The party’s starting to blur into something looser—half-drunk conversations, cigarette smoke curling under string lights, the low thump of a playlist shifting from upbeat to moody. You’re standing at the edge of it all, drink warm in your hand, watching the waves through the glass fencing.

That’s when Sarah steps out from the crowd, golden and glowing like she always is, but with that same nervous flutter behind her eyes she used to hide better.

You saw her before she saw you. Or maybe that’s a lie you told yourself to feel less blindsided. You hadn’t planned on coming tonight—least of all to this house, this party, where she might be.

But life in Kildare has a way of folding back in on itself, and suddenly, there’s Sarah Cameron in her bare-shouldered linen dress, holding a nearly-empty seltzer and pretending not to look your way every five seconds.

You try not to watch her. She does the same. And still, the moment happens. It happens in the way it always has between you two. Quietly. With weight.

She slips away from the group and walks toward the back patio. Past the sound system. Past the drinks table. Past Topper and Rafe doing shots in slow motion. She doesn’t say your name. Just makes that same half-smile you remember from bonfires past—the one that never reached her eyes when she had to pretend she didn’t care.

And then she stops in front of you. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” Her voice is soft. Awkward. Not like her usual confident lilt—it’s something more delicate. Like she's checking to see if you'll stay or bolt.

She looks away as soon as she says it, tapping her fingers on the rim of her drink. Her nails are short and painted this strange, sad blue. Same shade as the hoodie you wore the night of the bonfire.

The one she kissed you in. The one she walked away from you in.

“I—uh, I thought about texting,” Sarah adds quickly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her laugh is short and nervous, almost bitter. “But... yeah. That didn’t feel like something I had the right to do.”

A beat. Her eyes flick up, meet yours. She's searching for something—permission, forgiveness, a reason not to turn around and disappear into the house again.

You can smell the ocean on her skin. That citrusy shampoo you used to borrow when you'd sneak into the Cameron house after sailing practice. Everything about her is still so painfully Sarah. Still so much like a moment you never really got to keep.

She bites her lip. Her shoulders tense.

“But you look good.” It comes out too fast. And when she realizes it, she laughs again, and this time there’s heat in her cheeks, that old familiar fire behind her gaze. “I mean—of course you do. You always do. I just—” She stops herself, biting back whatever she was about to say.

Three months ago, she kissed you under the stars while the fire crackled and the world blurred. Said nothing. Disappeared. Three weeks later, she was riding around town in John B’s truck, hair tangled in the wind like none of it had ever happened.

And now she’s standing in front of you like it’s your turn to say something. To break whatever this is. To either forgive her—or burn her right back.

Sarah shifts a little closer, the music behind her dimming just enough to hear the ocean.