Summer's POV
The town had a rhythm that felt like an apology: slow, sincere, and forgiving.
Mornings here began with the clink of cups and the friendly chatter of neighbors. By noon, vendors called out in easy tones, and by evening, lanterns reflected like quiet promises on the water.
On the third day, Ethan suggested they take a long walk before dinner. No schedule. No plan. No one to tell them what to say.
They followed a narrow path along the cliff, where the wind smelled of salt and old stories. Summer kept her hands in her jacket pockets, watching the way sunlight scattered across the waves.
"You look calmer," Ethan said after a while, breaking an agreeable silence.
"I'm still checking my phone less," she admitted. "So yes—calmer by default." She smiled without thinking. "This place is good at hiding the rest of the world."
He glanced at her. "Maybe we should hide more often." His tone was half-joke, half-serious. She liked the mix.
They reached a small overlook where a lone bench faced the sea. A couple had left a paper map behind, fluttering like a small flag. Summer sat and tucked her feet beneath her, feeling the wood warm under her. Ethan stood a beat, looking out, then sat down beside her. They weren't crowded; there was room enough for the sky.
"How long do we stay?" she asked, voice low.
"As long as we need to remember things that aren't written in headlines," he replied.
She turned to him and found it easier than she thought to speak. "Promise me something," she said. "If it gets noisy again—if people start deciding what we feel—don't let them decide for us."
He met her gaze steady and honest. "I won't let them. We decide our words. We decide our pace."
She let out a breath that felt like surrender and relief mixed together. "Good. Because I don't want a life where everything I say is for someone else."
"You won't have that," he said. "Not with me."
They sat in a quiet that was almost loud—filled with the small rustle of distant waves and the familiar comfort of two people who had shared more than a few storms. At some point, a small fishing boat moved across the horizon and vanished like a thinking thing in the distance. Summer laughed softly. "Simple things do a lot of work here."
Ethan turned, watching the lift of her smile. "And you do a lot of that work," he said, voice careful. "You keep the impossible interesting."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Instead she touched the bracelet on her wrist—the shell he had watched her tie—and felt the memory of the island pulse under her skin.
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Ethan's POV
He had thought the trip would be an escape; it became a reminder. Reminder of why he had tried—and why he had almost let go. Reminder that, even in quiet, decisions mattered.
He liked seeing Summer like this: relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with a camera angle. She moved easily through small tasks here—buying bread, choosing a seat at the market, accepting kindness from strangers. He noticed the way she asked questions and listened to the answers. He liked that she retained curiosity despite the noise that had once swallowed her.
When she asked him to promise, he felt the weight of it settle into his chest like a small stone. Promises weren't light; they anchored you. He smiled because anchoring felt right with her.
"We decide our pace," he repeated. "And if the world gets loud—" He tapped the bench as if it could absorb the sound. "—we'll turn down the volume."
She bumped his shoulder, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.
They stayed until the sun leaned toward the horizon, painting their faces gold and leaving long shadows in front of them. Then they walked back toward town, hands at ease, the shell bracelet tapping her wrist with each step.
At dinner, the innkeeper brought them a small bowl of something sweet—stewed fruit with a hint of cinnamon. They sat close enough to pass spoons and kept bumping knees as if on purpose. No one watched too closely; the town had its own business.
Later that night, after most of the lanterns were out, they walked again under a thin moon. The air was cooler, and the world seemed to unclench. They paused on the small bridge that arched over the harbor, looking at the reflections.
"Would you ever have guessed," Summer murmured, "that this would ever feel normal?"
"No," he said. "But maybe normal is something you get to learn."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, quiet and content. "Teach me, then."
He kept walking, steady and careful. "I will."
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Summer's POV — Later that Night
They returned to the inn to find a note slipped under the door. At first she thought it was a travel flyer. Instead it read:
> A photo was posted of two figures by the harbor. Local feed says it might be them. Thought you should know.
Summer felt a small, annoyed bubble of irritation. Someone had noticed. Someone had always noticed. She handed the note to Ethan.
He read it, then folded it and put it in his pocket. "They'll always look for a story," he said. "That's not news."
"Right," she replied, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "But does the story have to be ours?"
"No." He turned and took her hand then—not a show of affection, but a tether, deliberate and warm. "Not if we don't let it be."
She tightened her fingers around his. "Then we don't."
They went to the window and watched a few late fishermen pack up; no one looked like they were looking for anything other than an early morning catch. The sea carried on as if indifferent, and Summer liked that thought.
They climbed into bed, the inn quiet and friendly. Just before sleep took her, she whispered, "Promise me something else."
"What's that?"
"That when the world gets loud, we remember this night."
He turned in the dark, and she could see his face barely in the moonlight. "I'll remember," he said.
She closed her eyes, certain of the truth of it, and for the first time in a long while, sleep found her without an alert.