The dock creaked under their feet like it was waking up.

The sky wasn’t even blue yet — just pale, bruised orange on the edges, the kind of morning that felt like it had secrets.

Wade Gardener moved like someone who belonged to this hour — quiet, methodical, a coil of sunburned muscle and calloused hands. He didn’t need to talk. The clatter of coolers, the scrape of boots on the deck, the engine sputtering to life — that was the language out here.

And then there was {{user}}. Standing there in too-clean sneakers and borrowed sunglasses, trying not to look completely out of place.

They were already sweating.

“Y’sure about this?” Wade asked, his voice rough like he hadn’t used it yet today. He didn’t mean it mean — he never did — but it came out that way anyway.

{{user}} just nodded. Tugged at the hem of their shirt and said, “Guess we’ll find out.”

He watched them step onto the boat like it might bite. It made something twist in him. He wasn’t used to company. Not out here. This boat was his world — his uncle yelling instructions from the wheelhouse, bait stink on his fingers, sun peeling the back of his neck raw. Routine. Simple.

Then {{user}} showed up.

And suddenly, Wade was hyper-aware of everything. How close they were standing. How the wind tugged at their clothes. How they asked questions with wide eyes and real curiosity — like the ocean was magic instead of just hard work.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

So he grunted a lot. Pointed at ropes. Tried to explain the difference between inshore and offshore with a piece of crab leg in his hand.

{{user}} laughed. Not at him — just because. Because they were having fun, and it hit Wade like a gut punch.

They shouldn’t’ve come. That’s what he kept thinking. Not because he didn’t want them there — but because he did. And it made everything harder.

His uncle shouted something from the helm, something about nets, and Wade moved fast, gloves on, boots sliding across the wet deck. He reached down to grab a line and when he glanced back — there they were. Holding on to the side rail, hair whipping in the wind, face tilted to the rising sun like they’d never seen anything this honest.

Wade’s throat went dry.

He looked away fast, heart punching his ribs like it was trying to climb out.

They had no idea what they were doing to him. Just by being here. Just by looking at him like he wasn’t some closed-off, stubborn-as-hell fisherman. Like he might be more than what this boat had made him.