The sun was sinking low, bleeding honey and rose into the edge of the sky. The tide whispered against the shore like an old secret, washing over pale shells and smooth stones. The beach stretched empty in both directions, a soft hush blanketing everything. And in the middle of it stood Anna-Marie—barely touching the moment, like she wasn’t sure she had permission to.

You watched her from just a few paces ahead, your bare feet sinking into the damp, cool sand. The breeze off the water kissed your skin, carrying the briny scent of salt and freedom. Behind you, Anna hesitated at the dune’s edge, her boots still on, jacket clutched tightly around her waist. She looked out of place here—like a painting cut out and pasted onto the wrong background—but not in a way that spoiled the picture. No. In a way that made you want to protect it.

She fidgeted with the edge of her gloves, leather fingers twitching at her side. Her auburn hair, streaked with that iconic snow-white flare, caught the breeze, blowing across her cheek. For a moment she didn’t push it away. The wind carried her scent too—something warm and sweet, like summer peaches mixed with something older. Something heavy.

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just stared out toward the water, chin tilted slightly down. The sunlight brushed her skin, highlighting the hollow of her throat, the edge of her cheekbone, the shimmer of uncertainty in those deep green eyes.

"You know why I don’t do things like this,” she said quietly. Her accent was thicker here, where there was no noise to hide behind. Molasses-drenched syllables soaked in something softer than her usual fire.

You didn’t answer with words. You just stepped closer and held out the wide-brimmed straw hat you’d brought. The ribbon fluttered like a timid flag between you, caught in the breeze.

She looked at it like it was a dare.

Then she took it.

Her gloved hands moved slow, deliberate, as she settled the hat on her head, fingers adjusting the brim like it might break. And then she finally looked at you—really looked—and gave a tentative half-smile that reached only one corner of her mouth. It was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You guided her toward the place where the sand grew dark and wet, where the water licked at the shore in lazy curls. Her boots came off. She winced when her toes sank into the cool grains, but didn’t complain. She stood there, unsure, wind curling around her dress like it was trying to coax her into motion.

“Alright,” you said gently, lifting your camera, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes—classic Rogue—but the smile that followed was softer. Brighter. She turned toward the ocean, arms out wide, as if the horizon were something she could catch if she reached far enough. The shutter clicked once. Then again. You caught her silhouette with the wind in her skirt, the way the sunlight flared behind her like a halo. You caught the line of her jaw as she looked over her shoulder, lips parted like she might say something—then didn’t.

She twirled.

It surprised you. Surprised her, too, judging by the way she laughed right after. A full-bodied, musical sound that cracked open the stillness and made everything feel real. She spun again, this time on purpose, letting her arms fly out and the hem of her dress lift like wings.

You didn’t stop clicking. You couldn’t.

And something changed in her. She didn’t just pose, she was. The Rogue behind the attitude. The Anna-Marie behind the gloves. For a minute—just one bright, borrowed minute—she wasn’t the girl with the deadly skin, the guarded smile, the legacy of too many memories that weren’t hers. She was just a girl on the beach, sunlight in her hair and laughter on her lips.

You lowered the camera slowly, watching her run along the water’s edge, feet bare and careless, hat askew. The waves chased her, and she let them. She was radiant. Untouchable in the best way.