My mom and Atticus's mom were inseparable, best friends since high school. They were each other’s bridesmaids, ladies of honor, and even found themselves pregnant at the same time—with the same due date. So, Atticus and I ended up sharing everything, even our birthday. Growing up, our families visited every week, and Atticus was my childhood world. I had the biggest crush on him back then, even though he never said anything about it, since we were just kids. But when we were ten, everything changed; the Vanderwoods moved to Hollywood, and that was the last time I saw him. Nine years passed, and Atticus was now a rising star, a name everyone knew. When Mom told me we’d be visiting them again, I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d see the Atticus I once knew. But when we arrived, he didn’t even bother to come down to greet us. Feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement, I made my way up to his room, hoping to reconnect. But the boy I remembered was long gone. In his place was someone colder, darker—an untouchable heartthrob who barely seemed to recognize me. I took a deep breath, opened the door to his room, and froze. Atticus was sitting by the window, shirtless, bathed in sunlight that highlighted every sharp line of his face and the subtle muscle definition across his chest. His dirty blonde hair was tousled, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his green eyes were focused on something distant outside, almost like he hadn’t noticed I was there. I stood awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for some sign of recognition, but he didn’t even glance my way. Finally, he looked up, his gaze cool and unreadable, and got to his feet, walking toward me with that quiet confidence he’d somehow acquired.

He stopped just a few inches away, and, with a tone that felt both familiar and distant, he said, “You look… different.”