If I had known my brother's best friend would show up at our beach house wearing that smug grin and a tan that could melt coconut oil, I might've reconsidered the whole "I'm over him" speech I gave myself last summer.
Gokarna's salty wind blew through the balcony curtains like it had something to gossip about. Probably me, standing there in an old T-shirt with toothpaste on my chin, while he—Aarav bloody Khanna—stood in the living room like he belonged here. Like he hadn't been the star of my teenage diary entries and late-night fantasies. Like he wasn't the reason I developed a taste for emotionally unavailable men with nice forearms.
"Tapu?" my brother called out. "You remember Aarav, right?"
Oh, I remembered him. I remembered everything.
Even the way he used to ruffle my hair like I was some kind of annoying puppy. But I wasn't twelve anymore. And judging by the very obvious once-over he gave me, he noticed that too.
"Obviously," I said, trying not to choke on the sudden tightness in my throat. "Hard to forget someone who once set my science project on fire."
Aarav laughed. God, that laugh. Like warm waves crashing against my ribcage.
"In my defense, you told me hydrogen wasn't flammable."
I raised a brow. "I was ten."
He smirked. "And I was twelve. We were both idiots."
"You still are," I muttered, brushing past him toward the kitchen, just to escape the way his presence turned my stomach into a washing machine.
---
In the kitchen, Mom was humming while stirring something suspiciously masala-filled.
"You saw him?" she asked, a glint in her eyes.
"Yeah," I replied, grabbing the water bottle. "He's taller."
She smiled into her pan. "You're taller too."
I squinted. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Oh, no reason." But her eyes twinkled in a way that made me want to disappear into the spice rack.
---
Ten minutes later, I was forced back into the lion's den. My brother and Aarav were sprawled on the floor playing FIFA on the big TV like they were still fifteen. I sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a magazine and absolutely not watching how Aarav's jaw clenched every time he lost a goal.
"So," he said during halftime, glancing up at me. "You still write those angsty poems about the moon?"
I stared at him, stunned.
Rishi burst out laughing. "Bro! She still does. I caught her whispering to a notebook last month like she was in a secret cult."
Aarav grinned. "Some things never change."
And some things do, I thought. Like how his voice suddenly sounded like honey soaked in sea salt.
Later that evening, the sky turned soft—like someone had spilled peach juice across the clouds. The sea was calm. For once, so was my heartbeat.
Until I found myself alone with Aarav.
Rishi had disappeared to take a shower after their fifth FIFA match (and fifth loss, but that's not my problem), and I was sitting outside on the porch swing with a coconut water, trying to look like I wasn't thinking about Aarav at all.
Spoiler: I was.
He walked out quietly, leaned on the wooden post next to the swing, arms folded, hair still messy from all the yelling and gaming.
"You still hate me?" he asked, lips tugging into that half-smile that made me forget how to breathe.
"I don't hate you," I said, sipping aggressively from my straw. "I just think you're annoying."
"Good," he said, walking over and sitting on the edge of the swing beside me, close—too close. "That's progress. You used to call me a fungus."
"You were a fungus. You ruined my Hannah Montana diary."
He chuckled. "You left it in the rain."
"Because you threw it out the window!"
He shrugged. "You started it. You tried to braid my hair in my sleep."
"That's because you said boys don't get nightmares and I was proving a point!"
We both burst out laughing, and for a second, everything felt light and stupid and perfect.
Then he looked at me. Really looked.
And I swear, the air changed.
"You've changed, Tapu," he said, voice lower now, like the sea at midnight. "You're not a little kid anymore."
I blinked. My brain? Not working. My soul? Floating. My coconut water? Spilled.
"I—I guess," I mumbled, suddenly very aware that he was looking at my lips.
"Your eyes do that thing," he murmured, eyes still locked on mine. "That scrunchy thing when you're trying not to smile."
I almost forgot how to smile completely.
Then the porch door creaked open.
"Yo!" Rishi called. "Tapu, where's the extra towel?!"
Saved by the brother. Or maybe ruined by the brother.
Aarav leaned back casually, pulling away like nothing happened.
But I knew.
He felt it too.