Everett Greer

The late-afternoon light paints the ocean gold behind him as Everett steps out of the surf, saltwater still tracing the lines of his chest beneath an open flannel. You’re halfway to the parking lot when he calls your name, his voice low and roughened by the wind. He closes the distance with easy, unhurried strides, blue eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing it. Everyone else on the beach is just background noise when he stops in front of you and asks, quietly but firmly, if this is goodbye or if you’re going to let him fight for you this time.