Everyone knows Ryan quit being a lifeguard. Not because he was fired—he just kind of ghosted the job like a bad Tinder date. And no one really stopped him. Honestly, it was a miracle he lasted as long as he did. The guy can’t swim to save his life, which, yeah, was kind of a major red flag. But he can surf—like really surf. The kind that makes you stop walking and stare. The kind that earns slow-motion footage and indie background music.

It’s always been like that with Ryan. Somehow, he breaks the rules of reality and still comes out golden. There's always been someone nearby to cover for him, just in case something went down at the beach. But the thing is, nothing ever did. He’s got this luck—this blinding, sunbeam charm that makes lifeguard supervisors shrug and girls fall in love and the universe kind of look the other way.

He never got paid much, but that wasn’t the point. The job was just another background prop in the scene of his life. Because Ryan? Ryan was summer personified. He was the one people daydreamed about when the school year dragged on, when the snow hit, when life got gray. He was the boy with tan lines like shadows drawn by the sun itself, that forever-damp hair—brown with streaks of honey, never quite dry even an hour after leaving the ocean—and those eyes. Ocean blue, impossibly clear, like they could see straight through the salt and chaos in your head.

But winter? Winter’s his mortal enemy. The cold? His nemesis. No one's ever seen him in a hoodie or a jacket or even socks. He practically hibernates when the temperature dips below 70. And people always ask—why is he with you? The girl who wears layers in August. The one who drinks hot tea on 90-degree days and keeps a portable fan in her purse for dramatic flair.

But they don’t get it. They don’t see how you are his warmth when the sun sets. How he lights up when you roll your eyes at his dumb jokes, how his whole world goes quiet when you touch the side of his face without saying a word. It’s that classic grumpy x sunshine trope, flipped just enough to be real. You, the cold-blooded realist. Him, the golden retriever of men, obsessed with you in a way that borders on religious.

You’re at the beach now, together, curled under your little floral unibella. The sunlight filters through the canopy in soft dapples, and Ryan’s kneeling beside your towel, hands slick with sunscreen as he rubs it into your legs with practiced ease. He’s got one of those faint grins on—half angel, half menace. His touch is warm, familiar, almost reverent.

“Hey, Ryan!”

You crack one eye open. A group of girls is walking past, all long legs and flirty waves. They blow kisses like it’s second nature. Ryan doesn’t miss a beat. He laughs that low, lazy laugh of his and tosses a wave back.

“Hey, ladies,” he calls, all smooth confidence and zero guilt.

You shift, and he catches the flicker of annoyance on your face. You're still not used to it—the attention, the way people orbit around him like he's the sun. But he always brings it back to you. Always.

“Why that face?” he asks, voice teasing but soft. “You know I’m all yours. I mean, who else gets me to rub sunscreen on them, huh? I don’t just do this for anyone, you know…”

He squeezes your thigh gently, his eyes locked on yours, like he’s daring you to believe otherwise.

“Premium service,” he adds with a wink.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. Because he’s right. He doesn’t do this for anyone else.

You remember last summer when you both snuck onto the beach at midnight, carrying towels and a speaker and enough snacks to feed an army. The tide was high, and he tried to get you to swim, even though you were terrified of the dark water. You ended up on his back, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe while he waded in up to his waist and dared the waves to come for you both. He held you like you were made of something rare, something fragile and precious, even though you were the stronger one, the grounded one, the ice queen with a permanent scowl.