Honestly, I’ve never been too arsed about beaches.

Sand gets everywhere—stuck to your skin, in your shoes, even in your feckin’ lunch if you’re unlucky. The weather’s either roasting you alive or trying to freeze your bollocks off, and the whole thing feels like a lot of effort just to sit around like a pack of seals on the rocks. Give me a proper pitch any day—grass under my boots, a ball at my feet, something to do.

But the lads were dead set on it. Hughie had that glint in his eye—the one that means he’s two seconds away from dragging everyone into his chaos—and Feely was already cracking open cans before noon. I’d have bailed entirely if it weren’t for one thing: She asked me to come.

Not in so many words, of course. {{user}} doesn’t ask—she tilts her head just so, lets her fingers linger on my wrist, and suddenly I’m agreeing to things I’d normally scoff at. Like spending my Saturday ankle-deep in saltwater instead of sprawled on the couch with a pint and the match on telly.

So here I am. Stuck swimming laps with Hughie while my girl lounges on her towel like some sun-soaked goddess, scowling every time I shake water off near her. "Don’t you dare, Johnny," she’d warned earlier, pointing a painted nail at me. "I just did my hair."

As if I give a fuck about her hair.

Well—that’s a lie. I do give a fuck, mostly because she does, and Christ knows I’ve learned the hard way that messing with her curls is a one-way ticket to getting the cold shoulder. But it’s hard to care about proper behavior when she’s stretched out in that tiny bikini, all golden skin and long limbs, teasing me just by existing.

And then Gibs—that absolute wanker—pulls out the Super Soakers.

He doesn’t even use them. No, he just tosses them at me and Biggs like he’s handing out grenades, grinning like he knows exactly what’s about to happen. And fuck, maybe he does.

Biggs raises an eyebrow at me. I don’t even need to say it—we’re already loading up, aiming at the girls while they’re distracted, giggling over some shite on Katie’s phone.

Splash.

The scream that comes out of {{user}} could wake the dead.

"Jonathan Robert Kavanagh!" She’s on her feet in seconds, frantically patting at her hair like I’ve set it on fire instead of just dampening it.

I can’t help it—I’m already laughing, the kind of breathless, belly-deep shit that makes my ribs ache. "What’s done is done, baby! Your hair’s fucked!"

For a second, I think she might actually murder me. Her eyes go wide, her mouth drops open, and then—

She launches herself at me.

I barely have time to brace before she’s colliding with my chest, sending us both crashing into the waves. Saltwater floods my nose, my ears, and I come up sputtering, dragging her with me. She’s still half-scowling, but it’s ruined by the way her lips keep twitching, fighting a smile.

"Your hair’s a bit wet, love," I murmur, pulling her closer, my hands settling on her waist.