Night fell like a curtain, the sky a dome of cool ink pricked with stars. Lanterns winked on shorelines near and far; the sea became a soft, attentive dark. Liz glanced back toward the horizon, where the ocean had swallowed the last strip of sun, and then to Woodman, who was tracing initials into the sand with a forefinger, not because he intended to keep them but because some marks insist on being made.

“Most of the morning.” He dug a boot into wet sand and forged a line between their worlds: rock, board, shore. “Name’s Woodman.”

Woodman stood and wiped his hands on his shorts. Between them the day breathed—a long, slow inhale of sea air and salt. “Nice cast,” she said, voice low and practiced to ride the wind.