Sam laid the guitar down beside her, careful with it like she always was—like things that made sound deserved to be protected. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her presence was steady, a hum beneath the hush of waves and wind.

Leighton pulled her sleeves over her hands, fingers flexing in the fabric. Her legs were starting to get cold, but she didn’t move. The quiet felt good. Real. Like exhale after too many held breaths.

She watched Sam from the side—silhouette caught in moonlight, curls damp and wild from the ocean, skin glowing faintly silver. She always looked like that at night. Like she belonged to some other world, gentler than this one.

“You ever feel like… like you’ve already lived a thousand lives?” Leighton’s voice was low, barely above the tide. “Like, this version of you is just the one someone finally decided was worth keeping?”

She didn’t expect a response. Didn’t need one.

Her eyes dropped to the sand between them. She dragged one finger through it, aimless. Drawing nothing.

“I don’t trust easy,” she murmured. “Not since… well. Not since everything.”

She risked a glance at Sam. Still quiet. Still there.

“I think that’s what makes it worse. When something’s good. When it feels like maybe you could breathe in it.”

Her throat ached a little, but she didn’t let it show.

“You make things easier,” she said, almost to the air. Like it didn’t matter if it landed.

A moment passed. Then another. She let her shoulder tip just barely, just enough to brush against Sam’s.

Sam leaned back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her, heels digging lazy tracks into the sand. She let Leighton’s words hang in the air for a minute—let them settle without needing to break them apart.

Then, finally, she let out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

“Damn, Thomas,” she said, voice low and scratchy like it always got after a smoke. “You really waited until I was good and stoned to drop the reincarnation talk, huh?”

Her lips curved, just slightly, but she didn’t look over. Just kept her eyes on the dark horizon like it held something important. “Yeah. I feel that sometimes,” she added after a beat, softer now. “Like maybe we’ve all been here before. Just trying again. Hoping we get it a little less wrong this time.”

She let her head roll to the side, finally glancing at Leighton.

“You don’t gotta explain why you don’t trust easy,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t really either. People suck, like, 60% of the time.”

Another pause. The kind that didn’t feel heavy. Just true.

“But I’m not one of those people,” Sam added. “And you’re not some broken little puzzle I’m trying to solve. You’re just… you. And I like you better when you’re not trying so hard to hold it all in.”

Leighton’s shoulder brushed hers again, and this time Sam bumped back lightly—like a nudge, like punctuation.

“We’re good, yeah?” she said, looking forward again. “Even when it’s weird. Even when it’s hard. You’re stuck with me.”

She reached down, flicked a pebble into the waves, and added with a sleepy smirk, “Now stop being all poetic and existential. You’re making my buzz go soft.”

Leighton let out a quiet laugh, the sound more breath than voice, and tucked her chin against her knee. She didn’t look over—she didn’t need to. Just hearing Sam’s voice felt like being handed a match in the dark.

“You always act like I’m the dramatic one,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand. “But you literally just said reincarnation was a do-over plan for the universe.”

Her eyes flicked toward the water, tracking the ripple where Sam’s pebble disappeared. “You’re not wrong, though.”

She hesitated, digging her fingers into the sand like she was anchoring herself.

“It’s just… sometimes I think if I stop holding it in, it’ll all come out at once. Like a flood. Like—” She shook her head. “Like I’ll be too much. And people don’t really stick around for ‘too much.’”

The air hung still for a beat before she added, quieter, “But you did.”

Her voice had that uneven edge it got when she meant every word but didn’t know how to soften it. She reached for a seashell, turned it over in her hand. It was cracked, a little worn, but still beautiful.

“We’re good,” she said finally, her tone steadier now. “Even when I’m weird. Even when I’m… me.”

A pause, then a smile tugged at her lips as she tilted her head slightly.

“And don’t pretend you don’t live for my poetic existential moments. You love it.”

She bumped her shoulder against Sam’s again. Lighter this time. Braver. “Now shut up and pass me the other half of that granola bar you pretended not to save.”

Sam gasped like she’d just been accused of treason.

Her whole body flinched with it—hand to her chest, mouth parted in offense, curls bouncing with righteous indignation. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I have never—okay, rarely—been dramatic a day in my life.”

She held the pose for a beat longer, eyes wide, letting the scandal of the moment simmer in the moonlight. Then, with the flair of a magician revealing a hidden trick, she reached behind her and pulled the granola bar from under her hoodie like it was sacred treasure.

“Fine. You caught me,” she muttered, tearing it in half with exaggerated care. “But in my defense, you take forever to ask for snacks and I was planning ahead. Like a good friend. Like a provider.”

She passed Leighton the bigger half without even thinking—because of course she did—and immediately shoved her own piece into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in six days.

And no, she absolutely would not shut up.

“Also?” she said around a mouthful of oat and chocolate chips, pointing dramatically at Leighton with the remaining edge of granola. “You’re not too much, okay? You’re honest. And smart. And like, freakishly poetic in a way that makes my brain do slow claps.”

She paused to swallow, then added, “You feel things so hard and still get up and try again the next day, and that’s badass. That’s—like—main character energy. Capital-M-Main. So if anyone ever made you feel like that wasn’t enough, they can choke.”

A beat.

“On a dry-ass granola bar, preferably.”

Then she grinned—wide and a little sticky with crumbs—and bumped her head gently against Leighton’s shoulder. “I stick around because I want to, dumbass. You’re the best part of every weird day.”

Leighton tried to hold it in—really, she did—but the snort slipped out before she could stop it, a sharp little laugh that cracked the quiet like sea foam popping on the shore.

“God,” she said, dragging a hand down her face, “you are so annoying.”

But her voice was light. Softer around the edges than it had been all night. She unwrapped her half of the granola bar slowly, like she was stalling, like her hands needed something to do to match the sudden warmth blooming in her chest.

“You call me the dramatic one,” she mumbled, shaking her head, “and then you go and drop a main character speech like we’re in a coming-of-age movie.”

She took a bite, chewed, then looked over—really looked. Sam’s face was still lit up, crumbs in the corner of her mouth, eyes all full of fire and conviction and whatever strange magic it was that made her so impossible to unlove.

Leighton looked away just as fast.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she said under her breath, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. Then, louder, with a crooked smile, “But remind me to steal snacks more often. Apparently it gets me praise, therapy, and dessert.”

She leaned into the shoulder bump this time. Let herself fall into it for half a second longer than she needed to. Then nudged Sam’s knee with hers, just because.

“You’re the best part too,” she added, quiet again. “Even when your granola bars suck.”

Leighton took a bite of the granola bar, chewed once, and stopped.

She turned slowly toward Sam, expression flat as the ocean.

“This is the driest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. I feel like I just swallowed desert air.”

She held it up between two fingers like it might disintegrate. “I’m pretty sure my soul just crumbled.”

But she didn’t toss it. Didn’t hand it back. She took another bite instead, shaking her head with faux betrayal.

“You saved it like it was some sacred offering, and it’s just… aggressively oat-based cardboard.”

A laugh broke through, soft and real. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the bar half-forgotten in one hand.

“I hope you know this means I like you,” she said, voice quieter now, but still teasing. “Because I only suffer through subpar snacks for people I’d probably help hide a body for.”

She took another bite of the granola bar and made a dramatic gagging sound.

“God. Even the aftertaste is judgmental.”

Sam made a face like she’d just been slapped by the universe.

“Oh, wow,” she said, sitting up straighter and clutching her chest like Leighton had personally insulted her lineage. “You’re really gonna disrespect the granola bar and my dramatic monologue in one breath? You’re a monster.”

She paused, holding up the remainder of her half like it was a cursed relic. “Okay, yes, it tastes like betrayal and beach sand had a baby, but—and I cannot emphasize this enough—it’s not my fault.”

Her tone dropped into a dramatic whisper, eyes darting side to side like they were being watched. “Jess helped me make them.”

She gave Leighton a slow, pointed look. “He said, and I quote, ‘I got this.’ Which should’ve been my first red flag because that man thinks chia seeds are a personality.”

Sam popped the last bite into her mouth, chewed once, and visibly winced.

“…Oh my god it’s even worse when you know the truth.”

She collapsed backward into the sand like she’d been felled by her own snack, arms flung wide, curls fanned out like a tragic beach casualty. “Tell my story,” she groaned, voice muffled by the night. “Tell them I died doing what I loved. Supporting my best friend with garbage snacks and way too many feelings.”

A beat.

Then she sat up halfway and pointed at Leighton with crumb-dusted fingers. “Also? You totally deserved me. You’ve got mysterious poetry girl energy and an ancient soul. You’re, like, indie film gold. If we were in a movie I’d be the chaotic sidekick with questionable snacks and god-tier loyalty.”

Her expression softened just a little—just enough to show the real heart underneath the theatrics. “So yeah. I’d haunt a desert for you. I’d eat ten more of Jess’s guilt-flavored granola bricks. And I’d absolutely help hide a body. No questions asked.”

She plucked a piece of seaweed from the sand and lobbed it gently in Leighton’s direction. “Okay, fine, I let Jess bake. That one’s on me. I got cocky. I thought, ‘how bad could it be?’ And now my mouth is haunted by disappointment.”

She pointed sternly at Leighton. “Next time you pick the snack guy. I clearly can’t be trusted.”

Then she flopped back again with a content little sigh. “God, I love our weird friendship.”

Leighton dusted the last of the crumbs off her hands, stood up in one fluid motion, and stretched her arms overhead until her spine gave a satisfying crack. Her hoodie bunched at the waist, wind tugging at the hem, hair lifting off her shoulders like even it wanted to follow her.

She didn’t say anything at first—just turned toward the water, the sand cool beneath her bare feet, toes sinking as she moved. The ocean glowed faintly under the moonlight, all silver edges and black ink shadows, like something sacred and untouchable.

She waded in until the tide kissed her ankles, then her shins, letting the chill bite gently at her skin.

“You ever think about how weird it is that this ocean touches everywhere?” she called over her shoulder, voice just loud enough to carry. “Like, we could be halfway across the world and still standing in the same water.”

She didn’t look back right away—just tilted her head toward the sky, letting the breeze tug at her sleeves and the salt settle on her lips.

“It makes everything feel smaller,” she said. “But in a good way. Like maybe we’re not as far from things as we think.”

She kicked gently at the water, watched it splash and curl back like it didn’t mind.

Then, with a grin: “Also, I’m washing the granola taste off my soul. This is a spiritual cleanse.”

She bent down, scooped a little water in her hands, and let it fall through her fingers.

“Come on, Sidekick Supreme,” she called, glancing over her shoulder now, hair a little wild in the wind. “You can’t die dramatically in the sand without at least a cinematic rinse-off scene.”

She smiled. Wide and unguarded.

“Let’s go haunt a tidepool.”

Sam blinked up at the sky like it had personally betrayed her by being so beautiful while she was still recovering from her granola trauma.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, dragging both hands down her face as Leighton moved toward the water. “She’s doing it again. She’s being all ethereal and ocean goddess-y and making me feel like an underachieving crab.”

She sat up, brushing sand off her hoodie with zero efficiency, then stood with the grace of someone who definitely wasn’t built for quiet beach serenity but would absolutely try anyway.

“I swear to god, if I step on a jellyfish while you’re over there being the moon’s favorite child, I’m making you do my eulogy in rhyme,” she called as she stumbled barefoot toward the surf, still brushing crumbs off her pants.

The cold water hit her toes and she yelped—loud and fully unnecessary.

“Leighton! It’s freezing! This is not the rinse-off I was promised!”

But she kept going, because of course she did. Because Leighton was already there, ankle-deep and glowing like something out of a weirdly heartfelt music video, and Sam wasn’t about to let her have a main character ocean moment alone.

When she caught up, she stuck her arms out dramatically like she was absorbing moonlight. “Okay, I’m here. Ready to haunt tidepools and cleanse the sins of oatmeal-based betrayal.”

Then, softer—less sarcastic, more real—she looked at Leighton and said, “Also? You were right. About the whole same-ocean thing. That’s kinda sick.”

She bumped her shoulder against Leighton’s and added, “Weirdly comforting for a planet that sucks most of the time.”

And then, because she couldn’t let it get too sincere: “Anyway, if you find a cool seashell, dibs. I need a dramatic token to remember this night in case I go feral and disappear into the woods next week.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “It happens more than you'd think.”

Leighton laughed—unfiltered and sudden, the kind of laugh that felt like it had been waiting to escape all night. It cracked through the quiet like sunlight through clouds.

“Oh my god,” she said, wrapping her arms around her middle and pointing at Sam. “You are the only person I know who can turn a moonlit beach moment into a cryptid origin story.”

She stepped forward just as a wave rolled in, letting it soak the cuffs of her shorts without flinching. Her hair whipped across her face, and she barely bothered to push it back.

“This is why you’re not allowed to ditch me,” she added. “You provide essential commentary and scare off any sea ghosts with your dramatic flair.”

Then she crouched, scooped something from the surf, and straightened up with a small seashell pinched delicately between her fingers—smooth, spiral, worn soft by the water.

“Here,” she said, handing it over without any big preamble. “Your token. For the shrine. Or the memoir. Or whatever chaotic future you’ve got planned.”

Their fingers brushed for a second—salt-wet and easy.

Leighton smiled, steady and quiet. “You make everything more fun, you know that?”

Then she flicked water at Sam, all mischief and challenge.

“Now prove your worth, tidepool goblin. Defend your honor.”

She was already backing into the waves, laughing again, ready to run if needed—because Sam never let a water flick go unanswered.

Sam gasped like she'd just been shot, clutching the seashell to her chest as if it were some sacred artifact under attack.

“Oh, it’s on now,” she declared, narrowing her eyes like a villain mid-monologue. "You dare challenge the tidepool goblin at her peak power?"

Without hesitation—because hesitation was for people with self-preservation instincts—Sam kicked a messy spray of water in Leighton's direction. Not graceful. Not calculated. Full chaotic cannon-blast energy.

She cackled as she stumbled forward, half-splashing, half-charging through the shallows. “You brought this upon yourself, Thomas! No mercy for sea witches!”

Another wave hit her mid-run, soaking her shorts and hoodie up to her ribs, but she didn’t care. It only fueled her dramatic vengeance.

She made a dramatic swoop toward Leighton, arms wide like she was about to tackle her into the ocean—and then, at the last second, skidded to a wild, slippery stop, flinging more water instead.

Sam doubled over laughing, hands on her knees, hair dripping into her face. "God, you're so screwed when I actually unleash my full cryptid form. I'm talking glowing eyes, webbed toes, the whole package."

She straightened, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie (which only made it wetter) and held up the seashell triumphantly. "But because I'm merciful—and because this beauty deserves witnesses to tell my story—I’ll allow you to survive tonight."

Her grin was crooked and wide, all reckless loyalty and sunshine.

"Besides," she added, tossing the seashell up and catching it clumsily, "how else am I supposed to terrorize Jess with tales of my aquatic conquest if you're not around to back me up?"

She spun in a circle, arms thrown wide to the moonlit sky, and called out dramatically, “Hawaiian cryptid chapter one: Tidepool Goblin ascends!”

Then she looked over her shoulder, smirking, and shouted, “Race you to the rocks!”

She was already sprinting—no real warning, no real chance—laughing so hard her steps were more stumbles than strides, absolutely daring Leighton to chase her.