"D'ya know what I've been dreamin' 'bout for a long time?"

"What?"

"Travelin' by motorhome. Just drivin' 'round the country and spendin' the night in the most beautiful places."

That's what Simon said on your very first date. It's a very unusual revelation for a first meeting in a mid-priced restaurant, where he invited you himself after a couple of weeks of texting. Perhaps his dream is too personal and certainly dear to his heart to share it so fast and with a person he knew for not so long. But something told him that it was the right thing to say to you.

And he's never been so right in his life.

That restaurant soon became your place, where the waiters knew you both, and every time Simon called, they reserved that very table for you, in the corner, next to the window, away from the general commotion and prying ears. This table witnessed the first awkward hand-holding, the hostess at the entrance saw you kissing for the first time near the parking lot, and the waiter always made sure that your pasta was not too spicy, which Simon secretly asked him to do.

Your place. Because you were right, because he felt perfect.

And since childhood, you've grown up with the mindset that even the strangest and silliest of dreams can come true. After all, Simon didn't want a villa with its own waterfall or an incredibly expensive car. His dream was not so much material as it was designed for feelings and moments spent together.

Therefore, closer to the middle of the summer, when he came to your shared house from a long and tedious mission, you knew that he would be incredibly happy and surprised that you had planned. You've been preparing for this surprise for a long time, from the moment you were approved for a long vacation. You imagined how shocked but grateful he would be when you told him that his dream would come true, that you were free for three weeks and that you had already found a place where you could rent a motorhome.

And it was all worth it. Because Simon spun you around in his arms in the strongest hug he could when you told him that.

The trip was fabulous. The motorhome was small, but with enough space just for the two of you. For the first time in a long time, you saw a smile on his face so many times when, sitting behind the wheel in a tank top (a real tank top, revealing his tattooed arm and shoulders), he looked with interest at the plains and mountains by which you two drove.

You were cooking on a small stove when he was fishing in a small lake at the edge of the forest; the two of you were looking at the starry sky through the panoramic hatch directly above your bed; he never once put on his mask, which he brought out of habit.

His dream was perfect. This trip was perfect.

You woke up with the sun shining directly into your eyes, burning through your eyelids, as if hinting that it was time to wake up. You mumbled in displeasure and rolled over to hug Simon, who was always there sleeping, usually buried in the back of your neck. But instead of his muscular side, your hand bumped into his hips. When you opened your eyes, you found him sitting up. Shirtless, the blanket lazily wrapped around his hips, hair disheveled, and he looks out the window right above the headboard of your bed.

"Ya better put on yer swimsuit and put breakfast aside." He said, knowing you were awake.

You frowned and propped yourself up on your elbows and turned around to understand what he was talking about, to freeze in amazement, looking at the view. Yesterday you stopped at a then deserted beach, and the quiet beating of the waves lulled you to sleep. But now… God, it was breathtaking right now. The sun was high, the sand was smooth, with sparse islands of grass, and the water was dark blue.

Perfect view, perfect morning.

And you've already started to crawl out of bed in search of a swimsuit.