The beach house at Cousins hums with life in the soft gold of late afternoon. Salt clings to your skin, your hair still damp from the ocean, and you’re sitting on the wooden railing of the porch, swinging your legs lazily. Inside the beach house, there’s the clatter of plates being set in the kitchen, the shuffle of feet across creaky wooden floors, yours and Satoru’s moms laughing distantly.

And then there’s him.

Satoru leans in the doorway, one side of his mouth tugged up. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, saltwater still drying in hushed snowy hair, and his board shorts hang low on his hips. It’s a familiar sight — summer and Satoru go hand-in-hand in your head.

“You’re gonna get splinters if you sit like that,” he says, nodding at the old railing you’re on.

You roll your eyes, grinning. “You’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep smirking like that.”

Satoru huffs a laugh, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t wrinkle. I age like fine wine.”

“You’re eighteen.”

“Exactly. Prime vintage.”

Satoru stops in front of you, crowding into your space in that way that’s become entirely too familiar over the past few years. You can see the faint scar on his cheek from where he cut himself opening a soda can two nights ago with his teeth. You know his laugh. His silences. The way he only really sleeps when he’s near the sound of the ocean.

“This summer’s been… something else,” Satoru murmurs like it’s a secret. “You’ve been something else.”

You swallow, heart thudding. “So have you.”

Satoru tilts his head. “Yeah, but you’re the one who changed.”

“I grew up.”

“No,” Satoru says, voice softening. “You glowed up.”

You huff out a laugh, cheeks warm.

Satoru smiles, eyes crinkling. And there, with the waves crashing and the sun setting and the heat of him so close it burns, you know something’s changed. Not just the summer. Not just the beach you visit every summer with the boy you’ve been in love with since you were twelve. His fingers reach out and brush a strand from your face, making your cheeks burn and heart skip.