And a man stepped out.
He was young—early twenties, maybe mid—lean, athletic, the kind of body that spoke of discipline without effort.
A white long-sleeve compression shirt clung to his frame, outlining his build, while black board shorts sat comfortably on his hips.
A sandboard rested casually under one arm like it weighed nothing at all.
The sun caught him just right.
He looked like he belonged here.
Then his eyes found mine.
He smiled warmly.
And he took a single step closer, like there was no hesitation in approaching me.
“Hi, beautiful.”
The words were simple, but they landed softly—without pressure, without expectation.
I blinked once, slightly caught off guard, before offering a small smile of my own. “Hey.”
“Dante.” He extended his free hand, his voice smooth but grounded.
The sunlight deepened the color of his eyes—warm, rich, like aged whiskey catching the light.
I took his hand.
His grip was firm—but careful.
Not overpowering. Just... steady.
“Elena.”
He repeated my name under his breath, almost like he was testing how it felt.
Then he shook his head slightly, a faint look of appreciation settling on his face.
“What a beautiful name.”
Something in my chest eased at that—unexpected, but welcome.
He shifted the sandboard to rest more comfortably against his side, the movement revealing the strength in his arms beneath the thin fabric.
There was no arrogance in how he carried himself—only quiet confidence.
“Can you skate?” he asked. “Or sandboard?”
A small laugh slipped from me before I could stop it—light, unguarded, real. “No. Not at all. Though I’d love to learn someday.”
His grin widened instantly, boyish and inviting.
“How about today?”
I hesitated, glancing down at myself.
The simple cotton dress.
