Chapter Twelve | Almost Summer
The drive was quiet, but not awkward. A good kind of quiet. Windows down, wind curling through my hair, music playing low enough to leave room for the thoughts neither of us were ready to say out loud.
Every so often, I glanced over at him—one hand on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his face like he was trying too hard not to look like he belonged here—with me.
I turned up the volume a little. A song I loved. He didn’t say a word, but I caught the way he tapped the steering wheel to the beat. Small things. Familiar things. We always fell back into this rhythm—comfortably offbeat.
“You gonna wear those sunglasses the whole day?” I asked.
“Why? You missin’ my eyes already?” he smirked.
I rolled my eyes.
“Careful,” he said, keeping his gaze on the road. “We both know what happens when you do that.”
“Oh, is that a threat or a promise?”
He didn’t answer. Just smirked again. That infuriating half-smile that made me want to both slap and kiss him.
We pulled into the beach lot. It wasn’t crowded, which felt like a small gift. The sun was high, the air thick with heat and salt. We changed in silence—me behind the car door, him slipping his shirt off with zero awareness of what it did to my attention span.
I looked once. Okay, twice.
“Staring?” he asked without looking at me.
“Please,” I muttered. “You’re the one who took his shirt off like it’s a Nike ad.”
We walked toward the sand, towels over our shoulders, bare feet meeting the hot grains. I led the way, finding a spot far enough from others to feel like our own little stretch of coast. He laid the towels down, kicked back, and closed his eyes like he’d done this a thousand times before.
I sat beside him, hugging my knees, sunglasses sliding down my nose.
“You ever just… exist like a normal person?” I teased.
“You mean relax?”
“Yeah. You’re bad at it.”
He cracked one eye open. “Am I relaxing now?”
“You’re faking it.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, head turned just slightly toward me. The sun lit his face in that unfair way it always did. I hated how good he looked like this. Casual. Effortless. Close.
We sat in silence for a while, listening to the waves. It wasn’t uncomfortable. But it was full. Like something was hanging in the air, just waiting to be said or done or shattered.
“You ever wonder…” I started, then stopped.
He looked at me, brows raised. “Wonder what?”
I shook my head. “Never mind. Stupid.”
He leaned closer, just a little. “You don’t usually stop mid-thought.”
“I do when it’s a thought that’ll make things weird.”
“Everything about us is already weird,” he said softly.
That landed heavier than I expected.
And yet—he didn’t pull away.
A gust of wind blew my hair across my face, and he reached out instinctively, brushing it back with his fingers. Slow. Thoughtful. His hand lingered near my cheek just a second too long.
My breath caught.
“I missed this,” I whispered, unsure if I meant this moment, this silence, or him.
He didn’t respond—not with words. Just gave me a look that said, me too, without ever needing to say it out loud.
Then he stood, brushing sand from his hands. “C’mon. Let’s get in the water before you overthink this whole day.”
I laughed, grateful for the shift.
We raced to the water like we used to do with our feelings—one running just ahead of the other, never quite touching, always staying close enough to feel it.
I dove in first. He followed.
And in the space between splashes, half-smiles, and stolen glances, it was clear:
Neither of us were saying what mattered.
But for now, it was enough just to feel it.
