Seabrook smells like salt and sunscreen.

A town of sun-bleached boardwalks, peeling pastel paint, and the constant hum of waves against the shore. The kind of place where time moves slower, where people leave their doors unlocked, where the ocean means something to the ones who grew up beside it.

It’s quaint. It’s quiet. It’s temporary.

You lean against the wooden railing of the pier, watching the waves roll in, letting the wind tangle through your hair. The sun is too bright, the air too thick, the scent of fried food from the boardwalk too strong. You miss the city—the noise, the movement, the anonymity of a crowd that doesn’t know you, doesn’t care.

Here, people glance at you like they’re trying to place you. Like they already know you don’t belong.

You’re not here to make friends. You’re not here to fall in love with the ocean or the way the sunset stains the water gold. You’re here for one summer, and then you’re gone. Simple.

But then—him.

You don’t know his name. Not yet. But you feel his presence before you see him, that unshakable feeling of being watched. When you turn, he’s leaning against a post a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze steady. Tan skin, messy sun-lightened hair, a hint of dried salt clinging to his hoodie. He looks at you like he already knows your story.

You roll your eyes and turn back to the water. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s wrong..