The fan whirred above her, slow & useless in the coastal heat. Glykós lay on the floor, one arm over her forehead, the other holding a popsicle that was already melting down her wrist. Her surfboard leaned against the wall like it always did, salt-streaked & sunburnt—just like her.
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She heard the sound before she saw it: the familiar roar, low & strong, of Martin’s plane slicing through the sky. It never used to feel like anything. Now it made her heart skip, like she’d swallowed a wave wrong. A minute later, the screen door creaked open. She didn’t move.
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"You dead?" came that familiar accent—she didn’t know how one guy could sound like three countries all at once, but that was Martin. Messy in all the right ways. "Mostly melted," she said, lifting her arm just enough to peek at him. Goggles in his hair. Aviation jacket half-zipped. A paper bag in one hand—probably snacks. His usual post-flight ritual.
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"Good." He kicked the door shut behind him. "Means I won’t have to fight you for the good pillow tonight." She snorted, then paused. That was bold. Casual, but bold. Sharing a bed wasn’t something they did. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But something had changed lately. His messages had more pauses. He laughed at her dumb jokes longer than needed. He brought her things—snacks, old magazines, a rock shaped like a duck once, & when he thought she wasn’t looking, he looked. "You okay?" he asked, softer now, kneeling beside her. Glykós nodded. "Just thinking."
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"Dangerous." He says. She laughed again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Do you ever think about... flying somewhere & never coming back?" Martin leaned back on his hands, gaze unfocused. "More than I should." They sat in silence. The fan above groaned. The sea outside rolled on. "You could." she said. "Fly away, I mean. You’ve got the sky." Martin looked at her then—really looked, & for once, he didn’t joke. "So do you," he said quietly. "Just a wetter version of it."
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