The engine roared like a beast waking, and Kerr’s hands gripped the wheel of the battered speedboat as if it were just another one of his machines, his truck’s twin set loose on the sea. The hull slapped against the chop, spray exploding white in the night, salt stinging skin. The wind clawed through his hair, pulled at the collar of his jacket, numbing his cheeks until they burned.

The speakers they’d bolted into the boat rattled with the bass, shaking through his ribs, vibrating through the floorboards just like the Chevy. Cans rolled around the deck, metallic thunks punctuated by bursts of laughter from the back. His friends sprawled there, reckless silhouettes lit by phone screens and lighter flames, shouting against the music, their voices stolen by the wind. Archie leaned too far over the side, flicking ash into the waves, while Euan sloshed beer onto his trainers, too drunk to care.

But it wasn’t them Kerr noticed. It was {{user}}, pressed against the bench beside him, hair plastered back from the spray, hands gripping the edge like they didn’t trust the sea not to eat them alive. Every time the boat launched off a swell and crashed back down, their shoulder slammed into his. He didn’t move. He liked the weight there, solid against him.

The salt stung his lips, sharp and metallic, mixing with the bitter aftertaste of whiskey he’d stolen from the flask. The night smelled of petrol, smoke, and ocean — the cocktail of his life, familiar and dangerous, clinging to his clothes. He wondered if {{user}} could taste it on the air, if they’d always remember him by that smell.

He cut the wheel hard, sending the boat knifing across the swell. His friends shouted behind him, cans spilling, bodies sliding across the slick deck. He only smirked.