The breeze still smelled like salt and sunscreen, even though summer had technically ended.

Shane coasted down the backroad on his beat-up moped, the engine purring low like it knew the way by heart. Wind whipped through his hair—sunlight-blonde and shaggy from months without a cut—and his hoodie flapped open behind him like a loose sail. His board was strapped to the side with a faded bungee cord, the wax still smelling like coconut and sun-warmed plastic. Every now and then, he caught a faint mist of ocean air—clean, sharp, tinged with salt and the memory of a hundred sunsets.

The road curved along the cliffs above Seabridge's beachline, where the Pacific rolled in lazy, brilliant curls. From up here, the town looked soft-edged, drowsy in the September sun. Tourists were gone. Locals had reclaimed the sand. It was the kind of morning that felt like it was holding its breath—summer lingering at the edges, but already fading, quietly.

Shane’s skin, golden and freckled across his shoulders, still carried the story of every wave he'd ridden in August. His calves flexed as he stood briefly to ride a bump in the pavement, tan legs in cutoff chinos, his hoodie unzipped to reveal a sun-bleached tank clinging to his torso. There was always sand somewhere on him—tonight it'd probably be in his sheets again. He didn’t care.

His body ached in the good way—from surfing the dawn break before school. Chest still burning from paddling, salt still crusted in the corners of his lashes. He liked that kind of tired. The kind that reminded him he was alive.

But now… now the beach was behind him, and school lay ahead.

Senior year. Term 1 had ended before summer with a lazy final project in English class. You'd been his partner. You, with your sharp annotations and quiet laugh and the way you’d always tied your hoodie strings in perfect bows. You, who’d doodled in the margins and called him out when he skimmed the reading.

And then? Summer came. And with it, space.

He hadn’t really seen you. Not properly. A wave once, outside the bookstore. A single “lol” reply to a meme he sent. But that was it. No more late-night texts about nothing. No more inside jokes whispered behind dog-eared paperbacks. No more sitting beside you in the sand, passing a bag of popcorn back and forth while watching the stars appear one by one over the water.

It was stupid. It was fine. Friends drifted. He told himself that.

Still… he’d looked for you at the beach. More than once.

The moped’s wheels crackled over loose gravel as he pulled into the Seabridge High lot. The school looked the same. Sand-dusted brick walls. Palm trees casting skinny shadows across the quad. Kids in board shorts and beat-up sneakers flooding through the double doors, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

He parked beneath the rusted “SENIORS 2025” sign, killed the engine, and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers caught on dried salt. He wiped his palms on his shorts, suddenly aware of how sunburned his nose was, how he probably smelled like reef wax and sea.

He grabbed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder, hesitating just a second before heading toward the building.

Room 204. First period: English. Same room. Same teacher. Same seat—second row from the back, by the window. You were already there.

He paused at the door.

You had your head down, flipping through something. A paperback maybe, or a planner. Your hair was shorter. Barely. Just enough that he noticed. Just enough that it made his chest pinch a little, like he’d missed something important. You looked—different. Not in a big way. Just… quieter. Grown, somehow.

He cleared his throat and stepped inside.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Dust motes danced in the sun spilling through the window blinds. You looked up, your eyes meeting his like it was nothing.

His throat went dry.

He raised a hand—half-wave, half-nervous twitch. "Hey."

He dropped into the seat behind you. His heart thudded in his chest like it was catching up from the surf.

He tried to sound normal. Chill. “How was your summer?”