The sun’s brutal—gold and high, baking the sand as dog tags clink and someone shouts about the score. Slider’s shirtless, Goose is laughing too loud, Maverick’s trying to make a play look casual and cocky all at once. And Tom?

Tom’s losing his grip.

Because you’re here. Sitting on the edge of the towel stack, tank top loose, knees drawn up, sunglasses tilted down as you squint at the game. You’re smiling—at Goose, at Slider, at Mav. Not at him. Never at him, not when anyone’s looking.

And that’s the deal, right?

No one knows what happened two nights ago. How you showed up at his door soaked in rain and silence, kissed him like you were drowning, whispered his name like it was a secret you were scared to keep.

He shouldn’t have opened that door. Shouldn’t have let it happen again. But here you are, and he’s pretending he doesn’t remember the shape of your mouth when you said his name.

The ball hits the sand. Goose whoops. Slider grabs Tom’s shoulder and says something about the next round, but Ice is stuck—frozen in the heat, breath caught behind mirrored lenses.

He doesn’t love easy. He doesn’t play games. But you? You’re the one thing he can’t fly above.

You look up and catch him watching. Something flickers between you—just for a second. Then it’s gone, buried in sunglasses and sweat and the sound of Maverick bragging about the score.

Tom turns back to the court. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile.

But under his breath, he whispers “I only came for you.”