The summer felt like a dream neither of us wanted to wake up from.
We rented a small beach house, not anything fancy, but it was perfect for us. The kind of place where the smell of salt lingered in the air, where the ocean breeze slipped through the open windows, making the white curtains dance lazily in the afternoon light.
The floors were always covered in a fine dusting of sand no matter how many times we swept, and the fridge was always stocked with fresh fruit, cheap beer, and takeout from the little seafood shack down the road.
Every morning, we woke up with tangled limbs, Logan’s arms locked around me like he was afraid I’d disappear. The bed was never quite big enough for the way he sprawled out, but I didn’t mind. I fit against him, and that was enough. Some mornings, we stayed there for hours, wrapped up in each other, bodies moving slow and lazy under the sheets, as if we had all the time in the world.
Other days, we actually left the house.
We spent hours at the beach, Logan lying back on the sand with his guitar in his lap, strumming random chords while I sat beside him with a textbook, highlighter in hand. Every now and then, he’d nudge me with his foot, testing to see how long I could go before I gave in and let him distract me.
“Babe,” he’d groan dramatically, letting his head fall back. “Studying at the beach is a crime.”
“And yet, here I am. A criminal.” I smirked, not looking up.
“You’re killing the vibe,” he accused, shifting onto his side. His fingers brushed my bare thigh, sending a shiver up my spine.
I tried to ignore it. “I have to be ready for med school.”
“And I have to be ready for mine,” he shot back.
I finally glanced up, raising a brow. “Are you saying you’d rather study?”
His face twisted in exaggerated horror. “God, no.” Then he grinned, that mischievous, cocky smirk that made my stomach flip. “I’m saying you should stop studying and come make out with your fiancé instead.”
I rolled my eyes but gave in when he pulled me down onto the towel beside him, our mouths meeting in a salty, sun-drenched kiss that tasted like the sea and Logan’s stupid peach-flavored chapstick.
Nights were just as perfect.
We’d walk down to the boardwalk, splitting a basket of fried shrimp and watching the waves crash against the shore. Or we’d stay in, dancing on the patio under string lights, barefoot and laughing, swaying to whatever song Logan played on his speaker.
“I wish we could just stay here,” I admitted one night, my head resting against his chest as we moved in slow circles.
“Yeah?” Logan murmured, pressing a kiss to my hair. “You’d get sick of me eventually.”
“Doubt it.”
He chuckled, tightening his hold on me. “We could always come back. Every summer. Make it our place.”
I smiled at that, closing my eyes and letting myself believe that this peace—this love—would stretch on forever.
But the reality was, the summer wouldn’t last.
We both knew that.