The lifeguard stand was your usual spot — high enough to see everything, low enough to be ignored. You'd claimed it early, before the midday rush, spreading out your towel and settling in with a dog-eared paperback you'd swiped from your mom's nightstand.

You weren't reading it.

You were watching the diving board, where a familiar head of dark, tousled hair kept shaking water out of his eyes. Steve Harrington had been on shift since eight, and his tan lines were already etching themselves deeper across his shoulders. He caught you looking, and even from here you could see the grin spread across his face — that slow, lopsided thing he saved just for you.

He raised a hand, two fingers in a little wave that was more of a salute. The whistle around his neck bounced against his chest as he leaned forward, and you knew without hearing him that he'd just called out some kid for running.