We leave before dessert.
The restaurant got too loud. Too crowded. Too full of eyes that knew our names.
Kane doesn’t argue when I nod toward the door. He just stands, drops cash on the table, and falls into step beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The beach is quieter at night.
Waves rolling in steady. String lights fading behind us. Sand cool under my feet when I slip off my wedges and carry them.
For a minute, we don’t talk.
Then his hand brushes mine.
I hesitate.
He doesn’t grab — just leaves the space there, an invitation.
I take it.
His fingers lace through mine, warm and sure, and something in my chest loosens.
“I haven’t dated since junior year,” I admit, staring at the water.
He glances over. Doesn’t tease.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I kind of… locked in. Volleyball. Life.” I huff softly. “I’ll spare you the ex stories. Especially on a first date.”
His thumb brushes my knuckles.
“No rush.”
We stop where the shoreline curves away from the lights.
The wind pushes my hair forward. He reaches up automatically, tucks it behind my ear like he’s done it a hundred times already.
My heart stutters.
“Stell,” he says quietly.
And then he kisses me.
Gentle.
Intentional.
His hand cups my jaw, not demanding, just grounding, and my toes curl in the sand before I can stop them.
It’s warm. Steady. Real.
No lightning strike. No chaos.
But something opens anyway.
For a second, I let myself lean into it — into the possibility of a boy who makes sense. Starting point guard. Future draft pick. NIL money. Stability.
A life that wouldn’t feel like constant freefall.
