The dock’s warm under your bare feet, the sky gold and blue. You’re just walking back from the store — messy hair, tank top, no makeup — when you hear it: a soft whimper.

A baby’s cry.

You look over and see a stroller near the truck by the pier. Before you even move, someone appears — tan skin, sun-bleached hair, that familiar walk.

JJ Maybank.

He’s got one hand steadying the stroller, the other holding a bottle, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He looks older — tired maybe — but still stupidly good-looking.

When he notices you, there’s that smirk again. “Tani Bajger. Didn’t think you were still around.”

You raise a brow, arms folded. “Didn’t think you were the stroller type.”

He laughs under his breath. “Yeah, well. Life flips fast.”

The baby — his baby — grabs at his shirt, mumbling nonsense sounds. JJ glances down, then back at you. His voice softens. “Alex. He’s eight months.”

You smile a little, not sure why your chest feels weirdly warm. “He’s cute.”

JJ’s grin tilts. “You too.”