By 4:21 a.m., ‘restless’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

I was on fire.

I started counting the cracks in the ceiling, still wondering how the hell I was supposed to sleep with everything I ever wanted within reach. Beverly, letting out a soft sigh beside me, looked like something that makes priests question their vows.

At some point, I gave up.

I needed more than borrowed sleep and shared warmth.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, tugging on my shirt, grabbing my keys, pacing. Then I stood by the bed like an idiot, staring down at her like a boy at the edge of a cliff.

I reached out and brushed a knuckle along her jaw. “Beverly,” I whispered. “Wake up.”

She stirred. Groaned softly into the pillow.

I nudged her gently. “B,” I whispered again. “Hey, wake up.”

She shook her head slowly, confused, her voice a sleepy rasp. “Did I fall asleep on the Fruit Loops again?”

“No, baby, you didn’t. But I need you to⁠—”

“Is someone dead?”

“B—”

She cracked one eye open. “Are you dying?”

“Yes. Of restlessness.”

Her face scrunched. “Blake…”

“Please,” I whispered. “I need you to come with me.”

“If this is about equations, I swear⁠—”

“It’s not,” I cut in, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “Put on some shoes.”

Beverly sat up slowly, propping herself up on her elbows as if weighing her options. She blinked up at me, bleary and adorable. “Are you kidnapping me again?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But gently.”

She must’ve heard something in my voice, because she didn’t ask any more questions. She rubbed her eyes, rolled out of bed, and stepped into her shoes with the kind of practiced stubbornness I’d missed like hell. Five minutes later, we were back in the Impala—the windows rolled down, the radio turned low, and the warm night air flowing in. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting between us like a dare. Beverly didn’t take the bait.

We didn’t say much. She sat curled in the passenger seat, yawning every few seconds, her arms tucked inside her sleeves. The sky was still dark—just before dawn. The kind of hour most people missed unless they were hurting or healing.

As soon as Beverly saw where we were going, she sat up straighter. The closer we got, the more her expression changed.

By the time I parked near the beach—the same spot she dragged me to all those years ago—she was smiling. “The beach?” she said, her voice laced with surprise.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Thought we could watch the sunrise.”

She pulled her sleeves over her hands, stepped out of the car, and started walking toward the water without a word.