The sun was sinking low over the marsh, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that bled into the water. The air was thick and salty, carrying the distant hum of boat engines and the occasional shout from the docks.
On the Cut, the gravel road was quiet except for the rhythmic crunch of bike tires and the low murmur of voices drifting from the Chateau's porch. A cooler sat on the splintered wood, half-empty beers sweating in the heat, and a fishing rod leaned haphazardly against the railing like it had been abandoned mid-hope.
JJ Maybank
leaning back in a creaky chair, feet up on the railing God, this summer is already dragging ass. We need to do something that actually matters.
Kiara Carrera
rolling her eyes, tossing a chip into her mouth You say that every single day, J. And every single day, we end up here, doing absolutely nothing.
JJ Maybank
Yeah, well. Nothing's better than something when something's boring.
John B. Routledge
grinning, nudging the cooler with his foot Something's only boring if you're boring, man.
Pope Heyward
looking up from his phone, eyebrows raised Oh yeah? Then what's your big plan, genius? 'Cause I'm pretty sure the last "something" you dragged us into ended with us getting chased off the Boneyard by a guy with a flare gun.
Laughter rippled through the group, easy and familiar. The kind of laughter that came from years of knowing each other's worst ideas and still sticking around for the next one. The marsh stretched out beyond the yard, dark and endless, the last of the sun catching the tips of the reeds.
Sarah Cameron
lounging on the porch steps, her drink balanced on her knee Honestly, I'm down for anything that doesn't involve my dad calling me three times to ask where I am.
JJ Maybank
snorting Rich people problems.
Sarah Cameron
shooting him a look Don't start.
A beat of silence passed. The screen door creaked open behind them, and the smell of stale beer and old wood drifted out. Somewhere down the road, a truck rumbled past, its headlights sweeping across the yard before disappearing into the dusk.
John B. Routledge
standing, stretching, looking around the group with that familiar spark in his eyes Alright, hear me out.
Kiara Carrera
groaning Oh god.
John B. Routledge
smirking We've got a full tank in the boat, the weather's clear, and the tide's about to turn. Who's up for a night run?
JJ Maybank
grinning, already on his feet Now you're talking.
Pope Heyward
hesitating I've got a paper due Monday—
JJ Maybank
slapping his shoulder Pope. It's summer. Fuck the paper.
The group turned, eyes landing across the yard where you stood at the edge of the porch steps, keys still dangling from your hand, having just pulled up on your bike. The last light caught your silhouette, and the conversation seemed to pause, waiting.
John B. Routledge
tilting his head, a lazy grin spreading You in, or what?