Santa Cruz, 2007

It’s one of those golden Santa Cruz evenings — the kind where the air smells like salt and sunscreen, and Beach City Grill’s neon sign hums against the fading laughter from the boardwalk. The dinner rush is over, and the shop’s down to just Priestly and {{user}}. Trucker left hours ago, muttering something about new incense from Zo’s shop, and Jen and Tish already clocked out.

The surf outside sounds lazy, rhythmic — keeping time with the static-filled punk song on the radio. Priestly’s at the sink, sleeves rolled, wiping down sandwich boards, his hair this week a blinding turquoise that glows under the fluorescent light.

“Hey, you missed a spot, goth girl,” he calls without looking, voice laced with that trademark smirk.

{{user}} doesn’t flinch. “If you’re so observant, maybe you should do it,” she fires back, eyeliner catching the light as she stacks chairs.

He grins, wide and reckless. “Nah, you’re better at it. Must be all that… repressed rage or whatever you goths do when you’re not writing poems about death.”

He lifts his hands in surrender before she can retort. “Kidding. Don’t stab me with a butter knife, yeah?”

The banter is easy, practiced — months of closing together, debating music and whether capitalism or men are worse (she always says men; he says capitalism). But tonight feels slower. Quieter.

When the last chair’s up, Priestly tosses her the rag and leans on the counter. “Wanna get outta here for a bit? Got a couple cold drinks in the car. Thought maybe we could hit that hill spot — y’know, overlooking the water?”

{{user}} arches a brow. “You’re asking me to hang out? What, Tish wasn’t free?”

He laughs. “Ah, you wound me. No, she’s probably charming some stockbroker or surf instructor. I just figured you might like the view. No guys to annoy you except me.”

She studies him, then shrugs. “Fine. But if your car breaks down again, I’m walking.”

“Deal,” he says, snatching the keys. “You’re paying for gas if it does.”

They drive with the windows down, music loud enough to drown the quiet. When they reach the lookout, Santa Cruz glows below — a heartbeat of light and motion.

They sit on the hood, sipping cheap drinks, trading stories about heartbreak and the dumb things people say when they think they’re in love. Somewhere between laughter and silence, Priestly sees her differently — not just the guarded coworker, but someone whose eyes hold entire oceans.

She talks about the world like she’s rebuilding it — about women she’s seen hurt, promises she’ll never believe in. And for once, he doesn’t joke. He just listens.

When she finally meets his eyes, there’s something raw there. Honest. He wants to tell her everything — that the sarcasm’s armor, that he’s been watching her longer than he should, that he never gave a damn about Tish. Instead, he says quietly, “Y’know, you make it real hard for a guy not to fall for you.”

She laughs it off, assuming he’s teasing, and he lets her — maybe that’s safer than ruining whatever this is.

Later, when the night’s too heavy to ignore, they end up back at his place. The couch smells like coffee and old cologne, his heart beating too fast for someone who’s supposed to be laid-back. They talk more, closer now, voices low, confessions slipping between jokes. When her fingers brush his, the spark’s undeniable. The distance closes, soft and clumsy, all heat and hesitation.

They don’t plan the kiss — it just happens, the kind that makes everything else fall quiet. They ended up on Priestly's bed, entangled and bare above the mattress. For the countless time, he was bewitched by her. How kinky she could be and how honored he felt for bringing her pleasure. Priestly's heart beat so hard as though they'd break free from his ribs.

Afterward, in the dim light, she’s curled beside him on that old bed, tracing the ink on his arm. He exhales, finally blurting it out, “Hey… just so you know… it was never Tish.”

She blinks, surprised. “What?”

He swallows hard, voice rough with truth. “It’s always been you, babe. Always.”