I was at the shore — the beach southwest of the city, the same place I first met my girlfriend. I had planned to solo camp there, just me and the sea for a night. But the weather report warned of a heavy storm approaching. Camping was prohibited.
It was 3:30 in the afternoon. I wandered along the tide line. The waves were light — low tide — and the reef was clearly visible. Dozens of sea urchins clung to the rocks beneath the shallow water. I’ve always been fascinated by sea creatures. They’re strange and obscure — alien, almost.
As I turned to head back to my car, I saw someone walking beneath the line of coconut trees. A girl. She wasn't here for the beach; her field suit made that clear. She walked in the same direction I was heading. As I got closer, I recognized her.
“Luna?!”
She turned and smiled — that soft, familiar smile — and waved. “Hi.”
I picked up my pace.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was volunteering, but the event got cancelled.”
“Because of the storm?”
“Yeah. We were supposed to do a ghost gear clean up, but they say it’s going to be a big one tonight. So… they called it off. What about you? Are you enjoying the beach?”
“Sort of. I brought gear to camp here overnight. Everything’s packed and ready — but yeah, the storm ruined that plan. Are you heading back?”
“Yeah, hoping to catch a bus.”
“At this hour? I don’t think there’ll be any. I’ll drive you.”
We walked together toward my car.
“Whoa, you really were prepared,” she said, eyeing the pile of camping gear tossed across the passenger seat.
“Yeah… sorry for the mess,” I laughed. “Didn’t think anyone else would see it. I was planning a solo trip.”
I started the engine and pulled onto the road.
“So you do this often? Solo camping?” she asked.
“Not until recently. I saw a show about solo camping, and thought I’d give it a try. Turns out, it’s pretty chill. I enjoyed it more than I expected.”
“That sounds fun,” she said, smiling.
“What about you? Do you volunteer a lot? Back in school, you weren’t exactly the ‘nature type.’”
She chuckled. “Not really. I’ve only done it a couple times — mostly here. Just killing time, I guess.”
“At that beach? I think I volunteered there a few months ago too. It was a turtle hatchling release. That was fun.”
“I’ve never done the hatchling thing. Maybe I’ll try that next time.”
Half an hour passed. We were still talking — about camping, nature, tide pools, and gear. I might’ve gone overboard with my obsession, rambling about how disappointed I was that I couldn’t camp tonight.
“Hey,” she said, “why don’t we cook something at my place?”
“No, no. You’re my guest tonight. I’ll cook for you.”
“Ooh, okay, chef. Do we need to hunt first?”
“Yeah. We’ll chase down a wild turkey at Countdown,” I grinned.
We laughed and joked all the way home.
“You live here?” she asked when we arrived. “It’s like five minutes from my place!”
“Exactly! I don’t get how we never ran into each other. Do you even leave your room?”
“Ouch. That hits deep. Houston, I’m down,” she said dramatically.
My place was the polar opposite of hers — minimalist, clean, impersonal. Furniture like something out of a showroom. But we had one thing in common: a shelf full of vinyl records.
Rain had started falling. The forecast said the storm would hit in three hours — but it was already picking up.
“It’s earlier than expected,” I muttered while warming my already cooked pot au feu.
“Need help, chef?”
“Yeah, actually. Can you go play something from the shelf?”
“Geez, I meant help with the cooking,” she mumbled, grinning.
She browsed the records.
“I’ve never heard of any of these,” she said, holding up Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites.
“That was huge back then. Skrillex? No?”
She shook her head. I remembered then — her collection was mostly classical piano. No electronic drops or dance beats.
“Play that one. Skip to track four. It’s dance music, so… low volume.”
“Aye aye, chef.”
The music played. She started dancing — awkwardly, like someone who’d never been to a party. Probably hadn’t. I smiled — caught between amusement and something warmer.
Dinner was ready not long after. I placed the plates on the table.
“For you, mademoiselle — Pot au Feu and tartiflette,” I said in an exaggerated French accent. “Tonight’s special includes bœuf, fondant carrots, leeks braised in vegetable broth, and honey-glazed turnips. A reduction of the jus ties it together — with a touch of sel de Guérande, of course. Bon appétit.”
“Oui, merci merci,” she said with a playful smirk.
She took a bite and paused for a moment. “Did you take a cooking course?”
“Nah, I’ve been cooking since I moved out. My mom always said, ‘Learn to make good food, and you’ll never have bad days.’”
“Well… I’d never have a bad day if I got meals like this.”
Outside, the rain thickened into a heavy pour. The storm had fully arrived. Getting her home wasn’t an option anymore.
We moved to the couch and played games. She mentioned having a Switch at her place too — so she clearly dabbled. We played Mario Kart. I lost. Repeatedly.
“Is that all you got?” she teased.
“How are you this good?” I groaned. “Is this the result of never leaving your room?”
“Haha, very funny. Here—take this!!!” She said, dropping shell on my kart.
The night stretched on. We talked about life — things I never knew about her, things a “friend” doesn’t usually share. Eventually, it got late.
I offered her my bed and took the couch.
But I couldn’t sleep.
Not with her in my room. The last time I stayed at her place, I slept fine. But now? Something felt… off. Guilt? Confusion? I had a girlfriend. Was this cheating? Did I want it to be?
I sat there, staring at the wall.
“███,” she whispered from the bedroom, “I can’t sleep.”
Her voice was soft, almost ghostly.
“Me too,” I said.
“Want to lie down?”
I hesitated. My heart thudded. “Sure.”
We lay under the blanket, a slight distance between us.
“It’s getting cold,” She said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
She turned, her back facing me — and then slowly closed the space between us, her back touching my shoulder.
I didn’t know what came over me. I turned toward her and gently wrapped my arm around her, hugging her from behind.
Her body met mine like it belonged there — soft, familiar, and impossibly warm. The air between us disappeared. I could feel the quiet rhythm of her breath, steady and slow, rising and falling beneath my arm. Her spine pressed lightly against my chest, and in that closeness, I could feel her heartbeat — a subtle, fluttering echo, like wings brushing against skin.
“It’s warm,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely a breath, as my fingers searched for hers.
She held my hand.
Her palm was warm, her grip gentle but certain. Her thumb moved once across my knuckles — barely a motion, yet it said everything. The silence around us grew thick, loud in its stillness, like the world had paused just for this one fragile moment. I could hear nothing but the soft, shared rhythm of our breathing, and the hush that falls when two people stop pretending.
Her hair tickled my cheek. It smelled like vanilla — sweet, nostalgic, like the kind of comfort that sneaks up on you. I leaned in slightly, closing my eyes as the scent wrapped around me, pulling me deeper into something I didn’t want to name. Something too tender.
Time didn’t pass. It just… hovered there, holding its breath.
“I’ll see you next time,” she whispered.
And we fell asleep.