She leaned over the railing. “Frankie Castellano. You broke the bandshell.”

Frankie didn’t have a plan anymore. He just walked. Across the sand, past the lifeguard stand, past the group of kids who started whooping. He stopped directly below her balcony, craned his neck, and for the first time, didn’t look away.

Diana laughed—a real one, not the polite counter laugh. Then she disappeared inside. For one terrible, eternal second, Frankie thought she’d called the cops.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

His best friend, Mickey, had a theory. “You need a soundtrack, man. Music changes the molecules in the air. Science.”

He looked up. And there she was. Diana stood on her second-floor balcony, a dish towel still in her hand, her hair loose for once, not in its work ponytail. She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t pointing. She was just… listening.

“Diana,” he said—not yelled, just said loud enough for the song to carry it.

Diana took Frankie’s hand. Her fingers were cold from scooping ice cream. His were sweaty from fear. But when they touched, something clicked—not magic, not destiny, just two people deciding to stop being afraid at exactly the same moment.