The dusty beams of sunlight broke through the cracks in the wooden boards above, painting golden stripes across the dirt floor of the hideout. Everyone was sprawled out, half-asleep or distracted, the way only a summer afternoon could make you. Bev was humming softly to herself, flipping through a comic. Stan and Bill were playing some slow, silent game of cards. Ben was busy fixing up a few areas of the hideout. Mike was drawing. Eddie sat on the edge of a half-broken lawn chair, fidgeting with the cap on his inhaler, thumb pressing it in and out, not because he needed it—but because it was something to do.

You were sitting across from him in the hammock, joking about something dumb—probably some twisted impression of a teacher or his mom, or both. Your laugh was loud, that stupid kind of laugh that filled the whole room, the kind Eddie always pretended annoyed him.

But it didn’t annoy him. Not even a little. It made his chest feel weird. Tight. Not like an asthma attack—but something worse. Something that didn’t go away when he puffed his inhaler. Something that made his ears burn when you looked at him for just a second too long. Something that made his stomach turn over every time your arm brushed his.

He kept his eyes on his sneakers. He couldn’t look at you too long. If he did, he might actually see what he was trying really hard not to.

This was bad.

This was so bad.

Because it wasn’t just a feeling anymore. It was a realization. Like a switch had been flipped in his brain and now he couldn’t unthink it: He was in love with you.

He blinked hard and shook his head.

Nope. No, he wasn’t. Absolutely not. His mom would kill him. Actually kill him. Not metaphorically. There’d be a funeral. She’d weep and say she’d always known something was wrong with him.

Eddie stuffed his inhaler into his pocket and forced a laugh at whatever joke you’d just told, trying to look normal. Trying to pretend like his heart wasn’t hammering against his ribs. Trying to ignore the way his fingers itched to reach out and touch yours.