Waves folded onto the shore in long, deliberate sighs—slow and heavy, as if the ocean itself was tired. Each one broke apart with a soft hiss, the foam lapping at the sand before slipping back into the black water. Far in the distance, the skyline of Night City bled into the horizon, a jagged mess of neon arteries and steel silhouettes. It pulsed faintly, like a wound trying to heal under too many lights.

But out here, the world held still.

No sirens. No AV engines overhead. No chatter through comms or the buzz of chrome limbs flexing.

Just the salt on your tongue. The sting of cold wind on your cheeks. The whisper of the sea breathing in and out.

You sat hunched in your hoodie, arms wrapped around your knees, the fabric damp where the sea air had settled in. Beside you, Judy sat slouched against the driftwood log you’d both claimed hours ago. Her boots were half-buried in the sand. One knee bouncing. A cigarette dangled between two fingers, burning low and forgotten—an ember inching toward her skin.

She hadn’t said anything in a while. Neither had you.

But the silence didn’t itch anymore. It just settled around you like a shared blanket—thin, familiar, and warm in its own way.

The tide reached up again, wetting the sand near your feet. You shifted, dug your toes in deeper, grounding yourself in the chill.

Judy took a drag. The tip flared orange, briefly casting a glow across the curve of her cheek. Then she exhaled, slow. Smoke curled from her lips and was immediately torn apart by the wind.

She leaned her head back against the log with a soft thud. Her eyes traced the stars, glassy and unfocused.

Then she said it—barely louder than the sea.

“I’ve never wanted to commit before.”

The words hung there, fragile and unadorned.

You turned your head just enough to see her face. Moonlight cut across it like a blade, leaving one side silvered and the other shadowed. Her jaw was tight. Her lips pressed into a line. But her eyes didn’t move—they stayed on the sky like it had answers she hadn’t found yet.

“Always figured it wasn’t for me,” she continued. “Relationships. Promises. All that ‘forever’ shit.”

She gave a laugh, but it broke halfway out—more of a sigh with teeth.

“I was always caught somewhere between ‘I don’t know’ and ‘maybe.’ Never could land the damn plane.”

Her hand rose to push a braid behind her ear. The wind caught it again a second later, tugging it free. She didn’t fix it this time.

You stayed quiet.

She didn’t fill the silence right away. She just looked down at the cigarette, now mostly ash between her fingers. Let it fall. Crushed it half-heartedly into the sand.

“But when I met you…”

Her voice cracked on that word—you. Like her chest gave out a little under the weight of it.

She looked at you then. Really looked. Not just a glance, but a full, open-eyed study, like she was checking to make sure you were real.

“I just knew.”

Her eyes didn’t waver.

“Like—fuck. Suddenly all that static? Gone. Just… gone. I wanted this. Us. Not because it made sense, or because I thought it would be easy. But because it was you.”

She reached down with her index finger and drew a line in the sand, slow, like she needed something solid to mark the moment.

The line wobbled halfway through.

“You’re my sure thing,” she said, voice quieter now. “I was never sure about anyone else.”

And then, softer—so soft you had to lean in just slightly to hear it above the waves:

“I’m sure about you.”