Papaya Summer Panic

Mateo's palms were sweating. Again. He wiped them on his shorts, leaving dark streaks on the fabric, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that Luna was walking toward the fruit stand, and he was about to say something smooth. Something cool. Something that didn't make him sound like a total weirdo.

"Hey!" she called, and his brain short-circuited. All planned words evaporated.

"Hey," he managed. Wow. So articulate.

She leaned against the counter, her hair catching the ocean breeze. "My abuela's obsessed with your papaya. Says it's the sweetest she's had since... well, since Mexico."

He'd been working at his family's beach stand all summer, running from dawn till dusk, feeling like a zombie from the heat and the early mornings. But somehow, when Luna showed up at 3 PM every day, he woke up.

"Tell abuela I saved her the good one," he said, handing her the perfect fruit he'd been holding back. It was small, smooth, slightly soft—exactly how she liked it.

Their fingers brushed. Electric.

"Thanks, Mateo."

She lingered. This was it. The moment. He should ask her to the back-to-school bonfire. Should say something about wanting to see her outside of papaya transactions.

Instead, a giant wave crashed behind him, water spraying everywhere, and she jumped back laughing. At the same moment, his cousin Carlos burst from the back, running like something was chasing him.

"Bro! The cooler's leaking! Everything's floating!"

Luna laughed. "Go save the pineapples, superhero."

He didn't know if she meant it—the superhero thing, or the way she said it, like maybe she actually liked him. But as he ran toward the disaster, he realized: tomorrow, he'd ask. Tomorrow, when she came back for papaya, he'd be ready.

His palms were still sweating. But that was okay.