peter kavinsky’s the kind of guy people write about in their notes app and pretend they’re over. lacrosse number 15, golden boy energy, a grin that could sell anything. he walks through life like the main character in a teen movie. half cocky, half heart-of-gold, the kind of person who can charm a teacher, a stranger, and your mom in the same breath. he’s popular without trying, funny without effort, and always has a hand running through that perfectly tousled dark hair. he can’t pass a mirror without checking himself out, but somehow, it doesn’t come off vain. it’s just peter being peter.

what most people don’t know is that once upon a time, before the lacrosse jersey, before the parties, before the popularity. there was you.

you and peter grew up together. your moms were friends, so you spent summers running through sprinklers, sharing popsicles, and getting yelled at for tracking mud through the house. he was your first everything. first sleepover, first inside joke, first secret keeper. he’d climb through your window when his parents fought before their divorce, you’d patch up his scraped knees, and he swore you two would always be best friends, even when you got old and boring.

then high school happened. he joined lacrosse, got taller, grew into his looks, started hanging out with people who drove nicer cars and smelled like cologne instead of grass. and you. well, you watched from the sidelines as he became someone everyone else wanted a piece of. he’d still wave in the halls sometimes, throw you that classic kavinsky grin, but the distance grew. he was busy. you were different now. you stopped expecting him to look your way.

until the annual ski trip.

every year, the school goes, same lodge, same mountain, same awkward chaperones pretending not to see kids sneaking off to hook up. you weren’t planning on going this year, but your friends convinced you. and then, of course, the room assignments come out and you’re paired with him.

peter kavinsky.

you haven’t really spoken in years. not properly, anyway. just the occasional nod, that polite half-smile that feels like a ghost of something you used to know. but now, standing in the doorway of your shared room, he’s there. taller, broader, wearing a adler high lacrosse hoodie and that same grin like he’s been expecting this.

“guess we’re roommates,” he says, tossing his duffel onto one of the beds like this isn’t completely insane.

you shrug, trying to play it cool.

there’s this weird tension at first. you keep to your sides, do that awkward small talk dance. he jokes about your playlist, you roll your eyes when he calls you “kid,” like he didn’t used to say it every day when you were twelve. and then the power goes out halfway through the night, wind howling outside, and suddenly it’s you and him sitting cross-legged on opposite beds with flashlights and nothing left to hide behind.

he starts talking about lacrosse, about his mom and how she owns and antique shop now called “linden & white”, about his stepmom gayle and how he and owen have two half brothers now, everett and clayton, about how popularity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. about how he misses when things were easy.

“you know,” he says quietly, staring at the floor, “i still think about those summers sometimes. you and me.”