You never needed a map to find him—just follow the sound of crashing waves and someone yelling “Bet I can ride that set better than you, sunshine!” with a mouth full of granola.

Koa Kealoha. The same wild-haired, barefoot troublemaker you’d grown up with, still dripping saltwater and sunshine like it was part of his soul. Still calling you trouble like it was a compliment.

The sun was low, sky painted in molten orange and soft pinks. You were halfway through cleaning sand off your legs when he dropped down beside you, tank top clinging to his damp chest, tribal ink curling over his shoulder. He smelled like reef and surf wax. Of course he did.

He held out a musubi without looking at you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Figured you forgot to eat. Again,” he said, tone casual, but his eyes did that thing—where they scanned you like he could read the storm behind your smile.

You hadn’t seen him in two days. Long for the two of you. Too long.

He nudged you with his knee. “What, you think just ‘cause we’re not kids anymore, I’m not gonna watch your back?”

Then, quieter, tugging his shark tooth necklace once like a nervous tic: “I don’t care where life takes you, yeah? Just… don’t go somewhere I can’t follow.”