You’ve worked at the local surf shop every summer since you were sixteen. Sand on the floorboards, sun-faded posters, the smell of wax and salt in the air. One afternoon, the bell above the door jingles, and you look up — tanned skin, sunglasses he doesn’t bother to take off.

“Hey... do you, like... do lessons?” he asks, a little awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve never done this before. Might drown. But... seems fun.”

You glance at him, recognizing him immediately — but you play it cool. “Yeah. We can fix that. Drowning’s extra, though.”