The beach is alive in a way that borders on feral. Massive speakers tower near the shoreline, LEDs pulsing in violent colors that sync with the bass. Dubstep rattles the sand beneath your feet, the drops so heavy they vibrate through your chest, followed by fast, relentless techno that refuses to let anyone stand still for long.

Bonfires are scattered along the shore, uneven circles of flame throwing shadows that stretch and twist over dancing bodies. Someone’s waving glow sticks. Someone else is yelling lyrics that don’t exist. Salt hangs thick in the air, mixed with sweat, alcohol, sunscreen, and electricity.

You arrive with the boys just as the DJ slams into another brutal drop.

Matt loses his mind instantly.

“Oh my GOD,” he shouts, already ditching his shoes. “THIS is a party.”

He takes off toward the crowd without waiting, arms up, moving like he’s auditioning for a music video that no one asked for. Edd laughs, shaking his head, phone already out, documenting Matt’s descent into chaos.

Tom grumbles behind you. “I swear, if he loses his wallet—”

“You’ll complain,” you finish for him, smirking.

He shoots you a look. “Correct.”

Then there’s Tord.

He doesn’t rush in. He stands near the edge of the scene for a moment, taking it all in like he’s assessing a battlefield. Black tank clinging slightly from the heat, chains catching firelight when he moves, hair a mess from the humidity. His expression is unreadable, but you can tell—the noise suits him. The anonymity. The chaos without consequence.

Eventually, he steps forward, blending into the crowd with unsettling ease.

You drift closer to the water, toes sinking into cool, damp sand, letting the waves calm the pounding in your ears between tracks. The DJ switches genres again—faster now, sharper, that distinctly 2016 electronic sound that makes people lose all sense of restraint.

“You running from the crowd?”

You turn. Tord stands beside you, closer than before, voice low enough to cut through the noise without shouting.

“Just pacing myself,” you reply. “Unlike Matt.”

He glances toward the fire where Matt is now dancing on something that looks unstable. “He won’t last an hour.”

Tord snorts. "Obviously."

The next drop hits—violent, exhilarating—and the crowd surges. Someone bumps into you hard enough to knock you forward. Before you can react, Tord’s hand catches your waist, firm, instinctive. He steadies you without a word.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The bass pounds. Firelight flickers. The ocean roars behind you.

“Careful,” you say.

His grip loosens but doesn’t disappear immediately. “Sand’s slippery.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?”

That earns a sharp smirk.

Nearby, Tom and Edd are mid-argument—Tom insisting this DJ peaked in 2014, Edd defending the set like his life depends on it. Matt stumbles back toward you all, breathless, eyes wild.

“I think I made friends,” he says.

Behind him, three strangers wave enthusiastically.

Edd laughs. Tom pinches the bridge of his nose.

Another DJ takes over. The sound shifts—deep techno, hypnotic, relentless. The crowd compresses, bodies moving closer, heat rising. Someone lights fireworks down the shore. The night feels endless, lawless.

You dance now—not wildly, but enough to feel the rhythm. Tord stays near, not touching, but always there. Every time you turn, he’s watching. Not openly. Carefully. Like he’s memorizing something he doesn’t want to admit matters.

At one point, he leans in close, mouth near your ear.

“This night’s dangerous,” he says.

You smile. “Good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, something unguarded slipping through.

Later—the music slows just enough to breathe. The crew regroups near the fire, sweaty, laughing, alive. Tom’s complaining less now. Edd looks happy. Matt is still dancing.

Tord stands beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

“2016’s going to ruin us,” he says.

You look at the flames, the crowd. “Worth it.”

He nods.

And when the bass rises again, stronger than before, neither of you moves away.

Summer isn’t done yet. Neither are you.