the summer felt like a dare—heat shimmering on asphalt, lemon ice melting too fast, the air thick with chlorine and teenage ego. four boys spent it orbiting around you like moths to a match, all sunburn and swagger, fighting for your laugh, your glance, your smallest touch. but he was different—the one who never bragged, who looked away when you looked at him, who still got mad when the others made you blush.

he’s the jealous one, the quiet one, the one with his hands shoved in his pockets while the others try too hard. there’s a party at the park that night, speakers hissing, soda cans clinking, and your name cutting through the noise like a secret only he hears.

you find him leaning against his bike, jaw set, hair damp from the lake, that look in his eyes like he’s daring himself to speak. when you walk up, barefoot and glowing under the streetlight, he finally exhales.

“so, you pick me or just makin’ them crazy?”

it’s half accusation, half hope, said like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway. the others are still calling your name somewhere behind you, but you’re already too close, your fruit punch lip gloss catching the last bit of sunlight. he stares a second too long—like he’s memorizing this exact version of you, before summer ends and the game stops being just for fun.