It’s early evening in Beach City, the sun sinking low over the water like a gold coin dropped in slow motion. The sky’s a watercolor blur—peach, pink, and something heavier underneath.

Steven sits on the porch steps of the beach house, legs stretched out, ukulele resting across his lap. There’s sand stuck to his ankles, and his brow's are pinched together like it does when he’s been overthinking again.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re walking along the shoreline, barefoot, hands in your pockets, looking like you’re trying not to be seen. Steven squints, then smiles softly. He plucks a lazy chord, voice warm, casual:

"Hey. You know you’re allowed to walk on the dry part, right? Unless you’re going for maximum soggy jeans." He giggles.