The sun was already hot overhead by the time the truck pulled up near the shore, tires crunching over sand and shells. Waves lapped lazily against the coast as seagulls cried somewhere in the distance.

“Alright,” Price said, slamming the tailgate down. “Offload and don’t crush the cooler—that’s our lifeline.”

The others grunted in agreement as they grabbed gear: folding chairs, umbrellas, a cooler packed with drinks, and bags of snacks that Soap nearly dropped three times.

You hopped out carefully, sandals sinking into the hot sand. You held your sunhat as a breeze blew past, already squinting up at the blinding sky.

Price gave your shoulder a gentle pat. “Stick close, kiddo. Ocean’s got moods.”

While Ghost and Gaz wrestled with an umbrella that refused to stay in the sand, Soap popped the first beer with a hiss and declared, “Time to get irresponsibly hydrated.”

You just watched as they got to work setting up. A towel was laid out just for you, and Price kicked off his boots with a sigh.