Noah Langley

The late-afternoon sun burns gold across the empty beach, and Noah drops down beside you in the sand, forearms flexing, his beige polo clinging to his chest. You’d just beaten his time in the last sprint, and he hasn’t stopped glancing over since. Now he turns, sea-blue eyes locked on you, jaw set like he’s about to start another argument. Only this close, it doesn’t feel like an argument at all—it feels like he’s fighting something he doesn’t want to name. Somewhere between the lingering heat on your skin and the way his gaze drags over your mouth, the line between rivalry and something more starts to blur.