It was the kind of summer day that melts popsicles before the first lick. Hot, bright, a little reckless. Claire hadn’t planned on falling in love. She barely planned on sunscreen.

She met him on Day 3 of her beach vacation, sitting cross-legged under a striped umbrella, sketching the horizon like he owned it. He offered her shade. She said no thanks. She wanted color. Bronze. Glow. That was mistake number one.

By sunset, her shoulders were blistered, and her ego was cracked. He found her hunched in the beach café, fanning herself with a crumpled napkin.

“I warned you,” he said, grinning.

“No one warned me you’d be so smug,” she snapped, cheeks pinker than her sunburn.

He brought aloe. She brought sarcasm. They sat on a porch swing until midnight, trading heat for something sweeter.

The week became a blur of saltwater, bad tan lines, and inside jokes. They measured time by how fast the sting faded from her skin and how quickly the flutter in her chest took its place.

And just like that, the sunburn became a memory. So did he.

But every summer since, when the heat hits just right and the sunscreen sits forgotten at the bottom of her bag, she thinks of him. Of the sun. Of the pain. And the kind of love that doesn’t last, but definitely leaves a mark.