Chapter 1

Brynn

My room smells like lavender and old books, thanks to the vase of dried flowers on my dresser and the piles of novels scattered around. The floral wallpaper is more vintage chic than grandma's attic, and my floor-length mirror is decorated with taped-up memories—photos of family, friends, and a few with Declan.

The song playing on my Bluetooth speaker is some upbeat pop number, something I can’t help but sway to as I twist my braids into an updo. My fingers work methodically, muscle memory from years of practice. As I catch my reflection, I notice the jersey draped over my chair - number eight. Declan's old number. I can't help but smile.

"Brynn, you are going to be late again!" My sister’s voice carries through the door.

"Calm down, Meghan! I'm almost ready," I yell back, securing the last braid with a bobby pin.

She scoffs from the hallway. "Almost ready? You're always 'almost ready.'"

"Good morning to you too," I grumble quietly, rolling my eyes.

I turn back to the mirror, securing the last braid. As I do, memories flood my mind like a tidal wave.

Twelve years old and nervous, helping my parents carry boxes into our new home. The sun is high, baking the concrete driveway, and the air smells like freshly cut grass mixed with the promise of something new. I remember struggling with a particularly heavy box when I notice him.

"Need a hand?"

The voice is friendly, casual, and makes me look up. Declan Callahan stands there, already taller than most boys our age, his dark hair tousled from what I assume was a recent adventure. He has a smile that could melt glaciers.

"Uh, sure," I mumble, my grip slipping on the box.

He grabs the other end effortlessly. "I'm Declan. We live next door."

"Brynn," I reply, awkwardly trying to match his ease.

"So, Brynn," he says as we carry the box inside. "You like hockey?"

I shrug. "Never watched a game."

Declan's eyes widen like I' ve just admitted to never having eaten pizza. "We'll have to fix that," he declares. "I'm pretty good, you know."

"Is that so?" I ask, intrigued despite myself.

"Yup. My dad's the high school coach. Been playing since I could walk."

As we set the box down in the living room, he grins again. "Maybe you'll come watch me sometime."

I feel my heart do a weird little flip-flop but manage a nod. "Maybe."

That day marked the beginning of something—what exactly, I wasn't sure then. But it was enough to make Everbrook feel like home quicker than any other place had before.

The memory shifts like an old film reel flickering to life. We're at my parents' kitchen table, textbooks spread out, notebooks covered in scribbles. Declan’s head rests on my shoulder, his breath steady and warm. I nudge him gently with my elbow.

"Hey, genius, drooling on my notes isn't helping me pass this test."

He stirs, eyes fluttering open. "Wasn't drooling," he mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Sure you weren't," I say, smirking. "Need a pillow next time?"

"Nah," he grins lazily. "Your shoulder's comfy enough."

The scene morphs to the hockey rink. The air is crisp, biting at my cheeks, but the excitement of the game keeps me warm. Declan glides across the ice with ease, like he was born to do it. When he scores, the crowd erupts in cheers. He skates past my section, and with a sly grin, taps his stick to his helmet and points it right at me.

"That one's for you, Blossom!" he shouts over the roar.

My heart skips a beat. I shout back, "Show-off!"

The next memory is right here in my bedroom. It's early spring, and the air smells of fresh soil and blooming flowers. Declan walks in holding a small potted plant with delicate blue flowers.

"For you," he says, holding it out like an offering.

I raise an eyebrow. "Is this your way of saying sorry for something?"

He chuckles. "Nope. Just thought you'd like it. It's a rare one."

I take the plant, our fingers brushing for a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks, Dec."

"Anytime, Blossom," he says softly.

The final memory is in our treehouse—the sanctuary we built as kids and never outgrew. We’re sitting on old bean bags, the wood creaking beneath us as we laugh at some joke only we understand.

"You remember when you tried to impress me by climbing that tree?" I ask between giggles.

"Hey," he protests, mock serious. "I did impress you."

"You fell out of it!"

"And you were impressed I survived," he retorts with a smirk.

I shake my head, still laughing. "Yeah, okay."

His gaze softens then, catching me off guard. "Blossom...you've always been there for me."

I swallow hard but manage a smile. "Right back at you."

The warmth from these memories wraps around me like a favorite blanket—familiar and comforting. It’s these moments that make Everbrook more than just home; they make it ours.

The present crashes back as Meghan bangs on the door again. “Brynn! Seriously!”

I sigh but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips as I flash one last smile in the mirror and head for the door. Some things never change—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I rush downstairs, the scent of Mom's coffee mixing with the lavender from my room. Declan leans casually against the doorframe, a knowing smile on his face.

"Let me guess," he says, crossing his arms. "You were doing your hair."

I give him a playful shove. "Yeah, yeah. At least I don't spend half an hour picking out which hat to wear."

He grins wider, blue eyes twinkling. "Touché, Blossom."

We step outside, the crisp morning air nipping at our noses. The sun's just starting to climb, casting a golden hue over Everbrook's familiar streets.

"So, any exciting plans today?" I ask as we walk.

"Just the usual," he replies. "School, hockey practice, and maybe grabbing a burger after."

"Ah, the thrilling life of Declan Callahan," I tease.

"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it," he shoots back with a wink.

As we make our way down Main Street, I spot Brady Thompson leaning against his car, chatting with a group of friends. His blonde hair catches the sunlight just right, making him look like some kind of golden god. He's laughing at something one of his friends said, and it’s like a scene straight out of a teen drama.

As we walk past Brady, I can’t help but stare. His laugh rings out, bright and confident, making my stomach do a weird flip. I mentally kick myself for being so obvious, but it’s like my eyes have a mind of their own.

Declan catches me. “Blossom, you staring at Brady?”

I snap my gaze back to the sidewalk, heart pounding. “What? No! I was just...uh...looking at the car. Nice car, right?”

He smirks. “Sure, because you’re so into cars now.”

“I could be!” I retort defensively, feeling heat creep up my neck. “You don’t know.”

Declan raises an eyebrow. “Okay, so tell me about the car then. What model is it?”

I open my mouth and then close it again, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh...it’s...a...blue one?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nice try, Blossom. Just admit it.”

“Admit what?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

“That you were staring at Brady.”

I bite my lip, trying to come up with another lie but knowing it’s useless. Declan’s like a human lie detector when it comes to me.

“Fine,” I grumble finally, throwing my hands up in defeat. “I was staring at Brady.”

Declan stops walking and turns to face me fully, a curious look on his face. “Why?”

I sigh, feeling like I’ve been caught red-handed in the world’s lamest crime. “I don’t know, okay? He’s just...he’s Brady Thompson.”

“And?” Declan prompts, his blue eyes boring into mine.

"I have a crush on Brady," I blurt out before I can chicken out.

Declan's expression doesn't change much—still that same calm demeanor he's always had—but there's something in his eyes that flickers briefly.

"And here I thought you were gonna confess your undying love for me," he jokes lightly.

I roll my eyes but feel some tension ease from my shoulders. "Seriously, Dec."

He nods slowly. "Okay. So what's your plan?"

"Plan?"

"Yeah," he says as if it's obvious. "You can't just have a crush and do nothing about it."

"I don't know...maybe ask him to study or something?" My voice sounds more uncertain than I'd like.

Declan gives me a reassuring smile. "Not bad. And if he says no, I'll kick his ass."

I laugh despite myself. "Thanks for that."

"No problem," he replies easily. "But really, Brynn—you're amazing. If he doesn't see that, it's his loss."

His words warm me more than they probably should. We walk on in companionable silence for a bit before reaching Everbrook High School's front steps.

As we approach the entrance, I feel a mixture of nerves and excitement bubbling up inside me—today might be the day I finally talk to Brady Thompson...or at least make eye contact without melting into a puddle.

And with Declan by my side? Maybe anything’s possible after all.