“You have siblings. I didn’t know that. Thank you for sharing it.”
“She used to say family wasn’t about who stuck around when it was easy,” Shamrock went on. “It was about who put down roots and didn’t let go when things got ugly.” He shrugged again, like he didn’t want to make more of it than necessary. “So that’s what this is. Keeps me straight.”
Bolt nodded slowly. “That’s solid.”
North met Shamrock’s eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
Shamrock pulled his shirt back on, the moment settling without needing commentary. “So,” he added, lighter now, “I’m good with just watching you idiots get more tattoos.”
Fly huffed a laugh. “Fair.”
The four of them sat there a while longer, the ocean steady, each of them carrying something different and realizing, maybe for the first time, that none of it had to be carried alone.
No one rushed to fill the silence.
Shamrock sighed, but he was smiling. "I hate you all."
"No you don't." Fly grinned. "You love us."
"Unfortunately," Shamrock agreed, falling back into the sand. "Unfortunately, I do." He eyed the water. "So, Fly," Shamrock said with that trademark smirk of his, “I've heard stories from Surf about you riding some heavy water.”
Fly didn't even turn to look at Shamrock, just kept his eyes fixed on the ocean. He'd been watching the waves since they arrived, calculating their rhythm like he was planning an insertion.
North watched the water with a familiar wariness. It wasn’t chaotic, but that didn’t make it safe. The waves came in with deliberate spacing, heavy and measured, each set holding its ground like an opponent that didn’t rush because it didn’t have to. This break didn’t threaten. It waited. North had learned in BUD/S that water didn’t need anger to kill you. It didn’t need to prove anything. It just needed time—and a single mistake. This stretch of ocean felt like that kind of adversary. Patient. Powerful. Entirely uninterested in who thought they could master it.
“But in all this time we've served together, I've never actually seen you ride a wave. I don’t like that gap, man. Friends know all there is to know, and brothers…well, there are no secrets."
That resonated hard in North. Fly turned to look at him, and a silent acknowledgment passed between them.
“You’re right. Secrets don’t fly with friends,” Fly said.
Shamrock’s blue eyes shifted between North and Fly. “Sounds like you two worked something out.”
“We had problems after Mei’s death, issues that are more private between us?—”
“I was the one with the secrets,” North said, his gut clenching. “Fly…let’s just say his friendship is unconditional and leave it at that.
“What you just said really hits home for us.” Fly fist bumped North. He turned his attention back to the ocean. "There are some pretty good breaks out there today," Fly said, his voice calm and measured. "How about now?"
He pushed himself up from the sand, brushing off his shorts. North could see the spark in his eyes. That familiar look he got right before he threw himself into something dangerous.
Shamrock's smirk widened as he stood too. "Now you're talking, flyboy. Let's see if you can back up all that talk."
Bolt, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up. "This I've got to see. The legendary Fly in his natural habitat."
North chuckled as he watched the three of them head toward the water. It was good to see them like this, relaxed, joking around, putting their lives on hold for a little while. Even if it was just for a few hours, moments like these were precious.
Fly moved with an athlete's grace, grabbing his board and jogging toward the turquoise water. The late-morning sun burned hot against the pale sand, turning it almost too hot to walk on without a hurried pace. North watched as his brother dove under the first wave, emerging smoothly on the other side before beginning to paddle out toward the horizon.
The ocean was alive today, a vast, breathing entity with a pulse that could be felt even from the shore. Salt-laced wind whipped across North's face, carrying the scent of eucalyptus from the nearby vegetation. The rhythmic crash of waves created a soothing backdrop to the occasional calls of seabirds overhead.
Fly was now just a dark shape against the glittering water, his powerful strokes cutting through the surface with practiced efficiency. North found himself smiling at the sight. Fly truly was in his element out there, as comfortable on a board as he was making decisions.
It gathered behind North like an approaching weather front that hadn’t been forecast, broad and heavy, pressing against his back with enough force that his shoulders tightened automatically. The sensation was physical yet wrong, like something occupying space without mass. Familiar and alien at the same time, it carried the unsettling echo of déjà vu, sharp enough to raise gooseflesh along his arms despite the sun.
North’s training kicked in. He widened his stance, instinctive and practiced, planting his feet more firmly in the sand, and for the first time in his life, the ground didn’t hold under his feet.
The compacted sand shifted as if it had forgotten its job. His balance faltered, a brief, terrifying slip that sent a jolt through his spine. He bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity, bracing the way he always had against wind, recoil, impact.
