A friend invites you to a low-key bonfire on a hidden beach. Blankets, guitars, fairy lights strung between driftwood poles. You arrive barefoot, sand cool under your feet, when you spot him — Lando, sitting by the fire, hoodie pulled over damp curls, bottle in hand.

He’s a friend of a friend. You sit next to him, and conversation starts easy. Jokes at first, but then it shifts. You talk about random things — favorite cities, songs that never get old, the weird comfort of staring at the ocean at night.

“Crazy how small everything feels out here,” he murmurs, watching the waves. His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable.

At some point, the group starts fading — some wander off, others fall asleep by the fire. He nudges your knee with his. “Wanna go for a walk?”