Steven’s POV

  The word Aqua kept echoing in my head like it was supposed to explain everything—and somehow explained nothing.

  I waited for the obvious part next—her teeth chattering, her arms wrapping around herself, that shaky "I’m freezing" look people get when they’ve been in the ocean too long.

  Though she had been out of the water for some time and dried off a bit from the sun, so why…

  She didn’t do any of it.

  Her hair was dripping. Water still ran in slow lines down her shoulders and legs. The towel clung to her like seaweed. And she just… stood there. Calm. Steady. Like getting pulled out of the ocean in the middle of a storm was inconvenient, not dangerous.

  No goosebumps. No blue lips. Nothing.

  She looked like the ocean belonged to her.

  And then my brain did that stupid thing where it stopped being helpful and started being a teenage boy.

  Because up close—now that I wasn’t sprinting on adrenaline—she was… unreal.

  Not in a “makeup” way. Not even in a “model” way. More like… soft. Like somebody had drawn her face with gentle lines on purpose. Her lashes were dark from the water, her cheeks still flushed from the sea air, and her eyes—

  I caught myself staring and snapped my gaze up so fast it almost hurt.

  Her hair didn’t help.

  Wet, it looked darker at first—more honey-gold than blonde—until the morning sun caught the strands that were already drying near her face and the color lifted into that pale, bleached-blonde brightness. And threaded through it—like the ocean had gotten bored and decided to decorate—were faint blue streaks that flashed whenever she moved.

  “Your hair…” I said before I could stop myself. “It’s—uh. It’s really pretty.”

  She blinked. “Thank you.” Then, like she thought she was supposed to explain it, she added, “It is all natural.”

  My brain stalled for a second.

  All natural. Including the blue.

  “That’s… cool,” I said, because my mouth was sprinting ahead of my thoughts. “Just—also not… something you see every day.”

  Her fingers tightened on the towel like she’d done something wrong. Her expression shifted—tiny, but I caught it.

  “I mean—” I hurried on, heat crawling up my neck. “Not normal like bad. Not normal like… people will stare, because it’s cool. In a good way. A very good way.”

  She watched me for a beat, then her shoulders loosened a fraction.

  “Oh,” she said softly, like she was filing that under rules she didn’t fully understand yet. “Okay.”

  Smooth, Steven. Very smooth.

  I shook my head once, like I could reset my brain. Focus. She was still standing there with nothing but my towel, and the world was still… the world.

  “Okay, Aqua,” I said, swallowing. “You’ve been in the water a while. You should be freezing, and you’re not, which is—” I cut myself off. Not now. “—not the point. The point is: you need clothes. Food. Privacy.” I gestured at the towel. “My house is up there. It’s close. I can get you something that’s actually meant to be worn in public.”

  She followed my gesture toward the cliff, then her gaze drifted past me—to the ocean. Not like she was admiring it.

  Like she was listening to it.

  The next wave hit the shore with a hard rush, and her fingers tightened around the towel.

  “Aqua?” I asked, softer.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  I held still, afraid that if I moved too fast, I’d knock the words out of her.

  She blinked, once. Twice. As if she was trying to focus on two thoughts at the same time.

  Then… out of nowhere, like a memory had just surfaced. “I remember the storm,” she said quietly. “The water pulling. The light from the moon. I remember… choosing. And then I woke on the sand.”

  My skin prickled.

  Choosing what? I almost asked, but the way her voice went soft made my questions feel greedy—like reaching for something that wasn’t fully hers again yet.

  “Okay,” I said instead, gentle. “We don’t have to solve that standing out here. Let’s get you sitting somewhere safer first.”

  A few yards away, near the dunes, was my little hideout—an indentation in the sand mostly hidden by tall grass. I’d dragged one of the lawn chairs the ocean had spit out there last year, cleaned off the barnacles, and declared it my reading throne. It still sat there now, half-buried, waiting.

  “Can you walk?” I asked.

  She looked down at her legs like they’d just been attached. “They feel… strange,” she murmured. “But I will try.”

  “I’ve got you,” I said before I could overthink it.

  I slid an arm behind her back and offered my other hand for balance. She leaned into me.

  I could feel warmth through the towel, and my brain stuttered. She should’ve been cold. Florida sun, I told myself. It had to be.

  Her legs trembled as she pushed herself up, but she didn’t collapse. Each step to the dune nook was careful, deliberate—like she was focusing too hard on getting it right.

  I lowered her into the old lawn chair, the plastic creaking faintly but holding. The towel was still wrapped around her like armor.

  “This is… better,” she murmured, fingers pressing into the armrests.

  “Stay right here, okay?” I said, backing away a little. “This spot is hidden from most of the beach. I’m going to run home, grab clothes and food, and come back. I won’t be long.”

  She studied my face like she was measuring the truth of that.

  Looking up, she said, “You came from the house on the cliff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you came down when you saw me?”

  “Of course.”

  Her expression softened a tiny bit. “Then I believe you will come back.”

  Something about the way she said it made my chest feel tight.

  “I will,” I said. “Promise.”

  Then I turned and ran.

  ---

  By the time I burst into the kitchen again, I was breathing hard, sand sticking between my toes. The sugar smell hit me first, then the sight of Mom sliding another tray out of the oven.

  She took one look at my face and set it down quickly. “Steven. What is it?”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to pull my thoughts together. “So. There’s a girl on the beach.”

  Katie, who was still perched on her stool, choked on her cookie. “Excuse me?”

  “She was by the rocks.” I exhaled. “Unconscious at first, then not, but no clothes, no bag, nothing. She said something about remembering the storm and… choosing something… then waking up here. I put my towel on her. She’s in my dune chair now.”

  Mom stared at me, eyes sharp.

  “Is she hurt?” she asked.

  “She’s… shaky,” I said, catching myself. “But no obvious broken bones or anything. She’s talking. She said her name is Aqua.”

  Mom went very still for a beat. Then she let out a quiet breath, something complicated in it.

  “The sea always leaves something behind after it rages,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

  I blinked. “That’s… a poetic way to put ‘a girl appeared half-dead on our beach.’”

  She shook herself and handed me a folded blue sundress from the back of a chair. “Guest drawer,” she said. “I was going to donate some things. This should fit close enough. Get that soft gray cardigan too—the one on the hook by the door. And some sandals from the basket.”

  I darted to the hallway, grabbed the cardigan and a pair of simple sandals, and came back.

  Mom had already packed a small reusable bag with muffins, sugar cookies, and a bottle of water. She held it out, her expression gentler now.

  “Here,” she said. “Warmth first. Food second. Questions third.”

  “You’re just… okay with this?” I asked, taking the bag and the clothes.

  “Would you rather we pretend she’s not there?” she asked calmly.

  “No,” I said quickly. “I just—our life was already weird enough today.”

  Katie was watching with huge eyes. “If she turns out to be a sea witch, I’m moving out,” she said.

  “If she does turn out to be one,” I shot back, “you and her are not becoming friends. I’m not running a coven out of this house.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Katie’s eyes narrowed like she had a comeback locked and loaded… then she decided I wasn’t worth it.

  She huffed. “Hmph. Whatever.”

  Then she turned pointedly to Mom—like I’d officially been dismissed from the conversation. “I’m heading out. A few girls and I are going to the new indoor skating rink that just opened.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” Mom said lovingly, beckoning her over for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Bye, Mom,” Katie said as she started out the front door—then she turned back to me. “Bye, loser.”

  She stuck her tongue out and pulled down one eye in an exaggerated face.

  I rolled my eyes. “Sisters.”

  Mom gave me a light shove toward the back door. “Go,” she said. “Before those cookies cool completely.”

  I tightened my grip on the bag and the folded dress, ready to bolt.

  “And Steven—”

  Her voice stopped me cold.

  Mom’s eyes flicked to the calendar. Her mouth pressed into a line.

  “We’ll talk later,” she said, softer. “Just… go.”

  My stomach dipped like I’d missed a step.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “Okay.”

  And then I was out the door.

  ---

  I ran back to the dunes with the dress and the bag, heart pounding for a completely different reason now.

  Aqua was still in the lawn chair, hair blown a little drier by the wind. Her eyes were on the horizon—distant and focused at the same time.

  She turned when she heard my footsteps.

  “You returned,” she said.

  “Told you I would,” I replied, feeling oddly proud about that.

  I held out the dress and cardigan. “My mom sent these. She has a gift for collecting things ‘just in case.’ I’m starting to think this is what ‘just in case’ was.”

  Aqua ran her fingers over the fabric, wonder flickering across her face. “They are soft,” she said. “And warm.”

  “And these are arguably the most important part.” I set the bag at her feet. “Muffins. Sugar cookies. Water. If anything can make you forgive Florida for existing, it’s my mom’s baking.”

  She smiled faintly at that.

  “Turn around?” she asked softly. “I would like to put these on without… the whole sky watching.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely. Zero sky involvement,” I said quickly, spinning around so fast my sandals scuffed deep into the sand.

  Behind me, fabric rustled. The towel shifted. She made a small, frustrated sound at one point—probably fighting with the dress. I stared very hard at the dune grass, which had never been so interesting in my life.

  “Does this piece go over my head?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Head first, then arms. Cardigan after. Sandals last. That’s the law.”

  Another rustle. A tiny huff of concentration.

  “I think… I understand now,” she said after a moment. “You may look.”

  I turned slowly.

  The blue sundress hung a little loose at her waist but still looked like it was made for her, the color pulling out the lighter tones in her eyes. The gray cardigan softened everything, making her look less like someone the ocean had dropped off and more like she might actually belong here.

  Her hair had started to dry, falling in damp waves over her shoulders, the light blue streaks catching the sunlight like faint ripples.

  “You look…” I stopped myself before my mouth could say something stupid like beautiful. “The dress looks right on you. Like it knew who was coming.”

  She touched the hem lightly. “It feels… kind,” she said. “Like your mother.”

  “Yeah,” I said, my throat a little tight. “That tracks.”

  I handed her the water and nudged the bag closer. “Try the muffin. Trust me.”

  She bit into it cautiously, then again less cautiously. Her eyes widened slightly; her shoulders lowered like tension she’d been unconsciously holding finally let go.

  “This tastes like… warmth,” she said slowly. “And safety.”

  “Yup,” I said. “Mom’s superpower.”

  She picked up a sugar cookie next, took a bite, and actually closed her eyes for a second.

  “This one tastes… happy,” she murmured.

  I couldn’t help grinning. “She’ll love hearing that.”

  Aqua looked out toward the water again, her expression thoughtful. “You and your family,” she said slowly. “You do not feel like a storm.”

  “That’s hilarious,” I said quietly. “You haven’t met my dad yet.”

  “You do not sound excited about that,” she noted.

  “It’s… complicated,” I said, digging the tip of my sandal into the sand. “He’s gone a lot. When he’s here, it feels like the air in the house gets smaller. My mom bakes more. My sister talks louder. I go up to the roof.”

  “And watch from far away,” she said, like she could see it.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “From far away.”

  She was quiet for a moment, studying me instead of the horizon.

  “Today,” she said, “you came close.”

  For someone who didn’t remember much, she had a talent for saying things that went straight through my ribs.

  “I couldn’t just leave you there,” I said. “That would make me an actual disaster. I’m only a minor one.”

  A small laugh escaped her. It was soft, but real.

  “You are not a disaster, Steven,” she said.

  “You’ve known me less than an hour,” I said.

  “I am a good judge of storms,” she replied. “You feel more like… an anchor.”

  No one had ever called me that before.

  I didn’t know what to do with it, so I defaulted to the next step.

  “So,” I said, clearing my throat, “here’s the plan. My mom wants to actually meet you—officially—before I drag you into town. There’s a thrift shop near the beach. Cheap clothes, shoes, jackets… all that. She said every girl deserves to have at least one outfit she chose herself.”

  Aqua looked down at the borrowed dress again, fingers smoothing the fabric. “Something that is mine,” she said quietly. “Not just… given.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “We’ll go, you’ll pick stuff, and then you’ll be slightly more prepared for this Sunshine State.”

  She gave me a small smile. “I would like that.”

  I offered her my hand. “Think your legs can handle the walk back up? The path’s a little steep.”

  She looked at her feet like she was still getting used to seeing them. “If I fall,” she said, meeting my eyes, “you will catch me?”

  The question was simple. The way she asked it made it feel like something bigger.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I will.”

  She took my hand.

  ---

  We walked together along the sand, leaving two sets of footprints behind—hers new and careful, mine as familiar as the tide. The ocean hummed steadily at our backs, sugar cookie crumbs still dusting her fingers.

  I’d woken up that morning thinking the biggest thing on my to-do list was don’t waste summer.

  Now I was leading a girl named Aqua—who tasted food like it was magic and talked about storms like they were people—back toward the house on the cliff.

  Every few steps, she looked around like she was memorizing everything. Not in a tourist way. In a I might need to remember how to find my way back kind of way.

  As we reached the narrow path that led up from the beach, her pace slowed. The incline wasn’t long, but it was steep enough that it made your calves complain if you weren’t used to it.

  “You good?” I asked, glancing back.

  Aqua nodded once, but her grip tightened on the strap of the bag like she was bracing herself. “Yes. It is only… more effort than I expected.”

  “Yeah,” I said, a little breathless as we started up. “This path humbles everyone the first time.”

  She took another step, then another—careful, like she was listening to her body and trying not to show it.

  When her foot slid on loose sand, she wobbled.

  I caught her without thinking.

  My hand went to her elbow. Steady. Automatic. Like my brain had decided we’re not letting her fall was just a rule now.

  Aqua blinked up at me, and something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or the quiet relief of knowing someone was paying attention.

  “Sorry,” I started.

  She shook her head quickly. “Thank you.”

  We kept going.

  By the time we reached the top, the wind hit different up here—stronger, cooler, carrying the smell of salt and sun-baked wood. My house sat bright against the sky, steady and familiar.

  For a second, I saw it through Aqua’s eyes: the cliff, the height, the way the world dropped away behind it.

  Safe, but also… intimidating.

  “It’s okay,” I said, softer than before. “You’re almost there.”

  Aqua exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath without noticing.

  Then we stepped inside.

  The warmth hit immediately—the smell of sugar, the quiet clink of cooling racks, the soft hum of home.

  Mom turned from the counter.

  Her eyes went to Aqua right away.

  Concern rose first—not suspicion. Not anger. Just that mother-instinct sharpness that always made me feel like she could see through walls.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and her voice went gentle. “You must be the girl from the beach.”

  Aqua stood a little straighter, smoothing the front of the dress like she was trying to look presentable for a world she didn’t fully understand.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “My name is Aqua. Thank you for the clothes… and the food. Your muffins and cookies are very special.”

  Something in Mom’s face softened. Like she was relieved to hear Aqua speak at all.

  “I’m glad you liked them,” Mom said. “I’m Kathrine. Steven’s mom.” She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer—but not too close, like she didn’t want to overwhelm her. “Come sit down, honey. You look like you’ve had a very long morning.”

  Aqua sat. I sat too, across from her, because leaving her alone with my mother’s kindness felt weirdly dangerous—like it might knock her over.

  Mom studied Aqua the way people check for injuries without touching.

  “Are you hurt anywhere?” she asked. “Dizzy? Cold? Anything feel wrong?”

  “No,” Aqua said. “Just… adjusting.”

  Mom nodded slowly like she believed her even if she didn’t fully understand what “adjusting” meant.

  “Steven said you remember the storm,” she said gently. “Do you remember where you came from? Anyone we should call?”

  Aqua’s gaze lowered to the table.

  “I remember the waves,” she said carefully. “The sky. The wind. I remember… wanting to be somewhere else. And then waking up on the sand.”

  It wasn’t the whole truth. Even I could tell.

  Mom didn’t press.

  “All right,” she said softly. “Whatever brought you here, you’re not alone now.” Her voice turned firmer, like she was laying down a rule for the universe. “We’ll help you get settled, and we’ll make sure you have a safe place to stay while you figure out what comes next.”

  Something shifted in Aqua’s expression—relief mixed with uncertainty, like she wasn’t used to kindness that didn’t ask for anything back.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I do not wish to be a burden.”

  “You are not a burden,” Mom said immediately. “You’re a guest.”

  I watched Aqua’s shoulders ease at that, just a fraction.

  Mom’s gaze flicked to the dress again. “That color suits you,” she said. “Brings out your eyes.”

  “It feels kind,” Aqua murmured.

  Mom chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard clothes described that way, but I like it.”

  Then Mom tilted her head, studying Aqua the way she studied Katie when she was lying.

  “How old are you, dear?”

  Aqua paused only a heartbeat.

  “I am… eighteen.”

  “Me too,” I said quickly, because my brain decided that was important for some reason.

  Mom’s smile deepened. “Well, that’s convenient.”

  Her eyes flicked—quick as a blink—to the calendar on the wall. A date circled in red seemed to sit there like it wanted attention.

  “When my husband gets back in a few days,” Mom said, smoothing her apron like she could smooth tension out of the air, “things will be… busier. He travels for work, and it changes the house when he’s home.”

  Aqua’s gaze sharpened slightly, like she heard the part Mom didn’t say.

  Mom brightened deliberately. “Until then, we have a little window of calm. We can use it to get you settled.”

  She turned to me. “Take her into town. That thrift place you like by the pier. Proper shoes, a few outfits—anything she needs.”

  “Really?” I blurted. “That’s… a lot.”

  “She needs clothes more than we need numbers sitting in a bank,” Mom said, like that was the end of the discussion.

  Then her voice softened when she looked back at Aqua.

  “Every girl deserves to choose what feels like her,” she said. “Especially after a storm.”

  Aqua’s eyes went shiny in a way that made me look away before I did something stupid like feel too much.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall,” Mom added. “Fresh towels. Take your time.”

  Aqua rose slowly. “You have been very generous,” she said.

  Mom smiled. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you see how many choices there are in the clothing racks. That might be the real test.”

  Aqua’s mouth curved—small, soft—like she was learning what teasing sounded like in this house.

  As Aqua headed down the hall, Mom opened a drawer and pulled out her debit card.

  She pressed it into my hand without ceremony—like it was as normal as handing me a spoon.

  “Use that,” she said quietly. “Whatever she needs.”

  “Mom—”

  “Steven,” she cut in gently, and that was it. No argument allowed.

  I exhaled through my nose and nodded. “Okay.”

  Mom’s gaze flicked toward the hallway—the bathroom door closing softly—then back to me.

  “And Steven,” she added, softer. Like she was reminding me not to slam a door.

  I straightened without meaning to.

  “Let’s keep today… quiet,” she said, smoothing the edge of her apron. “No need to bring more attention to it than necessary.”

  I knew what she meant.

  Not because she said his name.

  Because she didn’t have to.

  My jaw shifted. “Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I won’t.”

  Mom’s shoulders eased a fraction, like that answer mattered more than she wanted it to.

  “Good,” she murmured.

  For a second, she looked tired in a way I didn’t see often—then she lifted her chin and brightened again, like she was choosing calm on purpose.

  “Now go grab your shoes,” she said a little louder. “I’ll wrap a few extra things for the road.”

  I nodded and moved toward the doorway—then stopped when I heard the bathroom door click.

  Aqua stepped out a moment later, hair a little neater, face freshly washed, cardigan smoothed like she’d been preparing herself to be seen.

  She looked steadier—still quiet, still observant, but less like she might disappear if someone spoke too loudly.

  Mom’s expression softened all over again.

  “Feeling any better?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Aqua said. “Thank you.”

  Mom nodded like she’d accept that answer and hold the rest gently. “Good. Steven will take you into town. You can choose a few things for yourself.”

  Aqua’s eyes flicked to me—just a quick check-in—then she nodded.

  I opened the back door and held my hand out, motioning for her to go first.

  Aqua hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping out.

  Mom watched us for a second, and I could feel the way she didn’t say anything—but still said everything.

  “Be back before it gets too late,” she told me, like it was a normal day.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We will.”

  Aqua glanced once more toward the kitchen—the cookies, the warmth, the woman who smelled like sugar and quiet strength.

  Then she stepped out into the sun.

  I followed.

  And for the first time since the storm, it felt like the day might actually move forward.