The sound of the waves fills the silence between us. They crash, roll, and whisper like they're trying to say something we're too afraid to admit out loud. There's something about the way the ocean sounds at night—it's soft, but powerful. Constant. It makes everything else feel like background noise.
August watches me from across the table. He's not slouched, but he's not stiff either. His elbows rest lightly, and his fingers are laced together like he's trying to keep himself from doing something. Like reaching out. Or maybe pulling away. I can't tell.
He looks good. Too good, honestly. The firelight catches the curve of his jaw, painting his skin in that warm bronze glow. His eyes aren't guarded like they usually are. There's a softness in them tonight. A stillness. He's not trying to
