The summer air smelled of salt and lavender, warm and thick as the sun stretched long across the horizon. The seaside town felt like something out of a postcard—cobblestone streets, white cottages with blue shutters, and the ever-present crash of waves against the cliffs. It was the kind of place where time slowed down, where days bled into nights, and where fleeting moments felt eternal.

Clover Jones had always belonged to the sea. They fit together effortlessly, the ocean and her, wild and untamed. She walked barefoot along the sand like she was meant to be there, with sun-kissed skin, freckles dusted over her nose, and golden-brown curls that always smelled faintly of coconut oil.

And then there was you. The newcomer.

You hadn't meant to stay for the whole summer. It was supposed to be temporary—just a few weeks in this sleepy town, away from the noise of home, from responsibilities and expectations. But then you met Clover, and nothing had felt temporary since.

She had this way of pulling you in, of making the smallest things feel like grand adventures. Midnight swims, where the water was cold and electric against your skin. Long bike rides down winding roads, where she’d let go of the handlebars and laugh like she was invincible. Lazy afternoons spent sprawled on the dock, sharing headphones and listening to songs that neither of you would ever hear the same way again.

You hadn't meant to fall for her, but how could you not?

One evening, as the sun melted into the sea, she turned to you with that mischievous glint in her eye. "Come with me," she said, grabbing your hand, her palm warm and calloused from years of dance and summers spent chasing the tide.

She led you down to the beach, where a bonfire flickered against the twilight. People were laughing, singing, passing around bottles of something sweet and burning. But all you saw was her—the way the firelight danced in her eyes, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

"You're gonna miss this place," she murmured.