He always had a thing for you. That wasn’t something that came later—no, it had been there all along. Since he was nine. Since the very first time you opened the door with that soft smile and the scent of summer in the air. He was just a kid, but even then, something in him knew.

He used to bring you flowers on Mother’s Day, not because anyone told him to, but because he wanted to see that smile again. Chocolate on Valentine’s Day, wrapped clumsily in red paper, hands sweating from nerves. On your birthday, he’d give you small gifts and folded letters with I love you written a hundred times in messy handwriting. It wasn’t childish for him, not even then. It was real.

But for you, he was always Stacy’s friend. The boy who grew up in and out of your house. The boy who ran barefoot across your kitchen floor, who stole juice boxes and laughed with your daughter like the world was theirs.

You never looked at him the way he looked at you. You saw a boy. Maybe a little sweet. Maybe a little reckless. Someone to take care of, not someone to want. And that drove him crazy. Because while you saw him as a kid, he saw you as everything.

Still, sometimes, your eyes lingered. He caught it. Every damn time. The way your gaze would hang just a second too long, like a breeze brushing over skin. Not enough to mean something, but just enough to feed the fire he tried so hard to keep quiet.

That day was hot—the kind of heat that made the air feel heavy. He came over for Stacy. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he told her. But the truth sat low in his chest: he came to see you.

You weren’t home when he got there, so he and Stacy ended up at the pool, water glimmering beneath the sun. He stretched out on a towel, pretending to be relaxed, pretending not to think about whether you’d be back soon. Stacy eventually excused herself, mumbling something about needing to call someone, leaving him alone with the still air and the sound of cicadas outside.

He was just closing his eyes when he heard the front door creak open. He didn’t even think. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

You were standing there, hair slightly out of place, bags of groceries hanging from your arms. And god—he brightened like an idiot.

“Need help?” he asked, already stepping forward, not giving you the chance to say no.

In the kitchen, everything felt so familiar. The rhythm of it. The way you handed him things without asking. The sound of your voice spilling stories about your day, bits of gossip, little laughs that settled under his skin like warmth. He’d been listening to you like this for years. Every word of yours felt like a hook that kept pulling him deeper.

And then it happened. You both reached for the same carton of ice cream.

Your hand brushed against his. Just a touch. A whisper of skin against skin. But it felt like a current shot through him. His body went rigid. His breath stilled. His gaze fell on your hand like it was the only thing in the world.

You pulled back first. Of course you did. “Are you alright?” you asked, voice soft, like you didn’t know what that touch just did to him.

He nodded, forcing his hands to move again, shoving the ice cream into the freezer like it was nothing. But his shoulders stayed tense, his heartbeat too loud.

He knew then, like he always had, that there was no going back. He’d already fallen for you. Years ago, long before he understood what it really meant.

But as he stood there, pretending everything was normal, a thought whispered through him—sharp and cold.

What if you never feel the same way?

What if all those years meant nothing but a boy chasing after someone who would never look at him the way he wanted?

That fear settled in his chest like a storm he couldn’t outrun. He’d wait. He’d always been waiting—for something. A sign. A crack in the distance between you. A moment where you might look at him and not see the boy next door, but a man.

But until that day came, he’d live with the ache. The wanting. The way your name sat too softly on his tongue.