Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Maya
Zachary stands, and for a split second, I think he’s leaving. My stomach drops in a way I didn’t expect. But then he tucks his hands into his pockets and says, “How about a walk instead?”
I blink. “A walk?”
He nods toward the boardwalk, the beach just beyond. “It’s a warm night, the moon’s out, and honestly? I’m kind of enjoying talking to you.”
He looks so sincere and eager that I can’t say no. “Okay, let’s walk.”
I grab my sketchbook and stand, smoothing down my dress. I try not to feel embarrassed. I’d asked him to come back to my place expecting the usual—flirting that leads to forgetting. Instead, I got sincerity. A detour.
I fall into step beside him as we leave the bar.
The laughter and clinking glasses fade behind us, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves and the shuffle of our feet on the sand.
The night smells like brine and sunscreen and driftwood.
It’s honestly kind of perfect, which only makes me more suspicious that I’ve misread everything.
“So,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself despite the heat. “Did I completely misinterpret your vibe back there? Because you seemed into me.”
Zachary laughs, low and warm. “Oh, I am.”
I glance at him, surprised. “Then what’s with the wholesome beach stroll?”
“I like talking to you,” he says simply. “That doesn’t happen all the time. Thought I’d make the most of it.”
I smile shyly. “I like talking to you too.”
“So,” he continues, “what’s your favorite place you’ve ever traveled to?”
I hesitate. “That’s a surprisingly hard question.”
“Come on, world traveler,” he teases. “You’ve been everywhere, remember?”
I snort. “Fine, you got me. I haven’t actually been anywhere outside the States since before college.”
He lifts a brow but says nothing. Just waits.
I glance at the water, dark and glittering under the moonlight. “Honestly? Pine Island.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I know it’s not exotic, but it feels like... home. Like it’s holding its breath just long enough for you to exhale. I always feel safer here. Like I’m not being watched or evaluated or expected to perform.”
He nods thoughtfully. “There’s something to be said for safe places.”
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your favorite?”
“I visited Iceland once,” he says. “That place messes with your sense of time. It’s daylight for hours, and then when night finally comes, it’s thick and endless.”
“That sounds kind of magical.”
“It was.”
I steal a glance at him. His profile is serious, bathed in silver light.
“What about your dream vacation?” he asks.
“That one’s easy,” I say. “Pizza, wine, art supplies, and a long walk somewhere. Basically… tonight. Just with fewer emotional landmines.”
He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad I could help with the itinerary.”
We keep walking, and a stretch of silence falls between us—not awkward, just full. The kind of silence I rarely share with people, even the ones I know well.
I tilt my face up to the stars. “Okay, astronaut,” I say. “Name those constellations. Prove you’re not just a very charming liar.”
He grins and points his finger toward the sky.
“All right. That’s Lyra, with Vega—brightest one up there.
And if you go up a little you’ll see Albireo, the bright star at the bottom of Cygnus, the swan.
Then follow that line to the right, and you’ll see Deneb—bright one at the top.
You’ll also notice that Cygnus looks like a cross, which is another name for it—the Northern Cross.
Finally, if you go back to Lyra, then up some and to the left you’ll find Aquila, the eagle. ”
I blink. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Okay, I kind of thought you were full of it.”
“Understandable. Most people lie in bars.”
I glance at him. “You included?”
He smiles, but it’s softer this time. “Well, yes. But I really do like outer space a lot.”
I look back up at the sky and search out the constellations he was showing me, content to let him keep his secrets since I’m doing the same.
The stars don’t seem so far away with him naming them like that.
They feel closer, almost reachable. I can’t remember the last time I was this quiet with someone, this comfortable.
The thought hits me like a rogue wave, and for a second, I want to pull away.
Make a joke. Say something cutting just to put space back between us.
But then Zachary breaks the moment. “Surf’s rough tonight,” he says, nodding toward the water. “Have you heard about the hurricane?”
I shake my head, grateful for the change in topic.
“There’s a warning,” he continues. “It’s still off the coast, but they’re saying it might be a big one. Could hit the mainland by the weekend.”
“Yikes. I just planted a bunch of new flowers in the spring. Oh, well. I probably would have killed them myself even without the hurricane anyway,” I say with a sigh.
He laughs. “Better enjoy the calm while it lasts. And bring any plants you can inside.”
We walk a little farther until the crowds from the bar have thinned and the houses are fewer. Then Zachary stops and gestures away from the water. “Want to sit back on the dunes?”
“Sure,” I say.
We climb a sand dune and lower ourselves to the sand, sitting close enough to feel the building heat between us. For a moment, we just sit, staring out at the dark waves in the distance. Then, his hand brushes mine.
I turn to look into his eyes and what I see surprises me: part lust, part longing, part something else I can’t quite place. The silence between us changes texture—warmer, taut with something electric. And then, slowly, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s soft at first, exploratory. But when I kiss him back, something ignites. His hands move to my waist, sliding over the fabric of my dress, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but it’s hungry. Like we’re both suddenly starving for connection.
His hands roam—respectful, curious, and firm. He kisses like someone who listens.
And then—
“Hey!”
We break apart, breathless.
A flashlight beam slices through the dark. A voice barks, “Off the beach!”
We scramble upright like guilty teenagers, and I realize it’s a cop. A young one, probably barely out of training, patrolling for curfew-breakers and high schoolers sneaking beers.
“Sorry!” Zachary calls out, “Didn’t realize it was off-limits this early.”
The cop waves us away. “Just move it along.”
I glance at Zachary. He’s laughing quietly, brushing sand off his pants. I can’t help but laugh, too.
We walk back toward the street, and the mood has shifted again—awkward now, a little dazed. Our shoulders brush, but neither of us reaches out. It’s like we’ve both been jolted out of a spell.
At the parking lot, we pause beside my car. “Well,” I say. “That was unexpectedly… eventful.”
Zachary grins. “Definitely not how I thought the night would end.”
“Me neither.”
We linger, both of us seemingly unsure what to do with the moment. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. It’s gentle and slow and maybe even sweeter than the one before.
“Night, Maya.”
“Night, Zachary.”
I get in my car and wave to Zachary as I pull out of the parking lot. The evening didn’t go at all the way I expected. I didn’t get the forgettable night I’d planned, the anonymous escape from my body, my diagnosis, my thoughts. Instead, I got something quieter. Something sweet and memorable.
I feel seen—and not in a way that makes me want to disappear.
And that, honestly, is more terrifying than any hurricane.