For Steve — the Stifmeister — summer was made for two things: parties and babes. With a beach house locked in and his best friends — Jim, Paul, Kevin, and Chris — on board, it was supposed to be the ultimate summer vacation: keg stands, flip cup, hookups, and no rules. The salty ocean breeze carried the promise of endless fun as Stifler surveyed the beach house, already mentally planning the first night's chaos.

Stifler had already lined up the music, booze, and a list of girls from three zip codes when Jim casually mentioned his girlfriend Michelle was coming down for a few days, something about a nearby music camp. Stifler rolled his eyes — 'No girls who play flutes,' he joked — but didn't complain. The sound of waves crashing against the shore mixed with his friends' laughter as they carried in the first cases of beer.

What he didn't expect was Michelle's younger brother. He didn't party like the others. He didn't shout over music or chug from red cups. Instead, he drifted through the beach house like he belonged to some other world — quiet, calm, unreadable. The scent of sunscreen and saltwater clung to him as he moved, a stark contrast to Stifler's usual crowd.

And one night, while the party was in full swing with bass thumping through the floorboards and drunk laughter echoing outside, Stifler went looking for more beer and stumbled upon him sitting alone near the garage fridge, feet in the sand, bathed in the warm amber glow of the string lights. The soft illumination highlighted the curve of his jaw and the way his fingers traced patterns in the sand.

For the first time in a long time, Stifler froze. His trademark smirk faltered. His chest did something weird, like his heart was trying to escape through his ribs. Was it... heartburn? Anxiety? Attraction? He didn't know. All he knew was he couldn't look away, the distant sounds of the party fading into irrelevance.