-Lucien.
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The last time I went to the beach was six years ago.
Rachel and I had driven out early in the morning—her idea. It was her birthday, and she insisted on watching the sunrise like it would whisper the secret to eternal youth into her champagne. She wore that white crochet dress she always thought made her look delicate. It didn't. Nothing about Rachel was delicate.
It's strange how things that once felt permanent dissolve overnight. Like they're embarrassed to have ever taken up so much space.
If you'd asked me then—six years ago—if I could ever see myself falling for a man, I'd have said no. Not seriously. Not in the kind of way that roots into your ribs.
Even though I'd been with men before. In more than one way.
Rachel loved experimenting. She was open about it—inviting chaos to dinner and calling it curiosity. It was her idea, the night with the other guy. Just a one-time thing, supposedly. A present wrapped in flesh and ego.
Only, at some point that night, I looked at him—and for a second, I was curious in the wrong direction. I felt something shift. It was nothing earth-shattering, but it was enough to make me feel sick. Because I loved her. Or I thought I did. And that made it worse.
And then Sandro found her.
Said she had potential. Said she'd make a wonderful hostess. I should've known then. I should've seen it in the way her eyes lit up at the idea of a bigger life. I thought she'd been content with what we had—me bringing in the money, her arranging tulips and reading philosophy like it made her dangerous.
But Rachel didn't want quiet power. She wanted glitter, fast hands, paper bills that smelled like other people's perfume. She thought she could have both—sleep with men at night and kiss me with that same mouth in the morning.
And to be clear: I have no judgment for that line of work. It's not the job that ruined us. It was the lie. The way she wanted to keep pretending intimacy and performance were the same thing.
She made her choice. And I made mine.
"Are you enjoying your time?" I asked him.
He didn't even hesitate. "Yes, a lot," he said, grinning—wide and unguarded in a way that made something in my chest throb with an ache I didn't quite have a name for.
And just like that—overnight, or maybe over the span of a single breath—I found myself rearranged.
Somewhere between that kiss and the way his hair moved in the wind like it belonged to this place, I realized: I wanted him to be happy.
Not just generally. Not just in a vague, humane, I-hope-the-best-for-you kind of way. Specifically. Urgently. As if his happiness was a thread holding mine together.
I agreed to keep this operation running—turned a fake thing into something functioning—because I saw how much he needed it to mean something. Even if it came with consequences sharp enough to draw blood. Even if I was already bleeding under my skin. I told myself I could handle it. That I'd handled worse.
But the truth is, I just wanted to stay close. Even when I didn't have to. Even when no one was watching.
I wanted to orbit his chaos because, somehow, it calmed mine.
His life—unfiltered, messy, raw—had room for failure. For anger. For loudness. It didn't pretend to be elegant or seamless. And maybe that's what comfort looks like to someone like me. Maybe that's what I've been starved of.
So I asked what he wanted. Simple. Innocent on the surface.
But I swear, if he'd said anything—anything—I would've done it. No matter how strange or impossible or completely out of character. If he'd said he wanted to learn to juggle knives or build a boat or dye his hair green, I would've said, fine, where do we start?
He doesn't realize what he does to me.
He stands there, radiant in all the ways he refuses to believe he is, grinning with sea air in his lungs and sand on his skin, and I'm just behind him—laughing bitterly to myself at how absurd this is. At how undone I've become without ever meaning to.
He doesn't know. And that, somehow, makes it even worse.
We were closer to the sea now.
Reed sat down first—without a word, just folded into the sand like he belonged there, knees drawn up, arms resting loose across them. The breeze caught the ends of his hair, and for a second, he closed his eyes. I watched his shoulders rise and fall, slow, steady, as if the ocean was breathing for him.
I sat next to him.
Not too close, not too far—just enough to feel the edge of his presence in the space between us. For a while, we didn't speak. We just let the waves do the talking. Soft crashes, rhythmic and old, as if the sea had been telling the same story for centuries and never tired of the ending. Somewhere nearby, birds stitched melody into the quiet, their notes so clean it felt scripted.
Then, he broke it. "Can I ask you something?"
I turned slightly, met his gaze. "Sure…"
"What's your favorite color?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Beige, I guess?"
He stared at me like I'd confessed to eating plain toast for every meal.
"What the fuck, Lucien? You look like someone who has a sophisticated favorite color. Not just beige."
I laughed. It was real. "Well, I don't feel anything towards a certain color. I don't know, really. Beige doesn't ask much of me."
He sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.
Then: "Ask me what's my favorite color, Lucien."
There was an edge in his voice—mocking, annoyed, affectionate.
I smirked, played along. "Alright. What's your favorite color, Reed?"
He looked away, but he was smiling. "Indigo."
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone. "Let me Google that."
It lit up in my palm. I tilted the screen toward him, lips curving. "Interesting one. Deep, cold-leaning blue. Somehow… resembles you."
His head snapped back toward me. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I thought about lying. About brushing it off. About saying it's just a color, Reed. But the truth sat at the back of my throat, heavier than most things I say out loud.
"It means," I said slowly, "you're not the kind of person who hits you all at once. You're not neon. You're not pastel. You're… something that sinks in gradually. Indigo isn't loud. It's not trying to impress anyone. But it lingers. It stays in your eyes long after you've stopped looking at it."
He didn't say anything.
I glanced over, and he was watching me with this look I couldn't quite place—part stunned, part amused, part maybe… disarmed.
"It's also in-between," I added. "Not fully blue. Not quite violet. It doesn't commit to being one thing. It just exists in that in-between space. Quiet, bold, complicated."
A beat passed.
Then he snorted. "God, you're such a poetic bastard sometimes."
"Only for you."
It slipped out before I could stop it.
And once it was out there—hanging in the salt-thick air between us—I didn't take it back. Because I meant it.
"We should come back again when it's summer," he said, squinting toward the horizon like he could already see the heat.
I raised an eyebrow. "Do you plan on knowing me until it's summer?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Oh shut the fuck up, summer is like—in two months."
I grinned. "So that's a yes."
He didn't answer, but he smiled. That kind of side-smile he does when he wants to hide the fact he's already decided something.
"Well then," I said, pushing myself to my feet, "do you want to take a dip right now?"
His head tilted. "Are you serious?"
I pulled off my sweater in one motion. "Yeah, I'm serious."
"Lucien, slow down," he said flatly, watching me like I was an escaped convict about to skinny-dip into a crime.
"What? You want to go for a swim, right? Let's do it."
Next came the shirt. Then the belt. The air kissed my skin sharp and cool as I turned to him. "Are you going to let me strip alone?"
He blinked once, totally unreadable. And then, in the driest tone imaginable: "Sorry, I got distracted by the view."
I rolled my eyes. "Try to be original at least."
But he was already standing. Calmly pulling his shirt off, then the undershirt—his movements slower than mine, more precise, like even his casual was curated. And still, there was something almost vulnerable in it. Something real.
Then the pants followed—mine, his, gone in tandem like a truce we never signed.
I stepped into the water first.
It reached my ankles—cool, but not biting. The kind of cold that wakes you up, kisses your skin with memory. It shifted around me gently, pulling at my calves like it was trying to decide whether to welcome me or drag me under.
Behind me, I could hear Reed's feet crunching through the sand.
The water climbed up to my knees, swirling like silk around my legs, and I turned just in time to catch Reed wading in behind me—arms crossed like he was trying not to shiver.
"Oh, come on," I said, grinning.
"This is cold cold," he hissed through his teeth. "I thought you meant, like, dip our toes and dramatically stare at the horizon."
"Well," I said, stepping further in, "why would I take all my clothes off just to dip my toes in the water, Reed?"
"Unbelievable," he muttered, but kept walking.
The water reached his thighs, and that's when I made my move—cupping my hand, sending a splash of water his way.
It hit him square in the stomach.
"You asshole."
He launched forward, full retaliation mode, flinging a wave of cold straight at my face. I laughed—really laughed—gasping as it hit my neck and soaked my hair. We flailed for a second, like two kids let loose for the first time in weeks, throwing water, slipping under, coming up laughing and breathless.
Reed moved faster than I expected, lunging at me with a grin that could only mean trouble. I dodged, barely, then caught him mid-step, hands gripping his waist as he twisted.
We stumbled, half-splashing, half-falling—his hand clinging to my shoulder to steady himself.
"Truce," I said, still laughing.
"You started it," he said, breath ragged but smiling so hard his cheeks were pink.
We paused.
The water stilled around us. His hand stayed on my shoulder. Mine stayed at his waist.
"I'll end it too," I whispered, leaning in like I might kiss him again—but instead dipped quickly, sending one last splash right at his chest before sprinting off with a laugh.
"Oh you're dead," he yelled, chasing after me.
We kept going until we were both drenched, skin numb from the cold that didn't feel cold anymore, lungs aching from laughing too hard.
And just for a little while, it was easy.
The water lapped at our waists now, gentle, like even it was tired of chasing us. Reed stood a few feet away, chest bare, skin catching the early light in soft golds and pinks. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyes squinting slightly as he watched me. Droplets clung to his collarbones, traced lazy paths down his stomach, disappeared below the waterline.
He looked ridiculous. And stunning. And very naked from the waist up. But I wasn't going to hand him that power.
"You look like a wet cat," I said, smirking.
He scoffed, sloshing toward me. "And you look like an expensive garden gnome someone left out in the rain."
"Harsh."
"Accurate."
I splashed a little water at him, halfhearted. He didn't retaliate. Just stood there, breathing a little hard, his grin fading into something softer. Not serious—just still.
"You know," he said, brushing his wet hair back, "you're kind of annoying when you're having fun."
"Better than being a brooding cliché."
"Oh, please. You invented brooding."
He moved closer. The water slid between us, warm now, forgiving. He was within arm's reach, his chest rising and falling steadily, his body relaxed in a way I didn't see often. When he laughed, it was quiet. When he looked at me—really looked—it felt like he was seeing something I didn't even realize I was giving away.
"I had fun," he said finally.
The words were simple, but the way he said them wasn't. There was a crack in it. Like fun was rare. Like admitting it out loud might break the spell.
"You know," he added after a second, "you didn't have to do all this."
"I know." I nodded. "I wanted to."
He met my eyes again, something unreadable in his. "Still. No one's ever asked me what I wanted, let alone actually... listened."
And that—God, that—hit harder than anything.
I stepped closer, just enough that our arms brushed underwater. "Well," I murmured, "get used to it."
He huffed out a breath. Smiled faintly. "You're such a softie under all that 'mysterious felon' branding."
"Don't get used to that."
"Too late."
The silence that followed was comfortable. Earned. We stood chest-deep in the water, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun slowly peel itself from the horizon. The world felt quieter here. Like it had given us permission to stop pretending.
And for once, neither of us was in a rush to ruin it.
Reed exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to look at the sky. His hair was pushed away from his face now, darker from the water, and the sun caught the drops sliding down his throat. He looked peaceful in a way I hadn't seen before.
"Let's float," he said suddenly, voice light, as if the idea had just tapped him on the shoulder.
I glanced at the open water. "We might wander off that way," I said, nodding toward the wider stretch, where the sea spread out like it had no end and no interest in giving us one.
Reed turned his head to me, smile lazy and lopsided. He extended a hand toward me, wrist barely breaking the surface. "We'll wander off together that way."
I looked at his hand for a second, then took it.
It didn't mean anything. And it meant everything.
We leaned back at the same time, letting the water hold us, arms brushing, eyes squinting up at the pale sky. The sun was warm now. Not harsh—just beginning to stretch across the surface like it was waking up, too. Our bodies drifted slightly apart, then together again, as the tide moved beneath us.
For a long moment, we didn't speak.
Then Reed's voice came, quieter. Less shielded.
"You know I had a boyfriend before," he said, his tone almost clinical, like he'd rehearsed this line in his head a dozen times and still hated how it sounded.
I said nothing. Just stayed floating. Present.
"We were together for a while. Met in college. I thought he was gonna be it, you know? The one I'd spend the rest of my life arguing about laundry and taxes with."
He laughed, but there was no joy in it.
"He was funny. Smart. Knew how to talk to people. Everyone liked him. He liked that too much, I think."
I turned my head, barely. Just enough to keep him in my periphery.
"It was one time," he said. "The first time. I mean… it didn't start that way. It was an argument. Stupid. I don't even remember what about. He slapped me. And then he cried more than I did."
The silence wasn't heavy. It was listening.
"I stayed," he added. "For a while. I told myself it wasn't serious. That I wasn't hurt. That maybe I pushed him too hard. You know. All the classic hits."
My chest ached in a way I didn't like. Not the kind of ache I could analyze. The kind you just feel.
"Eventually," he said, "I left. Told him I was going to the pharmacy, never came back. Blocked his number. Never talked to him again. I kept the plants, though. He hated watering them."
I let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.
Reed turned his head slightly. "So, yeah. That's why I flinch sometimes. Or joke too hard. Or shut down. In case you were wondering."
I didn't say "thank you for telling me." It didn't feel right, too formal, too shallow. Instead, I said, "We won't wander off."
He blinked at me.
I added, "I mean—you and me. Even if the tide pulls. I'm not planning on drifting far."
For once, Reed didn't answer with sarcasm.
He just nodded, eyes half-closed, letting the water carry him a little closer to me.