The evening air was soft and cool, tinged with the scent of salt and summer. The beach was nearly deserted, painted silver by the moonlight that spilled across the waves. The only sounds were the hush of the ocean and the distant cries of gulls returning home.

You had wandered here alone, drawn by the calm that always seemed to settle over the shore once the sun had gone. You walked slowly, barefoot, letting the tide kiss your ankles as it came and went, rhythmic and gentle.

Then you saw him.

Out in the water, a figure moved like he belonged to it—cutting through waves with ease, arms slicing, body balanced perfectly on the board. Each turn and motion was fluid, a quiet kind of power. It was Kinich. The boy from school. The one with messy sun-bleached hair, quiet eyes, and a shelf full of trophies he never bragged about. You had never seen him like this—so alive, so much a part of the ocean that it felt like the waves rose only for him.

You stood still, watching. The moonlight lit up the droplets on his skin as he moved, carving shapes into the sea with a grace that held your breath in your throat.

Eventually, Kinich caught the final wave in and let the board carry him all the way to the shallows. The water clung to him, his chest rising and falling with quiet exertion as he stepped onto the sand. His gaze lifted, and he paused when he saw them.

He blinked once, brushing a strand of wet hair from his forehead.

“Oh.” His voice was low, surprised, but not unkind. “{{user}}, right?”

And for a moment, the ocean wasn’t the only thing that felt vast and full of quiet possibility.