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“Muppets?” he asks. He smiles against my cheek, like he’s remembering our movie night.

And what happened halfway through.

“And the others. Polar Express. The Grinch, all the Christmas cartoons. And when I got older we added in some more, but the Muppets are our favorite.”

I turn in his arms, properly facing him. The wind whips my hair against my mouth, and he smooths it away, slow and deliberate.

“We didn’t do movies,” he murmurs.

“What did you do apart from freeze?” I try to picture him, little Theo, shivering from a swim, having to walk all the way back to the big house to warm up.

“The years my parents were here they always had guests. We had to talk to them. And of course there was the main attraction.”

“What was that?” I tip my head to the side.

“The annual Christmas argument. My parents usually started around twelve. After a few glasses of wine.”

“What did they argue about?”

“Anything. Everything.” His mouth tightens faintly. “They were very creative.”

The wind is sharp enough to make my eyes water.

“And you and Alex sat there and had to listen to it?”

“We learned to zone out.” His voice is quiet now. “The last thing we wanted was for them to notice us.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard him mention Alex being on the same side as him. They both had the same upbringing, yet turned out so differently.

I reach up without thinking and cup his face in my hands. “I wish you’d lived closer. I would’ve invited you over for Christmas movies and cookies,” I murmur. “It would have been fun.”

The breeze lifts his hair to reveal his smooth brow. “I would have liked that.” He drops his head until his nose brushes against mine. The warmth of his breath bathes my skin.

“Maybe next Christmas,” I murmur, tracing the line of his jaw with my thumb. Slow and deliberate, like I’m memorizing it.

“Maybe.” His lips brush the corner of my mouth. It makes my body ache in the sweetest way.

He kisses me properly then. His mouth feels warm, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, as it moves slowly over mine. It’s as though he has all the time in the world, and there isn’t a house full of expectations and awkward relations waiting behind us.

“I like having you here,” he murmurs against my lips.

“On the beach?”

“In my life.”

Oh. The words are so quiet I almost miss them. But I still like them way too much.

I wish we could stay right here. Not have to go back to the house, to the party, to the family that I can tell makes him feel awkward and alone.

But then another gust of wind hits us, and more salt water splashes our faces. He pulls back, the softest of smiles on his lips. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.” He steps back, taking my hand.

“There’s more?”

He grimaces. “I’m afraid so.”

It turns out there’s a lot more. We walk through another field, past black and white cows who look like they belong on a chocolate box, the mud so thick it slows my steps and coats my boots. Then we find a lane lined with gorse bushes, the single track so small it would be hard to get any American car up it.

At the end is a tiny cottage, tucked behind a windbreak of trees. The white painted walls are peeling, but it doesn’t look neglected, more weather-worn than anything.