It was late afternoon, the kind of golden light that made Long Beach feel softer, like the edges of the world had been sanded down. You and Dud were out back behind the Lodge, sitting in the patchy grass, a pile of wildflowers you’d picked from the lot scattered between you.

He was stretched out, legs kicked forward, beer bottle balanced in the dirt beside him. When you leaned closer with a daisy pinched between your fingers, he tilted his head curiously.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, squinting at you, half-amused.

“Hold still,” you said, brushing back a sun-bleached strand. You wove the stem carefully, tucking it into his messy hair.

Dud laughed, the sound bright and unbothered. “Man, you’re turning me into a walking bouquet.” But he didn’t move away. In fact, he leaned a little closer, eyes shutting as if he trusted you completely.

One flower turned into three, then five. Soon his hair was threaded with little pops of color—clumsy but cheerful. You leaned back to admire your work, grinning. “There. Now you’re official.”

“Official what?” Dud asked, turning to you with a crooked smile.

“Don’t know,” you admitted. “Something good, though.”

He reached up to feel the flowers, then shrugged, the grin still plastered on his face. “Yeah. Feels good.”

The two of you sat there as the sun dipped lower, the flowers catching the last of the light, Dud looking like some kind of accidental saint of lost surfers and broken dreamers. And for a while, that was enough.