I didn't say anything and reached for my phone and unlocked it. We handed them off—an unspoken exchange. I typed my name and number into his contacts and handed it back. He did the same.
When I glanced down, the name he entered was just Michael—no last name, no title.
Our thumbs brushed as we passed the phones back.
"Just in case," he said.
I nodded. "Just in case."
We hadn't started a fire. Not yet. But something was smoldering beneath the sand, and I already knew it couldn't stay buried for long.
Chapter two
Alex
Itwasonlyyesterday.
After procrastinating all day, I'd walked down to the beach alone in the late afternoon. I didn't bring much—only my journal, a postcard, my pen, and the pouch that held Marissa's ashes.
The entire package was biodegradable and compostable. She would've insisted on it. It was her version of a green burial.
The ocean was quiet, just past the peak heat of the day. I saw no one else on the sand. It was only the birds and me.
I waded into the surf, barefoot, until the water kissed my ankles. Next, I untied the pouch and let go.
The ashes scattered quickly with a light breeze carrying them out into the waves. Afterward, I stood still to let the silence come. I thought it would feel like a release.
It didn't. All I saw was the last remnants of her vanishing.
Marissa was no longer there, not in the water or the sky. She was… gone. The part of me that had been holding on—tightly, quietly, without even realizing it—let go, too.
I didn't cry or collapse. I stood there, hollowed out and emptied.
That's when I sensed him.
I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I felt his presence at the edge of my awareness. He didn't speak and didn't crowd me.
He was classically handsome—symmetrical face and a heavy brow. He had broad shoulders under a thin gray t-shirt. His build was athletic in a way that looked lived-in, not cultivated. And he was tired—bone-deep exhaustion judging by the circles under his eyes.
I didn't tell him about Marissa, and he didn't tell me what brought him to Tahiti.
When I looked at him again, I saw grace in how he held his body. His face was expressive, and the lines around his eyes said he smiled easily when he chose to, when he wasn't so tired.
And none of that should've mattered.
But it did.
And in that moment, something unraveled in me. The silence wasn't merely comfortable. It was forgiving.
I kissed him.
It wasn't planned, but I'm not sure I had a choice. In between heartbeats, my lips landed on his.
"I didn't come here for this," I said, barely audible over the waves.
He looked at me, direct and unflinching. "Neither did I."
That was yesterday. Now, in the quiet morning light, I realized I hadn't slept much.
