It wasn’t supposed to happen. You had your plans for a calm, independent summer—days filled with friends, exploring the city, maybe a little freedom from school drama. Nate Archibald had his own plans, his summer filled with family events, social obligations, and his usual whirlwind of Upper East Side chaos.

But then fate—or, more accurately, a very inconvenient family decision—threw you together. His parents’ summer house had a guest suite, but a scheduling mishap left only one main apartment available. Somehow, that meant you and Nate had to share the space for the entire summer.

The first day was awkward. You tiptoed around each other, pretending the couch, the kitchen, and even the balcony had invisible borders. Nate tried to act like nothing had changed, but you could see it in the way he lingered near your side when he thought you weren’t looking, in the teasing smirk he couldn’t quite hide.

By the second week, the walls between “roommates” and something more began to crumble. Late-night conversations turned into shared laughter under the stars. Meals became small adventures of cooking disasters and secret recipes. A single brush of your hand, an accidental shoulder bump, left both of you flustered.

“You know,” Nate said one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter as you washed dishes, “this summer could get… dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, dripping soap suds onto your sleeve. “Dangerous? How so?”

“Living together like this,” he said with a teasing grin, “I’m starting to think you’re deliberately trying to make me fall for you.”