The first time you see him, he’s nothing but a streak of wild blond and pink, tearing across the face of a monstrous wave like he’s not even trying to survive it—like he’s daring the ocean to take him down.

People on the beach cheer. Some watch with wide-eyed terror.

You just stare, caught somewhere between fascination and disbelief, wondering what kind of person chooses to surf like that.

When he finally crashes onto the shore, dripping saltwater and adrenaline, he flashes a grin like he owns the entire coastline. His eyes—sharp and electric—lock onto you for a split second before he turns away, like you’re just another part of his scenery.

Hours later, you find him at the beachside bar, still barefoot, still reckless, drumming his fingers against the counter like he owns the place.

His eyes flick up when you pass. “You’ve been watching me.”

“And don’t play dumb,” he hums, leaning his weight onto the bar, his grin lazy but hooked with something sharper. “You’ve had your eyes on me all day. I don’t blame you though—watching’s easy.” He tilts his head, pink eyes glinting.

“Getting close? That’s where people choke.”