We Are Just Us

1. ONE

ONE

So much for seventy-two-hour coverage.

A deep, buzzing kind of nerve had set in—the kind that came from getting rid of ninety percent of his stuff, shoving what was left into a portable storage unit, and moving to a town he’d never actually seen.

He’d quit his job in corporate communications for a tech startup—a gig that managed to be soul-crushing by Tuesday afternoons—exactly three weeks before the escrow closed on his mom’s house.

He’d moved back into his childhood home right before she died, and stayed for two stagnant years after, under the illusion that it would somehow help. It didn’t. It was just a house full of her things and none of her, until the walls started to cave in on him.

“I totally get it,” Emory had said when he told her. She’d been his best friend since middle school, and the only person who’d ever seen him eat an entire rotisserie chicken standing over the sink and never once judged him for it.

“But do you really have to move so far away?”

“Absolutely.”

The truth was, he hadn’t driven more than fifteen minutes at a time since the funeral. Grocery store. Vet. The occasional errand that couldn’t be delivered.

Somewhere in the heavy fog of grief, driving became one thing his body simply decided it couldn’t do.

His hands would white-knuckle the wheel before he even reached the freeway on-ramp, and he'd talk himself onto the surface streets instead, telling himself it was faster even though Kieran knew it wasn’t.

So when he finally packed the dogs into the Subaru and pointed it south with no real destination—the vague, desperate idea of ocean and distance—the drive itself was the test.

Every mile was a mile farther than he’d gone in two years.

Somewhere around hour four, he’d pulled into a gas station with shaking hands and found a spiky rubber fidget squeezer on a rack near the register. He squeezed it until his palm ached, then he got back on the freeway.

Nine hours. He’d actually made it nine hours.

But the highway started to blur somewhere around San Clemente, the taillights ahead smearing into long red streaks.

By the time he hit Oceanside, his chest was tight and heavy, like someone had stacked books on his sternum and sat down.

So he finally pulled off Exit 52. His body decided it was finished driving, and he’d learned not to argue with it.

He sat in a random parking lot for ten minutes with the engine running and the AC blasting his face, waiting until his vision cleared enough to Google “dog-friendly hotel near me.”

The first three places he called said no vacancy. The fourth would take dogs, but only under twenty pounds, which ruled out Hank by double and Mabel by…enough. The fifth had a wedding that reserved the entire property for the night, and the sixth put him on hold for so long he eventually hung up.

The seventh was a run-down place in Encinitas called Cliffside Lodge. Outside there was a flickering VACANCY light, and a woman stood inside at the front desk who casually confirmed that yes, they took dogs of any size.

“One queen or two?” she asked.

“Just one,” Kieran said, the word sitting heavier on his tongue than it should have.

He was too tired to care that the room smelled of old carpet or that the shower had suspicious grout. He didn’t care that he ended up somewhere he’d never heard of, in a town he couldn’t have pointed to on a map, all because two springer spaniels were too big for a Motel 6.

Encinitas. He’d found it purely by accident.

He woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming through the thin motel curtains and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves. Mabel had her head on his shoulder, snoring softly, while Hank was sprawled across the foot of the bed like he owned the place.

Kieran stared up at the stained popcorn ceiling.

It could be worse.

He took the dogs for a walk, found a coffee shop that didn’t look too pretentious, and ordered an oat milk latte. He sat outside, watching surfers paddle out into the early morning swell like they had somewhere important to be.

The weather was perfect—not too hot, not too cold, even for early March.

By noon that day, he extended his motel stay. By evening, he was scrolling frantically through local rental listings. And by the end of the week, he signed a month-to-month lease on a small, pale yellow duplex off Santa Fe Drive.

He didn’t surf, didn’t tan, but absolutely burned. He had too many freckles, a mop of red hair, and felt vaguely ridiculous in tank tops, but the ocean had been calling to him anyway, in that persistent, irrational way things called to him when he was running out of reasons to say no.

Kieran squinted through the windshield as he pulled up to the duplex for the first time with all his belongings.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the low hills.

Encinitas sprawled before him, a landscape filled with beach cottages, organic juice bars, and weather-worn surf shops with hand-painted signs.

“I’m either about to live my dream,” he muttered to the dashboard, “or make a huge, sandy mistake.”

Mabel snorted in response, which Kieran took as a definitive vote of confidence.

The rental was slightly musty, featuring louvered windows that barely shut and a backyard big enough for the dogs to stretch their legs. The online listing claimed it was “steps to the beach,” which turned out to mean six blocks and a brutally steep incline, but he wasn’t mad about it.

He found the lockbox, secured the keys, and dropped his heavy duffel bags onto the tiled floor.

The dogs instantly bolted toward the back door like they’d already claimed the territory. Kieran opened the glass slider and watched them barrel into the overgrown yard, sniffing wildly like they were destined to find buried treasure.

He stood there for a moment, holding onto the doorframe to steady himself.

In the yard, Hank found a patch of grass and was rolling in it with the kind of uninhibited, full-body commitment Kieran deeply envied.

Mabel was sniffing along the fence line, her tail going a mile a minute as she mapped the perimeter of her new kingdom.

Kieran’s hand drifted to his pocket, his fingers curling around the necklace hidden inside—the cool silver chain and the familiar weight of the circular pendant. Leaving it tucked away, he simply pressed his thumb against the metal through the fabric of his jeans, standing perfectly still.

She would’ve had endless opinions about this place.

The old kitchen without a garbage disposal, the six-block lie about beach proximity.

She would’ve walked through every single room touching things—the countertops, the light switches, the doorframes—the way she always did in new spaces, like she was introducing herself to the house.

Two years. It was long enough that Kieran stopped expecting to hear her voice when he walked into an empty room, but not quite so long that the silence had stopped catching him off guard. He let go of the necklace and watched Hank, all four legs kicking in the air, tongue out, completely blissful.

Okay. He took a deep breath. This has to be…okay.

The next morning was already bright by 7 a.m., and the Southern California light left nothing hidden. Kieran stood at the bathroom mirror with a toothbrush in his mouth, shirtless, trying to decide if his torso looked better with or without the harsh overhead light on.

The answer was neither, really. He wasn’t in bad shape, just soft in a way that made him look…

huggable? At least his arms had decent tone from years of lifting Mabel in and out of the car.

Still, he was never quite at ease in his own skin, always adjusting his posture, trying to meet a version of himself that wasn’t actually there.

He didn’t dwell on it. He had errands to run, groceries to buy, and a dog leash to replace because Hank chewed through the last one during the car ride.

He pulled on a clean shirt, locked up the house, and made a detour down to the beach.

It was early enough that the tourists were still trapped in their rentals, sipping hotel coffee and slathering on sunscreen for a high-UV day. The locals, though, were already out in full force: joggers, barefoot kids, and a silver-haired man doing tai chi near the lifeguard stand.

And then there was him. A blue surfboard propped against the picnic table beside him completed the picture. He stretched one arm over his head—a casual, lazy movement that made his ribs pop under tanned skin and his armpit hair catch the wind.

Kieran looked away. Then, immediately, looked back.

His beard was dark and full, not the overly groomed type found in corporate offices, but thick and natural, like it had always been a part of him.

His chest was dusted with hair that curled slightly in the salt breeze, tapering down to a shadow that disappeared beneath a pair of low-slung board shorts.

His build was the functional kind that came from real labor—lifting paddleboards, working on roofs, doing yard work just to stay moving.

He was also staring directly back.

Shit.

Kieran turned sharply, pretending to dig through his canvas tote bag for something. His phone, a notebook, a stale protein bar. A viable reason not to panic.

“What’s up?” The voice was deep and crisp.

Kieran looked up to find the guy walking toward him.

“Oh. Uh…hi,” Kieran said, awkwardly straightening up and managing to knock his own sunglasses off his head in the process.

The guy squinted at him. “You’ve got a couple dogs? Springer spaniels?”

“Yeah.” Kieran nodded quickly, then froze as the stranger’s words actually registered. “Wait…how do you know that?”

“Caught one of them digging under my side of the fence this morning,” the man replied smoothly. “Saw you unpacking your car yesterday. I live next door.” He jerked a thick thumb back toward the duplex. “I’m your new neighbor.”

“Oh. Shit! I’m sorry if they were loud. I promise they’re just getting used to the new space. They won’t be a problem, I swear.”

“They’re fine. One of them tried to flirt with me, but I’m a prude.”

Kieran laughed a little too loud and immediately regretted the volume. “That was probably Mabel. She has zero shame.”

The guy cracked a small, easy smile. “Figures.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but suspended, hanging in the morning air.

Kieran noticed the salt still clinging to the man’s chest, his arms speckled with sunspots that made him look slightly older, maybe late thirties.

“I’m Kieran,” he said, realizing he’d been staring without introducing himself. “Kieran Doyle.”

“Rory,” the man replied, extending a broad hand. “Kline. You’re not from here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Your flip-flops are too clean. And you made direct eye contact with three seagulls on your way down the stairs.”

Kieran snorted. “Okay, that’s a brutally honest take.”

Rory shrugged, his expression relaxed. “Only trying to keep you alive out here. The gulls are cutthroat.”

“I bet! Good thing I didn’t bring a footlong.” Kieran instantly choked on his own spit, his face flooding with mortified heat. “…A footlong sandwich.”

Oh. My. God. Drown me now.

Another pause stretched over them. Rory didn’t laugh, but a small spark lit up his eyes. He turned, his gaze drifting out toward the water, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Well. If you ever want to touch the ocean instead of staring at it from a safe distance, let me know.”

“Is that…an offer? Or a threat?”

“Depends on you.”

Kieran smiled, surprised by how fast his heart was suddenly beating. “Guess you’ll find out?”

Rory nodded once, then turned and walked back toward the tide line like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Kieran froze, stunned, still holding the protein bar in his hand. For once, the feeling in his chest wasn’t panic. He turned back up the beach path, trying his best not to grin like a complete idiot.

Behind him, the waves rolled in. He didn’t touch them.

Not yet.