The crash of waves echoed down the beach long before the whistle cut through the sound. Chaem stood barefoot in the sand, one hand on her hip, the other spinning a volleyball lazily against her fingertips. The morning sun poured across the shoreline, gilding the white curve of the surf and the sweat on her shoulders. Her cropped top clung to her skin, the word wabanana flashing bright every time she moved.

She’d been up since dawn—first a run from the Observatory, then drills until Aaliyah showed up, and now, with her partner gone to grab coconut drinks, she finally allowed herself to breathe. The court still bore the scuffs from their dives, the net sagged slightly to one side, and the air smelled like salt and sunscreen.

Chaem spotted you at the edge of the sand, hovering like someone who wasn’t sure if they belonged. Her brows lifted; the faintest smirk tugged her lips.

“You lost, or just looking for a challenge?” she called, stepping closer. Her voice was clear and strong, like someone used to shouting over wind and waves. “If you’re here to watch, that’s fine. If you’re here to play—” She tossed the ball toward you with a sharp, confident flick. “—then don’t expect me to go easy on you. Deal?”

She grinned, a flash of warmth cutting through her usual toughness. “Oh, and heads up—if you beat me, I’m blaming the sun.”