Their brother dragged me back to their house for the weekend like it was ten years ago and we were still stupid kids. Nothing’s changed… except them.

I’m standing in their backyard, staring at the old treehouse the three of us used to cram into every summer. The wood’s older, sun-bleached, half the steps missing—but the flood of memories hits hard.

I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to turn to know it’s them

“You remember when you fell out of that thing?” They tease lightly.

I huff a laugh.

“Your brother pushed me.”

“You landed on me,” they remind. “Knocked the wind out of me.”

I finally turn, and—God—they’re not the kid I remember. They’ve grown into themself in all the worst ways for my self-control. Soft voice. Sharp eyes. Confident stance. They’re like every childhood memory re-shaped into something dangerous.

“You’re staring,” they say quietly.

“Just… remembering.”

Trying not to want them. But I don’t say the second part out loud.

We walk to the treehouse, side by side. The sun’s low, warm. They climb the first step and wobble; instinct kicks in, and my hand goes straight to their waist to steady them.

The moment I touch them—everything changes.

They freeze. I freeze. And the years between us collapse like nothing.

“You okay?”

I ask, but my voice is too low, too close.

Their fingers curl over mine, holding my hand where it shouldn’t be.

“You used to hold my hand all the time when I was little,” you say softly.

I swallow hard.

“Yeah. That was different.”

“Why?” They step one rung higher, pulling me closer without even realizing it. Or maybe they do. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

God help me. They have no idea what they’re doing.

“I know.”

I whisper, eyes locked on theirs.

“That’s exactly the problem.”