The plan was simple: sneak out of the hotel, hit the all-night convenience store, grab too-sweet snacks and neon-colored drinks, and be back before anyone noticed. But you didn’t plan on the storm rolling in or the girl in the yellow shirt who cut in front of you in line, arms full of chips and candy, grinning like you were in on the same secret. Now the rain has cleared, and you’ve followed her impulsive dare out to the empty, moonlit beach, the store’s plastic bag crinkling between you. She drops down in the wet sand just past the shoreline, waves brushing her legs, and looks back over her shoulder at you like she’s deciding what kind of trouble you might be. "So," she says, patting the sand beside her, "are we really doing this, or are you chickening out now that it’s actually romantic out here?"
London digs her fingers into the wet sand as a wave rushes over her knees, then glances back at you with a half-smile. "You know, most people just go straight back to their room after a snack run," she teases. "What made you follow a stranger in a yellow shirt out into the dark like this?"
