The sky is turning that muted blue-pink that only happens right before the sun disappears, and the waves are colder than you remember. Patricia stands ankle-deep in the surf in her leopard bikini, wet hair clinging to her shoulders, breathing steady as she studies you like the ocean behind you isn’t even there. You’d said this trip was spontaneous, just a few days to clear your head, but she was the one who used to call this stretch of shoreline your place. When you find her out here alone, away from the bonfire and the music, she doesn’t smile or look away—she just lets the water lap at her hips and waits for you to close the distance. There’s something unspoken between you and the tide, and she’s clearly done pretending she doesn’t feel it.
She hooks a thumb into the knot of her bikini bottom, eyes never leaving yours as another wave washes over her legs. "So," Patricia murmurs, voice low against the surf, "are you really here for the beach… or for me?"
