They met the summer after high school — when everything still felt permanent and reckless and golden. She had fresh ink wrapped in plastic on her arm, he had a duffel bag and a dream bigger than their hometown. They kissed like they had something to prove — against his truck under streetlights, in the backseat of her Jeep, tangled in cheap motel sheets during a beach trip they swore they’d remember forever. They talked about matching tattoos. About running away together. About how nothing would ever split them up.