Marissa's bare foot found Ryan's ankle under the table, a light brush of skin against denim that made him look up from his plate. She was smiling at something Seth had said, her face open in a way he was still learning to recognize—no practiced tilt, no guarded flicker. Just her.

"I'm just saying," Seth was saying, gesturing with a strip of bacon like it was a pointer, "if the beach is the move, we need a strategic plan. Towel placement. Cooler logistics. The delicate art of not getting sand in places sand should never be."

"You're describing a military operation," Kirsten said from the counter, where she was pouring herself more coffee. She'd traded her usual silk blouse for a soft gray sweater, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. It made her look younger, less like the matriarch holding everything together and more like someone who'd slept in.

"I'm describing a day at the beach with Ryan Atwood," Seth corrected. "Which is essentially a military operation. He doesn't do casual. He does brooding-into-the-middle-distance while the rest of us pretend we're having fun."

Ryan didn't take the bait. His hand was on Marissa's knee under the table, thumb tracing a slow circle against the thin cotton of her sundress. She'd changed into it this morning—a pale yellow thing with thin straps, the kind of dress that belonged to summer and salt air and nothing heavier than sunscreen. She'd found it in the duffel bag Sandy had retrieved from the Cooper house last night, along with a few other things. Julie hadn't been home. The thought of that—her mother's house empty, her mother somewhere else, waiting—sat in Marissa's chest like a stone she was trying not to swallow.

But the sun was coming through the kitchen window, and Ryan's thumb was moving in that slow circle, and Seth was being Seth, and for a moment the stone felt lighter.

"So," Marissa said, her voice lighter than it had been all morning, "we should just go. Like, now."

Ryan's thumb stopped. She felt the pause through his hand, the way his whole body went still when he was reading a situation. "You want to go to the beach?"

"I want to go somewhere that isn't a kitchen where people keep looking at me like I might break." She said it without bitterness, just a statement of fact. "And the beach is... I don't know. It's the one place in Newport that doesn't feel like it belongs to my mother."

Sandy looked up from his paper. "That's a hell of an endorsement for a stretch of sand."

"It's true though." Marissa's fingers found the edge of her plate, turning it a quarter inch. "Everywhere else—the club, the restaurants, the houses—it's all hers. But the beach is just... the ocean. It doesn't care who your parents are."

Kirsten set her mug down. "That's actually beautiful."

"That's actually terrifying," Seth countered. "Because the ocean doesn't care about anyone. It's a giant, indifferent body of water that will happily drown you if you look at it wrong."

"You're really selling the beach day, Seth."

"I'm being realistic. It's my love language."

Ryan's hand moved again, thumb resuming its circle. "You want to invite Summer?" he asked, his voice low enough that only Marissa heard it.

She blinked. "Really?"

"You said you wanted a day that didn't feel like your mother's. Summer's not your mother's." He paused. "She's yours."

Marissa's throat tightened. She didn't know what to do with the way he said things like that—plain, unadorned, like he was just stating the weather. She reached for her phone on the table, thumb hovering over Summer's name. "Are you sure? Because I know she's been—"

"She's been waiting for you to call her for two days." Ryan's voice was still low. "You told me you didn't want to go back to your old life. She's not your old life. She's your friend."

Marissa looked at him for a long moment. Then she unlocked her phone and typed out a text.

Beach day. You in?

The reply came back in under thirty seconds.

OMG. YES. Where? When? What do I wear? Should I bring snacks? I'm bringing snacks.

Marissa laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind that made Ryan's chest do something complicated. She typed back: Cohens'. Now. Wear a bathing suit.

ON MY WAY.

She held up the phone. "Summer's in."

Seth choked on his coffee. "Wait, Summer? As in Summer Roberts is coming here?"

"Is that a problem?" Marissa asked, but she was already smiling.

"No. No problem. I just—" Seth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I need to mentally prepare. This is not a casual development. This is a—"

"Seth." Ryan's voice was flat. "Breathe."

"I'm breathing. I'm fine. I'm just—" Seth stood up abruptly, his chair scraping the tile. "I'm going to go find a shirt that doesn't have a stain on it."

He disappeared down the hall, and Kirsten exchanged a look with Sandy that said everything and nothing. Sandy just shrugged and went back to his paper.

"He'll be fine," Kirsten said. "He's just been—"

"Nervous?" Ryan offered.

"I was going to say 'hopeful,' but nervous works too."

Marissa watched Ryan's face, the way his mouth did that thing it did when he was trying not to smile. "You're enjoying this," she said.

"I'm enjoying watching Seth panic about a girl he's been in love with since he was twelve." Ryan's hand squeezed her knee once, quick and warm. "It's good entertainment."

"You're terrible."

"I'm honest."

She leaned into him, just slightly, her shoulder brushing his arm. The stone in her chest had shrunk to something she could almost ignore. "Thank you," she said, quiet enough that only he could hear. "For this. For all of it."

Ryan didn't answer. He didn't need to. His hand stayed on her knee, his thumb moving in that slow circle, and the morning light came through the window and caught the brass handle of the front door, making it gleam.

Summer arrived forty minutes later, a blur of honey-blonde hair and designer sunglasses and a beach bag that looked like it weighed more than she did. She swept into the kitchen like she owned it, dropped the bag on the floor, and wrapped Marissa in a hug so tight it lifted her off her feet.

"Okay," Summer said, pulling back to look at her. "You look good. You look—" she paused, searching for the word. "Alive. You look alive."

"I feel alive." Marissa's voice cracked a little. "It's weird."

"Weird is good. Weird is a fresh start." Summer's eyes flicked to Ryan, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "And you. You're the reason she's alive?"

"I'm the reason she's here," Ryan said. "The alive part's all her."

Summer studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, once, like she'd found what she was looking for. "Okay. I approve."

"You approve of me?" Ryan's eyebrow arched.

"Don't make it weird. I just—" Summer shrugged. "She's my best friend. I need to know you're not going to break her."

"I'm not going to break her."

"Good." Summer turned back to Marissa. "Now. Beach. I brought three different bathing suits because I couldn't decide, and I need you to tell me which one makes me look like I'm not trying."

Seth emerged from the hallway, wearing a shirt that was suspiciously stain-free and had clearly been chosen with care. He was holding his phone, and his face was doing something complicated.

"Seth," Summer said, her voice bright. "Are you coming to the beach?"

"I—" Seth's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I mean, if you want me to. I mean, I live here, so I kind of have to. But I also want to. Want to come, I mean. To the beach. With you."

Summer's smile widened. "Great. You can carry my bag."

"I would be honored."

Ryan caught Marissa's eye. She was biting her lip to keep from laughing, and the sunlight was catching the gold in her hair, and for a moment—just a moment—the stone in her chest was gone entirely.

The walk to the beach took ten minutes. The Cohen house sat at the end of a quiet street, and the path down to the sand was a narrow strip of wooden stairs worn smooth by years of feet. Marissa went first, her sandals dangling from her fingers, her sundress fluttering around her thighs. Ryan followed, watching her, and Seth and Summer brought up the rear, Seth carrying Summer's bag like it was a sacred artifact.

The beach was almost empty—a Tuesday in late summer, the tourists gone, the locals at work. The sand was warm and white, and the water was a green-blue that seemed to glow in the midday sun. Marissa stopped at the edge of the towel she'd spread, looking out at the horizon, and Ryan stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"This is what I meant," she said, her voice quiet. "This is the thing my mother can't touch."

Ryan didn't say anything. He just reached down and took her hand, his scarred knuckles rough against her palm, and held it.

Behind them, Seth was attempting to set up an umbrella with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never done it before, and Summer was directing him with the authority of a general. The sound of their bickering was warm and familiar, a soundtrack to the afternoon.

Marissa squeezed Ryan's hand. "Thank you for asking Seth."

"He needed to get out of the house."

"And for asking me to ask Summer."

"You needed her."

Marissa turned to look at him, the sun catching the blue of his eyes. "What do you need?"

Ryan's jaw worked. He looked out at the water, then back at her. "This," he said finally. "Just this."

They stood there for a long moment, the waves hushing against the shore, the warmth of the sun on their skin. Then Summer's voice cut through the quiet: "If one of you doesn't get in the water in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to assume you're both broken and throw you in myself."

Marissa laughed, and the sound of it was lighter than it had been in weeks. She pulled her sundress over her head, revealing the pale blue bikini underneath, and Ryan's breath caught in his throat. He'd seen her in less—had held her in the dark of the pool house, had felt the warmth of her skin against his—but there was something about seeing her in the full light of day, the sun painting her gold, that made his chest ache.

"Coming?" she asked, and she was already walking toward the water, her hair streaming behind her.

Ryan watched her go for a moment. Then he stripped off his shirt and followed.

The water was cold at first, a shock that made Marissa gasp and laugh at the same time. She waded in up to her waist, then turned to look at him, water dripping from her hair, her skin beaded with droplets that caught the sun.

"It's freezing," she said.

"You're the one who wanted to come."

"I wanted a day that felt normal." She took another step back, the water rising to her ribs. "This feels normal."

Ryan waded in after her, the cold creeping up his legs. When he reached her, he stopped, close enough to see the way her pulse beat at the base of her throat. "You cold?"

"A little."

He opened his arms, and she stepped into them, her body fitting against his like she'd been made for it. Her arms looped around his neck, and the water lapped at their waists, and for a moment the world was just the two of them, the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies in the cold sea.

"This is better than normal," Marissa whispered.

Ryan's hand found the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her wet hair. "Yeah," he said. "It is."

He kissed her, soft and slow, the salt of the sea on her lips. She made a small sound against his mouth, and his hand tightened in her hair, and the water moved around them like it was holding them too.

On the shore, Seth had finally managed to get the umbrella upright. He stood back to admire his work, then turned to Summer, who was watching the couple in the water with a soft, unguarded expression.

"They're good together," Seth said.

Summer didn't look away from the water. "Yeah. They are." She paused. "You're good too, you know."

Seth's face went red. "I—what?"

"You're good." Summer turned to look at him, her sunglasses pushed up on her head. "You set up the umbrella. You carried my bag. You're—" she paused, searching for the word. "Reliable."

"I'm reliable?"

"Don't make it weird." But she was smiling. "Just—thanks. For being here. For being his friend." She nodded toward Ryan. "He needs that."

Seth looked at her for a long moment. "I need that too," he said, his voice quieter than he'd intended.

Summer's smile softened. "I know."

They stood there in the silence, the waves hushing, the sun warm on their skin. And then Summer punched his arm, light and quick. "Race you to the water."

"What—"

But she was already running, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon.

Seth watched her go, his heart doing something complicated in his chest. Then he ran after her.

The afternoon stretched out like a gift, long and golden and unhurried. They swam until their fingers pruned, then lay on the towels and let the sun dry them. Summer produced snacks from her bag—grapes and cheese and a bag of chips that Seth immediately claimed—and they ate in a lazy, contented silence, the kind that comes from being with people who don't need you to perform.

Marissa lay on her back, eyes closed, her hair fanned out on the towel. Ryan sat beside her, his hand resting on her stomach, his thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of her bikini, and it was enough—just that, just the weight of him, the certainty of his presence.

"I could stay here forever," she said, her voice dreamy.

"You'd get sunburned."

"Worth it."

Ryan's hand stilled. "You know we have to go back eventually."

Marissa opened her eyes. The stone was back in her chest, heavier than before. "I know."

"But not yet." His thumb resumed its motion. "We can stay a little longer."

She looked at him, the sun catching the blue of his eyes, the way his jaw was soft for once, unguarded. "Okay," she said. "A little longer."

And she closed her eyes again, and let herself have it.

They packed up as the sun started to angle toward the horizon, the light turning gold and pink. Summer hugged Marissa goodbye, holding on a beat longer than necessary. "You call me," she said. "If anything happens. If you need anything. You call me."

"I will."

"Promise."

"I promise."

Summer looked at Ryan, who was standing a few feet away, folding towels with a precision that seemed almost ritualistic. "You too," she said. "You call me if she needs anything. Even if she doesn't ask."

Ryan met her eyes. "I will."

Summer nodded, satisfied. Then she was gone, walking back up the wooden stairs, her bag slung over her shoulder, her hair a bright blur against the fading light.

They walked back to the Cohen house in silence, the four of them strung out along the path, the sound of their footsteps soft on the wood. Marissa's hand found Ryan's, and he held it, his thumb tracing a circle on her palm.

The house was quiet when they got back, the kitchen dark. Seth headed upstairs to shower, and Ryan and Marissa stood in the hallway, the afternoon's warmth still clinging to their skin.

"I'm going to take a shower," Marissa said. "I smell like salt."

"You smell like the ocean."

"Is that a good thing?"

Ryan stepped closer, his hand finding her hip. "It's a good thing."

She looked up at him, her eyes bright, her lips parted. For a moment, the air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with something unspoken.

Then the doorbell rang.

The sound cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp and sudden. Ryan's hand dropped from her hip, his body going still. Marissa's breath caught in her throat.

They heard Sandy's footsteps in the kitchen, the soft pad of his bare feet on the tile. The brass handle of the front door caught the evening light as his hand closed around it.

Marissa's hand found Ryan's, gripping tight. The stone in her chest was back, heavier than ever, pressing down until she couldn't breathe.

The door swung open.