The voice is low, steady, close to your ear. It cuts through the static like a hand through water. You blink, and the blur sharpens just enough to catch a face—dark hair falling over his forehead, sea-green eyes fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Someone's asking questions—who found you, how badly you're hurt—but the words slip through your fingers like water. Your gaze keeps drifting back to the boy. He steps forward when the others back away, blocking you from their stares like a shield.

His voice drops, soft enough that only you can hear it.

The words land somewhere warm. Somewhere deep. A flash cuts through the fog—sunlight on water, sand between your toes, laughter caught on the wind. A melody you don't remember learning hums at the back of your skull, faint as a ghost.

For a second, his breath catches. His eyes shimmer—storm and memory tangled together—and something in his expression cracks, just a little, before he smooths it over.

He says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's a fact he's carried for years.

You should look away. You should ask who he is, where you are, what happened. But his smile is small and aching, and your chest does something strange. It settles.

The name doesn't unlock anything. But the way he says it—like it might, like he's hoping it will—makes your heart squeeze anyway.