Dean’s eyes landed on him with a mischievous glint, and he grinned, half-amused, half-possessive. “So you’re the famous Logan,” he said, gripping Logan’s hand with a playful strength that bordered on challenging. “You’ve gone and stolen my best friend, huh?” He laughed, but something flickered there, something just beneath his words.
Logan held his gaze and managed a small smile. “I guess I have,” he replied, barely a ripple of humor in his voice. As they were shaking hands, Dean gazed locked on Logan’s wrist, where Adrian’s lifesaver was, ever since the first day they’d met.
Suddenly, Dean’s hand darted out, catching Logan’s wrist like a fish hook sinking deep. His eyes fixed on the bracelet—the one Logan had worn without question, without thought—the same bracelet Adrian had worn every day since his mother had given it to him. Dean’s gaze shifted from the bracelet to Logan, a flash of recognition rippling across his face, shifting from wonder to something sharper, angrier, as if he were seeing a storm swell on a clear day. Then Dean’s head turned, eyes darkened, and spoke in Hebrew, his words rolling over Logan in a language he couldn’t swim in, crashing syllables that seemed to rise and fall, building and breaking, leaving him stranded on the edge.
Logan’s chest tightened, a pang echoing there, frustration prickling like salt in a wound. He’d never imagined wanting to understand Hebrew, had never needed it until now, but here he was, caught between them, suspended like driftwood in the current, unable to steer himself to shore.
Adrian’s mind raced, his heart stammering with an unease he hadn’t let himself feel in years.Shit,he thought, the word cutting through hisfog. He hadn’t anticipated this, hadn’t even paused to think what might happen if Dean saw the bracelet, let alone read between the lines so quickly, tracing the invisible lines of tension from him to Logan like paths carved into the sand. Having his mother’s bracelet on Logan’s wrist had become so normal to Adrian, felt so right, and seemed such a natural thing that he never anticipated the moment his friends would notice it. He hadn’t prepared for their understanding of the deep meaning it held—for what it revealed about him, about the quiet truth that he had given a piece of himself to Logan.
“Speak English, you idiot. He can’t understand you.” Adrian’s tone was sharp, a spark of irritation flickering in his voice, but the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed something softer beneath, something exposed and vulnerable. Dean only smirked, his defiance unbroken, the Hebrew words left hanging, untranslated, like a secret they shared alone—a language as intimate as an old scar, one that Logan couldn’t trace.
Logan felt his throat tighten as Dean sauntered off toward the bus, leaving a silence that felt like the receding pull of a wave, tugging him back to shore yet keeping him stranded with Adrian. Adrian’s eyes followed his friend for a moment, then flicked back to Logan. Leaning in, voice hushed like a confession, he murmured, “He just said it... looks like I care about you. Something like that.” His cheeks deepened in color, gaze dropping to the sand beneath their feet, as if embarrassed by the weight of those words. He looked restless, uncertain, like he’d been handed something fragile, something too real, and wasn’t sure whether to cradle it or cast it away.
Translating Dean’s words felt like an exposure, a risk; but leaving them veiled in another language felt like building a wall between them. Caught between distance and closeness, Adrian stood, suspended, as if he’d letsomething slip that could never be taken back. But Adrian felt like a jerk because he hadn’t translated it fully; he’d left a part out, too afraid to let it all out there.
The introductions flowed seamlessly together—Tom, Ben, Sergi, Shoam. They were friends of Adrian, each face radiant with sunshine, adorned with easy smiles and sun-kissed shoulders. Logan nodded and smiled, quickly forgetting their names as they arrived.
There were more. Others gathering with boards slung under arms and towels draped over sunburnt shoulders—two guys and three girls from Australia, a tall surfer from New Zealand with a deep laugh, three bronzed men from California, another from Hawaii, all wind-swept and sun-creased.
Logan stood just outside the circle, half-listening, half-floating. Laughter swelled and broke like waves, the scent of salt and coconut oil drifting on the breeze. Adrian was deep in conversation with—Shoam, maybe? Logan wasn’t sure. Their closeness stirred something in his chest he didn’t have a name for.
“Hey,” a voice said beside him, low and easy.
Logan turned. One of the California guys, though he couldn’t place a name. Tall, maybe an inch shorter than him, golden-tan like he belonged to the sun, with wavy blond hair and ocean-blue eyes that lingered when they looked at you.
“Hey,” Logan replied, shifting his weight slightly, one hand brushing the back of his neck.
“Jack,” the guy said, reading the pause in Logan’s face. He flashed a dazzling smile—casual, but practiced. “You’re Logan, right?”
“Yeah,” Logan said, returning the smile, though not quite as effortlessly. “How’s it going, man?”
“All good,” Jack replied, voice smooth and relaxed. “Where’re you from?”
“Seattle.”
“Ah, cool.” Jack nodded slowly, eyes scanning Logan just a moment too long. “Long way from home.”
“Yeah.” Logan chuckled softly, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his surfboard. “What about you? How do you know them?”
“Barely do,” Jack said, with a lazy shrug that made the muscles in his shoulders ripple slightly. “Most of us met yesterday. I think Justin and Cody—those are the Aussie guys—knew the Israelis from before.” He stretched slightly, arms behind his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “But someone suggested a group surf, and… here we are. No complaints so far.”
Logan nodded, trying not to overthink the way Jack’s eyes flicked to his mouth when he smiled. The tension was light, almost playful, but unmistakable.
Logan had the sense Jack was about to say something else, something bold, maybe reckless, when another surfer, name forgotten, hooked an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a different conversation. Jack threw Logan a parting grin, something teasing in it, before he disappeared into the swell of voices.
Logan let out a breath, shifting his board in his grip. He was just about to slip away—find a quiet corner, maybe trail back to Adrian—when someone else approached.
“Hey,” another voice called out, this time with a thick accent. Logan turned to see Tom, one of Adrian’s friends. Stockier build, quiet eyes.
“Just saw Dean being a dick before and wanted to say,” Tom murmured, stepping in close enough for privacy, “don’t mind Dean. He’s strange about Adrian. They’ve known each other and were inseparable since first grade, joined the Navy together, went through wars together. Dean’s protective, you could say. Maybe jealous now that Adrian’s stepping away.”
Logan’s mouth went dry, an unnamed question catching in his throat like salt from the sea.Was there something between them, something deeper than friendship?
Tom’s gaze softened, as if sensing the rawness in Logan’s silence. “Not like that, not romantic,” he hurried to explain, though his words washed over Logan like a sigh, a tide both soothing and stirring. “But yeah, Dean’s possessive. Adrian’s been his anchor through it all, and I think maybe he’s not ready to see him drift, you know? Ad said he wanted to do some, soul searching, you might say, in English, but seeing him traveling with you was not easy on him.”
Logan nodded, trying to ignore the pull of his own thoughts, the churning questions lodged deep beneath the surface. As he watched Adrian laugh, saw Dean’s lingering glances from across the beach, Logan felt himself caught in a riptide, something powerful and undeniable pulling him further into waters he was only just beginning to understand.
Logan nodded, already liking Tom. “Thanks.”
