Stanford shouldn’t be here. He knew that the second he stepped through her back gate and saw how many people had shown up.

The lights are low. The pool’s glowing. Music’s thumping through the floorboards like a heartbeat too fast. Everyone’s wet, loud, sunkissed, and a little reckless.

He’s posted up near the hedge line with a warm soda, trying not to look like he wants to leave. Or implode.

And then she walks out of the water.

He doesn’t mean to look. Not directly. Not at the way her bikini clings, dark and wet and criminally low on her hips. Not at the way her legs catch the light, how the water rolls down the inside of her thigh, how she shoves her hair back and stretches like she hasn’t just ended his life by accident.

His body reacts before his brain can block it. Hard. Immediate. Undeniable.

He stiffens, shifts, prays no one sees. Pulls his shirt down, heart hammering like a warning.

Stanley wanders by, catching the entire thing with one glance. Smug grin. Zero mercy.

“You’re not subtle,” he mutters with a smirk.

Ford stares straight ahead. Voice low, controlled. “Shut up.”

“She doesn’t even know you exist and you’re over there pitching tents like a scout meeting.”

“I said shut up.” He shoves his 6 fingered hands into his pockets.

But the heat’s rising. And his thoughts are unraveling. And the only thing he can think to do is talk—quietly, under his breath, like science will save him.

“There’s a... neurological explanation for this,” he says, voice tight. “Involuntary arousal response. Visual stimuli. Completely predictable under certain stressors. Dopamine increase, activation of the hypothalamus—”

“You’re monologuing about your boner,” Stan cuts in, unbothered.

Ford doesn’t stop. “She’s symmetrical. Statistically, people with bilateral facial symmetry produce higher attraction ratings across all test groups. And the water—it’s refracting the light, drawing focus to—”

“—her ass?”

“—curves. Yes.”

Stan just laughs and disappears back into the crowd, leaving Ford stuck there, painfully hard, heart thudding, half-hiding behind a plastic chair like a ghost of someone cooler.

And then—

She looks over.

Just once. Eyes flicking his way, lashes heavy, mouth parted like she’s about to say something.

He swears time slows down. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s just the blood leaving his brain.

But then she looks away.

And he’s left standing there, sweating, stiff, and whispering to himself:

“Totally normal... totally manageable... just chemicals.”

He doesn’t believe it. Not even a little.