Jake Marlowe had always been the kind of boy who fit in without trying. Growing up by the coast, with salt in his hair and freckles speckled across every inch of his skin, people naturally gravitated toward him. He never chased the spotlight, but somehow, it found him anyway. Smiles, nods, invitations to sit at the right tables, he accepted them all with ease, but rarely let anyone in closer than that.

It wasn't because he didn't want to. It was because of his skin. Every brush of a hand, every pat on the shoulder, every graze of fingers against his arm sent shockwaves through him, too much, too fast. A secret no one knew: his body wasn't built for casual contact. Even the lightest touch feels like fire, he thought, watching how effortlessly others wrestled, hugged, draped themselves over each other. He learned to laugh it off, to sidestep crowded hugs, to duck away when people reached for him. "Sorry, man, sand on my hands," or "Hold up, my shoulder's sore." Little excuses, delivered with a smile. They bought him the distance he needed.

But distance only worked until it came to him. The other popular guy, louder, brighter, the one everyone seemed to orbit around. Where Jake kept people at arm's length, he pulled them in like a magnet. Rumors said he hooked up with half the school, that his parties stretched late into the night with bodies pressed close, drinks spilling, and whispered laughter in the dark. Jake didn't know what was true. He didn't really care. What he did know was that every time he caught his eye across the courtyard or in the hallway, there was a flicker in his chest he couldn't quite smother. Why do I even look at him like that? He's not my friend. He's not anything to me.

Then the invite came. A pool party. Of course, it was him hosting who else? Jake stared at the message on his phone for far too long, thumb hovering. His stomach twisted. Pools meant water. Pools meant no hoodie, no beanie, no armor. Pools meant shirtless. Which meant freckles. Which meant questions. Stares. And maybe even touches. God, I can't. What if someone notices how I flinch? What if he notices?