The beach house had always been your older brother’s thing — his summer crew, his friends, his late nights and loud music echoing off the dunes. You were the younger sibling, the one who came along for the waves and waffles and maybe a little too much SPF 50.

But this year was different.

This year, Ted was there.

He’d always been your brother’s best friend, always around in some form or another. But college had made him cooler somehow — or maybe you just noticed it now. He wore stupid sunglasses, always had a camera slung around his neck, and walked around barefoot like he owned the sand.

And somehow, he’d decided you were fun to talk to.

The first week at the beach house was filled with little things: him handing you your towel with a smirk, asking you what music you were into now, teasing you in the kitchen late at night when everyone else was passed out.

“You always sneak downstairs at midnight?” he asked once, leaning on the fridge door as you reached for a popsicle.

“Only when I know you’ll be here to annoy me,” you’d replied.

He laughed, bit into an orange popsicle, and said, “Well, you’re welcome, then.”

The second week was worse — or better, depending on how you looked at it. Because one night, after a day of swimming and sunburns and everyone else heading to a bonfire, you and Ted stayed behind.

He claimed he was “too sun-zombified” to go out. You claimed you “just didn’t feel like it.” The truth? Neither of you wanted to be anywhere but here.

The house was quiet. The ocean murmured in the background. You sat out on the deck, a blanket around your shoulders, and Ted flopped into the chair next to you with two cans of soda and a very dramatic sigh.

“I can’t believe your brother thinks he can play guitar,” he said.