at some point, beechwood became one of those rare places that felt untouchable. summers stretched like they would never end, the air heavy with salt and the faint scent of pine, and every laugh with the liars felt like it carved a permanent space in your memory. freedom tasted different here, lighter, more reckless, when you were with them.

summer sixteen, though, made you realize that kind of magic was just a story a child tells himself.

it reminded you of simpler times — when consequences didn’t linger like shadows, when a careless word didn’t carry weight. or maybe it reminded you of something you had once and lost: johnny.

he’d stumbled through the year in ways you could never have counted. some mistakes were loud, messy; some were quiet, the kind that ate him from the inside out. the worst, though, was the one he made with you. he hadn’t realized what he’d let slip between his fingers until it was too late — until you had broken what had been more than friendship long before summer even began.

still, somehow, you agreed to come back to beechwood. not for him, never for him, but for cadence, mirren, and gat. you had limits, and protecting your own heart was one of them.

so when he suggested the party boat, you refused. you wanted no part of the loud music, the spray of champagne, the eyes that would never stop calculating who you were with. instead, you sat on a towel at the edge of the shore, waiting for the meteor shower to start, watching the indigo sky deepen over the island. stars twinkled faintly, like they had better things to do than shine for anyone in particular. the boat moored just off the island thumped with the rhythm of someone else’s night, a world that you weren’t part of tonight.

and then he was there.

you didn’t notice him at first — only the scent of him, sharp and familiar, cutting through the salt and the quiet. he sat down beside you, a careful distance that didn’t feel distant at all, and the air between you hummed with things unsaid.

“why aren’t you at the party?” you asked finally, keeping your gaze on the water, letting the question feel casual even though it wasn’t.

“you didn’t go,” he murmured, almost a whisper, but you heard it all the same.

for a long while, neither of you said anything else. you felt his presence like a weight — heavy and familiar, and maybe a little dangerous, in the way only johnny could be.

“i… i wanted to go because i thought… maybe it’d be my only chance to say i’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low, carefully measured. “i didn’t… think it through very well. not really.”

he couldn’t be seen. he couldn’t be known. not in his world. but here, beside you, under the quiet stars, he was almost himself. almost. and maybe that was enough to make the ache in your chest sharp again.