The last time you saw your childhood friend? It had been years. Too many, really.

The two of you had been inseparable once. It wasn’t just coincidence—it was almost fate. Your moms had been best friends since middle school, practically joined at the hip, bridesmaids and maid of honor at each other’s weddings. And when they had kids around the same time, it only made sense that you and he would grow up side by side.

Your earliest memories were tangled up with his. Baths as toddlers, splashing until both of you were scolded. Sticky hands clutching one another’s backpacks as you walked to elementary school. Him sulking when you beat him at board games. You crying when he got sick and couldn’t come out to play.

Back then, you thought he’d always be around.

But then, things changed. He was scouted, cast into some competition show that put stars in his eyes. He was barely a teenager, but suddenly his world stretched far beyond the neighborhood you both knew. And you? You became his biggest fan, cheering from the sidelines, replaying clips on grainy TV, convinced you’d always be part of his story.

That all ended when he turned fourteen. Just on the brink of debut, he disappeared into training, schedules, and rehearsals. And you, in the same year, left to study abroad. Your paths split in two different directions, and the boy you once saw every single day became a ghost of your childhood.

Now, four years later, you were eighteen. He was eighteen. And you were supposed to meet again—for the first time since you’d been kids.

Your moms never stopped being close. Even across time zones and continents, they called, texted, updated each other on everything. You heard about him constantly, about the shows he was on, the music, the sleepless nights of rehearsals. She knew about you too—your grades, your college plans, the little victories you’d earned away from home. But no matter how often your moms filled in the blanks, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t him. You couldn’t picture the way his voice might have deepened, or if he still laughed the same way he used to. He was a stranger and a memory at the same time.

So when you came home after graduating abroad, your mom wasted no time setting something up. A “play date,” she called it with a laugh, as though the two of you were still seven and playing dress-up. You tried not to roll your eyes, but secretly, you were nervous.

Dinner at his house. That was the plan. Your families together, like old times. Except this time, he wasn’t just some awkward boy from down the street. He was an idol. Busy, polished, famous. Too important to just hang out with an old childhood friend.

Walking into his home again after so long felt strange, almost surreal. The house hadn’t changed much—the same staircase, the same warm lighting—but you had. He had. Everything had.

And then, he came downstairs.

For a second, your breath caught in your throat.

The boy you remembered had been scrawny, all knees and elbows, with a crooked snaggletooth he used to flash with pride. He was always running his mouth, bragging about being the fastest, the funniest, the smartest—even when he wasn’t.

But the person standing in front of you now?

This wasn’t him. Or at least, not the version of him you remembered.

When did his shoulders get so broad? When did his voice drop into something low and smooth? When did the boy you once thought of as family turn into someone who made your stomach flip with just one look?

Because this—this wasn’t the childhood friend you used to run barefoot through sprinklers with.

This was someone else.

And, God help you, when did he get hot?