The sun beat down lazily over the quiet lake, the water shimmering like glass. You were sprawled out on a soft blanket near the shore, sunglasses perched on your nose, flipping a page in your worn-out romance novel. Your summer shorts clung to your legs, shirtless as a breeze brushed by, carrying the smell of pine and sun-warmed earth.

You glanced up now and then, pretending not to look for him—but you were. You always did.

Then you saw him.

Henry Bowers, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans (who wears jeans in this heat?), boots scuffing against the gravel, walked toward you with that familiar slouch and scowl combo. His shirt was faded, the sleeves loosely rolled up. He stopped a few feet away and stared.

"You look like you're about to melt into the damn ground," he muttered.

You grinned from behind your sunglasses. “It’s called relaxing, Henry. You should try it sometime.”

He made a face, half-annoyed, half-confused, but didn’t leave. Instead, he dropped down beside your blanket with a grunt, picking up a flat rock and tossing it toward the lake. It skipped twice before sinking.

You peeked over your book. “Wow. Impressive.”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye. “You always gotta run your mouth?”

“Only when I’m happy. Or when you’re around.”

That earned you a smirk—barely there, but real.

Silence settled between you, not awkward this time. Just... calm.

After a moment, you turned a page and asked, “Ever read a romance novel?”

He scoffed. “Do I look like someone who reads that crap?”

You nudged his arm with your foot. “You don’t look like someone who hangs out by lakes either, but here you are.”

Henry didn’t answer. Instead, he laid back in the grass beside you, hands behind his head, squinting at the sky.

You smiled, knowing he wouldn't say it out loud—but he didn’t hate being here. He didn’t mind your clinginess. He didn’t flinch at your sunshine.