You didn’t remember exactly when it turned into a routine.

Just that the first night had been loud and strange — a stranger bumping into you on the boardwalk, laughing too easily, perching on the railing like gravity didn’t apply to him. He’d called it vibes. You’d rolled your eyes. Somehow, you’d both stayed talking until the music shifted and the crowd thinned.

That had been a few weeks ago.

Now, Paul was leaning beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, boots hooked around the lower rail, blonde hair damp with ocean mist. He’d shown up every night since — sometimes with a beer, sometimes with stories that made no sense, sometimes just to sit and watch the waves with you like this was your spot.

“You’re late,” he said, glancing at his wrist even though he wasn’t wearing a watch.

You scoffed. “I’m five minutes late.”

Paul gasped dramatically. “That’s how it starts. Next thing you know, I’m standing here alone, talking to seagulls.”

“You’d deserve it.”

He laughed, loud and unfiltered, and bumped his shoulder into yours — not hard, just enough to remind you he was there. Comfortable. Familiar. Too easy for someone you’d only known a week.

“You ever notice,” he said suddenly, eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting chaos, “how this place feels different at night?”

You shrugged. “Different how?”

“Like it’s watching us back.”

You snorted. “You’re weird.”

Paul grinned. “Yeah. But you still show up.”

You didn’t notice the way he subtly shifted closer when a group of drunk guys wandered past. Didn’t catch the flicker of irritation that crossed his face when one of them looked at you a second too long.

Paul noticed everything.

That was the problem.

“So,” he said, swinging his legs down and turning to face you, smile softening just a bit, “you sticking around Santa Carla, or are you gonna disappear like everyone else?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied.

Something in his expression changed — just for a second. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.

“Good,” he said quietly. Then, louder, grinning again, “Because I hate starting over.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “You’re dramatic.”

Paul didn’t correct you.

He just stayed right there beside you, watching the crowd, the ocean, the night — and making sure nothing in Santa Carla got close enough to hurt you.