Page 24

The night carries that unmistakable mix of salt on the breeze, wood smoke curling through the air, and the faint, sun-warmed scent of skin after a long day.

The fire crackles up ahead, casting flickering shadows across the crowd as the day turns to dusk.

Laughter rises and falls in easy waves, people dancing barefoot, drinks in hand, glowing under the sway of the beach lanterns strung overhead.

I don’t need to be surrounded by people tonight. But there’s something about the vibe here that feels right.

It’s easy. It’s real.

We start getting recognised. Just a few fans at first. Hesitant smiles, shy glances, the occasional “are you…?” followed by a squealed “I knew it!” It’s not overwhelming. Just ripples of attention. Some selfies. Some thank-yous.

I nod toward the fire, where a few acoustic guitars are already being passed around by a group of uni-aged kids huddled on the sand. One’s strumming something out of tune, the others are laughing too hard to care.

“C’mon,” I say, smirking. “Let’s give ’em a show.”

Luca raises an eyebrow. “You serious?”

Theo’s already peeling off toward the group. “We’re borrowing these,” he calls over his shoulder, not even pretending to ask.

By the time I catch up, Theo’s got a beat going on an upside-down bucket, and someone’s shoved a half-decent guitar into my hands. Ryder’s crouched beside an abandoned, battery-powered keyboard, brushing off a light dusting of sand, fiddling with the keys like it’s some ancient artefact.

Luca accepts a guitar from a guy in a bucket hat, who just grins and says, “Please make it sound better than I did.”

“No promises,” Luca deadpans, but he’s already tuning it by instinct.

“This was supposed to be chill, Kieran,” he mutters, shooting me a look. “We were supposed to be chill.”

Ryder’s grinning like a devil. “And yet, here we are. Making chaos out of a drum bucket and a student keyboard.”

Theo’s tapping spoons on the rim of his new ‘drum,’ head bobbing like he’s at Glastonbury. “Face it, we don’t know how to not play.”

I strum a few chords, the strings rough and familiar beneath my fingers. “It’s not a gig. No lights. No label. No pressure. Just music.”

And that’s all it takes.

We crash our way through a rough, sprawling take on Sweet Disposition . Someone yells Hands Down , and Luca’s already in before the rest of us catch up, the whole circle belting the chorus like a drunk, overenthusiastic choir.

Yellow turns into a raw, half-broken cover of crooked harmonies, breathless laughter, no one quite in key. And when someone shouts Mr. Brightside , we ruin it in the best possible way, howling the lyrics into the dark like it might save us.

We slip a few of ours into the mix, just the ones that matter. The ones that hit differently when you strip them back and play them without the noise. No stage, no lights, no crowd roaring the chorus. Just chords in the dark, voices low, and something honest sitting in the space between.

And now we’re just sitting in the afterglow.

Sweaty, smiling, and pleasantly wrecked.

People scatter around the fire in loose rings, swaying, chatting, sipping whatever drinks they’ve dragged down from the cabins and shops lining the dunes.

The flames crackle in bursts, casting gold across the dunes.

I sink into the sand, legs stretched out, hands braced behind me. The warmth clings to my palms, the last of the day’s heat tucked into the grains. Overhead, the stars are showing, faint freckles scattered across a sky slipping from blue to black.

To my left, Luca’s still noodling on the borrowed guitar, fingers wandering without purpose.

Ryder’s locked into a game of tonsil tennis with some blonde like it’s an Olympic sport.

And Theo, God help us all, is hammering out a full rhythm on a cooler lid with two mismatched spoons in his own world.

“Percussion gremlin with zero shame,” I mutter, grinning.

Theo doesn’t even flinch, just smacks the spoon against the crate again and points at me like he’s issuing a challenge. “You wish you were this cool.”

Honestly? I do.

I lean back again, letting the hum of the night blur at the edges until…

“Excuse me?”

I blink, looking up.

She’s maybe early twenties, blonde hair tucked under the hood of her sweatshirt, trainers half-buried in the sand. She clutches her phone, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, her face a mix of awe and total panic.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

She steps forward hesitantly. “I—I don’t want to interrupt. I just. I wanted to say thank you.”

I sit up straighter. “For?”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. “ Lightyears . That song got me through a bad time. I don’t think I’d be here if I hadn’t heard it when I did.”

Everything inside me stills.

It’s always like this—raw, disarming, impossibly humbling. No matter how many times it happens, it never stops flooring me. Not because of ego or pride, but because it’s real . Because someone, somewhere, was holding on by a thread… and our music was there when they needed something to hold on to.

I lean forward slowly, elbows resting on my knees, trying to meet her where she is. “Hey,” I say, soft but steady. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

She nods once, a quick jerk of the chin like she doesn’t trust herself to speak.

“But what you just said?” I add gently. “That was you . Not us. The song might’ve been there in the background, might’ve helped you breathe for a bit, but you’re the one who made it through. Don’t ever give that away. You did that.”

She blinks fast, swiping the sleeve of her hoodie under her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “We wrote that song when everything felt like it was falling apart. Luca got the riff down in one take, but the lyrics… those were all the shit we didn’t know how to say out loud.

So we put it in the music. I think we just hoped someone out there would hear it and feel a little less alone. ”

She lets out a sound—part laugh, part breath, part something fragile breaking loose—and hugs her arms around herself like she’s trying to stay anchored.

“I don’t mean to get all emotional…”

“Don’t apologise,” I say, shaking my head. “Seriously. This? This is the best part of what we do. Not the shows. Not the charts. This. Getting to meet someone who connected with the music.”

She hesitates, voice small. “Can I… get a picture?”

“Course you can,” I say, already moving. “Come on.”

She crouches beside me in the sand, and I slip my arm gently around her shoulders—nothing overdone, just a real, solid moment. We both smile for the photo, and when she steps back, she lingers.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “For not brushing it off. For saying that.”

I look her in the eye. “Never would. You’re still here. That means everything.”

And I mean it.

Because beneath the noise and chaos, that’s the heartbeat of all of it. Not just survival—but connection . Strangers meeting in the ruins, saying: I made it through, and so did you.

She melts back into the crowd, and I sit there for a moment longer, the quiet settling around me like a second skin. Gratitude pooling low in my chest.

I tip my head back and let the stars blur above me, the night sinking in slowly. It’s the kind of night that clings to your skin, humming somewhere in your bones.

And then, movement. Just at the edge of my vision.

Naomi?

A flash of firelight catches her stride. Sharp. Certain. She’s weaving through the crowd like she’s on a mission, drink in one hand, the other mid-gesture as she talks to someone I can’t see. All focus. All fire.

I blink, almost disbelieving.

She’s lit by the beach lanterns, their sway casting golden edges along her hair and cheekbones. Hoodie half-zipped, sleeves shoved up, chin tilted like she’s ready to throw down if someone so much as breathes wrong. Classic Naomi.

My heart kicks up, urgent and clumsy.

I sit up straighter, eyes sweeping the crowd. Past the fire, past the guys, past the silhouettes dancing near the shoreline with shoes dangling from their fingers.

I’m searching for her.

Because if Naomi’s here tonight…

She might be, too.