The party is loud enough to swallow consequences.

The fire crackles too big, the bass is thumping from someone’s truck, and a couple Pogues are already ankle-deep in the ocean pretending it’s a good idea. A crowd's forming around the keg, someone’s arguing about beer pong, and everyone’s just drunk enough to forget where they came from.

That’s when Ozzy see you.

Not for the first time tonight, but maybe for the first time like that — leaning against a driftwood log with a cup dangling from your hand, cheeks flushed from sun and alcohol, that familiar Kook smugness curled into the edge of your smile. You're talking to some kid in a polo, all eye-rolls and lazy charm, but every few seconds, you glance over your shoulder.

At him.

Ozzy’s been feeling it for weeks now — the way you look at him like you hate him and want him at the same time. The snide little digs, the smug “you think you’re better than us?” energy, the way you walk into rooms like you own the beach. But beneath all that, there’s something else. Something softer. Nervous, even.

He shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t want you.

You're a Kook. The kind that probably never rinses sand out of your expensive shoes. The kind that only slums it in The Cut for the thrill. The kind his friends would tear him apart for even looking at twice.

But you don’t look away this time.

So when you slip away from the log — slow, purposeful — and wander down the beach where the shadows stretch longer and the voices fade into background noise, Ozzy follows.

He catches up just beyond the firelight, where the only thing glowing is the moon off your hair and the glitter of mischief in your eyes. “Aren't you bored of pretending you don’t see me?” he asks, voice low, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like it’s the only thing keeping them steady.

You say something snarky. Of course you do. But you're too close now, too flushed, too brave in that drunk-not-drunk way that says: I’m gonna do this because maybe I can pretend it didn’t happen tomorrow.

And Ozzy’s tired of pretending too.

You stand there in the hush between the dunes, beer-warm and reckless, staring at each other like the tide might pull you apart if you don’t move. And then you lean in.

It’s not graceful. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like beer and heat and every wrong decision they’ve ever almost made. Ozzy kiss you back.

Slow at first — just a press, a test, like really? you want this? me? But when he feel you melt a little, when he hears that tiny sound you make in the back of your throat, he deepens it. Hands sliding to your waist, grounding, steady. Fingers curling into expensive fabric like he doesn’t care who sees.

Because maybe no one will remember. Maybe it’ll just be a moment you can throw away with the empties in the sand. But Ozzy pulls back, lips flushed, breath warm against yours.

“Don’t do that unless you mean it,” he says softly, eyes still half-lidded, voice fraying at the edges. “'Cause I’ve wanted to do that for a long time… and I won’t forget it tomorrow.” He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.

Just watch you like you're something he shouldn’t want — but does, anyway.