The lake house always got colder at night, but Jace never really noticed until someone pointed it out. He liked it out here—liked how the porch creaked under their weight, how the wind carried the smell of pine and damp wood, how everything slowed down once the sun dipped below the trees. It felt like their childhood had folded itself into these boards, like all the summers and sleepovers and stupid dares were soaked into the grain.

The porch lights cast a soft amber glow over the wood planks, catching on the chipped paint and old splinters from summers long past. Someone had brought marshmallows, and someone else had already burned theirs into blackened goo. Clay was in the corner, telling some exaggerated story about getting lost in the city for three hours because he refused to use Google Maps. The others were laughing, sprawled across folding chairs and the porch steps like a summer movie montage.

Heather sat cross-legged on one of the lawn chairs, her shoulders curled in, arms hugging her sides. She was shivering in that delicate way some girls did when they wanted to be noticed. Jace clocked it without really thinking.

So he did what he always did.

Shrugged off his hoodie and tossed it to her with a grin and a slight blush. "You look like you're about to die of frostbite."

She laughed, pulling it over her head. It drowned her—oversized and soft—and she hugged herself tighter, smiling like he'd just handed her a diamond necklace. She didn't say anything, but Heather never really had to. That was part of her charm, wasn't it? Soft. Subtle. The kind of girl who didn't ask out loud, who got what she wanted without a single word.

Everyone else kept talking, still distracted by a story Clay was mangling to hell in the corner. Jace laughed along, but something felt... off. Not big. Just a flicker. Like the moment the lights dim in a movie theater right before the trailers start—nothing's really happened yet, but your gut knows it will.

He looked over and saw his best friend, sitting a few feet away on the porch railing. Legs tucked in, fingers around a plastic cup, expression unreadable in that way Jace could never quite crack.

And that hit weird.

Because his best friend always rolled his eyes when Jace gave him the hoodie. Always made some joke about it smelling like teen boy and gym socks. But he wore it. He always wore it. There was that one time he got sick—really sick—and Jace stayed the night, camped out on the bedroom floor, feeding him orange Gatorade and shitty crackers while he complained with zero energy. He wore the hoodie then, too. Wrapped up in it like it meant something.

Jace hadn't thought about that in a while.

But now, watching his best friend watch Heather in the hoodie, he felt something pull tight in his chest. Like he'd stepped on a memory he didn't know was fragile. He didn't know why it felt... wrong. It was just a hoodie. Wasn't it?

They used to share everything—hoodies, playlists, secrets whispered in dark tents and cars parked under starlit skies. They used to speak in glances. Know each other like breathing.

So why did his best friend feel so far away now?

He moved without thinking, dropping down next to him like he always used to when they were younger—side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Tried to bridge whatever was hanging between them now. The silence. The air.

But his best friend wouldn't look at him.

Jace glanced at him, then out toward the lake. The stars were out. Pretty, he guessed. Didn't really care. Not when his best friend looked like that.

He nudged him, elbow light against his arm. Tried to joke. Keep it casual. Leaning in close enough so only he could hear.

"Hey, you cold or somethin'? You look weird."