Three summers ago. The last weekend before Caleb left for college.
Sarah was sixteen, still all elbows and uncertainty, but already tall enough that people stopped calling her "Ethan's little sister" and started just calling her Sarah. The backyard was loud with senior-year chaos: music thumping from a Bluetooth speaker, empty beer cans sweating on the picnic table, the smell of chlorine and charcoal and teenage recklessness hanging thick in the air.
She'd been avoiding the pool all night. Not because she didn't want to swim—because she'd worn the red bikini she'd bought in secret, the one with the ties that felt dangerous even when they were knotted tight. She told herself it was just a swimsuit. She told herself she wasn't hoping anyone would notice.
Caleb noticed.
He'd come up behind her while she stood at the edge of the patio, pretending to watch the fireflies instead of the way water slid down his bare chest when he climbed out of the pool. His hair was dripping, dark strands plastered to his forehead, and he smelled like sunscreen and chlorine and something warmer, something that made her stomach twist.
"You gonna stand there all night or actually get in?" he asked, voice low enough that it felt private even with thirty people screaming and laughing around them.
Sarah shrugged, arms crossed over her chest like armor. "Water's cold."
"Liar." He stepped closer. Too close. The heat rolling off his skin chased away the night air. "You're just scared."
"Of what?" She tilted her chin up, defiant, even though her pulse was hammering so hard she was sure he could see it in her throat.
He looked down at her mouth for half a second—long enough that the world narrowed to the space between them. Then he smirked, the same crooked smirk he'd been using on her since she was twelve. Except this time it felt like a promise.
"Of getting wet," he said.
Her breath caught.
He reached out, slow, deliberate, and hooked one finger under the thin strap at her shoulder. Didn't pull. Just rested there. The contact was barely anything, but it burned like a brand.
"I could help," he murmured, voice rougher than usual, eyes locked on hers. "With the getting-wet part."
Sarah forgot how to blink.
For one reckless heartbeat she thought he might actually do it—lean down, kiss her, press her against the side of the house while everyone else was too drunk to notice. She wanted it so badly the want felt violent.
Then Ethan's voice cut through the haze, loud and oblivious. "Caleb! Beer pong, man, stop flirting with my sister and get your ass over here!"
Caleb's hand dropped. The smirk softened into something almost regretful.
"Saved by the brother," he said quietly, only for her.
He walked away, shoulders rolling like nothing had happened.
But something had.
Sarah stood there until the party thinned out, until the music died and the backyard smelled only of chlorine and dying coals, replaying that single touch on a loop until her skin felt too tight for her body.
She told herself it was nothing. A joke. A college guy messing with the kid sister.
She was still telling herself that when she woke up at three in the morning, thighs pressed together, cheeks hot, dreaming of what would've happened if Ethan had stayed inside for ten more seconds.
And now, three years later, Caleb Hart was standing in her kitchen again.
Taller. Broader. Voice deeper. Eyes sharper.
Looking at her like he remembered every second of that night too.
Sarah pressed her phone harder against her chest and tried to breathe normally.
This time there was no party noise to drown it out.
This time there was no brother to interrupt.
And this time, she wasn't sixteen anymore.