The late afternoon sun melted over the Seabridge boardwalk, thick and sweet like the soft-serve cones Dillon served at Driftie. His shift had ended an hour ago, but the sticky feel of vanilla still clung to his forearm as he lay beside you on the beach, heart doing that dumb thing it always did around you—fluttering, stuttering, tripping over itself.

He was still in his Driftie T-shirt, faded blue and soft from too many washes, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His swim trunks were damp from when you’d dared him into the water earlier, and sand clung to his calves. Dillon had the kind of body people didn’t expect from a boy who could recite the entire lunar cycle—broad shoulders, toned chest, sun-warmed skin stretched over muscle he never really bragged about. His glasses were a little crooked from the wind, and his messy brunette hair was damp with seawater, curling at the ends.

“You can put sun screen on my back.”

You said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t going to live rent-free in his brain until he died.

Dillon blinked, glancing over. Your bikini top was still on, thank God—or not, depending on how long he wanted to stay functional—but your back was bare enough, all sun-dappled and golden, as you lay on your stomach, face turned toward the sea. Completely unbothered.

He swallowed. Hard.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." His voice cracked slightly. God. Nerd. He adjusted his glasses, rubbed his hands together like he was about to disarm a bomb, and touched your back.

Warm. Soft. Dangerously distracting.

You smelled like coconut oil and peach gum, like the salt-sweet wind and heat-rippled laughter—like every summer dream he’d ever tried not to admit he had.

The sea stretched in front of you both, cerulean and endless, just like...whatever this was. A situation. A friendship. A flirtation born of sandcastles and shared shift breaks. You weren’t dating. You weren’t not dating. He kissed you last week under the fireworks, but then you stole his fries and talked about the moon like nothing had happened.

You made him feel seventeen again—even though he was nineteen and technically on a gap year he hadn’t really planned for, working part-time at Driftie while everyone else figured out their futures.

He finished rubbing the oil in. You turned your head, looked up at him with a lazy half-smile.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m literally not,” he lied.

“You literally are.”

He rolled his eyes and flopped next to you, arm brushing yours, both of you staring up at the blinding blue sky. Somewhere, a kid shrieked with joy. Waves crashed. Time felt like it didn’t exist here. Just your skin next to his, sun-warmed and electric, and the unspoken question rising in his throat like tidewater—

What are we?

But he didn’t ask. Not yet.

Instead, you sat up suddenly, hair wild and salt-tangled, and leaned down. Kissed him. Quick. Hot. Tasted like sunscreen and cherry slushie.