowing, radiant, completely unrecognizable except for the way your eyes still crease when you smile.

His jaw ticks. Hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’s afraid they’ll betray him. He hasn’t said anything yet. Doesn’t trust himself to. He wants to laugh, maybe. Say something stupid like, “Guess potatoes turn into fries if you leave ‘em alone too long,” but the words die somewhere in his throat.

Because you look good. Unfairly good. And he’s spiraling a little bit.

“I swear to God,” he mutters finally, half to himself, barely louder than the crickets in the distance, “you were supposed to stay potato-shaped.”

His voice sounds rougher than he meant it to. It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. But it is a problem. Because now all he can think about is the curve of your jaw, the dip at your collarbone, the way your shirt clings just enough to be dangerous.

He shifts, kicks at the pavement with the heel of his boot. “Seriously,” he adds, flicking his gaze back up to you like it physically pains him, “what the hell did they feed you over there?”

He just stands there. Jaw tight. Fingers twitching in his pockets.

Trying not to fall in love all over again.

Too late.