—SALT EYES

BECK FOSTER 33. Surf Instructor & Owner of The Railhouse Surf and Skate Shop. ❝ quote. ❞

[beckfcster]

❛❛ 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒. But it remembers you. Every time you leave, it pulls something from you — a laugh, a scar, a name whispered into the tide. And sometimes, it gives something back. Not answers exactly, but quiet. The kind of silence that makes you realize how loud you’ve been living. I’ve spent half my life chasing that silence, and the other half pretending I didn’t need it.”  ––––––––––––

name. beckett foster

nicknames. beck

pronouns. he/him

age & birthday. february 29, 1992, thirty three

zodiac. pisces sun, sagittarius moon, scorpio rising

hometown. briar ridge, south carolina

sexuality. heterosexual + heteroromantic

residential area. beach front

relationship status. single

occupation. surf instructor and shop owner of the railhouse

length of time in briar ridge. age 0-19, 27-present

MUSINGS | CONNECTIONS |  PINTEREST

❛❛ 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 ━

MOTHER’S NAME. Mara Foster (nee Graves)

FATHER’S NAME. Jonathan "John" Foster

SIBLINGS. Sister (tba)

COUSINS. tba

❛❛ 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 —

trigger warnings: death, boating accident, injury, drowning

Beck Foster was always half in love with leaving. While the other kids in Briar Ridge learned how to mend nets, gut fish, and ride the tide, Beck was scribbling lyrics in beat-up journals and tracing maps to places he'd only ever seen in surf mags and daydreams. Golden-haired and soft-hearted, he never fit cleanly into the weatherworn mold of his coastal hometown. Sensitive, restless, and too full of feeling, Beck learned early how to slip through cracks and chase horizons.

By nineteen, he left Briar Ridge with nothing but a backpack, his surfboard, and a head full of songs. He bounced along the Pacific coast for years—bartending in dive bars, crashing in vans and hostels, working odd jobs at surf shops, and chasing swells like they carried all the answers. He fell in and out of love with places, people, and promises. Always moving, always searching.

But not all waves carried him forward. There are pieces of Beck scattered across the state of California—San Diego, Santa Cruz, Monterey—chapters he won’t talk about, scars he refuses to explain. Something happened in Fiji, too. Something almost final.

He won’t confirm it, but ever since, there’s been a quiet shift in him. His smile still comes easy, but it doesn’t linger. His eyes carry the undertow in them everywhere he goes.

Six years ago, Beck returned to Briar Ridge, worn and waterlogged. He set up a humble surfboard workshop down by the docks, crafting boards with calloused hands and taking moody ocean photos he sells to tourists and dreamers. Locals say he doesn't speak much unless it matters. Some remember when he was a rising name on the amateur circuit. Others whisper about what he left behind and what he saw out there—especially in Fiji.

His mother, Mara Graves, still lives in that old, weathered cottage right above Driftwood Lane. She used to run the town’s best crab shack; now she runs a metaphysical shop called The Tidal Veil, where she sells sea glass, Tarot readings, and stories that blur the line between myth and memory. Mara claims she saw the moment Beck nearly drowned—that the sea stilled and a gull cried out three times to her.

Beck neither confirms or argues. He simply brings her coffee, fixes her porch swing when it sags, and lets her call him Beckett, the name he hasn’t used in years or really at all outside his family home.

Their relationship is full of silence and second glances—both of them orbiting a truth neither quite names. But Briar Ridge, for all its salt and secrets, has a way of pulling things back to shore. And Beck, for all his running and avoiding, might finally be ready to stay—if only for a while.

Beck's father, John Foster, was a third-generation commercial fisherman—broad-shouldered, quiet, and carved from the same hard edges as the sea he worked. The kind of man who believed in tides, hard work, and keeping your head down. He captained a trawler called The Wild June, and by the time Beck was seven, he was rising before dawn to watch his father push off into the fog.

John Foster was the town’s steady hand, a man who gave more than he asked for and didn’t waste words. He taught Beck how to tie knots, how to read a storm before it made the news, how to tell when a man was lying just by the way he held his eyes.

However, John never quite understood his son—the golden-haired dreamer who wrote songs, chased light, and asked too many questions with no clear answers. Their relationship was complicated: quiet love, unspoken disappointment. Beck adored his father, but he also feared becoming him—anchored to one harbor, weathered by routine, slowly eroding under the weight of unspoken things.

When Beck was sixteen, John went out with a skeleton crew before a storm that came in faster than expected. The Wild June capsized off Cape Romain. Two crewmen survived. John didn’t. They never recovered his body—just the cooler lid with his initials burned into it and a soaked life jacket that wasn't his.

Mara swears she knew the moment he was gone. Says it "came to her in a vision." But, Beck? never truly recovered. His leaving at nineteen wasn’t just about wanderlust—it was escape. From grief. From ghosts. From the fear that the ocean loved him the same way it loved his father: enough to take him someday.

But now, years later, with scars of his own and the weight of near-misses behind him, Beck has begun to understand the silence his father carried. The ache of responsibility. The pull of the tide. He works with wood and water now, like his father did—only he crafts boards instead of hauling nets. It's quieter work, but it still demands reverence. Precision. Respect for the sea.

Some nights, Beck swears he can still smell salt and diesel, like his father just walked in. He doesn't know what it means, doesn't like to face it.

❛❛ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ━

He was born on a Leap Day, so his celebrations usually take place on Feb 28th or March 1st.

Drives a beat-up 1987 VW van named Loretta.

Taught himself to play guitar on the beach, but won’t play in front of his family.

Has a busted shoulder from a surfing accident he never properly treated. It acts up in the cold.

Drinks too much when he's feeling lost, which is often.

He never stays in one place too long unless something or someone anchors him. Even then, he sleeps with his bag packed for months — just in case.

He’s terrible at texting back, but he saves voicemails and rereads old messages. Sometimes he never replies because he doesn’t know how to say goodbye again.

Terrified of hospitals. He’ll stitch himself up before stepping into an ER. The scar on his side? Self-treated. There’s a story. He’s never told it.

He has commitment issues, not because he doesn’t want love, but because deep down, he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be chosen.

When he’s anxious, he disappears for hours without telling anyone—usually to the water, even if it’s just a muddy creek or an old cattle pond.

He doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he still remembers the exact color of the sky the last time he felt like he was in love.

He smells like ocean salt, worn leather, cedarwood, and occasionally clove cigarettes he swears he "doesn’t buy, just bums."

He has a nervous tick: pulling at the leather bracelet on his wrist or rubbing the pad of his thumb against the inside of his ring finger.

He can fall asleep anywhere—van, hayloft, porch swing, roof—but he always sleeps curled in on himself, like he’s guarding something.

He plays guitar left-handed, despite being right-handed, because the guy who taught him was a lefty and Beck never questioned it.

His relationships never last more than a season. Summer flings, autumn breakdowns, winter escapes.

His love language is acts of service—he’ll fix your sink at 3 a.m., but he won’t tell you how he feels unless he’s scared he’s losing you.

Drinks his coffee black but always adds honey when no one's looking.

Tattoos: Has one on his ribs (unfinished). One on his forearm in fine line script—lyrics from a song he never released. And various others scattered about.

Vinyl guy. Blues, outlaw country, old soul. No matter how digital the world gets, he likes the scratch of something real.

❛❛ 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ━

He has dreams about his father — vivid, detailed ones. Sometimes they’re mundane: fixing a net, standing on the dock. Other times, John speaks in riddles or stares at him without saying a word.

He pretends to roll his eyes at his mom's moon rituals and “ocean magic,” but he never throws away the little bundles she leaves at his door — sea glass wrapped in twine, dried rosemary, notes scribbled in her looping script.

His sister is the only person who can get him to show up to things, like impromptu family dinners with their mom. Sometimes she'll says things like, “Just come for me,” and he’s there. They look and act like twins even though they are not.

❛❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 —

Childhood Best Friend: Lucas Attean.

Friendly: Other Friends/Childhood Friends. Good vs Bad Influence. Partners in Crime, Drinking Buddies/Surfing Buddies.

Romantic: Exes, One Night Stands, Friends with Benefits or even Enemies with Benefits. Unrequited Crush? Anything, really.

Estranged Cousin/Family Member: Someone tied to the Graves or Foster families—perhaps a cousin Beck barely remembers or had a falling-out with.

The Affair That Unraveled Him (Will be a WC): Beck didn’t mean for it to happen. Not really. He was working at a beachside bar in Monterey—bartending nights, surfing mornings, sleeping in his van parked just out of sight. It was supposed to be temporary. It always is. Then she walked in —elegant, smart, late 30s, early 40s, with a quiet sadness she carried like perfume. The kind of woman who doesn’t have to say she’s married—you just know. Gold band. Soft-spoken. Eyes that say help me feel something again. At first, it was just conversation. Then longer glances. Then she started coming in when she knew he’d be working. Then it became more. It wasn’t love. Or maybe it was, but not the good kind. It was need. It was escape. She told him her marriage was cold, her husband always gone—distracted, controlling, maybe even cruel. Beck, always aching to rescue something—someone—stepped right into it. Maybe he told himself it was just physical. Maybe he believed it. Until it wasn’t. Until she told him she was thinking of leaving her husband. Until Beck found out the man she was married to had power—influence. A business owner in town, a donor to the sheriff’s office, a friend of the local politicians. The kind of guy you don’t cross quietly. When the affair was discovered—or confessed—Beck was threatened. Maybe the husband came to the bar and promised to make his life hell. Maybe he found slashed tires. Maybe he got arrested on a bogus charge and spent a night in a cell he didn’t deserve. Worse: she stayed. She went back. Told Beck it was a mistake. Said he was a phase. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she lied. Maybe she broke his heart. Whatever the truth, Beck fled Monterey like a ghost was chasing him. And in some ways, one still is.

[selinymaz]

Selin peered towards him and matches his stance. As someone who's made a living studying her clients and shifting her approach based on their body language, it doesn't take much for her to know that he's reading her. She does the same, in turn. Part of her wonders how trusting she should be of his skills to teach a young girl and a beginner to surf. He was younger than she was, more easy-going based on his appearance, while still confident.

If he ended up being a young kid who gave her the advice to take life by the balls and to dive into the water head first, she'd have to tackle him on the beach. "Do you have a lot of those catch phrases cause they work, until a wave knocks the wind out of my lungs. Do you have a CPR certificate?"

That felt like a good question. Maybe she should have looked into going surfing while the lifeguards were working in case something did go south.

She peered at the board and stepped back to allow space for the large board, wondering how the hell she would get that back home and where she would store it. "This big thing? Isn't there some that can fold or you can inflate? Where am I meant to store this? On my bedroom ceiling?" She peered at him with a furrowed brow. "Do you offer storing services?" It was all getting real and she had to wonder how much one of those cost given the sheer size of it.

Her gaze set back towards him as she placed her hands on her hips and considered how she'd gotten to this place and how she'd allowed her niece to talk her into this with such ease. Next thing she knew she'd be jumping out of a plane. "Water, rash guard, maybe a xanax or two?" The last part was a joke, pinching the bridge of her nose and then remembering how impossible it would be for a surgeon to replicate it once she took the board straight to the face with the lack of coordination she had whilst on land.

"I am trusting you." She told him as if he would be to blame for any injury or traumatic events that happened to herself or Billie. "I know you're young and maybe life isn't as serious but this face needs to remain as it is. I can deal with a bruise or two. As for my niece, I don't play around so if it's choppy or any chance that she can get hurt, bitten, thrown off wrong — we're calling it off. I'll pay, either way, but I don't want to risk her. I'm all about the mantra of getting back on the horse so I'm not saying that she won't get knocked over, but I don't want to set her up for failure either."

[beckfcster]

Beck listens, and for a moment, he just stands there—still and quiet, like the sea before a shift in the tide. He doesn’t interrupt her spiel, doesn’t even deflect with a grin or a clever remark like he usually would. Not at first, anyway. Her words aren’t just small talk, he hears the apprehension behind them.

Like when she says “I am trusting you,” something flickers behind his eyes at the sentiment—an old weight, a flash of responsibility he knows all too well and wears quietly on the daily. He gives a slow nod, like he’s accepting something heavier than just a surf lesson.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he says finally, his voice even but sincere. “Trust, or faces that is.” There’s a brief pause, then that familiar corner-smirk returns, softened by the edge of his own understanding. “For the record, I am CPR certified. AED too. Took the classes again this spring, even though no one’s asked to see the papers in years.” He raises his coffee cup like it's a toast. “Would’ve framed it, but it clashed with the driftwood aesthetic. Or so, I'm told...” As if, he gave a fuck. His sister apparently did, though and she helped design the shop.

He steps back to give her more room, crouching again to double-check the leash on the board as she speaks. At the mention of inflatables and folding boards, he makes a low sound—that resembles half a laugh, half a groan. “Inflatable boards are fine for paddleboarding on glassy lakes,” he says, glancing up at her. “But you’re not here for fine, right? You want to learn how to surf. This one's big because it’s stable, and it’s foam because it’s forgiving. If you do take it to the face—which, fair warning, happens to everyone at least once—it’ll hurt less than the hardtop alternative.”

He straightens again, brushing sand off his hands. “I do offer storage. First month’s free if you’re a local or pretending to be one. Just means you’ll need to come back to use it, which is kind of the point anyway.” The Xanax comment draws the faintest laugh from him—quick, and almost reluctant. But he doesn't brush it off. “Nerves are normal. I’d be more worried if you weren’t a little on edge. Fear means you’re paying attention. Just don’t let it drive the car when you're out there.”

Then, after she shifts—more serious in nature, his expression follows her, the usual levity pulling back just a little.

“I hear you,” he assures her. “And you’re right to be cautious. Especially with your niece. If the surf looks sketchy, we'll reschedule. No shame in that. I’ve called off sessions for less.” He leans a shoulder against the workbench now, posture still easy, but there’s something steadier underneath. “But I don’t push kids. Or adults. I meet them where they are. It’s not about conquering the ocean—it’s about learning how to be in it. How to fall safely. How to get back up without making it personal.” There's a beat. Before, his tone grows softer. “I can’t promise no one will fall. You or her. But I can promise I won’t let her go out there without knowing she can come back safe.”

He holds her gaze after that, to reassure her. And then, after a breath, that smirk creeps back in full circle like a tide rolling over something serious. “And if the board does hit your face,” he teases her, “I’ve got some seaweed salve my mom swears by. Don't ask. She's Kooky. It kinda smells like eucalyptus and lies, but it still works.” There's one last pause, followed by an already settled, “So, noon tomorrow? You bring your niece and I’ll bring the wax and sunscreen.” He lifts his coffee again. “Don't worry, we’ve got this.”

[leylayilmz]

The second she caught sight of that crooked smile of his, she was done for. Something in her chest squeezed so tight it was almost unfair.. her cheeks heated instantly, and she pressed her lips together to stop the little smile tugging at them. "I—wow, Beck.. you're not allowed to be this smooth." She looked over at the blonde now with a dimpled smile, her eyes alight with amusement and, admittedly, joy. She'd never expected Beck Foster to ask her out, but here he was.. If I'm imagining this, if I'm dreaming.. don't you dare wake me up.

Leyla feigned deep thought, letting out a soft hmm as she gazed at the ocean, even though her entire body was buzzing with nerves. She really hadn't ever thought Beck was interested in her in that way, though she had always lowkey had a crush on him. But, this.. this was completely unexpected. She turned back to him now, a shy but unmistakable smile tugging at her lips. “Okay… yes,” she finally said. “I’ll go on a date with you.” Tilting her head as she studied him, her dimples deepened as her grin curved wider. “But only if you let me buy at least the first round, considering how often you've saved me from the cafe's haunted appliances.”

Oh boy. She shouldn't've looked, but of course she did. Was the man a literal greek god carved from the earth? Who on earth allowed him to have a body like that? She was ogling, she knew she was, and yet she couldn't help herself. Be cool, Ley!! What the hell is wrong with you? Quickly looking away, the brunette gathered up what was left of her pastries in a bag, and the book she'd suddenly forgotten all about, and somehow her hand found his. Like, she hadn't even willed it to, it just came naturally, and yet.. the simple touch sent a flutter through her chest. She rose to stand beside Beck, a sudden wave of shyness hitting her after a few moments as she realised her hand was still curled in his, unable to meet his gaze. "Alright, Foster. Lead the way."

[beckfcster]

Beck’s hand tightens just slightly around hers, offering the smallest shift of pressure around it that says, I feel it too, that niggling in my stomach, that you induce. He doesn't say it out loud though—never really does with things that matter the most— like her, but it’s there all the same, in the way he doesn’t let go of her, even as they start walking.

They fall into step side by side, like they’ve done it a hundred times before—him in his usual half-slung gait, casually kicking a pebble here and there, and her beside him, the rhythm between them, just easy. Natural. Meanwhile, the late afternoon sun casts a lazy golden hue over Briar Ridge, catching in Leyla’s hair as they walk. In a way, he definitely notices but doesn’t mention it—not in the moment, anyway.

By the time they reach Everything Goes, Beck is already pushing up his sleeves like he’s clocking in for work. The familiar jingle of the shop’s bell chimes overhead as they step inside, the smell of sugar and something warm still lingering in the air even after closing. He breathes it in like its muscle memory.

“Still smells like you’re trying to bribe the entire town into forgiving you for cursed equipment,” he teases her, flashing her a look as he crosses toward the back of the bakery like he’s been there a dozen times before—which, honestly, he kind of has. “You know… you could’ve just asked for help instead of whispering exorcisms over the sink and pretending it didn’t sound like a dying raccoon in here.”

He drops to one knee in front of the dishwasher, tugging open the old panel like a mechanic peeling back the hood of a temperamental old truck. “Alright, let’s see what kind of sins this thing’s been hiding from you.” For the next fifteen minutes, it’s a mix of Beck muttering things like “Well, there’s your problem,” and “No offense, but this appliance wants you dead, Ley.” Occasionally he glances up at her—just quick looks, stolen glances between twisting wires and wiping grease on the rag he keeps in his back pocket.

When he finally replaces the last panel and gives the door a test tug, the thing actually hums back to life without sputtering. Beck leans back on his heels, rubs his hands off on his jeans, and stands, proud of himself. “Boom,” he says with a satisfied grin and a flourish of exploding hand gestures. “Dishwasher, officially de-haunted. Probably.”

He grabs the rag again, wiping at his palms absently as he glances over his shoulder at her, catching that shy glance she keeps trying to hide behind. There’s something playful in his voice when he says, “Now… about this imagination of yours.” Because how could he ever forget?

He turns to face her fully now, leaning back casually against the counter, his arms crossed, with just the hint of that crooked grin threatening to overtake his whole face again. “You mentioned it earlier, and I’m still curious. Was it just about the date… or were there more scenes playing out in that wild little daydream of yours that, I should know about?” He raises a brow. “Be honest. I am good with my hands, and I did just conquer a haunted machine for you. Feels like the kind of material worthy of a fantasy or two.” Besides, how was he to ensure it could come true if he didn't even know about it?

He lets the moment hang between them for a second, his eyes locked on hers, heat rising subtly in the room now that the hum of the tension has shifted and grown warmer, closer to them. Afterwards, his expression softens, teasing her still but gentler around the edges now too. “But hey—no pressure. You’ve already agreed to the date. I don’t want to get too greedy… unless you want to give me a preview, of course. In which case, you won't catch me complaining.”

[wesparkcr]

"Not big on monogamy, huh?" Or maybe it was just that Beck struggled to allow himself to open up. Wes could relate to that — he wasn't one to sleep around, much less date a lot.. and he'd only ever opened up to one person, one relationship.. and had pretty much struggled to do so with anyone else, ever since. "Summer and sadness," he repeated, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying not to grin. Of course, he failed. "Sounds like one of those bad indie albums." He busied himself momentarily with tidying up the rows of glasses, a little of his OCD tendencies revealing themselves as he did so. "Me?" Oh god, he needed a drink for this, so he poured himself one. To hell with being responsible. "First of all, you're not putting me on Bumble. Or Tinder, or whatever apps are popular these days. I'm not one for strangers judging you off of one picture and three words." He tipped his glass in Beck's direction before taking a lengthy sip. "Appreciate the concern, though. But honestly? I don't even think I'd have time to date. I like being alone. But.. this feels a little like you're projecting, my friend." His gaze lingered on Beck a little too long, like he was weighing whether to say more and deciding against it. "Maybe you just haven't found the right person that you mesh well enough with."

[beckfcster]

Beck watches Wes organize the glasses like they might start singing if aligned just right, his brow ticking up in quiet amusement. There’s a hint of a grin playing at the corner of his lips—fond, familiar. The kind that says yeah, I’ve seen you do this a hundred times before, and it still makes me want to mess it up just for fun.

But he doesn’t. Not this time. Instead, he lifts his glass in response to the toast, lets the whiskey touch his tongue before he speaks. “Not anti-monogamy,” he says, settling his glass back on the counter with a soft clink. “I’m just… not great at the sticking part. I start off all in, but then something shifts. Like the deeper they get, the less of me there is to hold onto. And I don’t say that for pity, by the way. Just how it’s been.”

He leans against the bar now, one forearm stretched across the wood, the other hand absently tracing circles in the condensation beneath his glass.

When Wes calls him out—feels like you’re projecting—Beck lets out a dry chuckle, low and a little raw around the edges. “Yeah, well. It’s easier to worry about your love life than to keep scraping the rust off mine.”

The silence stretches a beat too long. Not uncomfortable, just full. Thoughtful. Then Beck turns his head slightly, catching Wes in that direct way he only does when he’s not screwing around. “You say you like being alone, but I’ve seen how you light up when you’re not. When someone gets past the barricades and actually sees you? Man, you’re different. Lighter. Cooler. Less…” He waves a hand vaguely in Wes’s direction. “...tense.”

He doesn’t push it, though. Just lets the moment settle. Then, adds: “But hey, who am I to talk, right? I’m the emotional equivalent of a broken boombox—loud, nostalgic, and mostly busted.”

A smirk follows, but it’s gentler now. Before a chuckle breaks the silence.

“And maybe you’re right,” he adds, rolling the rim of his glass between his fingers. “Maybe I just haven’t found the person who makes it feel worth staying. Or maybe I did once… and now everything else just feels like a copy.” He doesn't specify who, and wouldn't unless pried out of him.

There’s a beat of silence again, heavy and honest, before he lifts his glass toward Wes like it might lighten the mood a notch. “Here’s to not ending up like the guys in those sad indie albums, though.” Then, with a slight grin, “Unless the soundtrack’s good. In which case, I guess, I’ll take the vinyl.”

[vanna-huang]

Her smile was wide and knowing as she answered his pointed assumptions with a simple tilt of her head and a playful nod. "Thank you." There was really no point in hiding the truth from someone like Beck. Over the years they had spent together overseas, he had come to see through her almost as well as Wes had. Although it still caught her off guard, there was a sense of relief in knowing she didn’t have to keep all her walls up all the time. Vanna followed as Beck moved behind the bar, giving him an appreciative look for being willing to make whatever drinks she wanted in the first place.

Beck's practiced moves don't go unnoticed by her as she leans over, resting her elbows on the bar while watching him. "You haven't disappointed me yet," she says with a reassuring grin, her arms crossed. "And if it's not good, I'll just lie and say it is." Vanna gives him a wink, shrugging. "I'm a good friend that way."

She's sitting on a stool by the time Beck's drink reaches her, and Vanna can't help but grin at the plastic sword sticking out of her drink. She picks it up. "Cute," she laughs, bringing it to her mouth and eating the pineapple chunk in one go. The sweet yet tangy taste of pineapple greeted her, and her eyes closed, greeting the flavor with a delicious hum. "Really good pineapple," she nods, giving him a thumbs up just before taking a sip of the drink. She hums again, giving him a nod to indicate that the drink wasn't bad either. She takes another sip, looking up at him through her lashes as he goes on.

Vanna licked her lips and placed the glass down, her gaze softening as memories of that night flooded back. Whenever she and Beck were in the same space, the events of that evening felt ever-present.

Although Vanna loved getting her feet wet, she had never been very good at swimming. It wasn't until she got closer to Beck that she began to show an interest in venturing out beyond the shore. However, that night had undeniably scared her. Beck's loss of his friend only intensified her initial fears about the ocean. For Vanna, it never felt like the right moment to confess the truth. Making his friend's death the reason for her avoidance of the water seemed insane, and she had not been able to shake those feelings since.

Still, this was Beck, and she could avoid the conversation for only so long. Eventually, he would put the pieces together, wouldn’t he? Vanna glanced to the side, adjusting her seat so that her legs faced away from him, almost defensively. "If you want to see me in a bikini, Beck, we can just hit the hot tub at the resort." A silence followed her teasing remark, and her playful grin faded into a soft pout as she rested her elbow on the counter. "I’d be too much work for you," she waved her hand dismissively, continuing to deflect the conversation. "After all the flailing around, you'd think twice about offering to take me out there for free."

[beckfcster]

Beck huffs a soft laugh, that's more breath than sound, as he watches her polish off the pineapple and dodge his words with that signature deflect-and-distract routine she’s been perfecting since Fiji. He doesn’t call her on it—not yet. But there’s a flicker behind his eyes, a shift in his jaw that says he notices.

“I’ve already seen you in a bikini, V,” he says, cool and casual as he swirls the last bit of rum in his own glass. “The striped one. Costa Rica. You ordered two mojitos and left both in the sand.” He glances up at her, a slow smirk pulling at one side of his mouth. “So, nice try.”

But then his voice lowers, softens—just slightly—as he leans an elbow on the counter and mirrors her posture, not quite closing the distance, but enough to let the silence stretch.

“But, for the record?” he murmurs, gaze holding hers now, steadier than she probably aimed for it to be. “You wouldn’t be too much work.”

He lets that hang for a second—long enough for it to mean something—before looking away, pretending to scan the liquor shelf like he’s debating pouring himself another. He doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs lightly, like he’s brushing off his own vulnerability.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he asks after a beat, voice quieter now. “Every time the water’s involved, you laugh, you stall, you pivot." He can't blame her but, like he's said... he's noticed. "You’re a hell of a dancer, Vanna. I’ll give you that.”

Just then, he turns back toward her, leaning into the bar just enough to make her shift—or stay. Her choice. “But I was there too, remember? I know what it cost you. I know what it took from you. What it took from me.”

His gaze dips briefly to her hands, then back up. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not about the ocean. Not about Drew. Not about why you haven’t set foot past the tide since.”

There’s no judgment to his tone. Just knowing. A quiet sort of grief that’s softened into understanding over time. And underneath it, that gentle thread of something else—fondness, maybe? Perhaps, something more. Beck pushes her drink an inch closer, not because she asked him to do so, but just to keep his hands busy. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he goes on to add, “But... if you ever did want to try again? You wouldn’t have to do it alone.”

His smile is barely there now—just a flicker, a suggestion of something steadier beneath all that salt and history. “And I promise not to let you flail. I’ll be right there.”

There's a playful beat. “Unless it’s in the hot tub. Then you’re on your own. I have rules about chlorine.”

[beckfcster]

🙈

Send a 🙈 for my muse's guilty pleasure song

"Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. It's cheesy, he knows. But, there's just something about the harmonizing, wide-open feeling of it that just hits different. Especially when you've been chasing horizons your whole life. Best believe, Beck belts this out while alone in his shop, sanding down boards. Usually in just a pair of his swim trunks, no shirt.

[leylayilmz]

To say that she was captivated by the very sight of him right now would barely scratch the surface. The afternoon sun seemed to linger on his ocean blue eyes, tracing the angles and curves of his face like it was painting a masterpiece, just for her. She almost forgot what they were even talking about, a warm pink colouring her cheeks as she realised she’d been staring, immediately looking away and clearing her throat. “Well, at least you’re a man who knows what he wants,” she murmured, lips twisting into a playful pout as her gaze drifted from the ocean back to him. “I might just hold you to that.”

Leyla’s chest gave a little flutter, and she couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips. “Guess we are,” she murmured, her eyes locking on his. Laughter soon fell from her lips, however, once he started speaking about the dishwasher, her eyes genuinely alight with humour and amusement. "You make it sound way too dramatic, you know that?”

She shifted a bit to face him now, resting her elbow on the back of the chair and her chin in her hand, eyes locked on his. "I'm sorry, okay? I swear there's a ghost in that cafe wreaking havoc just so you have an excuse to come and rescue me." She couldn’t help but feel a rush of appreciation, however, for how genuinely kind Beck was, how willing he was to help… just because. I'll show up just because you asked. The words rang in her ears, sending a warm flutter through her stomach. “Not that I mind,” she added with a small smile. In all seriousness, though, she needed to figure out a way to pay him for his time. "Thank you. I appreciate it, more than you know."

Her cheeks warmed slightly, however, at his final statement, suddenly feeling a burst of boldness as she dared to ask, and basically blurted out, "—Are you asking me on a date, Beckett Foster?" But no sooner had the words left her lips than doubt crept in, and she quickly added with a sheepish laugh, "Or am I just letting my imagination run wild again? 'Cause I tend to do that. Of course I will. But only if I'm buying."

[beckfcster]

Beck doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he's too busy looking at Leyla, admiring her and those dimples—and for a split second, something in him falters at the sight. Like maybe he hadn't meant to let any of it show, or maybe he’s realizing too late just how much he wants her to know it. There’s that familiar crooked smile of his again, the one that never quite reaches both sides of his mouth. But this time, there’s something undeniably earnest in it too—something that slips past his usual guardedness.

He leans back just slightly, arms draped lazily over the back of the bench, like he's trying to play it cool, but his eyes? Are still locked on hers. Still saying things he hasn’t quite figured out how to voice out loud, yet.

“Well,” he says, voice low and edged with a quiet amusement, “if you are letting your imagination run wild… I’m not about to stop it from happening.” There's a beat, before his gaze flicks over her face, softening at the edges. “But no, you're not imagining it, Ley. I meant it.”

Just then, he leans forward a bit, his elbows now resting on his knees, his fingers loosely laced as he looks up at her. “Also yeah,” he adds, slower now, like the words are weightier than they seem to be on the surface, “I guess I am asking you out on a date. That is, if your answer's a yes?"

His smile deepens, tentatively, like the truth of what could come out of her mouth next, both scares him and thrills him at the same time. “But if you’re buying, I might let you think it was your idea.” A playful raise of his brow follows, the teasing behind it light but the intention clear underneath it.

He stands, stretching his arms over his head, shirt pulling up just enough to betray the v-shape of his hips, his wetsuits typically tend to hide. Then he offers her his hand—not because she needs help up, but because he wants to. Wants to hold hers, if she'll let him.

“Come on,” he says, glancing down at her with that warm glint in his eye. “Let’s go tame your haunted dishwasher. And after that… you can tell me what else your imagination’s been up to.”

[selinymaz]

"I would hope so. You know better than to let me come back looking for compensation because you didn't do a good job with guiding me on which board to buy and which to avoid." It there was such a thing, but she wanted to emphasis her lack of knowledge and how desperate she needed his help. Water sports weren't her thing outside of swimming around or enjoying a day going down a lazy river with a few bottles in tow. "I'm kidding, by the way. I'd probably corner you in a back alley."

Five minutes wasn't much but it would suffice, especially if he made things easier by leading the way and telling her what to buy. "I'll take them." And she was serious. While she knew it would be a waste of money because there wasn't any way she would return to the beach to surf even if things went well and they both survived the first lesson with whomever she hired. It was all for Billie. No one else would get her on an unstable board and risk her embarrassing herself as much than the little girl she loved the most.

The shop made her feel further out of her depth as she entered and was hit with the scent of wood and wax, peering at the boards who all looked the same outside of their designs. She wondered if there were a difference or people just chose based on size and what colorful background they wanted.

"Well noted." She echoed so he knew she was listening while her eyes were trained on the colorful boards. The random surfer guy was a last ditch effort to find someone if it came down to it. Now she'd probably spend the night trying to book someone via a long google search with extensive reviews and background that proved they wouldn't just 'see if they drowned or not'.

She walked towards him and looked at the board which said nothing more to her than the rest of them. Especially since her first instinct was to knock on it with her knuckles as if the sound would indicate if it was good or not. "Looks perfect." She added and then sighed aloud, pinching the bridge of her nose. His question had been left unanswered for a moment because she'd been dabbling with it all day. She was frightened. Her foot were better suited on the ground. "I swim but I don't know if I can surf." The water wasn't frightening but she'd seen and heard enough of people having accidents. "Honestly, I'm scared for my niece more than me even if I know she's going to go in without fear." Billie was braver than most people she knew. "But I promised that we'd do it together so I'm going to stick to that. I'll need a board too." The offer of an opening was what almost made her run for the hills but she sucked in a deep breath and peered at her calendar. "Tomorrow will work." She said as she shot her sister a quick text indicating that she wanted to take Billie for the afternoon.

[beckfcster]

Beck watches her knock on the board like she’s checking a watermelon for ripeness, and the corner of his mouth twitches again—but he doesn’t laugh. Not out loud anyway. Instead, he just says, “Solid test. Not very scientific, but effective for dramatic flair.” He props the board against the wall gently and straightens to his full height, his stance relaxed, but focused now that she’s said the words: I’ll need a board too.

He studies her for a long moment after she speaks, arms folding across his chest, coffee still balanced in one hand like it’s second nature. His gaze doesn’t waver when she admits her fear—of the board, the lesson, her niece charging headfirst into the unknown. And maybe that’s what finally earns a small, respectful nod. “Good,” he says simply. “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to show up.”

Then he turns, crouches near a lower rack, and slides out another board—longer than the one for Billie, with a soft, dusty teal finish and a few faint dings in the foam along the rails. Nothing serious, just signs of use. Of learning. “This one’s yours,” he says, patting the top. “It’s not going to win any beauty contests, but it’s wide enough to keep you upright while you’re figuring it out. Gentle on the knees. Forgiving, even when you’re not.”

He straightens and glances at her again, expression unreadable for a second before he adds, “People romanticize surfing like it’s magic. And sometimes it is. But more often, it’s awkward as hell. You’ll fall weird. You’ll yell at the ocean. You’ll wonder if your body is supposed to bend that way. All normal. Doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.” Then, with the faintest smirk: “Means you’re doing it at all.”

He looks toward the door, as if considering the next part before he speaks. “Bring water to stay hydrated. A rash guard, if you’ve got one. Something you can move in. If Billie’s the type to get cold fast, a wetsuit’s not a bad idea. And sunscreen. Lots of it. Tomorrow at noon—here. We’ll go over the basics on land before we hit the water.” A pause. Then, quieter: “You’re not the first one who’s come in scared. You won’t be the last. But don't worry, I’ve got you.”

[leylayilmz]

Leyla laughed softly, a warm pink tint colouring her cheeks as she tilted her head toward Beck. "Your things, huh?" She shook her head as another chuckle ensued. "Board shorts and cappuccino spelling? That's a low blow, even for you." She nudged him back with her knee, noticing with a small smile how his knee was still pressed against hers like it didn’t want to let go, eyes sparkling with mischief as she let them settle on the water before them. And what a magical thing it was. Always healing.

She was mid taking a bite of her pastry, and savouring the taste, when his unexpected honesty caught her completely off guard. Beck admitting he liked the view, honest and unfiltered, ignited a flutter inside of her she wasn't quite ready to name. Always have. And just like that, her insides did a little somersault. She found herself speechless as she peered over at him, slowly chewing the rest of her bite, wondering if it was all just in her imagination. Was he talking about her? And why did he seem so vulnerable in doing so? Her lips parted, words seemingly failing her, and so she settled on, “Funny—I thought I was the only one appreciating the scenery around here.” A little slice of her own honesty, if you will.

Leyla straightened up now, glancing away in the hopes the breeze might be cool enough to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks. "Um, no.. no goat this time, unfortunately. Though I'll keep it in mind for next time," she winked at him. "Actually, its the dishwasher that gave up on me. Total breakdown. So unless you want to see me drowning in suds, I could really use someone who knows their way around a busted machine." She gave him a teasing look, her warm browns glimmering with amusement as she glanced at him sideways, biting her lip playfully. "Think you could tinker with it? There’s no rush, of course, but…” Her gaze held his a beat longer before she added with a teasing smile, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

[beckfcster]

Beck leans his head back against the bench, eyes closing for a brief second as if her words had hit somewhere between amusement and surrender. When he looks at her again, it’s with that same, quiet intensity he always carries when he’s thinking too much about something and trying not to show it. But the smile is still there—crooked, half-formed, like he doesn’t want her to see all of it just yet.

“Yeah, my things,” he confirms to her, voice dipping like the thought’s been marinating for longer than he cares to admit. “Call it territorial. Or just honest.” His gaze lingers on her for a second, something unspoken passing between them before he leans forward to brush the last few flakes of pastry off his jeans. “Either way, I meant what I said.”

Then, when she gives him that little slice of her own honesty, he glances over again, sharp enough to catch it, soft enough not to call her out on it—at least not directly. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile too much, but he doesn’t look away. “Well,” he says quietly, “guess we’re both seeing something worth looking at then.” He doesn’t press the moment further. Doesn’t need to. It hums between them like something already understood, not yet spoken aloud.

But when she shifts the subject to the dishwasher, he lets out a groan that’s half exaggerated and half real, dragging a hand through his hair like she’s just assigned him a ten-hour shift. “You know, there was a time when I thought my Saturday might involve a cold beer and absolutely no kitchen appliances. But here you are,” he says, flicking a crumb off her sleeve with a casualness that almost covers the fondness underneath.

He sighs theatrically. “Alright. I’ll come take a look. But if that thing starts spewing foam again, I’m out. No heroic plumber moment. No white knight in an apron.” Afterwards he pauses, tilting his chin just slightly as he looks at her. “You don’t have to make it worth my while though, Ley. I’ll show up because you asked. And because, I wouldn't want you to get soaked.” Not in that way, at least. “By the suds, I mean. But I won’t turn down a drink after hours. That is, if the payment means you'll join me for one.”

[vanna-huang]

Vanna hurriedly made her way towards The Railhouse, her flip-flops smacking against the sandy soles of her feet as grains of sand clung wherever they could. Although the day was inching toward twilight, she felt an irresistible urge to visit Beck's workplace, suddenly craving a refreshing tropical drink. It was funny. For as long as she's known him, Vanna had been dodging every opportunity Beck had extended to her for a day out on the water; it was almost comedic how she always arrived just as the shop was about to close. Was it a mere coincidence? Perhaps. Regardless, there was no way Beck would allow a newcomer out on the water just before the sunsets.

With a playful grin tugging at her lips, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, her eyes sweeping the familiar surroundings. Every inch of the space spoke of him—the sound of the waves, the scent of salt in the air. “Aw, is it about to close?” she feigned disappointment, leaning slightly against one of the clothing racks. “Shoot.” She snapped her fingers, a grin bursting forth like sunlight breaking through clouds. “But I’d love a Mai Tai,” she declared, gliding toward the bar and playfully gesturing for him to get to work. “More mai, less tai, please,” she winked.

[beckfcster]

Beck doesn’t move at first. He just watches her, the rim of the mug paused at his lips. That grin of hers hits him in the chest like salt in a cracked knuckle—unexpected, sharp, and strangely familiar. The kind of smile you remember long after the moment’s passed.

He finally lowers his mug, exhaling through a dry chuckle as she leans on the rack like she owns the place. “You always show up when I’m locking up or washing resin off my hands,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Starting to think you time it on purpose. Real slick, V.” There’s a softness that slips into his features now—cautious, worn-in, maybe even a little guilty—but it’s there. He crosses the space between them slowly, brushing past one of the hanging hoodies that still smells faintly like sea air and lemon oil.

“No promises on the Mai Tai,” he mutters as he moves behind the little makeshift bar—more counter than tiki—but there’s an old rum bottle with a cork jammed halfway in, and he starts pulling bottles with a rhythm that suggests he’s done this before. “But I’ll make it taste like you’re on a beach in the Keys somewhere with poor judgment and a good playlist.” He glances up at her once—just briefly, however the look holds. “And a hell of a lot better company. So there's that.”

The moment simmers between them. The clink of ice. The hum of the fridge. The quiet crash of waves outside. He slides her the drink a minute later in a mismatched glass with a chunk of pineapple skewered on a plastic sword. Definitely not standard barware, but definitely Beck. Then he leans back against the shelves, folding his arms, eyes scanning her face like he’s trying to match the woman standing here with the girl from that night. And maybe every version of her he’s seen in between.

“You ever gonna stop showing up just after the sun goes down?” he asks, quieter now. “Or is this your thing—waiting until the water’s too dangerous, too dark? To pop back up.” He doesn’t say his name—the friend who didn’t listen. The one who went out anyway and paid the price, haunting Beck like a ghost he can't get rid of, ever since.

But it’s there, thick between them, the weight of that night still folded into the corners of her smile and the way he keeps looking at her like she might vanish again. “I'm not mad, by the way,” he adds after a beat, almost as if it surprises even him. “I used to be. But I’m not anymore.” He nods toward the drink. “Just… glad you’re here in one piece. Since not all of us can be anymore.”

[selinymaz]

Selin peered towards her watch and then back at the male. "Do I have time to go in and look at your boards? My niece has been asking to learn how to surf and despite the terror of needing a nose job afterwards, I'm atleast going to tell her that I did go see them."

She was out to ensure that she remain the favorite amongst family and friends— and while surfing was out of her comfort, especially while learning to surf and putting her niece at risk of all kinds of different scenarios she'd already played out in her mind— she would still do anything for that little girl.

"She's young, maybe forty five pounds, and I figure that I could get any kind of cheap board. Do you rent them?"

Even as she spoke, she realized just how little she knew about surfing and given how she often times had difficulty keeping herself upright on ground, she didn't have high expectations for how that would go on water. Maybe her niece would be a natural surfer and be the one to teach her.

"While I'm at it, do you know where I can go to find someone who can give us a lesson? I'd ask someone on the beach but I doubt they're coming here to teach people."

"Anyways, let's go in and see what you've got. It'll take five minutes."

[beckfcster]

Beck finally lets his eyes drift over to the other woman, one brow ticking up just enough—not in annoyance, but in that quiet way he often registers his own surprise. People don’t usually approach him with that much openness right off the bat. Especially not with the kind of rambly charm that reminds him of someone narrating their own internal monologue out loud.

He watches her for a beat, then huffs out a low, amused breath through his nose. “You had me at ‘nose job,’” he says, pushing off the railing with a lazy kind of grace. His coffee stays in hand as he gestures toward the workshop door with the other.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he says, but the edge of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth suggests he’s not keeping track. “Technically, I don’t rent boards. But I’ve got a few beginner sticks that wouldn’t cry if they got scuffed up. One of ‘em might even suit your niece.” He pushes the door open with a shoulder and steps inside, holding it open for her without a word, letting the warm scent of resin, wood, and ocean air wash out into the fading light. The boards are lined up like a quiet gallery—each one shaped by hand, with soft curves, sun-bleached colors, and small imperfections that make them feel lived in rather than showroom polished.

“You’re not wrong,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Beach guys’ll teach if you’ve got cash and patience, but they’re not big on form. More like ‘throw you at the wave and see if you drown.’ So, not the safest intro for a kid.” He steps toward the rack and slides a small, soft-top board out from the back. It’s pale coral, with a hand-painted sun rising in the corner. “This one’s light. Stable. Friendly. Kind of like a golden retriever in board form,” he says, tapping the edge with his knuckles. “Could work for a kid her size. You really just need something she can stand on without the board trying to buck her off.” Then, more gently, “You planning on learning too, or just trying to win Aunt of the Year?” His eyes find hers—steady, curious. Less guarded now. “If it’s the second one, you’re already halfway there. But if it’s the first... I teach sometimes. When the water’s calm. And the kid’s got heart.” A beat. “You look like you might, even if you’re scared of your own balance. And depending on how soon you were thinkin', I have an opening tomorrow around noon. The waves should be calm then.”

[leylayilmz]

She made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh at the "mindreader" comment, shaking her head as she turned a page in her book — not that she was reading a single word of it anymore. Not with him beside her, pastry in hand, grinning like that. That grin had always been trouble. Still, her tone somehow remained casual, breezy, as she flicked another page of the book with words that were merely decorative at this point. "God, you're such a menace," she muttered, unable to help the grin that was now tugging at her lips.

Beck had that way of saying things that made everything feel like it mattered a little more than it should. It was annoying, really — how he could go from teasing her to casually dropping a line that made her chest flutter without even looking at her properly. She could feel the warmth of his gaze even if he wasn't quite looking at her. It crept in slowly, like the sun on her skin. "Wow," she said finally, brows lifting some as the mulled over his words. "And here I was thinking you'd just come over for the pastries." Then she finally looked over at him, amusement colouring her features as she added, "Careful. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you're enjoying the view."

Leyla lifted the pastry halfway to her mouth but paused, her eyes flickering up to meet his with a playful spark. She held it there for a moment, as if weighing the moment before letting her grin widen. "Jealous, Beck?" Nudging him with his knee, she took a bite of her pastry, chewing thoughtfully before adding, "Didn't peg you for the jealous type. Or maybe you're just scared the handsome regulars are stealing your spotlight." She watched him a moment as he looked up at the gulls, totally distracted by those freakin' arms literally sculpted from the gods, then looked away quickly before she got caught staring. "I assumed you just have an uncanny ability to sense when something’s falling apart at the café. —Speaking of, you'll never guess what happened this morning.."

[beckfcster]

Beck lets out a low laugh—deep and warm, the kind that rumbles more in the chest than in the throat. He leans into the nudge from her knee, not enough to push back, but just enough to acknowledge it. His smile lingers as he tears off another piece of the pastry, chewing like he’s trying not to grin with his mouth full.

“Jealous?” he repeats, glancing sideways at her with that look—the one that toes the line between trouble and truth. “Nah. I just know a good thing when I see it. And I don’t really like sharing my good things with strangers in board shorts who can’t spell ‘cappuccino’ without crying.”

He lifts his brows as he says it, feigning innocence, then shrugs one shoulder like the thought barely registers. But it does. She can see it in the way his knee still leans against hers, in the way his fingers tap absently against the bench—restless, but grounded.

“I do like the view, though,” he adds, more quietly this time. Not teasing. Not performative. Just honest. His voice dips a little, softer, like he’s not trying to make it a moment, but can’t quite help it from being one. “Always have.”

Then, almost immediately—as if the weight of that line unsettles him—he clears his throat and shifts back into familiar territory, leaning an elbow on the backrest and tilting his head toward her like he’s bracing for chaos. “Alright, hit me. What disaster unfolded at the café this time? Was it the espresso machine again? Or did someone let your cousin near the register?”

He bites into the last of his pastry and mumbles through a smile, “Please tell me it involved fire. Or goats. I could really use a good goat story right about now.”

[wesparkcr]

Wes let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he wiped a hand over his jaw. "Class," he echoed, the word flat and amused as he arched his brows. "Yeah, definitely." He followed Beck's gaze over to someone jiggling with the jukebox, the frustration emerging on their features as they try to work out why it isn't working very much a source of amusement for him. Other than Beck's presence, of course. "You're bored, so you come here to annoy me. Got it." Grabbing a clean rag, Wes wiped down a sticky ring on the counter left behind from God only knows when, before huffing a faint laugh through his nose. "Trouble, huh? Last time you said that, I ended up explaining to Mrs Carver why her lawn gnome was on the roof."

He turned then, answering one of the bartender’s questions with a quick nod and a low, practical word or two, hand lifting to point toward the shelf before he shifted his weight back, leaning a hip against the counter. His gaze flicked back to Beck, focus sharpening again like it always did, the easy line of his shoulders settling as he gave him his full attention once more. "Meet a cute.. what is with everyone in this damn town trying to set me up?" The annoyance that came from that alone prompted him to get the good shit back out and pour himself a damn drink. "Meet a cute girl.. get laid," he mumbled under his breath. "Ain't you got anything better to do than worry about what I'm doing in my spare time, Foster? In fact, why don't you fill me in on your extracurricular activities, huh? How's your love life?"

[beckfcster]

Beck can't help but bark out a laugh at the returned scrutiny— it's short and genuine. But, it's the kind of laugh that drags his head backward and forces a flash teeth before he has to rein it in. It's at that point, he picks up his glass again, swirling the last of what's inside of it, like it might reveal some wisdom at the bottom if he stares at it long enough.

"My love life?" he echoes, his tone caught somewhere between mildly entertained and wildly exasperated. "Man, you know me. I fall in love three times a year and ghost them all by the time the leaves change." He downs the rest of his drink before setting it aside, tapping the rim once with his knuckles like it's the punctuation to the end of his sentence. Then he leans in just slightly, forearms braced on the edge of the bar like he’s letting the weight of something else settle there, rather than carry it home again.

“Honestly?” he adds, voice dropping into something quieter, with an element of more truth behind it. “Love life's a busted engine I keep kicking out of habit. Starts up just long enough to get me into trouble, and then sputters out somewhere between the honeymoon phase and the first ‘where’s this going’ talk. You know the drill.”

He shrugs, not bitter—just tired, like someone who’s been through it enough times to want to skip out on all the melodrama. “Last girl I got close to said I made her feel like summer and sadness. Didn’t know whether to say thank you to that or apologize.”

He glances sideways at Wes then, one brow hitching in familiar challenge. “But sure, let’s talk about your prospects. Maybe get you on one of those dating apps—what do they call it? Bumble? I forget which one it is you swipe left or right on like you're going furniture shopping.”

His smirk curls back in, but it’s gentler now, softened by the edges of real concern beneath all the teasing banter between them. “I just don’t want to see you end up like me, man. All ghosts and goodbyes.”

Then he straightens, reaching across the bar to grab the bottle and pour himself another splash without asking. A beat passes before he adds, more quietly, “Not everyone’s supposed to be alone. Some of us aren't cut out for it.”

[frankie-dilan]

Frankie snorted, arching one of the very eyebrows he’d just complimented, on instinct more than strategy.

“Still flattering women like it’s 2012, huh?” she shot back, but there was no heat in it. Just a hint of amusement curling around the edges of her words, like steam off her coffee lid. “Appreciate the reminder, though. I was starting to worry my brows peaked in med school.”

She took the seat he’d offered, dragging it closer with the toe of her sneaker and plopping down without ceremony, her coffee still in hand. “And for the record, I haven’t made a guy do anything with my eyebrows in years. I upgraded. Full spine now. Voice like a scalpel. Gets faster results.”

She glanced toward the cooler with a skeptical eye. “I’ll brave the kombucha graveyard later. Right now I’m just trying to make peace with the fact that this place still smells like surf wax and permanent summer.”

At his quieter tone, she looked back at him — and something softened behind her expression, even if she didn’t name it.

“A few years,” she muttered, “Feels longer.” Then, to deflect the weight of it: “Guess that’s what happens when you get a job where every twelve-hour shift feels like a hundred.”

She let the moment settle, then added with a sideways glance, “You don’t look like someone avoiding medical professionals, by the way. Definitely not someone who probably used duct tape on a rib injury. You look good, Beck. If I'm putting a fine point on things.”

[beckfcster]

Beck huffs a short laugh through his nose, the kind that tugs briefly at one side of his mouth but doesn’t quite make it to a full grin. He scratches at his jaw, as if debating whether to rise to the bait or let it lie. Eventually, he settles for a dry, “2012 was a solid year. Why mess with it?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking toward the horizon — waves curling lazy and sun-slicked in the distance — before landing back on her. There’s a flicker of something like pride when she talks about her upgraded tactics. Full spine. Voice like a scalpel. Yeah, that tracks. The Frankie he remembers could silence a whole room with a single raised brow. So, the idea of her wielding her whole self now? sharp and sure, isn’t surprising at all. Just... well... Impressive. Maybe even a little dangerous.

“I believe it,” he says, tone light but not entirely joking. “You always had a way of cutting through the noise. Guess now you do it with actual blades.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, more genuine this time, as he watches her settle in like she hasn’t been gone for years — like she never really left. Even if the air still hums faintly with everything left unsaid. When she hits him with her compliment, though, it lands square in his chest — not in a showy way, but with the kind of unexpected weight that makes a guy pause. He lets it sit between them for a breath, then runs a hand through his messy blond hair, rougher than necessary.

“Duct tape is versatile,” he says dryly, but there’s a flicker of something real behind his eyes — not quite shame, but the cousin of it, surely. “Don't knock it. Besides, I remember you once fixed a sprained wrist with an old bandana and half a granola bar. So let's not pretend like you’re above some backwoods medicine.”

He glances down for a second, like maybe the compliment's caught him off guard a little — or worse, it's lodged itself somewhere beneath the ribs she’s now teasing him about. When he looks up at her again, it’s with that same faint smile from earlier, but a little steadier this time.

“You always were good at flattering me though,” he admits, voice quiet but not evasive. Since, he doesn't actually feel like he looks good at all. “I'm just a guy that feels like he's still drying out, y’know? Like maybe I finally washed ashore but I’m not convinced I’m meant to stay here.” He shrugs, palms briefly dragging across the thighs of his faded swim trunks before he folds his arms — not defensive, just contained.

“But… thanks. You saying that? Means alot.” His gaze holds hers for a moment longer than it should. It's not just a form of flirtation, which is normal for them but, it's something gentler. Familiar. Worn-in.

Afterwards, he clears his throat, and gestures vaguely toward the longboard behind him. “You wanna help me sand this thing or just sit there and give me those eyes? I could use a second pair of hands actually — and yours don’t shake I bet, which is more than I can say for mine on day three of no sleep and too much cold brew.”

There's a pause, while a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re wary of splinters. I hear that’s a career-ending injury in your line of work.”

[cheybriggs]

Chey stared at him for a long moment —part in exasperation, part in amusement. She exhaled slowly, her fingers wrapping around his empty glass like she was debating whether to refill it or throw it at him for being so casually insightful. Typical Beck. “That gold-trimmed matchbook’s still in the drawer under the bar, next to my emergency lipstick and that flask I swear I don't use,” she informed him dryly. “But you don’t get to play with it unless you promise not to traumatize the owners' cat again.”

She poured him another drink, slower this time, more deliberate. It's a generous pour, and the kind she only gave to people who needed it but, would never ask. Her eyes stay fixed on the liquid until the glass is nearly full, and only then did she slide it back toward him with a soft clink. "You know," she starts, her voice but her gaze anything but. "You got a real pretty way of sayin' 'I'm lonely and emotionally constipated.' Really should embroider that on a pillow. Let all the girls know ahead of time."

She leaned against the bar again, this time not facing him but still remaining close enough to share the space in that way people do when they don't have to explain why its necessary. Her smile had even gone softer now and a little sad around the edges, like maybe they'd both gotten tired of laughing off things that actually matter. "For what it's worth Beckie, I don't think it's about avoidin' the silence so much as I think it is, we just keep hopin' somebody'll meet us halfway in it. Make it feel less loud and empty."

She looked at him then. Almost as if she was searching for whatever he hadn’t said yet. That flicker in his eyes, that weight in his shoulders. The version of Beck that showed up when the crowd thinned out and the night stretched too long. "You ain't haunting me. Not really. You're just driftin' like the rest of us. Tryin' to see what still fits." Chey flashed a smirk, more her than anything else, before reaching into that drawer underneath the bar and pulling out the gold-trimmed matchbook in question. She waited a moment before tossing it lightly at Beck. "But, if you are gonna go ghost on me, at least burn bright. Give this town somethin' to talk about. Lord knows they get bored easily." She paused. "And next time, I set somethin' on fire, you better be there wearin' sequins too. Ain't no fun goin' down in flames if I'm doin' it alone."

[beckfcster]

Beck catches the matchbook without even looking, like muscle memory’s stronger than whatever storm is rolling behind his eyes. He turns it over in his fingers once, the gold trim glinting dully under the bar lights. He doesn’t flick it open. Doesn’t really care to. The spark between them’s never really been about fire, anyway—more like the kind of friction that only builds between people who’ve known each other too long and still choose to stick around.

“Sequins,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smirk. “Gonna have to raid a drag show or your closet first, in order to do that.”

He sets the matchbook on the bar between them now, neatly, as if it’s a placeholder for something he doesn’t quite know how to say yet. Then he looks at her—and something in his face shifts. It's not softer, exactly. Just clearer. More comfortable.

“You always had a way of makin’ even the wreckage feel like home Chey,” he tells her, more serious now, stripped of all the usual Beck-flavored smirks and distractions he usually dishes out. “Even when you were knee-deep in your own mess. Even when I was too far gone to realize you were the one draggin’ my sorry ass back from the brink.”

He takes the fresh pour slower now, savoring it more than sipping it. Then sets the glass down again and leans in, elbows resting on the scarred wood between them like they’ve done a hundred times before. Familiar. Easy. Like neither of them have to explain why they're still there.

“I ain't driftin’ to haunt nobody,” he says, eyes fixed on hers. “I just… didn’t know where else to go. Figured if the walls were gonna echo, might as well be with someone who knows the same song.”

A beat passes, long enough to let that truth breathe. “And you’re right,” he adds, tilting his head slightly. “Ain’t about avoidin’ the silence. It’s about hopin’ someone meets you in it and doesn’t flinch when they do.” He looks down briefly, thumb idly tracing the ring of condensation left by his glass. “Didn’t realize how damn loud it gets until you start talkin’ back.” There’s something like gratitude in his voice now. Not flashy. Just lived-in. “You keep the matchbook,” he says, nudging it gently toward her. “I got enough scorch marks. But if you ever do light it up again? Don’t worry. I’ll be there to save you.”

He smirks faintly—wry, warm, tired in a way that only family can be after too many shared storms. “And alright, fine. I’ll wear the damn sequins. But, I'm confiscating your phone beforehand. Can't leave behind any proof that you can blackmail me with later.”

[lucasxattean-deactivated2025080]

The creak of the dock beneath Beck's combat boots catch Lucas' attention. He doesn't shift, only watching the horizon as Beck approaches with drinks in hand. Without a word, he takes the drink from Beck's hand, bringing it to his lips for a slow sip. The docks are nostalgic, taking him back to when they were teenagers. Now, they were full fledged adults - at least on most days.

A low chuckle escapes his lips, his gaze shifting from the horizon to look at Beck. "Yeah, I was working that job while trying to get my woodworking business up and running." A time in his life where he wasn't sure if his risk would pan out for him. Turns out, it would.

Nodding his head to Beck's words, "Easy to picture people where we last saw 'em." He agreed, "Like time in Briar Ridge stands still." His eyes wandered to the boat drifting in front of them out in the distance. "What can I say," his laughter was soft as a mischievous grin slipped across his lips. "You can't get rid of me, no matter how hard you might try."

"You been talking to Sahra?" His brow raised, a playfulness coating his words as he spoke. "I am not as shit at poker as she makes me out to be." He joked, affection ringing in his words as he spoke about his ex-girlfriend. "I bet those same hot dogs are still at the gas station." Lucas followed suit, lifting the beer back to his lips and taking a sip before answering Beck's question. "Me?" His shoulders lifted, "You know, busy with the shop. Been talking to Sahra again, actually. Like more than just friends kind of talking." Lucas admitted, having been holding it close to his heart for some time now. "The kiss at the festival wasn't just a one time thing." @beckfcster

[beckfcster]

Beck goes still for a moment, has his beer raised halfway to his mouth before pausing. Not in a dramatic way, of course. Just enough that the moment sharpens, like the air is pressing in around them at all sides. Or maybe that's just him?

Either way, he lowers his bottle, rests it against his knee, and lets out a slow breath through his nose, as he goes on: “Huh.” There’s no edge, no judgment behind his clear surprise. Just a weight he can't quite seem to name. On behalf that, he can't.

His eyes stay fixed on the water, the light coasting along it turning everything copper and soft. He scratches at the edge of the label on his bottle, flicking it away like it’s nothing. “Didn’t realize you two were still talking like that,” he says, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. Not because Lucas hadn't shared the information but because, Beck could honestly admit he's been busy. “So, this festival, kickstarted something again? How many kisses are we talkin'?” He takes another sip of his beer, while giving a small, damn near proud shake of his head like he’s amused at Lucas more than anything. “Anything below the double digit range and I'm disappointed in you.”

As Beck looks over at him—it's not with the same passing glance from earlier, but with that steady, unflinching look he gives others when he’s trying to read more than just words. There’s no penalty in it. Maybe just a little stagger. And something older, harder to pin down. Resignation, maybe? Or just the quiet sting of watching someone you care about drift in a direction you can't quite seem to reach yourself.

“Sahra’s good people,” he says after a long moment. “Always has been, you know that.” He taps the rim of his bottle against Lucas’s in a quiet cheers before taking another drink. “Hope it works out for you, this time.” A beat. "You think it will?"

[frankie-dilan]

Frankie stopped just before the railing, sneakers scuffing quietly on the sanded deck boards. He was leaning with one hip against the post, coffee in hand, watching the waves like they’d personally told him a secret. He didn’t turn when she approached — just let the silence stretch out between them, like it didn’t need to be filled.

Then he said, more to the horizon than to her, “Funny how this town still looks the same. Even when you don't.”

She blinked. Smirked. “What, I don’t look like I just stepped out of senior year calculus anymore?”

Beck didn’t answer right away, and she gave a little shake of her head, climbing the last step onto the deck. “I mean, sure, I swapped my cafeteria tray for a stethoscope, but come on. I’ve still got the same eyebrows. That should count for something.”

A dry laugh slipped out as she leaned against the railing beside him, just far enough not to crowd. He still hadn’t looked at her directly. Typical Beck — always more likely to talk to the ocean than a person.

She took a sip of her coffee and tilted her head toward him, the corner of her mouth curving slightly. “So, Beck. Is this where you offer me a chair and a beer, or do I have to wrestle one of your customers for it?”

[beckfcster]

Beck finally cuts a glance her way once the sound of her voice registers. It may just be a flick of his eyes over the rim of his mug but, there’s still the ghost of a smile there. The kind you give after seeing a dog wearing sunglasses — unexpected, amused, yet brief.

“Still leading with the eyebrows, huh?” he teases her, voice a bit gravelly but half-warmed by the coffee. “Can’t say I blame you. They always kinda were your power move. Could get any guy to do things.” Him, included.

He pushes off the railing with his shoulder, sets his mug down on the windowsill behind him, and nods toward one of the mismatched stools clustered near a half-sanded longboard and a cooler that’s seen better days. “No wrestling required,” he says. “We’re not animals. But fair warning — if you want a cold one, you gotta dig past the La Croix and whatever kombucha my sister swears ‘tastes better this time' and keeps slippin into the cooler."

He steps aside to give her some space, hands in his back pockets now, posture loose but not careless. “Glad you swung by,” he says, tone a bit quieter this time. “How long's it been?” There's a beat as he struggles to recount the last time he's seen her. He's been back six years, so it couldn't have been longer than that. However, she was a doctor. And Beck had a habit of avoiding those at all costs, even if he was too old for her to be his. The self treated scar along his ribs is further proof of that. "Those patients of yours must be keepin' you busy.”