You’ve got one hand pressed flat against the cool glass of the window, the other gripping your phone. Three missed texts from Micah. Two from Richie. All from last night.

You here yet? Richie’s being boring without you. Lauren’s making her famous crab cakes.

Your mom glances over, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

The house rises up ahead—a two-story shingled thing with a wraparound porch, weathered gray from salt and sun. A hammock swings empty between two posts. The front door is propped open with a surfboard.

And there he is.

Richie’s leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, barefoot. His hair is messier than last year, pushed back like he just ran his hand through it. He’s taller. Broader. The tan’s darker.

He looks up as the car pulls into the driveway.

His eyes find yours through the windshield.

And he just… stares.