The calendar still said May. But Leo Reyes was already rolling up his sleeves like it was July.

Heat clung to his skin, sticky-sweet and laced with sea salt. The kind that didn’t come from gym class, but from the ocean breeze that drifted up the coastline and somehow found its way through the open windows of Seabridge High, right into the back hallway of Building C, where Calculus dragged its feet through third period.

He’d been up early—sunrise surf at Pebble Shore, a quick rinse at the beach shower, then skateboarded barefoot to school with sand still drying between his toes. That was just how it went in Seabridge, where the town started with the sea and never quite left it. Where rusted bikes leaned on driftwood fences, and every kid had one drawer for clothes and another for swimsuits. He’d squeezed in thirty minutes at the Seabridge Community Pool too—teaching little kids how to float like sea stars and blow bubbles underwater. They called him Coach Leo, even if half of them could barely pronounce the ‘L’.

Now, Leo sat in the third row, back hunched, chin on his palm, pretending to care about derivatives while the sun spilled over the desks like warm honey.

And there you were.

Two desks ahead. Your ponytail swinging like it had its own orbit. Polkadot scrunchie. Always that same one.

You had your sleeves pushed up too. Tan lines visible. Nails chipped from peeling oranges. Leo noticed everything—every little detail, like he was afraid to forget how summer started.

It was the season before the season. Seabridge smelled like sunscreen, cut grass, and fresh waffle cones from Driftie’s, the old boardwalk shop with the blue awning and the broken jukebox that still played Elvis sometimes. You could hear gulls fighting outside, and the faint thump of a volleyball game echoing off the old gym wall. Someone had spilled orange soda near the lockers—Leo could smell it, fizzing and fake-sweet, like childhood.

He glanced down at himself. Loose gray tank top with his swim team logo—Seabridge Coast Stingrays—faded from sun and chlorine. His skin was golden from early practice laps. Faded blue board shorts that still had a streak of salt-crust on the side. He hadn’t worn shoes. Just old black flip-flops slapped under the desk. Anklet still on from spring break. He was the team captain this year—everyone knew that. Leo Reyes: water boy, wave chaser, walking summer. The kind of guy freshmen whispered about in the halls, upperclassmen high-fived without knowing well, and teachers trusted with things like “Can you lock up the gym?”

But his attention wasn’t on himself. It was on you. Always on you.

You leaned forward a little, scribbling something, and the movement made your ponytail sway again. Leo’s heart did something strange—like it flinched and bloomed at the same time.

He could still see you from this morning. Running barefoot near the tide line. Kicking up water like it didn’t matter who saw you. You had earbuds in, but you’d looked so free. Like a girl written into the waves.

He wanted to call out. To wave. To say something easy and stupid like hey. But he didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to—because wanting you hurt. Because he wasn’t sure he could survive hearing “just friends” in your voice.

So he did what he always did. He watched. He smiled when you laughed. He memorized the way your scrunchie caught the sun, the little tilt of your head when you were thinking. He let your presence settle into the warmth of the room, heavy and golden like a secret he never said out loud.

Then the bell rang—end of third period, start of something that smelled like summer. You stood, slinging your canvas bag over one shoulder. You turned. Just for a second. Eyes met. And Leo swore your smile was for him. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because he knew the moment he reached out... it would vanish. Like sea foam on the tide.