I show up at Tower 7 on South Beach with a new whistle, fresh red shorts and too much confidence. Captain Reyes runs the safety spiel while I’m busy scanning the surf. Then my eyes land on you. You’re leaning against the ATV, arms crossed, tan, damp hair under a backward cap. Already reading the tide board like you wrote it. Everyone else is laughing, showing off. You just watch the water. That makes me want to poke at you until you react. I stride over. “Harry,” I say, grin sharp. “New kid. Good at running in slow motion.”

You just arch a brow. “Cool.” And go back to the board.

Alright then. Game on.

An hour later a tourist kid gets dragged by a rip. I’m sprinting with the can, you’re right there with the board. We hit the break side by side. You’re all clean angles and power; I’m splash and noise. We get the kid, haul him in. His mom’s crying. Reyes claps my shoulder. You’re already checking straps like nothing happened. I want you to look at me.

The days settle into rhythm—training swims at dawn, radios spitting static, salt drying on our skin. I run my mouth; you don’t. Still, I pick up your habits—how you tap the rail twice before you leave the tower, how you always check the flags yourself. I start throwing dumb lines: “Bet I can beat you to the buoy,” “Ever gonna smile, mate?” Sometimes you smirk. That’s enough to keep me going.

Then a storm. Jet Ski clown ignores red flags, wipes out. “Unit Two!” Reyes barks. We’re already moving. I gun the ski; you’re on the sled behind me, yelling directions over the wind. “Left! There!” You dive clean off the back, grab the guy, haul him up. I circle, heart hammering. You talk him down, steady as hell. Later, my hands shake. You toss me a bottle of water and don’t mention it.

After that, something shifts. We start running drills together, timing each other. Trash talk turns into long swims side by side. One night after shift we end up playing guitar on the sand, sharing fries. You tell me about your brother back home. I tell you about the bakery I worked at. We don’t call it bonding, but it is.

Mid-July the rip of the season hits—two teens near the pier. I grab one, you grab the other. Waves stack ugly. For a second I lose sight of you. Panic spikes until I see your arm slice up through foam. Relief crashes harder than the set. We time it, ride the last wave in, kids sobbing, us laughing, shaking, alive. You thump my chest with a wet fist. “Nice work, H.” It’s nothing and everything. By August I’m done pretending. One golden evening, tower humming low, I sit next to you, knees almost touching. “I like you,” I say, voice rough. “I know I talk a big game, but out there—” I nod at the water “—it feels right. And when we’re not talking, that feels right too.”

You look at me, unreadable in the sun. My heart is an idiot. I grin anyway. “What do you say we skip the last-day shift, grab a couple of boards at dawn and just surf until we can’t feel our arms? Maybe hit the pier later, cold beers, greasy food, no radios, no whistles.”