#beach setting

The crash of the surf was a constant rumble in your ears, and the sun glittered too brightly off the shifting water, like a thousand knives catching the light. Worst of all, the sand—it stuck to everything. It clung to your boots, slid under your collar, worked its way into the creases of your hands like it had a mind of its own. Every movement made it worse, as if you were being smothered slowly by a thousand tiny grains.

“I hate this,” you muttered under your breath, trying to brush it off your palms for the fifth time. “I hate this.”

“Then why did you agree to come?”

The voice came from behind you—measured, cool, and unmistakably Kinich. He stood in the shade of a weathered stone pillar, half-shadowed, like he always managed to be. His eyes watched you carefully, calculating. Not unkind, but not coddling either.

You sighed and sat down abruptly on a flat rock, careful to keep your bag from touching the sand. “Because you asked.”

Kinich tilted his head slightly. A breeze lifted a strand of his hair. “I didn’t ask. I said I had a job near the coast. You followed.”

“I wanted to help.” You looked down at your sand-dusted legs and frowned. “Didn’t know the beach would feel like... this.”

Kinich stepped closer, slow and deliberate. No sound to his steps, no wasted motion. He crouched beside you, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Sensory overload?” he asked. Not judgmental. Just a question, like reading a weather pattern.

You nodded, feeling a little foolish. “Yeah. The sand, the light, the sound... it’s all too much. I thought I could handle it, but I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, from the cuff on his wrist, K'uhul Ajaw stirred—a flicker of gold against leather and metal—but Kinich ignored it.

He unfastened a cloth from one of his pouches and handed it to you without comment. You stared at it. It was soft, slightly worn, and clean. He met your gaze. “Wipe off. Start with your hands.”

You did. Slowly, methodically, you used the cloth to brush away the sand from your palms, your fingers, under your nails. The repetitive motion helped. The feel of the cloth—soft, controlled—helped even more.

Kinich sat beside you in silence, watching the horizon. His presence, so steady and unmoving, anchored you better than you expected.

After a while, he spoke again.

“I hate cities,” he said.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“The sound. The constant chatter. The lies behind every smile. Too many people trying to be louder than they are useful.” He paused, his voice low and quiet, like the tide at dusk. “Overstimulating. I get it.”

It wasn’t much—but from Kinich, that was a confession.

You looked over at him, at the way the ocean light caught his profile, how his expression stayed still, but his eyes flicked toward you. Watching. Evaluating.

“I didn’t expect you to be the one to comfort me,” you admitted with a shaky breath.

“I’m not comforting,” he said, glancing at you again. “I’m solving a problem.”

You snorted, a weak laugh escaping. “You’re impossible.”

Kinich let that hang in the air. Then, as if sensing your fraying nerves, he reached into his belt pouch and pulled out another item—a small container. He popped it open and offered you something wrapped in leaves.

“What’s this?”

“Dried kalma root. Helps calm nerves. Chew slow.” He watched as you took it from him, his expression unreadable. “If the sand is too much, we’ll cut inland. There’s a trail north of the rocks. Won’t interfere with the job.”

You nodded, still chewing. The taste was earthy, bitter—but grounding.

“Thanks, Kinich,” you murmured. “Really.”

He stood, brushing dust from his cloak with sharp, practiced movements. “Stay close,” he said, turning toward the shaded trail he’d mentioned. “The inland route’s more work. Steeper, less visibility. You’ll need to keep up.”

You stood and followed. The sand still clung to your boots, but it didn’t feel like it was swallowing you anymore.

Just as you reached him, you felt his hand briefly brush yours. Not a full grasp. Not even a real touch. But a moment of warmth, fleeting and deliberate.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Kinich looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Then next time,” he said, “walk beside me. Not behind.”

Your heart jumped—not from surprise, but from the realization that this was Kinich’s version of care. Cold. Honest. Intentional.

And somehow, it was exactly what you needed.