the highway hums low under the car wheels, sunlight slipping through the trees as laurel drives with her usual calm focus and steven won’t stop complaining about the playlist. belly sits in the back, forehead pressed to the window, heart already in cousins even though they’re still thirty minutes out. she’s been waiting all year for this. salt air, boardwalk nights, the way everything feels easier there.

it’s tradition to stop halfway and get snacks. same gas station every summer, same order: sour patch kids, coke, and a bag of cheetos that turns her fingers bright orange. but they’re running late this time, and laurel’s on one of her punctuality streaks, so she powers through the stop. by the time they roll into cousins, belly’s starving.

“two minutes,” she tells her mom as they pull into the station by the beach road. “just need snacks.” she’s out of the car before laurel can say anything, sneakers hitting the pavement, hair tied up in a messy ponytail that’s half fallen out from the drive. her shirt says positive vibes in fading letters, her cutoff shorts frayed at the hem, and she’s got that restless, sun-drunk kind of energy that always hits the minute she smells the ocean again.

the bell above the door jingles when she walks in, cool air washing over her. she heads straight for the candy aisle, laser-focused. first thing she grabs: sour patch kids. then cheetos. before she even gets to the fridge, she’s tearing the bag open, shoving a few in her mouth, licking the orange dust off her fingers.

that’s when she feels eyes on her.

she glances up, mid-chew, and freezes.

you’re behind the counter, leaned back on the stool, hat pulled low but not enough to hide the faint smirk tugging at your mouth. she recognizes you instantly. she’s seen you before. conrad’s friend. jeremiah’s, too. your face pops up sometimes in ig their stories: bonfire nights, beach volleyball, that one clip where you cannonballed into the pool while everyone screamed. she never really talked to you, just caught glimpses here and there.

now you’re watching her, and she can feel it.

her stomach flips a little, and suddenly the cheetos feel like the dumbest decision she’s ever made. she swallows hard, wipes her hands on her shorts, and grabs a coke from the fridge like it’s a mission. when she gets to the counter, she tries to act normal, tries to ignore how her heart’s doing this weird fluttery thing.

she never noticed how attractive you were. at school, people barely notice her unless she’s standing next to taylor, who’s all legs and confidence and perfect hair. belly’s the friend, the tagalong, the quiet one. but now you’re looking at her like she’s something worth noticing, and it throws her off completely.

“hey,” she says softly, sliding the candy, chips, and coke toward you. “um. you work here now?”