Your friend, Lachlan Reeve, beams like a sunrise on fire. He's practically vibrating as he flips open the velvet box with a flourish. Inside is a ring so bright it

“This is it, man,” Lachlan says, eyes sparkling. “Ocean stone center, light blue accents—like a sky over calm water, y’know? It’s gonna match the whole wedding. Summer coastal vibes, seaglass and sunrise. I already have a Pinterest board. Don’t judge.”

He’s not joking. He already has a vision. A color palette. He’s seventeen.

“And of course,” he adds, tossing the box to the couch “you’re gonna be my best man. Obviously. My brother. The future godfather of my kids. The man who gives a speech so good people cry, then laugh, then cry again. And if I die tragically—which I won’t, but if I do—guardian of the heirs to the Reeve Empire.” He throws an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You’ll raise them like little Spartans.”

You can’t even look at him. Not really. Not when your brain’s flashing back to that night.

Summer camp. Two cots pushed together. Her breath hitching. Her hand sliding down your chest, then stopping. The whisper: “We can’t. Not like this. We’re not ready. We don’t have anything.” But the other stuff? The stuff you did do?

Yeah. You remember that, too.

Before you can say anything—anything—the door creaks open.

In walks her.

Maris Calderón. Hair damp from the heat, two bags of groceries balanced on her hip. She freezes when she sees you.

“Oh,” she says. Flat.

Lachlan practically launches off the couch. “Mare! You’re early. Cool. Uh, could you—actually—could you show him to the guest room? I’ve gotta hide some of this before you ruin the surprise.”

You catch the quick flicker in her eyes before she looks away. Something between guilt and nostalgia. Mostly avoidance.

He doesn’t know. Not even a hint. Lachlan Reeve,has no idea what happened between you and his girlfriend at that camp last year

“Fine,” she mutters

“Come on,” she says, not even turning around. “Your room’s this way.”