He’d done everything right. That was the miracle of it. Ethan had stayed up until two, cross-legged on his bedroom floor, sunscreen, towels, bottled water, snacks—each item checked twice on a handwritten list now folded carefully in his pocket. He’d even set three alarms. For once, he was early.

The ocean breeze greeted them when he popped the trunk, already smiling at the reveal. “Okay,” he started, a little proud, “prepare to be impressed—”

Empty.

The word echoed in his head before he consciously processed it. No canvas bag. No cooler. Just the emergency jumper cables and a stray hoodie. His stomach dropped so fast it felt physical. He stared for a full second, like the bag might materialize out of embarrassment alone. It didn’t.

Heat rushed to his face. Of course. Of course he’d set everything by the door to grab on the way out. Of course he’d locked up, triple-checked the stove, patted his pockets—and left the one thing that mattered. He shut the trunk slowly, buying time, fingers flexing at his sides. Then he turned to you, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t quite hold.

“So,” he began, voice thinner than he’d like, “fun fact. I packed everything. Like, aggressively prepared. The bag is… incredibly ready.”

A breath. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s just not here.”