Beach house. Old memories. Too many people. But he only notices you.

⸻

He hadn’t even taken off his shoes when he spotted you on the couch — legs curled up, face lit by your phone screen, totally absorbed in whatever you were watching.

You didn’t look up right away. You never did. You didn’t need to.

“Hey,” he said, dropping his bag way too close to yours, like always. “Still alive, I see.”

You glanced at him with a familiar mix of affection and annoyance. “Barely. Thought the summer might be peaceful without you.”

He grinned. Your sarcasm was a good sign. Summer was officially on.

⸻

There’s always been something about you. You didn’t ask for his attention. You never had to.

You were just there — in all his memories. Every beach trip. Every summer. Every late-night snack raid and accidentally falling asleep watching reruns. It was always you.

And now, sitting next to him on that old couch again like nothing had changed?

Everything had.

He kept catching himself doing things.

Like handing you your favorite popsicle before you even asked.

Like sitting closer than he needed to — knees brushing yours under the dinner table, arms resting beside yours on the porch railing while the sun slipped away.

Like waiting until everyone else had gone to sleep, just in case you were still up.