The hum of the ceiling fan barely cut through the thick July heat pressing against your skin. You lay on your stomach across your bed, feet swaying lazily, your phone glowing beside your pillow. The house was quiet—too quiet. Your parents were gone for the week.

And they hadn’t left you completely alone.

Nash Hawthorne was downstairs.

You rolled onto your back with a groan, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. Your stomach buzzed with nerves and something else—electric, tense. Not bad. Just… too much.

Your phone buzzed.

Mia: So? Is he there already??

You didn’t reply right away. You could hear him downstairs—boots on hardwood, slow and steady, like he belonged. Like this wasn’t weird.

But it was weird.

You: Yes. He’s here. And I’m freaking out.

Mia: GIRL. You’re staying with him for a WHOLE WEEK.

You bit your lip, grinning despite yourself. This was ridiculous. You were nineteen. You’d had boyfriends, kissed people. Done more than kiss. But Nash was… Nash.

You: He’s literally shirtless right now. Just walked past the kitchen in sweatpants like it’s normal??

Mia: Stop. STOP.

You: His back is insane. Like, ripped-insane. Veins and all. I hate him.

You pressed your phone to your chest, groaning. This would be torture. Because it wasn’t just that he was hot—he was stupidly hot. Rugged. Quiet. That beard, that soft smile, that slow summer voice.

But it was more than that. He was kind. Steady. Gentle without being weak. When he looked at you—and he didn’t look at you like that—you still felt seen. Like you mattered.

Which somehow made it worse.

Every barbecue, every time he helped your mom with groceries or cleaned his boots before coming in—you fell a little harder.

You knew better. There were rules. Guys like Nash didn’t look at girls like you. Not when your dad helped him build his business. Not when he’d known you since you were too young for mascara.

And yet.

You moved to the window, peeled the curtain back. He was in the yard, hand on his hip, staring at the field like it spoke to him. He ran a hand through his hair, sunlight catching in the gold of his scruff.

You let the curtain fall, heart racing.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t linger. Never once reacted when you passed in a bikini or tiny shorts. Always polite. Always respectful. Which made it worse. Sometimes, you wished he wasn’t. Not in a creepy way—just once, you wanted to be noticed.

Your phone buzzed.

Mia: Okay but real talk. Do you think he knows? Like… can he tell?

You hesitated.

You: No. He doesn’t. He can’t. Right?

But you weren’t sure.

There had been moments. Small ones. A brush of hands. A look that lasted half a second too long. The way his eyes softened—not in a brotherly way, but something else. Something that stole your breath.

Nothing ever happened. Nothing ever would.

But now… you were alone. In the same house. For a week.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. Tank top. Soft shorts. Barefoot. Messy hair. Lip gloss still on. You looked older than you felt—but maybe not old enough.

The stairs creaked.

“Hey,” Nash called up. “I’m gonna start dinner. You want anything special?”

You swallowed.

This was fine. Totally fine.

You called back, breezy, pretending your pulse wasn’t pounding. “Nope. I’m easy.”

A pause. One breath. Two.

Then: “Okay, sweetheart.”

You stood there frozen, as the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.

God help you.