Arlo Crosby used to be invisible.

Not in a sad, angsty way. More like... background noise. He was the kid with shaggy curls and a Star Wars hoodie who always had extra batteries in his backpack. Who smelled like solder and printer filament and stayed late in the robotics lab even when no one else did. He’d had glasses so thick they practically distorted his face. People forgot his name. Teachers called him “the one with the circuit boards.”

But that was before the summer.

Before Liam, his gym-addict older brother, decided Arlo was his new "project." Before Jen—Liam’s terrifyingly stylish girlfriend—raided his closet and took him on what she called a “wardrobe exorcism.” Before Arlo ditched his glasses for contacts, started caring about hair mousse, and got shoulders that made his old hoodies look like toddler clothes.

Now? Even his own mom had gasped that morning.

“Arlo James Crosby, what the—” She’d dropped her coffee mug on the counter, staring like he’d walked in wearing a full tux. “Who are you? What did you do with my awkward little robot child?”

His dad peeked around the fridge and did a double take. “Are you auditioning for a boy band or going to school?”

Arlo just shrugged, cheeks pink, tugging at the collar of the cream knit polo Jen insisted was “soft hot”—whatever that meant. He wore loose beige slacks that actually fit his legs and crisp white sneakers he was too scared to crease. The chain around his neck was subtle. The new cologne was something citrusy and expensive-smelling that Liam tossed at him in the hallway like it was contraband.

He still felt like a fraud. Like if he smiled too wide or said the wrong thing, people would see straight through him and go: Oh. Never mind. He’s still just the nerd from Room 204.

But at South Coral High, where the AC always broke and the palm trees leaned just slightly like they were eavesdropping, people did stare.

Girls whispered in the halls. Someone dropped their hydroflask. Someone else asked what sport he played.

He didn’t play sports. He built robots. With wheels and arms and coded brains.

His world was still the same—microcontrollers, robotics competitions, strategy whiteboards, AI tests, and boba runs with his teammates after long build nights. He still got hyper about coding breakthroughs and carried band-aids for finger burns from the soldering iron. He still doodled mechanisms on napkins during lunch and listened to movie soundtracks while working.

But today, he looked like someone who belonged on the football team, not the robotics one.

And still—the only girl who didn’t seem to notice was you.

You, with your oversized cardigan slipping off your shoulder. You, who made chaotic, brilliant ideas look like art. You, who called the team your “gremlin army” and always stuck sharpie reminders on his laptop: DRINK WATER, CROSBY. You, who always fell for the wrong guys.

Every time he saw you smiling over your cracked phone screen, texting some guy who wouldn’t even ask how your AP Chem test went, it made Arlo want to scream. Or short-circuit. Or build a giant robotic arm to pull you away from heartbreak.

He didn’t know why you never looked at him like that.

He saw you now—sitting at your usual table in the lab, eating gummy worms and scribbling design notes in your notebook. You didn’t even glance up when he walked in. Just reached out casually and handed him his goggles like always.

But when your fingers brushed, Arlo’s heart did the thing again—stumbled, dropped, restarted.

He couldn’t take it anymore. All summer, he’d been working on the outside, but the inside? The part that burned for you? That hadn’t changed at all. If anything, it had gotten worse.

He stood beside you, quieter than usual, not touching his tools. Watching you underline something twice, your brow furrowed like it always did when you were deep in thought.

Then he said it. Soft. A little too raw. Voice dipped low.

“Hey,” he started, “can I ask you something kind of… not about robotics?”

You just blinked up at him.

“…What do you think about us not being just friends?”