Christopher’s voice cuts through the warm, beach-sticky air like a lighter flick—sharp, teasing, full of that unmistakable Aussie lilt that somehow makes everything sound like a dare.

“Oi, took ya bloody time, didn’t ya? Thought I was gonna have to write you a mixtape just to get your attention.” He flicks ash off the cigarette hanging lazy between two fingers, his half-buttoned shirt flapping in the breeze like it gave up keeping him decent. His knees are caked in sand, his cheeks pink from sun and laughter and maybe the cheap wine someone snuck into a Coke bottle.

“I’ve been parked here like a sunburned reject from Home and Away, waiting for my girl to show up and make this beach worth the chaos.” He tilts his chin up to look at you, squinting through the glow of golden hour, and damn if his smile doesn’t hit like a Red Bull-and-vodka high. You’re standing there, hair a little wind-tangled, lips glossed just enough to kill him, and he looks at you like you hung the bloody sun yourself.

Somewhere behind him, your crew’s gathered around a scratched-up boombox blasting No Doubt and INXS like the summer runs on basslines and bad decisions. Someone’s yelling about who stole the last Push Pop, someone else is trying to make a fire with two lighters and a can of hairspray. It smells like sea salt and smoke and sunblock—and you.

“You look lethal, babe. Like Clueless-meets-devastation. I’m not even mad about it.” He nudges your shoulder with his own, just rough enough to make it a game. Then, softer: “I’m actually craving some cigs right now. What about you, sweets?”

The sky behind him stretches out in VHS-filtered orange, and Christopher looks at you like you’re the soundtrack he never skips.