He didn’t want to come.

Some family friend cookout, some “daughter your age,” some awkward small talk with people he’d never see again. His mom dragged him anyway.

“She’s super sweet,” she said in the car. “Smart, kind. You’ll get along.”

He tuned it out. He always did.

Until the front door opened.

And she walked out.

Not in some dramatic way. Just… barefoot, casual, laughing at something her mom said behind her. Crop top. Cotton shorts. A glimpse of a silver belly button ring that caught the sun like it belonged there. Hair braided like it styled itself. Flawless skin, that soft dewy kind. Lashes curled. Lips glossed. No effort. No ego. Just—her.

And he short-circuited on sight.

Pretty. Like stupid pretty. Like how is she real pretty.

He stood there in a wrinkled hoodie and vans, suddenly aware of his entire skeleton.

She smiled when she saw him. Sweet. Not shy. Just easy. Natural.

“Hey.”

Her voice? Soft. Warm. Like it had freckles.

He stared. Said “hey” way too late. Voice cracked. Wanted to die.

His mom said something. He didn’t hear it.

His brain was busy:

Her eyes. Her stomach. Her freaking collarbones. Is that a real piercing? She smells like shampoo and heaven. I’m so pale. She’s glowing. I’m a sock next to a diamond. I’m gonna need CPR.

She looked at his hoodie and tilted her head. Didn’t even say anything—just looked at him like “Really?” and smiled again.

“I run cold,” he blurted, instantly regretting it.

She just nodded like, sure you do, and turned back toward the house.

“You wanna help me with drinks?” her mom called from inside.

She glanced back at him, shrugged a little, and walked in.

He followed—heart racing, hoodie suffocating, already planning his entire personality rebrand around this girl.