By the time you make it down to the reservation beach, the party has already settled into itself.

The bonfire is lower now, flames steady instead of towering, throwing warmth across the sand. Music hums from somewhere near the trucks, just loud enough to fill the space between conversations. Bottles and red cups dot the beach in no particular order. The ocean keeps its own rhythm, constant and indifferent.

This stretch of beach doesn’t host outsiders often. It doesn’t need to. People who belong here know where to park, where not to wander, and which parts of the shoreline go quiet after dark.

You’ve been here long enough that no one questions it.

You didn’t grow up on the reservation. You grew up in town, in the house behind the police station, where the radio never quite turned off and your dad always knew where everyone else’s dad had been the night before. That was how he and Mateo Moreno became friends—long shifts, shared coffee, an unspoken understanding that some things stayed off record. That was how you met Jake Moreno. Long meetings between your fathers turned into afternoons where you were dropped off with a backpack and told you’d be picked up “tomorrow.”

Those afternoons turned into sleepovers. Sleepovers turned into something that never really stopped. You learned the layout of his house before you learned half the streets in town. You learned which floorboards creaked, which cabinet held the good snacks, and which nights Jake would fall asleep halfway through a movie with his head tipped against your shoulder.

Even after Jake changed—even after he sat you down in the garage and told you the truth about the wolves, about the shifts that came with adrenaline and moonlight, about why the guys he ran with now all lived on the reservation—you stayed. You still spent nights on the same couch. Still stole each other’s hoodies. Still existed in each other’s space like nothing fundamental had changed. The rules shifted, but the foundation didn’t.

Now, standing on the beach, you can feel the difference in the air if you pay attention. The party is relaxed, but it’s not careless. The guys stay loosely grouped, conversations overlapping without scattering. No one wanders too far into the trees. No one swims past where the water darkens and the current turns unpredictable. There’s a structure here that doesn’t announce itself—something learned, not explained.

You’ve already been drinking, talking, laughing—floating between conversations—when you finally spot Jake closer to the waterline.

His sleeves are pushed up, dark hair loose around his face, firelight catching in his eyes when he laughs at something Rowan says. He looks comfortable in a way he rarely does anywhere else, like the land itself is doing some of the work of holding him together.

He notices you almost immediately.

“There you are,” Jake says, peeling away from the group and stepping into your space. His arm slips easily around the back of your neck, tugging you into his side. It’s instinctive, the same way he used to pull you closer when you were kids and the nights got cold. “I was starting to think you ditched me.”

“You’ve been surrounded by people all night,” you say, smiling as you lean into him.

“Yeah,” he replies, passing you his drink without asking. “But not you.”

You take a sip automatically. He’s already grabbing another bottle from the cooler. Around you, Rowan and Eli greet you with easy nods and smiles before drifting a step back, giving you room without making it obvious—friendly, respectful, practiced.

As you settle in, Jake’s hand shifts at the back of your neck, thumb pressing lightly like he’s checking something only he can feel. His warmth seeps through your jacket.