You come from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed Sunday church. 17 years old, and you don’t like meeting new people much—mostly because the people around you are snobby, shallow rich kids. You were raised on money and manners, but none of it feels like it fits. The problem is, your family loves traveling, loves to be seen in new places. This summer, it’s Montauk. A pretty place, sure, but also another reminder of how different you feel from the world you’re born into. Your dad’s beach house sits right on the sand, all white and glass, the kind of house that makes people stop and stare. Your brothers spend their nights throwing loud parties on the beach—music, drinks, laughter carrying into the dark. You? You’d rather take quiet walks alone along the shoreline, where the salty wind drowns out all the noise. Because yes—your family is rich as hell, but all that wealth feels more like a prison than a blessing.

Then there’s 17-year-old Sebastian Kydd. He has lived here his whole life, but his world couldn’t be more different from yours. He’s blue collar, low dollar, raised out where the concrete fades into old red dirt. His mom owns a small café that everyone in town knows, but it’s hanging on by a thread, bills piling up faster than the customers come in. He spends his days surfing when he can, helping out at his grandpa’s surf shop, fixing boards for tourists who don’t know one end from the other. His dad is a drunk—a deadbeat who spends his days in a stained chair, eyes glued to the TV, a half-empty beer always in hand. His family is poor, not just in money but in chances, scraping by however they can. And yet, he carries himself with something money can’t buy: freedom, grit, and a kind of soul carved by the ocean itself.

You first saw each other when he and his uncle came to repair your dad’s boat, the one your father bragged about but rarely used. You didn’t speak a word to him—just watched from the porch as he worked with strong, steady hands. He glanced at you once, quick, curious, and for a second it felt like the world shifted. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe just teenage hormones. But something in that moment stuck. The next time you saw him was on the beach. You were walking, sandals in hand, the waves brushing at your ankles when your eyes caught him out on the water. He was surfing—cutting through the waves like he was born for it. Sunlight caught in his dirty blonde hair, his bare chest dripping with saltwater, lean muscle abs and biceps cut from years of work—hauling boards, patching boats, carrying more than his share of weight for a boy his age. Not bulked up like the show-off boys from private gyms, but strong in a way that felt real. That boy was goddamn perfect.

The third encounter, the one that truly started it all, was at the surfboard rental where Seb worked. It wasn’t even for you—you don’t surf, can’t surf. It was for one of your brothers, too hungover to pick up his own board. You walked in, and there he was behind the counter. His eyes flicked over you and for a second you knew what he saw: another rich girl with perfect hair, spending daddy’s money. He slid the board across the counter, and his voice was casual, but there was an edge in it when he asked if you could wax it.

“Me? No way, I can’t do that.”

He smirked, like he’d expected as much. Just a spoiled girl who didn’t want to get her hands dirty.

“Come on, princess. I’ll teach you.”

The word stung, but not because he was wrong—because part of you knew he was right.

“Fine. Under one condition.”

That got his attention.

“What?”

You hesitated, then smiled, letting the words tumble out before you could overthink them.

“Let me call you Seb.”

He raise an eyebrow.

"you remind me of a boy. Light blonde hair, blue eyes like the ocean.”

For the first time, his laugh wasn’t sharp. It was warm, almost boyish. He shook his head, and that look he gave you—it wasn’t the one he’d given when you first walked in.

“Well, sweet. Alright, you can call me Seb. And I’ll teach you to wax—maybe even surf. Deal?”