It’s too hot outside. Too bright. Too many people around.

But none of that is why Ethan feels like he’s overheating. It’s because you walk past him at the camp lake—shirt damp, hair dripping, smile lazy and knowing.

You say nothing. Just toss him a look over your shoulder, that cocky kid look. The one that kills him every damn time.

Ethan swears under his breath and looks away. Or tries to.

Because when you stretch on the dock, sun hitting your skin, Ethan’s brain short-circuits. He should not be looking at you like this. He should NOT be thinking these things.

It’s just summer. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t even like you.

Right?

But then you smirk at him from across the dock and call out:

“Nemesis boy! You gonna stare all day or join me?”

Ethan chokes on air.

Your grin widens like you know exactly what you’re doing.

He mutters, “…I hate you,” without any real heat.

You laugh—low, playful, warm. “Sure you do.”

And gods, he wants to shove you into the water for being right. He wants to kiss you for being right.

He ends up doing neither. Just stands there, helplessly flustered, hoping no one sees the blush creeping up his neck.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just summer. Just a phase. I’ll get over it.

But then you saunter over, dripping lake water on his shoes, leaning in way too close.

Your breath brushes his ear.

“You look cute when you’re pretending you don’t want me.”

Ethan’s heart stops.

And for one moment— one devastating, dangerous moment— he almost caves.

But he pulls back, face flushed and voice tight:

“…It’s summer. That’s all.”

You smile like you know he’s already lying.

Like you know he’s not “cool” about any of this. Not even close.