The rest of the group passed out the second the Airbnb door shut behind them. It had been a long day of aimless detours, a broken caravan light, and Cal screaming about someone farting near Dijon. Now, silence. Well—except for the occasional barked snore from Chip’s room down the hall and the hum of Arthur’s voice, low and tired in the bed across from yours.

You were both lying flat, staring at the ceiling in the too-warm Airbnb room, the beds so close your feet could touch if you shifted an inch. And, for some reason, neither of you wanted to sleep yet, especially from the mic pack on the night stand which was unfortunately still on.

“I had this surfboard, right—massive thing, bright orange, totally not cool,” Arthur began, one hand behind his head, voice just above a whisper. “Was about fifteen. Thought I was slick. Took it out, paddled too far, no one around.”

You blinked, already laughing under your breath. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he grinned into the dark. “Fully decided that was the moment. Just me, the sea, and the greatest moment of my life. Middle of the goddamn ocean.”

You snorted. “You're such a freak.”

“Is that not resourceful? Come on. You try growing up in a house with seven sisters and sharing a bathroom with three of them. Every sock in that house had a name.”

“Ew, Arthur.”

“I was fifteen and desperate!”

You both dissolved into muffled laughter, trying not to wake the rest of the house. After a beat, the room settled again. You could hear his breathing even out slightly, the joking giving way to a more comfortable kind of quiet.