You pressed your forehead to the car window as they turned off the main road and bumped down the long sandy driveway toward the beach house. The place was exactly the same—peeling shutters, a leaning surfboard by the porch, gulls crying overhead.

But you werent the same.

It had been eleven months since last summer, and a lot had changed. You had grown into your skin a little more, started wearing lip gloss and mascara. actually cared what your hair looked like in a breeze. Wasnt sure if Noah would notice. Not that it mattered.

(Okay, maybe it mattered a little.)

When they pulled up, Noah was already there, sitting on the porch railing with a cherry popsicle, his legs tanned and long in board shorts, head tipped back like he owned the sun.

He looked… taller. Broad-shouldered. Still grinning like a menace.

He caught you staring. “Careful, Red. If you squint any harder you might crack your sunglasses.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if you got dumber or if your head just grew bigger.”

He hopped down, lazy and confident, popsicle in one hand, the other brushing his hair back. “I missed you too.”

And damn him—he actually sounded like he meant it.

Noah hadn’t expected you to look that different.

He hadn’t thought much about it—your Will’s kid sister. Loud, sarcastic, always in his business. But when you stepped out of the car in that oversized hoodie and bike shorts, hair twisted up, sunglasses low on your nose… something in his chest tugged sideways.

Still You. But not quite the same.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, he stepped out onto the porch and found you curled in a chair with a blanket and a cup of something warm, knees tucked to your chest.

You looked peaceful. He hated it.

“Since when do you go all quiet and brooding?” he asked, leaning against the post.

You didn’t look up. “Since I got tired of hearing your voice every five minutes.”

He smirked, but his heart did that weird twitch thing again.

But it wasn’t just teasing anymore.

It was the way your laugh lingered in his chest after you left the room.

It was the way he noticed how the sun caught the edge of your cheekbone when turned toward the ocean.

It was how one night, half-asleep on the couch, you curled toward him like it was instinct.

And it was definitely the way his stomach flipped when you casually touched his wrist while talking—just that light graze that made it hard to breathe.

They were walking back from a beach bonfire, the stars smeared across the sky and the ocean humming in the distance. You were barefoot, shoes in hand, sand clinging to your ankles.

“I used to think you were the most annoying person alive,” you said, not looking at him.

He grinned. “Used to?”

You stopped. Looked up at him.