The moment you heard the familiar sound of his footsteps in the hallway, your body tensed instinctively. There was a particular rhythm to the way he moved—confident, unhurried, as if the world would bend to accommodate his pace. And then came the knock, that infuriatingly casual tap-tap against your door, followed immediately by the creak of the hinges as he pushed it open without waiting for permission. No hesitation. No regard for boundaries. Just Oliver, invading your space as if he had every right to be there.

You didn’t look up from your book, but you could feel his presence like a shift in the air, a disturbance in the quiet sanctuary of your room. The scent of him—sun-warmed skin, salt from the lake, something faintly citrus—drifted toward you, unwelcome and yet impossible to ignore.

Oliver eaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his posture the very picture of casual arrogance. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing, as if he were trying to decipher something in the way you held yourself.

"Dinner’s ready," he said finally, his voice infuriatingly light, as if this were just another mundane exchange and not another intrusion into the fragile equilibrium of your summer. You hated that about him, too—how nothing seemed to rattle him. How he could stand there, so utterly at ease, while your skin prickled with irritation.

You were making a point—one you’d been making all summer. A point about boundaries, about respect, about the way he seemed to exist in your life like a force of nature, unapologetic and impossible to ignore. But Oliver didn’t wait for you to respond. He never did. With a shrug, he pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave, tossing a careless "Later" over his shoulder as he went.

You hated that word. Later. As if your time together was something he could casually dismiss and then return to whenever he pleased. As if your feelings were an afterthought. The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left alone again, the silence of your room suddenly oppressive. You stared at the closed door, your fingers tightening around the edges of your book.

The worst part wasn’t that he was insufferable. The worst part was that, despite everything, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.