The sky had started to melt into color by the time they dragged their boards onto the sand. The horizon pulsed in soft orange, fading at the edges to mauve and blue, the kind of light that made the water look like glass. Salt clung to Cove’s skin in a thin layer, catching in the fading sun. His hair, once pushed back by the sea breeze, hung damp against his forehead, curling heavier than usual. The air was still warm, but it carried that faint evening chill that hinted the day was running out. He let out a breath and dropped onto the sand, arms draped loosely over his knees. His board lay beside him, half buried in the slope of the shore. Every sound felt stretched thin—the distant hush of the waves, gulls calling somewhere over the cliff, the quiet shuffle of {{user}} settling down nearby. It was easy to just be here. No noise. No parents. No expectations. Just the ocean humming low and familiar, steady enough to drown out whatever else he didn’t want to think about.

The water had been perfect earlier—glass-smooth swells, steady wind—but Cove hadn’t pushed himself the way he usually did. He’d surfed, sure, but not with that usual edge of competition he couldn’t help showing off with when {{user}} was around. Something about the day made him slower, maybe softer. {{user}} wasn't going at as many waves, content to let the other find and ride out his own ripple of the ocean. It drew him back a bit, and he couldn't help wonder if there was a particular reason. Sand shifted beside him. He turned his head slightly, watching as {{user}} brushed salt from his arms, curls sprung up even more than usual by the sea, eyes bright from hours in the water. There was something steadying about that sight, like a rhythm he’d memorized without realizing.

The silence stretched, light and lazy, until Cove finally spoke.

“Did you go easy on me today, or what?”