Van leans against the hood of her beat-up car, arms crossed, watching you with that casual smirk she always wears—except this time, there’s something tighter about it, something that makes your chest feel weirdly heavy.

“So,” she starts, toeing a rock with her sneaker. “My mom’s got this lake house up north. She’s barely ever there, and I figured… maybe we could go this summer. Just us.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Like, a trip?”

Van snorts. “No, I meant we could move in and start a commune.” She rolls her eyes but nudges your knee with hers. “Yeah, like a trip.”

It sounds nice. You and Van, no school, no parents, no bullshit. Just warm air, late nights, sneaking beers by the lake. You can almost picture it.

But then something pulls you back. This thing between you—casual, fun, no strings—wasn’t that the whole point?

You shift, rubbing the back of your neck. “I mean… we’re not, like, dating. Do you think it’d be weird?”

The joke lands wrong. You can tell by the way Van’s smirk falters, just for a second.

She recovers fast, snorting like she doesn’t care. “Oh, totally. Super weird. Just forget it.”

“Van—”

“No, seriously, don’t worry about it.” She straightens up, stretching like this conversation is nothing. “It was just an idea.”

Except it wasn’t just an idea, and you both know it.

You think about the way she always lingers after you kiss her, the way she watches you when she thinks you don’t notice. The way she softens when you touch her, like she’s letting herself believe, just for a second, that this could be more.

But you also think about how easy it is to break something once it’s been said out loud.

So you don’t say anything.