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God help me, even his forearms are ridiculous. Thick and corded with muscle, veins running all the way down to his hands.

Hands I remember holding.

Fingers I remember lacing mine through.

Except they’re not quite the same anymore.

Neither is the rest of him.

Somewhere between sophomore and senior year, the boy I once knew grew into a man. His shoulders filled out, his chest broadened, and every inch of him seems harder, stronger, more defined than I remember.

And while I’ve spent the last two years trying not to think about Milo Fletcher, apparently he’s spent them turning into the kind of man who makes that task damn near impossible.

I should probably look away.

No. I should definitely look away.

But I don’t. Instead, I grab a glass from the cupboard, mostly because I need something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve reaching for him. Then I make my way to the fridge behind him, my gaze stubbornly fixed on his bare back as I reach for the handle. Even with the refrigerator door open, I can’t seem to stop watching him. Only after a few seconds of standing there like an idiot do I remember what I came for.

Lemonade. Right.

I grab the pitcher, pour him a glass, and set it on the counter beside him.

“Here.”

Milo straightens and takes the glass from me.

“Thanks.”

He drinks the whole thing, his gaze fixed on mine.

When the intensity of his stare becomes too much, I turn toward the window overlooking the backyard.

Next to me, the faucet runs again.

He rinses the glass, places it in the drying rack, then moves to stand beside me, bracing both hands against the counter.

Neither of us says anything. We simply stand there, looking out the window.

I’m not sure why we stay silent. Maybe because there’s nothing left to say.

Or maybe because saying goodbye would mean this strange little afternoon between us is over, and neither of us seems willing to be the one to end it.

“It was Peyton, wasn’t it?”

My head snaps toward him the minute her name leaves his mouth.

Milo doesn’t look at me. His attention remains fixed on the backyard, but his knuckles have gone white from how tightly he’s gripping the edge of the counter.

“She’s the one who took that picture of you and Mr. Collins on your porch. The one who started the rumor that you were sleeping with him.”

I don’t answer. I simply look back toward the backyard and give a small nod, unable to bring myself to say the words out loud.

Even without looking directly at him, I catch the way his jaw tightens at my admission.

“And she and her friends were the ones who broke into your house that year? The ones who terrorized you?”

I give him another nod.