MARIA

You’re crouched by the rocks, thinking (maybe overthinking, definitely overthinking) about how tides are basically nature’s very slow, very patient way of rearranging furniture, nudging the shoreline grain by grain. Erosion as decoration, oceanic feng shui.

Your toes, lacking imagination or enthusiasm for your existential oceanic musings, wriggle unhappily in gritty sand, damp and insistent, like the world’s least appealing exfoliation treatment. 

But you’re stubborn, and stubborn means you’ll ignore discomfort if there’s something captivating enough to distract you. And just ahead, caught in the safe anonymity of shadow, is a small crab. It skitters sideways, freezes mid-motion, as though playing the world’s tensest, tiniest game of red light, green light. 

You’ve never really gotten the hang of “enjoying” the beach like a normal person, have you?

Even as a kid, your beach trips meant scraped knees and awkward contortions above tiny tide pools. Scientist postures adopted decades too early. Your mind always running away from you, darting through an endless maze of questions that refused resolution.

Once you tried to smuggle an entire jar of seawater home, insisting it was important, vital even, despite overwhelming visual evidence that it was just… salty water with a few grains of drifting sand. 

“Brachyura,” a voice says from behind you, abrupt and far too close to your ear to belong to a stranger. Your breath hitches and your foot slides ineptly in the damp sand.

Gravity lurches enthusiastically toward public embarrassment, already whispering promises of sandy humiliation, but a pair of hands find your shoulders, tugging you gently upright like an oversized marionette whose strings they’ve begrudgingly learned to untangle.

You crane your neck up, blinking upward through eyelashes clumped from salt air.

Langdon. 

Fresh from the water, apparently. Incarnation of stern practicality wrapped in saltwater shine. Hair dripping small rivulets of ocean down his neck, skin glistening damply, sunlight skittering over his features as if it, too, is uncertain it will find a kinder place to rest. 

“I — uh, well yes, that’s — technically that’s just the infraorder,”  you stumble hurriedly, words tumbling like dominoes, trying desperately not to acknowledge the persistent warmth of his hands still bracing your shoulders. You straighten your spine, awkwardly graceful (okay, mostly awkward), as your mouth rushes ahead without permission from your brain — “Which is good, infraorders are perfectly good places to start, broad strokes and all that, but, if you want specificity, which I assume you do, since you’re you and everything, accuracy-wise, I’d guess Grapsidae? Because of, um, the carapace? Although I realize that’s probably not visible from your angle, which makes this an educated guess — or maybe an overly ambitious one? Anyway, I might be wrong — though, honestly, I don’t really think I am.”

Langdon’s eyebrows lift fractionally, and without explicitly calling out your obvious spiral into nervousness (small mercies), he simply crouches next to you, hands moving from your shoulders to his knees, leaning forward into your shared fixation on the tiny creature.

“Carpace shape would definitely clarify,” he agrees softly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Of course, if accuracy’s our goal — and you’re right, that’s very much my thing — we could always catch it and verify. Or is speculation more your comfort zone?”

“Catch it?” You practically squeak, eyes wide, picturing your clumsy human hands accidentally crushing something so small and helpless, immediately spiraling into guilty imagined apologies and crab funerals (poorly attended, perhaps only yourself, a few baffled seagulls, and the soundless waves). “No, no, speculation is good. Excellent, actually. Much safer for everyone involved, particularly tiny, defenseless beach residents.”

“Probably wise,” he murmurs, his voice barely louder than the tide hushing at your feet. “Better not to risk it. I suppose some things are best left unconfirmed.”

You shift infinitesimally closer, almost involuntarily, and find your voice tumbling out again before you can reconsider, earnestness coloring each syllable: “I'm still inclined to think it's Grapsidae, though.”

Langdon hums in soft acknowledgment, a small sound that vibrates through him into you, startlingly intimate in its resonance.

“Confidence is appealing, even misplaced confidence,” he remarks casually. “Though I’d argue it looks more Portunidae.”

“No — no, see, Portunidae is — well, not impossible exactly, but definitely unlikely, because the back legs on Portunidae are paddle-shaped, distinctly modified for swimming, right? And this crab, if you look closely, has pointy, ordinary walking legs, which —” Your eyes flicker upward, catching the small, barely-there curve of his mouth. “Oh. You’re… you're totally messing with me right now, aren’t you?”

Langdon’s smile broadens just enough to confirm your suspicion, eyes glinting. He lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, lightly apologetic in theory, not remotely in reality.

“Guilty. Sorry,” he admits. “I have this innate desire to contradict you. Consider it a character flaw.”

You tilt your head slightly, making an unsuccessful attempt at hiding your grin, cheeks undeniably warm. Purely sun-induced warmth, naturally (or at least that’s what you tell yourself).

“That explains everything,” you say, affecting an exaggerated, mock-serious air. “Honestly, this puts your whole personality into clearer perspective.”

Langdon chuckles quietly under his breath, the sound rare and low enough to draw your eyes back to his face. “Well, now you know. Incurably flawed, I'm afraid.”

“Deeply incurable.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a quiet smile playing softly at the corners of his mouth, before turning toward the distant line of waves. 

“Come on,” he says, voice gentle, almost affectionate. “Let's walk. We'll leave our mysterious friend to its existential privacy.”

You follow, still smiling, sand soft beneath your feet and heart inexplicably lighter.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

FIND YOUR SUITCASE HERE!

YOU HELD UP THE LINE REPACKING YOUR BEAUTY PRODUCTS = PRINCESS READER!

YOUR BAG IS OVERWEIGHT BECAUSE OF YOUR SHOE COLLECTION = ER BARBIE READER!

YOU MADE IT THROUGH SECURITY BUT LEFT YOUR SHOES, YOUR WATER BOTTLE, AND ONE (1) CRUCIAL THOUGHT BEHIND IN THREE SEPERATE BINS = ANGEL READER!

YOU PACKED PERFECTLY BUT STILL FEEL UNPREPARED = SUNSHINE READER

YOU MISSED BOARDING WHILE IN THE AIRPORT BOOKSTORE = NERD READER

this was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

“Deep thoughts?” Jack drawls, resting an ankle across his knee.

He watches as you blink back to reality. Your cheek is smushed against your palm, eyes glassy and distant, maybe seeing galaxies or shopping lists, Jack’s never quite sure.

The sun slips golden fingers through your damp curls, threading droplets like tears down your shoulders, staining the pale fabric of your sundress in fading watercolor trails.

“Only the deepest,” you assure him, offering a pout. More theater than truth. You lift your head. “Mostly about what kind of ice cream we’re getting later. You have important input here, Jack, don’t disappoint me.”

“You trust me with a choice like that?” Jack teases, eyes glinting.

But his palms go slick with something like anxiety beneath your expectant gaze.

He’s aware of every tiny sensation now, like the fresh scratch he’s nursing on the roof of his mouth.

Where did that come from, anyway? 

His tongue pushes at the raw little wound compulsively, over and over, sabotaging his already precious facade of laid-back, casual disinterest.

Cool and detached is apparently harder than advertised; imagine that.

“I trust you with everything, silly,” you tell him earnestly, eyes sparkling in the last slivers of the sun’s dying glow sprinkling freckles of warmth across your skin.

He nudges you with his shoulder. “Everything’s a big word. Care to elaborate?”

You nudge him back, giggling, blissfully unaware of the slow dread pooling through his chest, or the faint pressure of obligation suddenly crowding his throat.

“Oh, you know, the big, meaningful stuff. Restaurant decisions, purse-holding emergencies, spinach-in-teeth protocol. Seriously important matters. You’re at peak trustworthiness now, Jack. Consider yourself honored.”

He gives a low whistle. “Wow, purse-holding status already? I didn’t realize we’d gotten that far. Next you’ll be asking me to meet your parents.”

“That’s actually a really good idea! My parents love meeting my friends — my mom always does that embarrassing baby picture thing, but you’d totally survive.”

Friends. 

He turns the word over mentally, sour and mocking like spoiled milk, bitter on the tongue. It feels painfully inadequate, wildly inaccurate.

Friends don’t stumble bleary-eyed out the door at midnight, half-dressed, heart thudding with adrenaline because you thought you heard an intruder outside your window — only to discover a raccoon rummaging through your garbage.

Friends don't obsessively check menus for allergens, driven by irrational visions of accidentally killing you at dinner, or carry spare hair ties like some reluctant, lovesick Boy Scout prepared for oddly specific emergencies.

Jack's running out of ways to make himself clearer.

“Kid, you really make it hard to flirt with you.”

For a second, your face becomes an open book, cycling rapidly through shock, amusement, disbelief, realization, puzzlement, wonder, mild panic, bashfulness, hopefulness, and then back to sheer confusion. 

It's like a rapid-fire slideshow of everything he finds endearing and frustrating about you, distilled down into a few frantic heartbeats.

Finally, you settle on a stunned blink, eyes wide and brows knitted.

“Wait, what? You mean...right now? Or before now?”

Jack chuckles under his breath, something strained in it, hand dragging over the back of his neck like he can physically scrub away the corner he’s just backed himself into.

“Always. Constantly. I basically live in a perpetual state of flirtation-induced existential crisis with you. Frankly, it’s wearing me out.”

You hesitate, searching his face like the answer might be written there if you just look hard enough.

“Why?”

Jack nearly groans aloud, hand pressing harder against his neck, feeling an embarrassment akin to adolescence flooding his chest.

“Why?” he repeats, incredulous and mildly despairing. “Because I like you, okay? Because apparently my sense of self-preservation is broken, and being around you turns me into a masochist who enjoys embarrassment and rejection. Because you're the only person who's ever made me genuinely nervous, and I've survived literal explosions.”

He mentally braces himself, prepared for confusion at best, rejection at worst, anxiety drumming through him like a high schooler waiting for a prom date’s answer.

Instead, you crash into him, all vibrant disbelief, knocking him mentally, and somewhat physically, off balance.

“Jack!” you squeak, body pressed close enough that he can feel the flutter of your heartbeat. “Are you serious right now? You’ve liked me this whole time? Why wouldn’t you just say something? We could’ve been kissing — like, a lot.”

“Whoa, easy there,” Jack laughs, hands quickly finding your waist to stabilize the pandemonium of your limbs, half-laughing and half-alarmed by the tidal wave of enthusiasm colliding against him. “Believe me, if I’d known that kissing was on the table, I would’ve spoken up months ago.”

“So many missed opportunities,”  you lament, tipping your head to consider him, eyes wide.

Jack grins despite himself, gently teasing, “To be fair, I tried repeatedly. You're remarkably hard to communicate romantic interest to.”

"Guess I'll have to make it up to you, then.”

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

"Like this," you whisper softly, closing the distance with careful deliberation, your mouth touching his so sweetly that it mends every fractured moment of miscommunication.

And perhaps all his fumbling signals and hesitant gestures weren't really missed opportunities after all, but merely necessary stepping-stones, quietly guiding him home to exactly this moment, to exactly you.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!