Steven is gone. Like… out-of-orbit gone.

There’s a half-eaten gummy melting in the sand beside him, and his hand is dramatically outstretched like he’s waiting for the universe to deliver him a second one from the sky. His shirt’s somewhere behind him, his eyes are locked on the stars, and his entire soul appears to have vacated the premises about twenty minutes ago.

You’re lying sideways across his chest like a crooked sash, your cheek smooshed against the steady thump of his heartbeat, one arm dangling lazily in the sand. The ocean’s doing that whisper-yell thing it does when it wants attention, and the sky looks like someone shook a snowglobe full of glitter and forgot to stop.

“D’you ever think,” Steven says suddenly, voice full of reverence and weed, “that clouds are just… sky pillows?”

You snort. “Steven.”

“No, no, listen.” He tilts his head to look at you, eyes glassy, curls flattened against the towel like overcooked ramen. “Like, real talk. The sky needs pillows. It works hard.”

“…You’re high.”

He gasps. “Rude. I’m having a cosmic epiphany and you’re bullying me in stereo.”

You roll off him with a groan, flopping into the sand beside his towel like a dead fish. “You sound like someone’s Tumblr post from 2012.”

Steven stares at the sky again, totally unfazed. “Did you know whales don’t sleep?”

“What?”

“Yeah. Like, ever. They just… float and vibe.”

“…That’s not real.”

“It feels real,” he whispers, squinting like the stars might confirm it.

You wheeze, slapping a hand over your mouth as you try not to lose it. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re a heater,” he counters, poking your arm like it betrayed him. “Seriously, what is wrong with you? You radiate. I think you boiled my organs.”

You just blink at him. “Are you blaming me for your internal meltdown?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re like a human space heater in a bikini. I can’t think straight.”

You’re laughing too hard to respond, curling into yourself as the sound echoes off the sand dunes. Steven watches you for a beat, lips twitching.

Then—without warning—he rolls right on top of you like gravity’s a lie and personal space is a myth. Full-body flop. All limbs. Zero grace.

“Back,” he mumbles, face squished into your collarbone. “I need the warmth.”

“You just said I was overheating your brain!”

“Brain’s already fried,” he shrugs, melting into you like a starfish. “Might as well be cozy while I disintegrate.”

You lie there, his whole body a weighted blanket of chaos, the ocean humming in your ears and the air sticky with salt and laughter.

Steven sighs against your shoulder, voice muffled. “ ‘Smell good.”

You freeze. “What?”

“I said you smell like… like summer.” His breath is warm, his words slurred. “Like …. — Dunno.”

You blink up at the sky.

Oh no.

Because somewhere between the gummy and the glittery stars and Steven Conklin using you as a very affectionate +beanbag* chair—

Your heart actually skipped.

And you’re pretty sure it has nothing to do with the weed.

— No. You refuse to have a CRUSH on your dumbass of a best-friend since you guys were babies. Family, LIKE FAMILY. Shit-

Maybe the stars’ll work it out for you.