“You’re stealing them?” she asks.
“I’mrelocating,” I correct, walking them to my car.
“What if they come back for them?” She shakes her head like I’m ridiculous, but she likes it anyway.
“Consequences, Bell.”
I hoist two boards onto her rack, one onto mine, securing each with practiced movements. The fiberglass still warm from the sun against my palms.
“Come have breakfast with me.” The invitation slips out as I tighten the last strap, my fingers lingering on the buckle.
Her eyes flick toward her SUV, then back to me. “I need to rinse off.”
“You can do it at my place,” I say, keys jangling between my fingers.
She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Okay.”
We stand there a moment, the Pacific stretching endlessly behind us, sunlight fracturing across its surface.
My chest expands with something unfamiliar—something I haven't felt since before everything went sideways. I swallow it down, turn toward my car without naming it.
And if my chest feels a little too light, if my body feels like it's remembering what it was like to be seventeen and stupid and on top of the world—all salt-crusted skin and sun-bleached possibilities?
That's just human nature, isn't it? The way a wave knows to break, the way a tide knows to turn.
You find something that makes you feel good and you keep coming back, like the ocean calling you home.
36
BELLAMY
The water is alreadywarm by the time I step under it, steam fogging the glass panels until the bathroom feels like its own sealed-off world.
I let my head tip forward, palms braced against the tile as the spray hits the back of my neck, sluicing salt and sand and dried sunscreen down the drain. My muscles are loose from the ocean, from the sun, from the way the morning unfolded.
It feels indulgent to stand here and do nothing but exist in my body while Gage cooks me breakfast in his kitchen.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Yeah?” The glass is cool when I lean back against it, heat and chill tangling along my spine.
“Hey,” Gage calls out. “I just need to grab something real quick.”
“Sure, come in.”
The door opens with a soft click. I keep my back to it, water streaming down my spine. The air shifts—cooler now—as he steps inside. His footsteps pause, then continue with measured precision. A drawer slides open, then closes with barely a sound. The mirror fogs, but through a clear patch, I catch a glimpseof his profile—jaw tight, eyes deliberately trained on the wall, the floor, his own hands—anywhere but the shower glass. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he reaches for whatever he came for.
The idea of that restraint sends a small, traitorous thrill through me.
For a second, it feels like we’re both holding our breath—me under the water, him out of it—waiting for something to give.
Then his gaze flicks up, and our eyes lock in the mirror.
Neither of us moves.
Time stretches thin, elastic, humming with possibility. The water keeps running, steam unfurling around the bathroom, but the space between our bodies feels charged with anticipation.
My pulse jumps, and I follow the thread of bravery quietly singing in my veins.
