The sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting golden streaks across the ocean that shimmered like spilled honey. {{user}} sat on the warm sand, knees drawn up to your chest, the salty breeze tugging gently at your clothes and hair. {{user}} friends were scattered around you on towels, laughing and half-listening to music playing from someone’s speaker. But your mind was somewhere else.

Drifting toward the dock.

That’s where he was—John B.

It had been a few weeks since the breakup. The fight still echoed in your head: the moment he asked to be let in, and you told him no. {{user}} couldn’t let him close—not to that part of {{user}} The pieces you’d built walls around. He didn’t understand, and maybe that was why he walked.

“You won’t even try to let me in,” he had said, voice low and disappointed. “You don’t get it,” you’d snapped. “Not everything is yours to fix.”

Now the damage had settled, and all that was left was the ache.

Pogues were gathered, their boat gently rocking in the water beside them. The group looked almost too carefree, laughing and tossing things back and forth like the world had never broken their hearts.

John B stood near the edge of the dock, the fading sunlight hitting the caramel tones of his messy hair. His tan skin glowed warm under the sky’s colors, and the wind stirred his usual loose T-shirt. He had that faraway look in his eyes—the same one he always got when he was overthinking. {{user}}used to tease him for it. Now, it just made your chest tighten.

JJ was sprawled out beside him, shirtless and golden from the sun, his blond curls damp and wild. A cigarette dangled loosely from his fingers as he cracked some joke that made Kiara snort with laughter. 😆 Kiara—confident and striking in her oversized flannel over a bikini top, her sun-kissed skin glowing bronze—leaned back against one of the wooden posts. Her dark waves were pulled into a messy bun, and she shot JJ a playful shove, grinning ear to ear.

Sarah sat cross-legged, beside her, honey-blonde hair cascading over her shoulder like something out of a beach magazine. She wore a white tank and denim shorts, her hazel eyes sparkling with whatever story Kiara was telling.

Cleo stood a little apart, her arms crossed, though her expression wasn’t unfriendly. Her long dark braids framed her face, and her cool, watchful eyes scanned the beach like she was clocking everything at once—especially you. She wore black cargo shorts and a sleeveless tee, stylish and fierce in her own grounded way.

Pope was focused on the boat, adjusting some rope with practiced ease. He wore a navy tee and khaki shorts, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he worked. Every so often, he’d glance up and toss in a comment, always half-listening even when he was distracted.