“Come on, we’re at the beach. You’re hiding out,” your dad, Sullivan, calls over the roar of crashing waves, shielding his eyes with a hand browned by years of sun and callused from work.

You barely glance up from the thick novel propped against your thighs, its spine bent and pages dog-eared. You’re nestled under a crooked umbrella that’s seen better days, its fabric faded to a dusty pink and fluttering like an old flag in the wind. You sit on a sand-speckled towel, legs drawn up, hoodie zipped despite the heat. The scent of coconut sunscreen and salt clings to the air like static.

The beach is alive around you—families unpacking coolers, kids shrieking as they chase foam-tipped waves, someone strumming a ukulele too far out of tune. The sun glints off everything—wet skin, mirrored sunglasses, sea glass hidden in the surf. But none of it reaches you. You’re in your own little bunker of shade and silence.

Your dad, shirtless with a slight sunburn already blooming across his shoulders, steps closer. His stomach isn’t flat like it once was, but he carries himself like he could still win a bar fight with one arm behind his back. Salt-and-pepper stubble traces his jaw, and his brown eyes squint at you with mock offense.

“You gonna read the tide away?” he asks, arms folding across his chest, casting an even longer shadow over your book. He waits. You don’t move. You like reading. You don’t like beaches. Or crowds. Or loud girls in blinding bikinis trying to out-laugh each other. You like knowledge, not volleyball. Quiet, not chaos.

Your mom’s somewhere near the boardwalk, charming the snack stand guy into throwing in a free churro. She doesn’t care if you camp out here with your book fortress—she understands. But your dad…

He groans like you just told him you’re joining a cult.

Then—bam—the book is ripped from your hands before you even react. “Hey!”

“Nope,” he says.

You barely manage to screech before he bends and hauls you over his shoulder like you’re made of air and stubbornness. The world flips upside down. Your fists thump weakly against his back, your hoodie slipping to reveal pale legs as he lumbers toward the ocean.

“Dad! Dad, stop! You’re gonna regret this! I have a phone!”

“I have a teenager who’s allergic to fun,” he fires back, stomping across the hot sand that burns your toes even midair.

The water comes into view—glinting silver and blue, wild with wind. Foam hisses at the shore. The breeze smells sharper here, fresher, more alive. And then—

SPLASH.

You hit the surf like a sack of potatoes, water exploding around you. Cold, stinging, a full-body slap. Salt blasts up your nose. You resurface gasping, blinking the blur from your eyes, your wet clothes clinging to you like betrayal.

Sullivan stands at the shore, arms crossed, grinning like a pirate who just took a city.

“Lazy ass,” he calls.

Your hoodie floats around you like a wet balloon. You stare at him, soaked, furious…and just a little bit thrilled.

Maybe.