The beach wasn't part of the plan.
That was why it worked.
After days of structure, repetition, and pressure, Ned was the one who finally said it.
"We're going to snap," he announced over breakfast. "Like—mentally. Or physically. Or both. Probably both."
Peter looked at me carefully. "He's… not wrong."
I considered the statement.
Rest wasn't inefficiency.
Burnout was.
"Fine," I said. "Beach."
Ned froze. "Wait—really?"
"Yes."
He stared at me like I'd just confessed to a crime.
The Ride Out
We took the train this time.
Bikes were impractical with sand, and I wasn't interested in improvising logistics today.
The car smelled like salt and sunscreen and cheap coffee. Families packed in around us, loud and unguarded. A kid kicked the back of Peter's seat repeatedly. Peter didn't react.
Progress.
Ned leaned back, eyes closed. "I forgot people did stuff like this."
"Like what?" Peter asked.
"Nothing," Ned said. "Just… nothing."
I watched the city peel away through the windows—concrete giving way to open sky, noise thinning into wind.
The danger sense stayed quiet.
That mattered.
Arrival
The beach was already busy.
Too many variables. Too many people.
But the openness balanced it out. No walls. No corners. No compression.
I scanned automatically—old habits don't disappear—but found nothing worth cataloging.
We claimed a spot near the water.
Peter kicked off his shoes immediately, rolling his pants up and stepping into the surf like he'd been waiting for permission all week.
Ned dropped onto the sand with a dramatic groan.
"I am not moving for at least ten minutes."
"You'll get sunburn," Peter said.
"I welcome it," Ned replied. "It means I felt something."
Normalcy, Attempted
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then sat.
The sand shifted under my weight, unstable but accommodating. The sun pressed down evenly, no threat in it. The ocean moved in steady cycles—predictable, patient.
Peter came back, water dripping from his cuffs.
"This is nice," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
He blinked. "Was that… agreement?"
"Observation," I corrected.
He smiled anyway.
Ned Unfiltered
Ned eventually sat up, brushing sand from his hands.
"So," he said, squinting at the water, "is it weird that this is the most relaxed I've felt since… well, ever?"
"No," Peter said. "You're usually stressed."
"Yeah, but now I'm stressed and competent," Ned replied. "That's new."
I listened.
They talked about school. Teachers. Movies. Things that didn't matter and therefore mattered immensely.
I didn't contribute.
I didn't need to.
The Water
At some point, Peter looked at me.
"You're not even going to go in?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I watched a wave collapse in on itself, foam dissolving into sand.
"I don't need immersion to understand pressure," I said.
Ned snorted. "You're allergic to fun."
"Incorrect," I replied. "I simply define it differently."
Peter shook his head and ran back toward the water.
A Moment of Stillness
Time stretched.
No alarms.
No plans.
No objectives.
Just heat, sound, motion.
I noticed how Peter moved now—even relaxed, there was an awareness to him. A subtle readiness beneath the casual gestures.
He was changing.
But he was still himself.
That mattered.
Ice Cream and Silence
Later, we walked along the boardwalk.
Ned insisted on ice cream. Peter paid. I declined, then accepted when Ned accused me of "ruining the vibe."
It melted faster than expected.
Predictable.
We sat on a bench overlooking the water.
No one spoke.
I didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
Neither did they.
Departure
As the sun began to lower, the crowd thinned.
We gathered our things.
"Same time tomorrow?" Ned asked automatically—then stopped. "I mean—training, not beach."
"Yes," I said.
Peter stretched, hands behind his head.
"Thanks," he said casually. "For today."
"You required recalibration," I replied.
He smiled. "Still counts."
End State
The beach faded behind us as the train pulled away.
Sand in our shoes. Salt on our skin. Routine waiting patiently for our return.
We weren't heroes today.
We weren't experiments.
We were just three people sitting