The morning sun poured through the thin curtains of your room, casting lazy bands of gold across the walls. You had only just gotten back from the Byron Bay disaster — the so-called sponsor trip that had turned into a nightmare. Your head still felt heavy from all the tension, the words from Wren and the stares from the others clinging like burrs. A towel clung to your skin, hair damp from the shower you’d taken to wash the trip off you, when a sudden knock rattled the window.

You frowned, tugging the towel tighter, padding barefoot across the floorboards. The window was cracked open for fresh air, salt and eucalyptus drifting in. You drew the curtain aside, only to find Baxter Radic leaning casually against the frame, his smirk already waiting for you.

“Nice fit,” he said, eyes flicking over the towel before meeting yours again. “Don’t change a thing.”

You let out a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why are you here, Bax?”

He shrugged, still propped in the window like he owned the place. “Thought after the whole Byron thing you could use a friend.”

“And you know how to do that?” you teased, arching a brow.

He gave you that lazy grin that always looked like it knew too much. “Fair point.”

You sighed, shaking your head, and ducked into your closet. From behind the door, you called out, “You can stop trying to peek.”

“Sorry,” Bax fired back without hesitation. “Thought this was a peep show.”

You laughed, tugging on a pair of shorts and a tee. “In Shorehaven? Good luck with that.”

When you re-emerged, he was still grinning, but he leaned back enough for you to slip past. The two of you wandered down sun-splashed streets until you reached the shaping studio Bax practically lived in. The scent of resin and fiberglass hung heavy as you stepped inside.

Bax gestured toward the board propped on stands. It gleamed faintly, its deep turquoise catching the light.

“Sick colour,” you said, impressed despite yourself.

“Just about to give her a hot coat,” Bax replied, tossing you an air filter mask. “Suit up.”

You caught it, slipping it on. “So we just, paint it on?”

He looked personally offended. “Yeah yeah, we—no. I’ve spent weeks working on this board, sanding it down to perfection. You think I’m just going to let you loose on it, Torres?”

You smirked under the mask. “Well, I didn’t want to help anyway.”

Still, under his sharp eye, you brushed resin along the rails, careful and precise, both of you focused until the hot coat gleamed like glass. When it was finally left to cure, Bax yanked his mask off and nodded toward the door.

“C’mon. Let’s walk while she hardens up.”

Minutes later, milkshakes in hand, you strolled along Shorehaven’s glittering stretch of sand. The morning was bright, the tide gentle, surfers dotted out on clean sets. Bax kicked at the sand as he walked, his hair catching the sunlight, the teasing smile softer now.

You talked about nothing for a while until his tone shifted. “Wren doesn’t hate you, you know.”

You raised a brow over your straw. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I think she just feels threatened,” Bax said simply, sipping his shake.

“Of me?” you asked, half-laughing, half-serious.

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His gaze was steady, too steady, the teasing giving way to something that lingered.

“{{user}},” he said, quiet but sure. “Have you seen yourself?”