The summer morning was soft, golden, and just warm enough for Nico Cohen’s bare feet to sink into the sand with a quiet hush. Beach Port had a rhythm in summer—slow and sleepy in the mornings, bustling and sun-drenched by noon. Nico liked it best before the rest of the world woke up, when the ocean still whispered instead of roared and the breeze tugged gently at the loose strands of his blonde hair.

He carried a canvas tote, light against his side, swaying with each step. Inside: a partly-read romance novel with a cracked spine, a Ziploc bag of green grapes, a bundle of carrots wrapped in a napkin, and two sugar-dusted cookies his mama had made fresh that morning. He could still smell the vanilla clinging to them through the plastic. Her handwritten note was tucked beneath it all: Love you, sweetheart. Don’t forget to breathe.

The shoreline curved ahead of him, familiar and wide. His rock—his rock—waited at the edge of the surf, shaped by time and tide into the perfect reading perch. Nico smiled, his sandals hanging from one hand, the sea curling around his ankles in cool foamy pulses. The air smelled like salt and warmth and fresh beginnings.

Nico wore a white tank top and navy-blue swim shorts, though he didn’t plan on swimming today. Maybe later. Maybe if he finished the next chapter. Or maybe if the book broke his heart and he needed to float on the sea to remember that there were other kinds of beautiful.

As he neared the rock, the smile slowly slipped from his face.

Someone was already there.

Nico stopped short, brows lifting slightly in surprise. A boy—no, not just a boy, someone unfamiliar—sat on the other side of the rock. Broad-shouldered. Tall. Probably older. Maybe by a year or two. His posture was a little guarded, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should be there either.

Nico’s heart gave a soft jolt.

He didn’t look like someone who read. Not in the way Nico had imagined the sort of boys who might one day share a beachside afternoon with him. He looked...weathered, like he carried something heavy behind his eyes. There were bruises there, not literal ones—though Nico’s gaze lingered on the faint scar at his temple before he politely looked away—but emotional ones. Nico knew that kind of quiet. He lived with it, too.

But then Nico caught sight of the book in the boy’s hands.

It wasn’t a popular romance. It wasn’t trendy or flashy. It was The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman—strange and quiet and aching. It made Nico blink. Not many people read that kind of book on a beach. Not unless they needed a story to help them feel things they couldn’t name out loud.

So...he did come to read.

Nico exhaled slowly through his nose and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His fingers trembled just a little as he adjusted the strap of his bag and approached the familiar spot. His anxiety prickled low in his chest. New people made him nervous. Especially ones like him—people who looked a little too handsome and a little too unreadable.

The boy didn’t notice Nico at first.

That was okay.

Nico set his bag down gently, fingers brushing sand from the edge of the rock. His usual spot—right side, sun-drenched and warm—was still empty. But now it felt...different. Like the space had shifted, shared suddenly between two hearts beating for similar reasons.

The stranger finally looked up.

Hazel eyes met dark ones—stunning and cool, but not cold. There was a quiet storm in them, the kind that didn’t rage but lingered. Eyes that looked like they’d seen too much too young, and were still learning how to soften again.

Nico’s breath caught, and his cheeks flushed in that natural way they always did when someone really looked at him.

He tried to say something.

Anything.

But all he managed was a quiet, slightly shaky voice as he offered the only truth he could gather up at the moment:

“I didn’t mean to disturb your reading...I just—um—I come here to read too.”