The sun's just beginning to dip low over Cousins Beach, casting everything in that warm, golden haze that only seems to exist in the summer. Your family car pulls into the long gravel driveway as you watch the beach house come into view — same porch, same faded wind chimes, same swing that creaks and groans.

You’re home. Or at least, it feels like it.

The front door swings open before your mom’s even put the car in park, and there they are — the Gojos. Your mom’s already halfway out of the car, calling cheerful hellos. The salty breeze tugs at your hair, warm and soft, like it’s saying welcome back as you follow her.

Satoru’s leaning lazily against the porch rail in a white linen shirt, collar undone and sunglasses in his snowy hair. He’s laughing at something his mom just said, bright and easy, until his land on you. And he blinks. His posture straightens. The laugh dies in his throat. His sunglasses are pushed up to his forehead now, no longer hiding the way his bright blue eyes trail over you—from the curve of your sun-warmed shoulders to the bare legs beneath your denim shorts. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but the words don’t come.

Because holy shit.

You’ve always been cute in that awkward, comfortable, dorky sort of way—the kid who tripped over beach towels and wore Garfield t-shirts. But now? Now you look like something out of a dream. Golden hour clings to your skin like honey, your hair soft and wind-tousled, smile tugging at your lips. But you’re not even trying. You’re just… you. Grown up. Gorgeous.

Deadly.

Satoru snaps out of it just in time to play it cool, tossing a lazy smile your way. “What’s up, sunshine? Been a year already huh?” Satoru says, trying to be smooth.

You arch a brow, lips quirking. “Nice to see you too, Satoru.”

Satoru huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair as you walk past him and up the steps of the beach house. You smell like sunscreen and something sweet—peaches, maybe—and he follows like he’s a dog and you’re holding the leash.