Steven’s POV

  The morning after the storm looked like the world was pretending it hadn’t just been crying all night.

  Sunlight pushed through my curtains in warm gold stripes, catching the last raindrops clinging to the window and turning them into tiny glowing beads. The sky was pale blue and washed-out—this specific shade you only ever get after the clouds finally give up. Far below our cliff, the ocean kept up its constant rush, calmer now, but still loud enough to remind everyone it had thrown a tantrum a few hours ago.

  I lay on my back, sprawled starfish-style across my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun lazy circles.

  Eighteen. High school done. Summer stretching in front of me like a blank page.

  And zero clue what to write on it.

  “Okay,” I told the ceiling. “Bare minimum goal for this summer: don’t just… exist.”

  A soft thump drew my attention. Fang lifted his head in his terrarium, coils shifting around his favorite branch. Sunlight hit his yellow-and-black scales and made him glitter, like lightning carved itself into a snake.

  He stared at me with that flat, unimpressed look he’d perfected.

  “Good morning to you too,” I muttered, rolling onto my side.

  His tongue flicked once, slow and sharp.

  Translation: So what’s the crisis today, human?

  “I have a question,” I said, pushing myself up. “Honest opinion time. Do I give off… I don’t know… ‘unapproachable weirdo’ energy? Or is that just in my head?”

  Fang shifted farther along the branch like he was physically trying to exit the conversation.

  “Right. You’re useless as a therapist,” I said.

  I opened his tank and lifted him out. His body curled smoothly along my hands before he settled around the back of my neck, cool and solid against my skin—like a living scarf that judged me silently.

  “Here’s the problem, Fang,” I sighed. “We live in a house on a cliff over the beach, which is basically prime romantic drama territory. I don’t think I’m hideous. People have literally told me I’m good-looking, which is… not information I know what to do with.”

  Fang’s coils tightened slightly, like Yes. And?

  “But somehow,” I continued, “I still have the romantic track record of a houseplant.”

  His tongue flicked again near my ear.

  “It’s not even that girls don’t look,” I said, and my voice came out more honest than I meant. “They do. They stare sometimes. Then they whisper to their friends, maybe laugh, and look away. And there’s this split second where I think—maybe—”

  I stopped. Because admitting hope out loud is basically begging the universe to humiliate you.

  “And then my brain immediately goes,” I muttered, “‘No. They’re laughing at you.’”

  Fang’s body shifted like he was adjusting his seat to enjoy the show.

  “And the worst part?” I added, staring at the floor like it might offer answers. “You’re not even there when it happens.”

  Fang flicked his tongue like, Yeah. Exactly.

  “So it can’t be the snake,” I said, even though blaming him would’ve been easier. “Which means it’s me. My face. My vibe. Whatever weird energy I give off that makes girls act like I’m a display at an aquarium.”

  Fang tightened around my shoulders like he was offended on my behalf.

  “Not you,” I corrected quickly. “You’re the only one who’s loyal.”

  I glanced toward the window. I could see a strip of ocean and the edge of the beach from here, but it wasn’t enough.

  Not from this angle.

  I needed my spot.

  I adjusted Fang—more like a secret than an accessory—and grabbed my binoculars off the nightstand.

  I’d just reached for my door when it swung inward without warning.

  Katie leaned against the doorframe, eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion. Sixteen years old now and fully committed to the “I woke up like this” look that somehow still took thirty minutes—messy eyeliner, oversized T-shirt with a band she actually listened to, hair pulled into an artfully crooked ponytail.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  I blinked. “Good morning to you too.”

  Her gaze dropped to Fang, then to the binoculars. “Why do you have Fang and a surveillance device?”

  “It’s not a surveillance device,” I said. “It’s binoculars. They’re for appreciating nature.”

  Katie folded her arms. “You’re appreciating people from far away.”

  “We live on a cliff over the beach,” I said. “If I want to look at it from the roof, that is completely legal.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “You know Mom calls it ‘spying on people’ when you do that, right?”

  “Mom also doesn’t call it ‘spying’ when you stare at your wall of smug boy-band posters like they personally pay your bills,” I said. “Or when you whisper on the phone after midnight for two hours like you’re the president of their fan club.”

  Katie’s eyes narrowed. “I do not.”

  “You do,” I said calmly. “And I can hear you through the vent.”

  “I’m telling Mom,” she snapped, pushing off the doorframe.

  “Go ahead,” I muttered, slipping past her. “Just make sure you tell her I’m weird after you finish planning your future wedding to a guy who doesn’t know you exist.”

  Katie made a gagging noise, then turned to leave.

  But right before she shut the door, she paused—like she’d remembered something annoying.

  “Oh. Also,” she said, without looking back. “Maddie said you were hot again yesterday.”

  I froze mid-step.

  Katie’s tone got ten times more disgusted.

  “And then she asked if you were, like, secretly sad all the time. Which is—ugh. Don’t be near my friends.”

  My mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

  “You’re telling me this now? As you’re leaving?”

  Katie pointed at me like I was the criminal here. “I’m not repeating it. It’s gross. And if you start acting confident I’m literally moving out.”

  Then she disappeared down the hall like she hadn’t just drop-kicked my self-esteem into outer space.

  I stood there for a second, my brain glitching.

  Fang flicked his tongue slowly.

  “Don’t,” I muttered.

  He flicked again, like I’m going too.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “So I’m hot. And also a depressing mystery. Cool. Great. Love that for me.”

  ---

  The smell hit me halfway down the stairs—warm butter, sugar, and vanilla, soft and thick in the air.

  Mom’s sugar cookies.

  The special ones—the kind that brighten your mood with just one bite.

  The ones that made the whole house feel like a hug.

  The kitchen was flooded with pale morning light. A tray of fresh cookies cooled on the counter, steam still curling up in thin wisps. Another tray baked in the oven, the glass fogged just enough that you could see vague golden circles inside.

  The big paper calendar hung on the wall beside the fridge, a red circle drawn around a date three days from now.

  Dad’s return date.

  Mom stood at the counter, pressing new dough balls onto a tray with careful, practiced movements. On the surface, she looked calm. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she just liked baking in the mornings.

  I’d grown up watching her look at that calendar.

  Katie sat on a stool at the island, halfway through her second cookie. She perked up when she saw me.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Mom,” she said immediately, “Steven’s going up on the roof again with Fang and binoculars.”

  Traitor.

  Mom didn’t look up right away. “Is he, now?”

  “It’s not weird,” I huffed, stroking Fang’s head gently to distract myself from the fact Katie’s friend called me hot. “It’s called appreciating the view.”

  “With magnification,” Katie shot back.

  “With respect,” I corrected.

  Mom finally turned, her eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re not scaring people on the beach, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “If anyone even noticed me, I’d die of embarrassment on the spot.”

  “That’s true,” Katie said instantly.

  Mom shook her head, lips curving. “As long as the people you’re ‘appreciating’ can’t tell, I suppose I can tolerate your rooftop habits.”

  “Ha.” I reached for a cookie.

  She swatted my hand lightly with the spatula. “Those are too hot.”

  I dodged and snagged one anyway. It burned my fingertips a little, but it was worth it.

  I bit in and the center was still almost gooey—warm and sweet enough that my chest eased despite the calendar screaming at me from the wall.

  “These are dangerous,” I said around the bite.

  “They’re supposed to be,” Mom said. Her gaze slid to the calendar for a second, quick and quiet, like she was checking it hadn’t moved.

  Three days.

  He’d sweep in, all polished smiles and controlled warmth. We’d all pretend that felt normal. Then he’d vanish again for weeks or months, leaving behind money and a quiet that never settled right.

  “I see you made this batch sweeter this time,” I commented.

  “For when your father comes home,” Mom said. “He likes them sweeter.”

  Of course he did.

  She slid the new tray into the oven and set the timer. When she turned back, her eyes softened as she looked at Fang relaxing lazily around my neck.

  “You taking him up there?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He likes the sun.”

  “And the attention,” Katie muttered.

  “He’s a snake,” Mom said. “I’m not convinced he cares.”

  “He judges,” I said. “You can feel it.”

  Mom huffed out a laugh. “Take some cookies with you. Share them with him if he decides to appreciate baked goods today.”

  She put four on a small plate and handed it over before I could protest. I balanced it on one hand.

  Then she leaned in and kissed my temple.

  Up close, I saw the faint worry lines at the corners of her eyes—the way they tugged toward the calendar even when she wasn’t looking.

  “Stay where I can at least hear you if you fall,” she said.

  “That was one time,” I muttered.

  Katie smirked. “You slid down the shingles and screamed like a pterodactyl.”

  “It was moss,” I said. “It was slippery.”

  Mom smiled, but the second she turned back, her eyes snagged on that red circle again—like the date could bite.

  Her fingers brushed it, quick and light.

  Three days.

  Something tight shifted in my chest, so I did what I always do when feelings get too loud:

  I left.

  ---

  At the top of the stairwell was the roof door. Plain. Boring. Like it wasn’t guarding my favorite place on Earth.

  I nudged it open with my shoulder and stepped out—

  And the air hit me immediately. Warm. Clean. Still scrubbed by the storm.

  The breeze smelled like salt and wet stone. From somewhere below came the steady crash of waves slamming into the cliffs like the ocean was still mad it hadn’t won.

  Up here was my rooftop deck. My “I’m totally fine” zone.

  It wasn’t impressive. It was just… mine.

  I set the plate of cookies on the table, then carefully slid Fang off my neck and onto his perch.

  He immediately curled around the wood and lifted his head, relaxed and smug—like a tiny dragon on a throne.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “Go ahead. Judge me.”

  Then I walked to the railing.

  And yeah… the view still got me every time.

  The cliff dropped straight down to the beach, wide and bright. The water rolled in heavy, still rough from the storm, waves breaking thick and white along the shore. People were already out there—tiny moving dots from this height.

  Living their lives.

  Being normal.

  I lifted the binoculars.

  “Alright,” I murmured, pressing them to my eyes. “Let’s see how much more romantic everyone else’s life is today.”

  A couple walked hand in hand along the waterline, steps falling in sync. Of course. A guy jogged with headphones in, splashing close enough to the waves to ruin his shoes on purpose. A small group of girls set up towels in a bright circle, passing sunscreen and laughing like nothing bad ever happened to anyone.

  One of them pushed her hair back and glanced up toward the cliffs.

  Toward me.

  My heart jumped—stupidly hopeful.

  Then she nudged the girl beside her. They both looked up again, giggled, and turned away with their hands over their mouths.

  My stomach sank.

  “Okay,” I said softly, lowering the binoculars. “That’s probably not ‘wow, he’s dreamy.’ That’s ‘look at the weird guy spying with binoculars.’”

  Fang lifted his head and flicked his tongue toward me like, You are doing a lot up here.

  “I know,” I sighed. “I hate that I know.”

  It wasn’t that I thought I was ugly.

  Katie’s friend literally called me hot.

  But it always came with this weird edge, like looks were the only thing people could explain about me. Like everything else was… off.

  So what was it?

  My face? My vibe? The way I stood? The snake? The fact I looked like I had a tragic secret even when I was just thinking about cereal?

  I swung the binoculars toward the far end of the beach, where the rocks jutted out and fewer people wandered.

  After storms, things collected there. Once, a busted cooler. Once, a lawn chair. Mostly driftwood.

  Today—

  Something pale.

  I adjusted the focus, leaning forward.

  At first, I thought it was trash.

  Then the outline sharpened—and my heart dropped straight into my stomach.

  Not trash.

  A girl.

  She was lying on the wet sand near the base of the rocks, half in shadow. A wave slid close to her feet before pulling back like it couldn’t decide if it wanted her or not. Her body was curled slightly on her side.

  Motionless.

  And—

  My brain did this horrible stutter—

  She didn’t seem to be wearing anything.

  For a second I just froze there with the binoculars glued to my face, like my eyes could fix the situation if I stared hard enough.

  Nope. Still a naked unconscious girl.

  My throat went dry.

  “Fang,” I whispered, still looking through the lenses. “There’s someone down there. Like… someone—someone.”

  Behind me, Fang went very still.

  The world narrowed until there was only that spot by the rocks. The rest of the beach—laughing girls, couples, joggers—blurred into meaningless background noise.

  Okay. Okay. Deep breath.

  “You can’t just stand here and look,” I told myself. “That would make you exactly the creep everyone thinks you are. Move.”

  I ripped the binoculars away so fast I almost dropped them. My hands were suddenly stupid. Everything was suddenly stupid.

  “Okay, uh—towel,” I muttered. “Towel first. Because… decency. Because I’m not a monster.”

  I snatched the big striped beach towel I’d left draped over the railing last week, grabbing it so quickly the edge snapped in the wind. I tossed the binoculars onto the chair next to Fang like I didn’t care if they bounced.

  “Wait here,” I told him, pointing like he was a dog. “Don’t judge me. I’ll be right back.”

  Fang, of course, did not move.

  He just watched with the calm disappointment of someone who already knew my life was a mess.

  Then I ran.

  ---

  The back door banged open hard enough to make the glass rattle.

  “Steven?” Mom called, sharp with instant concern.

  My stomach twisted. She heard the panic.

  “Sorry—” I started, but the word fell apart in my throat.

  I didn’t stop. I couldn’t explain. Not in a way that would make sense in under five seconds. I just sprinted for the trail like my legs had made the decision for me.

  Down the stairs, across the yard, through the back gate—sand already creeping into my shoes. The narrow path from our cliff down to the beach was steep and half-hidden, worn smooth by my feet and a handful of locals who knew it existed.

  I took it too fast.

  Loose gravel slid under my sneaker and I stumbled, catching myself with one hand on the hillside. Pebbles skittered down, clicking against stone.

  “Great,” I panted. “Perfect. Die on the way to help someone. That’s a solid headline.”

  The roar of the ocean grew louder with every step. The wind down here felt rougher—full of salt and leftover storm, like the air itself was still annoyed.

  The main stretch of beach curved away to my left, scattered with early walkers and families who acted like last night’s lightning hadn’t existed.

  To my right, near the rocks, it was almost empty.

  Just seaweed, driftwood, and—

  Her.

  My pace slowed without me telling it to. Like some part of my body knew this wasn’t something you ran into.

  Up close, everything about her looked even more unreal.

  Her hair was long and pale blonde, tangled and heavy with seawater, plastered to her back and shoulders. And threaded through it—like it didn’t belong but absolutely did—were streaks of soft, light blue. Not neon. Not dyed. More like… the ocean had left fingerprints in her hair and the sun refused to erase them.

  Her skin had that luminous quality some people get in the right light, but this felt different. Not “glowy.” Not “pretty.”

  More like she’d been polished by the tide.

  Stop staring. She’s unconscious. Be normal.

  She was curled slightly on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other drawn across her front like her body knew—on instinct—that it needed to cover itself.

  My stomach twisted.

  I dropped to my knees beside her, hands suddenly shaking, and forced my eyes to stay above her shoulders. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to be careful—like one wrong move would turn this into something ugly.

  “Hey,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant. “Hey, can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  My brain started listing worst-case scenarios like it was getting paid to panic.

  Head injury. Drowning. Shock. Hypothermia. Something worse that I didn’t even have a name for yet.

  “Okay,” I whispered, swallowing hard. “Okay. Towel. First step. Towel.”

  I shook it out with one sharp snap and draped it over her, hands moving carefully. I tucked the edges around her shoulders and down her side, trying not to touch more than I had to. Sand scraped my palms. The towel’s bright stripes looked ridiculous against the washed-out gray of storm-soaked beach.

  As the fabric settled, she flinched.

  Her eyelashes fluttered.

  Her breathing hitched, then steadied—like she was climbing up from somewhere deep.

  Very slowly, she opened her eyes.

  And my brain—my entire stupid brain—just stopped.

  They were blue, but not one kind of blue. Layers of it. Deep water and shallow coves all at once. Near the center were lighter flecks—almost silver—catching the light like tiny reflections on waves.

  Looking into them felt… dangerous somehow.

  Like standing too close to the edge of the tide when it’s pretending it won’t pull you.

  I forgot how to breathe for half a second.

  Steven. Oxygen. Right now.

  “You’re okay,” I blurted, words tripping over each other. “You’re safe. I mean—well, as safe as you can be on the sand next to a stranger, which is a sentence I hate. I’m Steven. I live up there.” I jerked my head vaguely toward the cliff. “I brought a towel.”

  Wow. Nailed it.

  Her gaze dropped to the fabric like she was identifying it, then returned to my face—slow, careful, like she was deciding whether I was real.

  “I…” Her voice was rough, like she hadn’t used it in a long time. “I am… not sure.”

  “Not sure if you’re okay?” I asked, softer this time. Slower.

  “Not sure… of much,” she said, brow furrowing.

  She didn’t look dramatic. She didn’t look helpless on purpose. She looked genuinely… blank. Like she’d reached for a memory and grabbed air.

  Something about that hit me harder than it should have.

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “That’s okay. We can… start small.”

  Her eyes stayed on mine.

  And I had this ridiculous thought that she was listening like my voice mattered. Like she was anchoring herself to it.

  “Do you know your name?” I tried.

  Silence stretched.

  The waves filled it—rush, hush, rush—like the ocean was answering for her and refusing to translate.

  Then she nodded once.

  “Aqua,” she said.

  Of course it was.

  I don’t know why my brain latched onto that like it was the weirdest part of everything happening, but it did.

  “Aqua,” I repeated. “Like… water.”

  Something shifted in her expression—so faint I almost missed it. Like a ripple under the surface.

  “Yes,” she said. “Like water.”

  She said it like the word was old. Like it had lived in her for a long time.

  I stared at her—towel and sand and storm and ocean—trying to file this under normal beach emergencies and coming up empty.

  Because nothing about her felt normal.

  Not the hair. Not the eyes. Not the way she looked at me like I wasn’t a threat until proven otherwise.

  And then I realized something else, and my stomach dropped again.

  A wave slid a little too close, foam curling around the edge of the towel.

  Aqua didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t recoil from the cold.

  Didn’t scramble away like anyone else would.

  She just watched it, calm and curious, like the ocean was a friend checking in.

  My throat tightened.

  “Okay,” I said carefully, trying to keep my voice steady even as my brain screamed. “Aqua. Hi. I’m— Steven. And I’m going to help you, okay?”

  She blinked once, slow.

  Then, almost pleasantly, like we’d just agreed on something simple—

  “Yes,” she said.

  And the fact that she sounded so sure made me feel even more unsteady.

  Because I didn’t know what she was.

  I didn’t know where she came from.

  I didn’t even know if she belonged to this world the way I did.

  But she’d said yes like she trusted me.

  And somehow, that felt heavier than the storm.