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I chuckle. “Okay. Thanks. I better go then.”

“Isla?” Ian calls as I’m stepping into the house. “Will you ask Mom if I can stay? We want to have a sleepover too.”

“We won’t bother you,” Meghan adds. “We’ll stay in my room.”

“Sorry, guys,” I tell them, giving them a smile. “If you want a sleepover, you’ll have to ask yourselves, just like we did.”

Ian frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re no fun.” He grabs Meghan’s hand and drags her into the house.

With a shake of my head, I step inside. On the second floor, Michael is standing at the threshold of his bedroom, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. His eyes are glued to his phone, so I take a moment to study him.

He’s grown again. He’s got to be more than half a foot taller than me now. His shoulders are wider under his white tee, and his jaw looks sharper than it did just a few days ago, I swear. His dark brown hair is shaggy, brushing the back of his neck. It’s messy, yet somehow perfect. He always runs his hand through it like he knows people are watching. And they are, especially the girls at school.

My chest twists at the thought. I don’t know when I started noticing it, but lately, thoughts about him have hit me constantly.

He’s a beautiful boy, with deep brown eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. Already, he’s a talented hockey player. His dad is an NHL legend. Of course, everyone likes him, but I can’t say I like that. I don’t want to share my best friend with anyone else.

But he’s not just your best friend anymore.

Mom’s words from three years ago come back to me, my heart thudding heavily. When I was ten, I told my mom about the strange feeling that would hit me when Michael was around. She sat me down and explained the butterflies in my stomach. She talked about attraction, crushes, and even first love.

My cheeks were on fire through the whole conversation, but when I was in bed alone later that night, I realized she wasn’t wrong. I liked Michael. A lot. But I couldn’t imagine telling him that. I worried he’d feel weird around me. We were already dealing with kids from school singing about us ‘sitting in a tree.’ So, I tucked all my feelings into a little box and stuffed it into the back of my mind.

And that worked. Until the start of this school year, at least.

“Isla?” Michael’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “What are you doing?”

I blink and refocus on his face. His eyebrows knitted together, he assesses me. His phone is nowhere to be seen. Yikes. I was so lost in my own head, I didn’t notice him put it away.

“Sorry, I zoned out.” I stride closer, forcing a smile. “Ian and Meg told me you were looking for me.”

His lopsided grin makes my stomach do somersaults.

“I thought we could start our sleepover early.”

My heart leaps in my chest. “Really? The house is full of kids, and we’re supposed to be watching⁠—”

He presses his finger to my lips, silencing me. Unbidden, my cheeks flame. With any luck, the hallway is dim enough that he doesn’t notice.

“We’ve been looking after the kids for years now,” he says. “What’s the harm in doing what we want once in a while? What do you say?”

Once I’ve nodded my agreement, he steps back, removing his finger from my lips. His touch lingers, though, like a brand.

I follow him into his room, and when he reaches for the doorknob and his hand brushes my shoulder, I jerk away. My emotions are too out of control to handle being touched right now.

Relief loosens a tight knot in my chest; his attention is already elsewhere. His room is so him—half chaos, half order. Even the colors suit him perfectly: dark gray carpet, white walls, dark blue curtains, and blue bedding with light gray throw pillows. The bed’s never fully made, just kind of straightened, like he couldn’t be bothered to put in actual effort. In the corner, three hockey sticks are propped against the wall, and his helmet sits on the desk next to his laptop. Above the desk are shelves crammed with books and hockey trophies. Wedged in among them are two photos. In one, the two of us are probably seven. We’re standing on the ice with wide smiles and gleeful eyes. In another one, he and Asher are decked out in their hockey gear, their helmets lying on the ice.

He’s always on the ice, always smiling.

“What do you think?” Michael stops beside me and points at the folded throw blanket and paper bag on his bed.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Marshmallows, peanuts, chips, and sandwiches.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “There’s also a thermos full of hot chocolate.”

My favorite. Butterflies erupt in my stomach.

I can’t hide my smile, not that I want to. “You thought of everything.”