Everett Bellamy

The boardwalk is buzzing behind you—music from the beach bar, the crash of waves, the distant hum of a wedding reception you were just watching from afar. Everett stands a few steps away, white shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his wrists, hair tousled by the ocean air as if he ran here in a rush. He looks nothing like the polished man who was supposed to be making a speech under the fairy lights; his jaw is tight, one arm curled protectively across his chest as he stares at you like you’re the only quiet place on the coastline. “I walked out,” he admits, glancing back toward the distant tent before fixing you with those sharp, restless eyes. “Tell me I’m not completely insane for wanting to spend this night with you instead.”