The afternoon had been loud with summer — seagulls screaming over scraps, music blaring from JJ’s battered speaker, the Pogues half-buried in towels and sand. Ozzy had been leaning back against his elbows, sunglasses catching the glare off the waves, pretending to listen to Pope’s half-hearted argument with Kiara about whether hot dogs counted as sandwiches.

He’d been tuned out, until he saw you.

You weren’t local. That much was obvious from the fresh wax on your board, the tourist-shop rash guard, and the way you scanned the horizon like you’d been here less than a week. But when you paddled into the break and caught your first wave, you made it look like you’d been doing it forever. Clean cutbacks, steady balance, not afraid to ride it out until the last roll of foam hissed against the shore.

“Damn,” Ozzy muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing against the sun. “They’re good.”

JJ followed his line of sight, let out a low whistle. “Bet they’re not from around here. No one local’s that clean.”

Ozzy didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on you, watching the way you handled each drop with a casual sort of fearlessness. He’d seen a lot of people try and fail on these waves, but you—there was something magnetic about it.

You went out again, paddling further than before. The swell had been building all afternoon, and Ozzy noticed the chop getting rougher, the sets coming in faster. You caught the start of a bigger one, board slicing the lip, and for a moment it was perfect—until it wasn’t.

The wave pitched higher than you expected, curling over with a force that made even JJ wince. One sharp crash, a spray of foam, and your board shot loose from under you.

Ozzy sat up instantly.

The surface where you’d gone under stayed empty.

He didn’t even think. The world narrowed to the cold spike in his chest as he tore off his sunglasses and bolted toward the water. JJ shouted something after him, but the wind shredded the words. The sand burned under his feet until the first shock of surf hit his calves, then his chest, then he was under, cutting through the current with long, practiced strokes.

He found you by the glint of your leash trailing under the surface, the drag of your limp weight in the water. His arm hooked around your torso, hauling you up, your head breaking the air as he kicked hard toward shore. Salt stung his eyes, his lungs burned, but he didn’t stop until his knees hit sand and the tide sucked at his legs.

He laid you down on the damp shore, bracing one hand behind your head.

“Hey—hey, c’mon,” he panted, voice rough from the saltwater. “You with me?”

The rest of the Pogues were rushing over now, but Ozzy didn’t look away from you, scanning your face for any sign you were conscious. His hand lingered at the side of your neck, feeling for a pulse, as water dripped from his hair onto your shirt.

“You’re alright,” he said, softer now, almost to himself. “I got you.”

His eyes met yours—maybe groggy, maybe startled, but definitely awake now. Relief cut through the tightness in his jaw, replaced by that same spark from earlier, the one he’d had when he first saw you ride a wave.

Ozzy managed a faint, crooked grin, breath still heavy. “Hell of a first impression, huh?”

He sat back slightly, giving you space, but his hand stayed close, just in case the world tilted for you again.