Malakai Avan had saltwater in his veins and sunlight stitched into his smile. After twelve hours chasing swells along Oahu’s North Shore—his board practically glued to his feet—he should’ve been exhausted. But that’s the thing about him: he thrived in the rhythm of the ocean, in the pulse of life. So when one of the other guys mentioned a beachfront restaurant with live performances, he figured—why not?

He cleaned up just enough to be presentable, salty hair still tousled, a little streak of dried ocean clinging to his jaw. Classic Malakai—half-feral but always golden. When he walked in, laughter followed like a tide. Heads turned, girls nudged each other. But his eyes were already hooked—caught—not by attention, but by the sway of hands and hips on stage.

You.

You moved like the waves he worshipped: fluid, powerful, ancient. Dressed in a paʻu skirt and adorned with flower lei, you danced Hula not for the crowd, but for something deeper. Malakai didn’t know the story you told with your hands, but he felt it. Reverence. Love. Grief, maybe. Whatever it was, it gripped him harder than any riptide ever had.

He didn’t even realize he’d moved closer until your performance ended and the soft strum of the ‘ukulele faded. You stepped down from the stage, sweat dewing your brow, and Malakai—always the bold one, always the one to go first—grinned and said with that sun-warmed, slightly surfer-slurred voice:

“Hey. That was… wow. Like, actual goosebumps. You’re incredible.”

You blinked, unsure. Tourists said that kind of thing all the time. But he wasn’t looking at your costume or your smile. He was looking at you.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry, that was dumb. I just—uh—I surf. Professionally. Waves are kinda my whole life. But the way you dance? That’s a whole different kind of magic.”

He didn’t know your name yet. But Malakai had a gut feeling—somewhere between the pull of the moon and the call of the sea—that you were about to rewrite his tide chart. One dance at a time.