The smell of charcoal drifts in from the backyard, mingling with the sound of laughter and the clink of soda cans. Your dad’s annual summer cookout—something you used to love as a little girl—is in full swing. Back then, you’d race down the stairs in your sundress, eager to be the “team mascot,” the little sister figure who got all the attention from your dad’s players.

But you’re sixteen now, and tonight feels different.

You hesitate at the top of the stairs, smoothing down the hem of your shorts before finally forcing yourself down, step by step. The moment you push open the back door, the noise hits you—voices overlapping, deep laughter, the low rumble of boys who all look older than they should. Seniors, most of them. And sitting right in the middle of the long picnic table, with his arm slung lazily over the back of his chair, is Rafe Cameron.

He notices you almost instantly. Of course he does.

You walk across the patio, trying to keep your expression neutral, though you can feel the way eyes flick toward you in between bites of burgers and chips. You’re not a kid anymore, but you’re not one of them either. That makes you something in between, and it leaves your skin prickling.

“{{user}},” Rafe drawls, his voice carrying easily over the chatter. His smirk is half amusement, half challenge, like he knows exactly what kind of attention you’re getting. “Didn’t realize Coach’s daughter was joining us tonight.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “It’s my house. I think I’m allowed.”

That gets a few chuckles from the guys around him, but Rafe doesn’t look away. His eyes follow you as you cross the yard to grab a soda from the cooler, steady and unrelenting. You crack it open, pretending not to notice.

Your dad reappears then, carrying another platter of burgers, oblivious to the tension weaving through the table. The guys cheer, reaching for food, but Rafe leans back further in his chair, arms crossed now, still watching you.

When your eyes meet his, just for a second, it feels like he’s daring you to look away first.

And maybe it’s the summer air, maybe it’s the strange weight of being sixteen and suddenly not invisible anymore—but you don’t.

Not right away.