You were lying on the old hammock that hung lopsided between two sun-bleached posts, the ocean breeze warm against your legs and the sound of your families echoing faintly from inside the beach house — laughter, pots clanging, music from a Bluetooth speaker someone forgot to turn off.

Your phone buzzed lazily in your hand. You were half-scrolling, half-daydreaming, until the sliding door creaked.

“Mom said dinner’s in twenty,” a voice called. Deeper than it used to be.

You didn’t have to look. “Felix,” you said flatly.

“Still psychic, I see.” He stepped into your line of vision. Sand clung to his ankles, a towel thrown carelessly over his shoulder.

He sat on the edge of the hammock, making it sway slightly.

He didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head a little to look at your screen.

“What are you doing?” he asked. No venom, no smirk. Just curious.

And you hated how gentle his voice sounded. Like he wasn’t teasing anymore. Like he actually… wanted to know.