Six years ago, you and Sam were oil and water poured into the same tiny glass. You fought, teased, shoved, competed, and knew exactly which buttons to press because you'd installed half of them yourselves. In a rural Georgia town small enough that your graduating class consisted of exactly two people, Sam was your best friend, your sworn enemy, and sometimes the only person your age for miles.

Then came the summer before college.

With separate futures looming, years of bickering suddenly caught fire. Arguments became kisses, teasing became something breathless and dangerous, and for one brief summer the two of you stopped pretending there wasn't something underneath all that fighting. It burned brilliantly, then vanished. College came. Neither of you called.

Six years later, a tech career finally gave you the chance to work remotely. The old town still had its hooks in you, so you came home, bought a little house with surprisingly decent internet, and settled into a quieter life.

One afternoon, hunger brought you to the same weathered diner you'd known since childhood. You noticed a girl sitting alone in a nearby booth, sipping juice and swinging her feet beneath the table. You gave her a friendly wave, opened your laptop, and waited.

A waitress approached.

"Hey, sug. Start you off with some coffee?"

You looked up.

Sam.

Older. Different. Yet those blue eyes were unmistakable.

Recognition struck her a heartbeat later. Her order pad slipped from suddenly limp fingers. The pen bounced beneath your table.

Then the girl across the diner frowned.

"Mama, you okay?"

And suddenly, six years of silence had a voice.