“They're my favourite,” he says with a shrug.
I love learning things about him, no matter how small they are.
He wraps me in his arms, hugging my arm gently—goosebumps rising across my skin. I know I should put on my cardigan, but I like being here, pressed against him, feeling the warmth of him around me.
“Well, what do you think then?” he asks, tilting his head down so our faces are close.
“Birds.”
He looks at me in amusement. “And why is that?”
“Think about it. Parrots can mimic perfect English. Penguins promise with special rocks, and swans are obsessed with mating dances. It's obvious that they're humans in disguise. Just tiny, feathery humans.”
He laughs, throwing his head back, and I can't help but join him. This is so easy. Everything is so much easier with him, and he lets me talk about shit without thinking I’m weird.
“I love your brain,” he remarks with a lazy smile. “But you do make a very good point.”
“Why is your favourite colour green?”
“Your eyes,” he replies without hesitation, like it's the simplest answer in the world.
I swallow.
I've never liked my eyes. Or my hair. They're the same as Rose’s—same shade, same colouring, like proof stamped across my face that I came from her. For years, I've hated looking in mirrors unless I had to, because all I could see was a version of her looking back at me.
But Elijah looks at me like those things are my best features because they belong to me. And annoyingly, he's starting to make me believe it too.
Still, that tiny, spiteful voice in the back of my head won't stay quiet.
What if he doesn't see me when he says that?
What if he just sees the same green… as hers?
“Is that why you're wearing this green dress?” he grazes the fabric at my waist.
“Amongst other things,” I reply, tilting my head, giving him a look that is anything but innocent.
I watch the way he looks me over, eyes darkening. He understands exactly what I meant.
“Oh yeah? Can I see?”
I lift my cup to my lips, hiding my smile behind it. “No can do. You'll have to be a good boy and wait till later.”
A low, gravelly growl rumbles from him. “Beautiful brat.”
Sipping my drink, I let the warmth spread through me while I breathe him in, shifting even closer. I try not to laugh when I feel him harden against me, enjoying the effect I have on him.
He pulls back. “Just need to grab something from the car. Give me a sec.”
Before I can argue, he jogs down the path toward the car park where we parked. Looking back at the beach, stepping toward the shore, the sand was mostly hidden by rocks. I’d love to dive in, feel the cold bite of the water against my skin, but this isn't the right beach for that.
Still, the sky is beautiful.
A pang of nostalgia hits me as I think of home. I miss those late nights lying on the sand, watching the stars shine overhead. My dad always knew where to find me—if I wasn’t at the dance studio, I’d be at the beach.
There's a quiet click that breaks the quiet, and I look to the side to see Elijah standing there, camera in hand. I didn't even hear him come back. Also, why does he look effortlessly perfect holding a camera? Honestly, I think I've decided he looks good doing anything.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, his presence calming. The strap swings lightly as he leans down, wiping away the lingering tear I didn't even realise was there. “Are you okay?”
