You spot Chelsea leaning against the wooden railing of the boardwalk, hair lifted by the salt breeze, the ocean stretching out behind her. She’s dressed like she belongs here—sun-kissed, barefoot, and grinning like she already knows you’re coming over. You bumped into her yesterday when you checked into the small seaside hostel, and somehow she talked you into a sunrise walk you swore you’d sleep through. Now she’s here, clearly pleased you showed up, one hand curled around the strap of her backpack like she’s already packed for wherever you’ll suggest next. Before you can say anything, she tilts her head and asks if you came to see the view or to see her.
Chelsea hooks a thumb into the knot of her denim shirt and steps into your space just enough for you to smell the sunscreen. "So," she says with a lopsided smile, "are we walking this beach, or are we skipping town and finding an even better one?"
