When you first moved into the neighborhood, the kids noticed you.

Tyler Cruz approached you.

There was a difference.

You had been standing awkwardly at the edge of the sidewalk, clearly out of place, when a bike skidded to a stop right in front of you. The boy on it grinned like he had just found something interesting.

“You look lost,” he said.

“I’m not,” you replied, even though you were.

“Good,” he said, hopping off his bike anyway. “Then you can play.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Tyler never did.

He pulled you into whatever chaos the neighborhood had going on—tag, races, half-made obstacle courses that usually ended in someone getting yelled at by a parent. He was loud, bold, and just a little bit ridiculous.

But he stayed by your side.

When other kids whispered about the “new girl,” Tyler was the one who rolled his eyes and said, “You’re cooler than them, relax.” When you hesitated, he nudged you forward. When you laughed, he looked like he’d done something right.

You became a constant.

If Tyler was outside, you were too. If you were there, Tyler was louder, braver—like he had something to prove.

And every now and then, after doing something he considered impressive, he’d lean down just a little and point to his lips.

“C’mon,” he’d say. “I earned it.”

“You didn’t earn anything,” you’d reply.

“I climbed a whole fence for you.”

“I could’ve done that.”

“You didn’t.”

You never kissed him.

Not when you were kids sitting cross-legged on pavement drawing chalk cities. Not when you were sprawled in the grass, talking about things that felt too big for your age. Not even when he started asking less like a joke and more like it mattered.

“You’re really gonna make me wait forever?” he asked once.

“Yes.”

He huffed, dropping back against the ground. “Fine. But one day, you’re gonna regret it.”

“I doubt that.”

Tyler turned his head, squinting at you in the sunlight. “One day, you’ll be the one wanting to kiss me.”

You laughed. “You’re delusional.”

By the time you reached high school, people knew Tyler Cruz.

He had a reputation—half troublemaker, half someone you didn’t mess with. He was still the same at his core, just sharper around the edges, more aware of the space he took up.

And somehow, he still saved it for you.

Same seat at lunch. Same casual, “Walk with me,” between classes. Same habit of knocking his shoulder into yours when you overthought things.

But the closeness had changed.

There were pauses now. Glances that lingered too long or not long enough. Words you didn’t say.