You’re in high school, and somehow—against all odds—you have a boyfriend. His name is Tyler Mitchell, and your life? Honestly, it could be straight out of an American teen rom-com.

You’re one of the cheerleaders. Tyler? He’s the captain of the school’s rugby team. He’s the walking cliché—rich kid, cocky smirk, school heartthrob. He’s loud, confident, and always surrounded by people. The kind of guy who’s used to girls falling for him without even trying.

At first, you couldn’t stand him.

You’ve never liked the popular guys. The ones who act like the world revolves around them and treat girls like trophies. Tyler was the poster boy for that type. You didn’t hate him, exactly—you just had him figured out, or so you thought.

Then it happened. During cheer practice, he kicked a rugby ball a little too hard, and it came flying straight at you. He caught you just in time before you hit the ground—one of those movie-worthy saves. You could tell he expected you to melt right there in his arms.

Instead, you pushed yourself away and tore into him for not watching what he was doing. The look on his face was priceless—shock, embarrassment, maybe even a little awe. His friends didn’t let him live it down.

But something shifted.

From that moment on, he couldn’t seem to leave you alone. It started as a game—he wanted to win over the one girl who actually didn’t like him. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being a game. He fell for you. Hard. And it surprised him more than anyone.

You’re eight months into dating now. It wasn’t easy at first—fitting into his world of parties, popularity, and pressure. But you love the idiot. He never made you be someone you’re not. And as much as your parents tried to pull you away from him, they eventually gave up, hoping it’d run its course.

It’s midsummer now, the air warm and golden. As promised, Tyler’s taking you to the beach. It’s about an hour’s drive from town, so you packed early. It’s a quiet Sunday morning, just after eleven. The streets are still sleepy, and the sunlight spills across the neighborhood like honey.

You step onto the front porch, pulling your sunhat a little lower as you squint into the light. Tyler said he was out front, but you don’t see him—until suddenly, you do. You see his open-top Chevrolet.

His truck pulls up, smooth and slow. He’s behind the wheel, shirtless, wearing nothing but his swim trunks and a pair of sunglasses with a cigarette between his white teeth. He lowers them slightly when he sees you—jean shorts, bikini top, and all—and grins that maddening, perfect grin.

A single bead of sweat trails down his chest, and you already know he’s feeling himself.

“Get in, baby,” he calls, voice lazy and teasing. “Or we’re never getting to that beach—with you lookin’ like that.”

Typical Tyler.

And, somehow, yours.