#jeanani

The morning is quieter than usual as Annie lies awake in bed, where she mindlessly scrolls through her phone until she feels more awake. Her bed is still warm, though that has less to do with the lingering heat of summer and more with the extra presence on it.

Jean Kirschtein is far from her idea of boyfriend material — but in a way, it's what makes their arrangement more palatable. He's desirable in his own ways, ticking all the boxes of tall, scruffy, and broad-shouldered. But his undeniable punchability and willingness to run his stupid mouth is enough for Annie to decide he's not her type. Nonetheless, Jean is still heat on a cold night, skilled hands and hips that bring her pleasure on lonely evenings, and the means to numb the sting of stress.

She recalls their past evening through sensations rather than memories — the creak of her bed frame, Jean's hands clasping hers, and the bead of sweat on her forehead as she laid back and enjoyed every moment of it.

And now Jean sleeps next to her, his long limbs and broad frame barely fitting on her tiny, twin-sized bed, his feet dangling off the edge. Annie remains in her space, as little of it as there is, and continues to scroll through her phone.

Although she doesn't look at him, she muses about how the Jean sleeping next to her feels far removed from the Jean she knows in the wild. Bussing tables at one of Sooke's more pricy hotel restaurants has its perks, like generous tips during the on-season and watching the tourists fawn over the tall, strapping hunk mixing their drinks. Older women and men alike seem to coo over Jean, admiring things like the breadth of his shoulders or the charm he wears when on-the-job.

As unbearable as she finds Jean's customer service persona to be, perhaps Annie should be thankful for it. Because the more guests pay attention to the handsome Sooke local tending to their every whim, the less they pay attention to her clearing tables for minimum wage.

Annie only spends a few more minutes in bed. Once the clock at the corner of her phone changes to 5:46, she's up and running. 

At least Jean is understanding — not to the point where she'd want their arrangement to become more than casual, but enough that he gets why she ditches him on certain mornings.

She eats breakfast alone in a dark kitchen, nibbling on buttered bagel as the aging coffee machine whistles and whines in the corner. As she eats she answers an email on her phone, accepting the latest payment from her last shift at the surf shop, a last-minute gig she only did because her co-worker called in sick and her boss promised to pay extra. At this point in her life, anything is helpful.

Once the deposit is done, Annie pours coffee into her tumbler and gets ready. She pulls her second favourite wetsuit halfway up her body and leaves the top half undone for now. She pulls her rashguard and hoodie over her torso before grabbing her backpack, cup, and keys before heading out the door.

A rush of frigid morning air greets her as she exits her building, a two storey walk-up better suited for the town's full-time residents. The sky above her is pitch black, the light of the streetlamps illuminating the short walk to her parking spot. Annie's station wagon awaits her and has everything she needs, from a full tank of gas to the surfboard in the back.

It's 6:15 once Annie loads her gear into her car. She takes her first sip of coffee as she slips into the driver's seat, which predictably burns her tongue. She tries her best to ignore the familiar sensation as she keys the ignition. Soon the machine springs to life and she's pulling out and onto the road.

Her drive is quiet — fuzzy, radio-friendly top forty hits playing in the background as she traverses the town center and weaves through the other early risers. As of late, Sooke has been filled with construction workers of all kind, usually on their way to build expensive condos and tear down old buildings with no future. Now that the touristy crowd has mostly disappeared, it seems that labourers and contractors are the only ones who ever visit the place.

The streetlamps lining the road shine a warm, orange-tinted glow onto the pavement as Annie drives west. Soon the apartments, single family homes, and tourist trap businesses fade away, and in its place is nature. To her right are the cliffs, evergreens, and sprawling farmlands of Vancouver Island, and to her left is the Pacific Ocean.

It's the kind of thing that makes all the tourists go starry-eyed, yet Annie's grown used to it. Instead of wonder, the view brings her peace, both the kind associated with the mere sight of ocean waves and the kind drawn from familiarity. Not only has Annie made a home for herself within the sleepiness of Sooke, but she's made a place for herself in the wild as well. As she drives, sips her over-brewed coffee, and listens to the radio, an anticipatory feeling ignites within her, something that gradually grows and grows as she awaits the waves at the end of the road.

…

…

…

Jordan River.

It's nearly 7 by the time Annie arrives at Jordan River, which in contrast to its name is actually a stretch of picturesque Pacific Northwestern beach, a place frequented by locals and visitors alike.

The parking lot is empty as she pulls into it, her car being the only one in a sea of vacant concrete.

Her coffee is halfway done by the time she gets to her usual spot, which is situated as close to the beach as possible. She pulls her car to the edge of the lot in a way so that it faces the water, her preferred way of positioning it.

She exits her vehicle, the wind off the ocean immediately hitting her face. It's moments like this where she forgets how warm and dry the prior week was, typical for the late summer season. As Annie stands here now, battered by the early morning chill, it might as well be as cold as the midst of winter.

Trying not to shiver too hard, Annie clutches her coffee mug as she goes to the back of her car and continues her pre-surf prep. Between periodic sips that fill her mouth with a tar-like aftertaste, Annie removes her hoodie and pulls up her wetsuit over her rashguard, doing it up completely.

Every once in a while she looks out to the sea, where the sight of ocean waves caressing the sandy shores greets her like an old friend.

Jordan River, like the rest of the surrounding areas, is predictably devoid of visitors — not just because summer is coming to a close, but because it's Monday. However, as Annie ties her unruly blonde locks back into a bun, she notices that her old Subaru isn't the only vehicle on the lot.

About ten spaces away is an aging Toyota, which looks decidedly smaller than the typical station wagons, SUVs, or vintage Volkswagen vans utilized by beach bum types. Annie makes a cautionary glance around the area in hopes of spotting the owner — but all she sees in every direction are stretches of beach, evergreen trees, and the rocks that line the southern island's shores.

Soon Annie pulls her shortboard out of her wagon, briefly inspecting the layer of wax on the surface before locking her vehicle and heading out towards the water.

Annie observes atmosphere as she crosses the rocky beach — the sky is still decidedly overcast, but it's lighter than when she was driving, as the sun behind the clouds slowly rises higher and higher. It's not a lot, but it's enough to light up her little corner of the world — showing her both the ocean waves and the land mass across the sea that she knows for sure is Washington state.

Annie's always found it intriguing how in some parts of the Island feel like Canada and the US blending into one. Two places divided by many things, but united by the numerous little islands within the Salish Sea and Puget Sound, tiny chunks of the Pacific Northwest that all hold the same kind of charm.

Looking at the ocean now makes it hard for Annie to even imagine a border separating both countries. In fact, she's fantasized once or twice about grabbing a paddleboard and making her way across the Salish Sea, not even caring about what will meet her on the opposing land mass. And it's less because she's particularly fascinated by what's on the other side, but because a part of her just wants to know if she can make the journey. Who could stop her? Who would even want to?

Then suddenly, in the midst of going over her unrealistic fantasies — if she could even call it that — Annie spots something that breaks her out of her trance.

Further down the rocky beach, she notices an uncharacteristic spot in a stretch of shore she knows like the back of her hand. She squints to get a better look and makes out the shape of a person standing at the far end. She's presumes that it's either the owner of the other car in the lot or a person who's made one hell of a trek from the surrounding areas.

Considering how vacantly populated this part of the Island is, the latter possibility is highly unlikely.

Annie forgets about the spot the second her feet touch the water. Soon she's looking forward again, the waves caressing her shins as each step brings her deeper and deeper into the Salish Sea. She drops her shortboard and lets it float for a second before climbing on.

Resting on her stomach, Annie begins paddling forward. She ignores the way the wind whips at her hair or how ungodly cold the water is as it splashes her face. She focuses on nothing but the familiar sway of the sea and the swells awaiting her not too far away.

The further she gets away from the shore, the more everything she left there disappears. She slips away from her life as she spots the perfect swell and begins towards it, instincts guiding her. The land is very much behind her by now. Soon she turns her board around and quickly stands. Soon her thoughts are free of what awaits her on back in town — far away from musings of tourists and the on-season, of work and qualifications, of shifts at the hotel or surf shop and the useless degree that somehow got her here in the first place.

Before Annie knows it, she's gliding across the sea with ease — either cruising or cutting. Longer stretches where she seems to just float contrast those where she whips her shortboard left and right above the swelling water.

And for a moment in her hectic life, Annie feels free.

…

…

…

Post-Surf.

By the end of her surf, the sun has risen higher, the world's gotten a little bit warmer, and the remnants of coffee at the bottom of her mug have gone stone cold.

By nine o'clock she's standing behind her station wagon, the back door popped up as she leans over and pours water over her hair with a repurposed milk jug. The act is messy and undeniably frigid thanks to the wind, but Annie's determined to make the returning drive without too much salt on her scalp.

Once Annie has rinsed off as much seawater as she's willing to do, she dries her hair with a towel and shuts her wagon's back door, her board remaining safely inside. She climbs into her vehicle's backseat, spending only a few moments there to change. Soon she emerges, finally free from her wetsuit and comfortably clad in dry clothes.

The sensation of her clean hoodie against her once-damp skin still feels like heaven, even now.

As Annie ties her shoes, the chill in the air becomes a little easier to ignore. She glances to the sea again, the tranquil sound of the water against the shore doing what it's always done for the last few years.

Technically she could leave right now, as she's surfed out for the day and has a whole life to return to. But for some reason — perhaps stemming from the part of her that desires nothing more than to leave it all behind and become a real beach bum — she lets herself linger. Instead of starting her car and returning to her responsibilities, she fetches her phone from glove box and goes through her notifications as an excuse to stay a little bit longer.

With reception being quite spotty in these parts, Annie is unsurprised to have received a single message and nothing more.

JEAN: Any other surfers out there? 🏄🏄🏄

Annie is about to reply before she spots something in the corner of her eye.

She looks aside and notices a figure approaching the other car in the lot. Taking an educated guess, she assumes this to be the "spot" she had noticed on the beach just a few hours ago.

To her surprise, a rather young-looking man approaches the aging Toyota and opens the trunk. The first detail that strikes her is his mop of blond hair, windswept strands trimmed just above his ears — the second is him holding a rather large digital camera, a rugged DSLR with a comically long lens jammed into the business end.

The Stranger untangles himself from the strap and places the camera in a carrying bag. Unprompted, he looks her way and catches Annie by surprise.

Something jolts inside of her as their gazes meet in the parking lot, two pairs of blue eyes locking for half a second before she flinches, coming back to her senses. She looks down and tries to regain her composure, acutely aware that the only thing between them is the wind off the ocean and the sound of the waves lapping the shore.

Willing herself to glance over, she sees the Stranger gives a friendly wave. Unsure if she should give one back, she looks away and refocuses on her phone, where she types out a reply to Jean's message.

Annie: Nope, just some perv with a camera

She hits send, unsure if the message will reach the guy but not particularly caring if it does.

And then inevitably, Annie decides to return to her life. As much as she'd love to linger by the shore all day, she's always found comfort in knowing that the beach will still be there when she comes back.

Running a hand through her still-damp hair, she climbs back into her car and shuts the door. She spares one more longing glance at the Salish Sea before dropping her phone in the cup holder, the post-surf exhaustion finally setting in as she keys the ignition. But to her surprise, the sound that follows is not the engine starting, but rather an uncharacteristic mechanical sputtering.

Annie blinks, confused, then keys the ignition again. When the same sound follows, she glances to the dash. The sight of the unlit "Check Engine" light only intensifies the anxious knot within her stomach. Grumbling like an old man, Annie knots her eyebrow as she exits the car, popping the hood on the way out.

Despite knowing next to nothing about engines, Annie walks to the front of her car and opens the mouth of the beast. Her Subaru is over a decade old by now and has served her well from the moment they met. She had bought it second-hand during her final year of university, a testament to all the tables she had waited part-time and how the current job market would definitely require her to have a car.

To the surprise of no one, she had used her second-hand station wagon far more than the degree she wasted four years studying for. Her Subaru has survived many things — storms, flooded roads, popped tires, numerous drives up to Tofino, and one particularly stressful week where various tsunami warnings loomed over the Island like a dark cloud.

But despite the hardships that Annie and her old clunker had gone through, the engine decided that now would be the perfect time to go tits up, as if she hadn't made this particular drive dozens of times before.

Frustration festers within her as she looks at the engine, her brow furrowing as she desperately searches for some kind of answer to her problem. Her inexperience with anything automotive proves to be her undoing, as Annie eventually comes to the horrible, heartbreaking realization that she has absolutely no idea what she's supposed to be looking for.

Her anger continues to bubble, her grip on the edge of the hood tightening so hard that she swears the metal will bend.

"Fuck…" she expels in a pent-up breath.

"Hey."

The unfamiliar voice makes her flinch, as a part of her is very used to not being spoken to in these parts. Annie snaps her head to the right and sees the Stranger now standing a lot closer to her, having trekked halfway across the space between their cars.

"Sorry," the Stranger says, holding a hand up like he's in trouble. Uneasy, he sucks in a breath before stepping forward again, approaching in the way one would a frightened, injured deer.

Soon he's standing a meter away from her, as close as he needs to be in order to peer at the engine.

Annie is peeved, yet he seems to know what he's doing — a lot more than she does, at least — and doesn't stop him.

He looks no older than her, his sweet, boyish features painting a clear picture of youth. His eyes are blue and framed behind rectangular spectacles, giving him a distinct air of nerdiness. His blond hair looks a bit neater as well, though is still decidedly messy from the constant winds.

He's dressed in a well-loved raincoat and work pants tucked into a pair of wellingtons, details that say he's used to being outdoors. The practical, worn-in nature of his clothes give Annie the impression that he's far from the instagram "glampers" that come out west for the vibes and leave when it gets too cold. But she could be wrong.

"Car problems, I see," the Stranger says. There's a slight posh properness within his voice that makes Annie assumes he spends every hour with his nose in a book.

She scoffs, staring at the engine again. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The Stranger blows some air out of his nose, making Annie wonder if he found her comment amusing, intimidating, or a little mix of both

"Uh… I'm not mechanic," the Stranger starts, rubbing the back of his neck before eyeing her again. "But what's the main issue?"

"It's not starting," Annie answers.

He takes a step closer, causing Annie to note that he's only slightly taller than her.

"Maybe you need a jump," he suggests.

"You got cables?"

"…no, but—" the Stranger replies, then reaches for his phone from his coat pocket. He holds the device towards her. "You call a tow truck. Got a few bars out here."

Annie spends a moment thinking of the logistics, then shakes her head. "I don't have time for that." She's never called one before, but she's heard second-hand accounts of people in these parts dealing with car issues and how certain services just love taking their sweet time getting to the scene of the crime.

The Stranger nods before putting his phone away. He takes in a breath and avoids her gaze for a few moments. "Is there somewhere you need to be?" he soon asks.

"Sooke," Annie tells him, though she's not entirely sure why he'd like to know.

The Stranger's cautious expression softens into something a bit more lively. "Oh uh… I'm actually heading there now," he says, a friendly smile coming onto his pretty face. "Well, technically I'm not. I'm staying in Colwood, but I gotta pass through Sooke to get there anyways, so… yeah. I could give you a ride if you'd like."

Despite his bout of boyish babbling, Annie is unconvinced on the offer and shoots him a glare. She's tempted to accept and have all her problems be solved, yet she can't help but contemplate her other options, a few as there are. The most probable plan would be to trek all the way to the sleepy, seaside coffeeshop just west of Jordan River, send a message to someone back home on this area's dreadful phone reception, and praying that Pieck or Jean or whoever could come by with jumper cables and save her from this mess.

It might not be the most convenient way out, but it's the option that lacks the roadblock inherent with the Stranger's offer.

"We barely know each other," Annie decides to answer, stating the obvious.

The Stranger nods, seemingly understanding her perspective. "Oh, well… I'm Armin." He holds a hand out to her. "And you are?"

There is a beat while Annie looks at his palm, noting the callouses and impeccably trimmed fingernails, unsure what to make of either detail.

Armin, she repeats in her mind. It suits him, though perhaps that has something to do with her never meeting someone with that name before.

Soon she reaches over and shakes his hand.

"Annie," she introduces.

"Nice to meet you, Annie," the now-named Armin says. When he lets go, his index fingers runs against the back of her hand as the smile on his face gets just a little bit wider. There's a noticeable brightness in the way he looks at her, though maybe that has more to do with his boyish face inherently giving off that kind of energy.

"Well, look at that — now we know each other!" Armin practically exclaims, speaking with all the pep of a TV host in a show that teaches kids about science. "Still need a ride?"

Once more does Annie think about it, except this time her mind only lingers on the thought for half as long.

…

…

…

The Long and Winding Road.

Armin's car is nothing special, a simple sedan with Washington plates and enough scuffs to prove its age. Judging by all the old fast food wrappers crowding his front seat, Annie guesses that he must've come fairly far from whatever part of the state he hailed from. The way he hastily grabs the trash and runs it to the nearest can amuses her — not enough to make her actually laugh, but enough to make her hum slightly louder than usual.

Annie doesn't have much to bring back to Sooke. Most of what she needs has been gathered into her backpack, whereas her shortboard and other surfing gear will remain locked in her car for the time being, just until she can strong-arm one of her friends to drive back here with jumper cables.

As Armin disposes of his trash, Annie observes the other items inside his car. In the backseat she gleans several telling details — such as old notebooks, multiple plastic waterproof cases, and a backpack with a "University of Washington" logo embroidered on the front.

Soon Armin returns, his face holding that same friendly look as he opens the door to the passenger's seat.

"Uh… go ahead," he says, gesturing for her to climb inside.

Annie rolls her eyes at his "gentlemanly" mannerisms, but enters the car without any hesitation.

A part of Annie is relieved to finally be out of the cold, even if it involves stepping into an unfamiliar vehicle. For a moment she sighs in relief, then places her backpack in front of her shins and does up her seatbelt.

Armin soon joins her, swiftly slipping into the driver's seat and buckling up. As he keys the ignition, Annie notices more things about him — like his browline eyeglasses, the empty Tim Hortons cups in the holders, and the pine tree air-freshener hanging from the rear-view window. She can't help but notice that his eyes look bluer in this light.

"Nice ride," Annie says to fill the silence.

"Thanks," Armin replies, flattered. "It's my grandfather's."

The car springs to life more loudly than Annie expects, roaring for a few seconds before simmering down to a rumbling hum. It is undoubtedly a side-effect of the vehicle's age. Despite that, Armin pulls out of the parking space with ease and begins moving across the lot.

As they go, Annie spies her currently unstartable Subaru outside the window, giving it one last longing look before it disappears from sight. Even if she knows she'll be back for it later, a part of her doesn't want to see it go.

"What's he like?" Annie asks once the car exits the lot and enters a long and winding road.

There's a beat of silence before Armin answers — "Who?"

She looks his way. "Your grandfather."

"Oh." A noticeable unease slips into his voice. "Uh… uh…"

Suddenly Annie wonders if she said something to offend him, then Armin replies —

"…he's dead."

Annie's stomach clenches in regret. She tears her eyes off of Armin, staring down at her knees for what feels like an eternity. She's not sure how much time passes before she wills herself to glance upwards. What awaits her ahead is the sight of the main road, now illuminated by sun instead of the surrounding streetlights.

"Sorry," Annie mutters, unsure what else would be more fitting.

"It's okay," Armin replies, surprisingly unfazed by the topic. "Uh… it's my fault, actually."

Raising an eyebrow, she whips her head back in his direction, shocked. "It's your fault he's dead?"

"No! I don't mean that, I mean… uh…" Armin begins, awkwardly fumbling with the car's gear shift as the vehicle's begins traversing hills. "I refer still refer to him like… like that. Present tense. Like… uh… like he's still around. It's a habit, but… uh… I see how it'd leave the wrong impression."

Annie blinks, then says — "A little bit." She takes a breath before settling back into her seat, the discomfort of the conversation still imbuing her with unease. "How long has he been…?"

"—dead?"

Annie nods.

"Two years."

Annie nods again. Not knowing what else to add to an already tumultuous conversation, she goes silent. She stares at the road for a bit, listening to nothing but the hum of the engine as the evergreens, ocean, and beachfront property she could never afford blur behind the glass. She lets herself look at the seaside more, hoping that the familiar sight will calm her nerves like it always does.

What feels like a minute of silence passes before Armin speaks up.

"I know," he says. "Been long enough, right?"

Annie looks at Armin again. His expression is neutral, though she's not sure how else she expected it to be. Perhaps two years is long enough for such a tragedy to lose its sting — not because the love for the lost person has waned, but because the survivor has gotten used to it, having processed it enough for some days to feel normal. If anything, Armin seems a lot more interested in driving his late grandfather's car than the fact that his grandfather is gone at all — at this moment, at least.

"So I assume you're from Washington?" Annie brings up instead, attempting to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"You assume right," Armin confirms. "Wanna guess where?"

Annie thinks for a second, pursing her lips. While she's never even step foot in America, she's met her fair share of Washington tourists to know a little bit about the place. Even if the old Tim Horton's cups tell her that he's far from a coffee snob, the University of Washington backpack says enough.

"Seattle," she answers, confident in her response.

Armin's smile gets a little bit wider. "Close. I'm from Everett, actually, just north of there."

Annie scoffs. Close enough, she thinks.

"It's where Boeing is," Armin continues, unprompted. "My mom worked there. She'd let me visit the Museum of Flight whenever she could. Swear I had that whole factory tour memorized by the time I was nine." He looks her way very briefly. "You ever been?"

"To Everett?"

"Well, not just there. Have you ever been to like… Seattle? Or uh… Washington?" He takes a quick breath to regain himself, then re-focuses on the road. "You might like it. Especially the coast. It's not much different from out here."

Annie shakes her head. Having become content with Island life over the years, the furthest she ever feels like going is Tofino, and that's only if the waves are particularly tempting. Satiating her surfer habit seems to be the only motivation she has to even leave Sooke, so much so that she hasn't even step foot in Victoria over the last year.

"So what brings you to Canada anyways?" Annie wonders.

"Work. I'm a grad student. I dunno if you could tell." Armin eyes the rearview mirror and nods towards the mess of notebooks in the backseat of his car. "See, I'm doing my thesis on the biochemical changes within the Puget Sound and surrounding waters. That's actually why I came out here today, had to take some samples."

"You took water samples at seven in the morning?" Annie asks, impressed, though her flat tone makes her seem anything but.

Another sheepish chuckle. "What can I say, I'm an early riser," Armin admits. "You uh… you ever study anything?"

The question makes her tense in a way she hasn't felt in years. On instinct, Annie grabs her phone from her pocket and checks it — the signal is still spotty, which gives her a few push notifications despite the lack of bars in the screen's upper right corner. She quickly runs out of things to distract herself with, causing her to sigh and realize there's on only one way out of this.

"I majored in chemistry back in uni," Annie eventually tells. "Not that I actually did anything…"

Looking down, Annie closes her eyes for a few seconds, which is just long enough for her to reminisce on her personal failures. Two years of attending UVic as an "undecided science major" has haunted her for longer than she'd like to admit, as her choice to pursue chemistry was less born out of passion and more out of the field being her strongest subject. Her uni days aren't that far behind her, chronologically speaking, but the fleeting snippets of sleepless study nights, boring parties, and smoking cigarettes on balconies to take the edge off are still ingrained in her mind.

A part of her doesn't want to deem her degree as a complete waste of time, but another part of her is still flush with memories of having no idea what do once she graduated. Accepting a summer job at a Sooke hotel wasn't her trying to kill time until she found the next step, it was the next step.

The upside to the change seemed to be developing her surfer habit. She wouldn't be here now if she hadn't searched for something to do between bussing tables and worrying about bills.

"Ever thought about grad school?" asks Armin, bringing Annie back into the conversation.

She shrugs. "Sometimes."

"What do you do now?"

"I work at a resort," Annie simplifies — she can't imagine him actually being interested in her life, from her constant table bussing and the wealthy tourists who barely tip. "And a surf shop."

To her surprise, Armin's face shifts slightly. He begins sporting a distinct, somewhat goofy smile — something about the short time she's known him tells her that it's a face he likes to sport often. A part of Annie had expected him to judge her numerous jobs, but another part of her is keenly aware of just how many people her age wear multiple hats to get by.

"Makes sense," Armin says, unbothered.

Annie shrugs, and suddenly the tension that had once grasped her by the chest and wouldn't let go begins to dissipate. "I fit better there anyways." She sighs at herself. "Not like I could fit in anywhere else."

Armin hums, unconvinced. "Don't say that. You seem like you could fit in anywhere."

Annie's first instinct is to scoff — but for a reason she doesn't quite know, she doesn't. Instead, she lies back in her seat, suddenly more comfortable within the confines of the old Toyota. She looks his way and asks —

"What makes you say that?"

The shrug of Armin's shoulders is slower than she expects, a restricted motion done in lieu of having anything else to say.

A few seconds pass where there's nothing but silence between the two strangers. With every fleeting moment, Armin starts to feel less like an intruder to her routine and more like a pleasant surprise, something she's less bothered to be around and more fortunate to have found.

"Just a feeling," Armin finally says. When he looks Annie's way once more, their gazes briefly meet again and the smile on his face brightens.

And she sees it all — his boyish grin, his baby blue eyes, and the kind of sweet earnestness that makes her forget exactly what kind of world she lives in. For once, her existence of tourists and ocean waves and bills needing to be paid doesn't cross her mind.

Instead, Annie exhales, relaxes, and reminds herself to look out the window and admire the scenery of the drive. As the blues, greys, and greens of the Pacific Northwest blend into one outside her the window, the rest of the journey to Sooke continues in silence.

…

…

…

Strangeness of the Day.

Jean's morning is typical, from waking up in a bed that isn't his to the various messages awaiting him on his phone. He's used to Annie walking out at this hour, prioritizing the waves out west once their usual activities are done. But even if their mutual sting of loneliness has become a little more numb, Jean is unable to ignore the feeling of rejection when he stretches out on the tiny bed, only to feel empty space on the other side.

With a sigh he sits up, draped in nothing the blankets as he finds his phone on the nightstand. Fighting back a yawn, he swipes through notifications and tries to read them through the cloud of sleep still plaguing his brain. He's conscious enough to notice that most texts are from his co-workers, mainly regarding their upcoming shift and how Jean's finally off probation, meaning he can finally call himself a firefighter for real.

Rubbing sleep out of his tired eyes, Jean puts down his phone, stands, and grabs his clothes off the floor.

Now dressed, Jean exits the bedroom and catches Annie's roommate near the apartment door. Pieck Finger is similar to Annie — in that she's petite, snarky, and far smarter than she seems — but differs from her in that Pieck is brunette, marginally taller, actually acknowledges his existence in the morning. Accustomed to his and Annie's arrangement, Pieck greets him cordially as she laces up her boots. She regards him with the kind of nonplussed attitude that one would show to a friend, though he's not sure if she actually considers him one. Jean only ever sees her when he comes over and doesn't even know what she does for work.

"Take care!" she says as she slips out, and before he knows it Jean is alone.

He busies himself like he always does, by snagging a cup of coffee and taking a quick shower.

Barely an hour passes before Jean leaves Annie and Pieck's apartment, his hair still wet and the bitter taste of poorly-brewed mud still lingering in his mouth. He's never been one to hold his tongue, but somehow he's never willed himself to Pieck or Annie — which ever one made the pot — that their coffee making skills leaved much to be desired.

The sun is already in the sky as Jean exits the building. Crossing the street, he makes his way to his car and tries to ignore the chilly breeze biting at him like a rabid dog. He checks his dying phone and sends a text to Annie, asking if there's anyone else out in her usual spot with the addition of numerous surfer emojis. He's wonders if she'll even get the message as he enters his old Volvo, putting his phone aside before keying the ignition.

The drive home is brisk, in which he goes little further south towards Sooke's town center. His place isn't too far from Annie's, but it's just far enough that it'd take an exceptionally nice day for him to even consider walking there.

He pulls up at his building, a slightly nicer three storey walk-up that he's called home ever since he moved to town. The place is slighter nicer than Annie and Pieck's, mainly due to it being newer, yet it's a little less shiny than all the brand new condos popping up around town — the ones that are destined to be summer homes for wealthy Victoria residents.

As he heads inside and traverses the narrow hallways, he hears his phone chime and alert him that his battery is at a mere fifteen percent. By the time he enters his ground floor unit, Jean is already wondering where the fuck he left his charger.

The apartment is currently empty, as Connie's been working earlier and earliar shifts nowadays. The space is ample for two tenants, though it's never as clean as Jean would like it to be. When he crosses the living room he nearly trips over a misplaced hard hat, causing Jean to curse and wonder just how many strikes to the head that Connie had taken at his last construction job.

Jean's phone charges in the corner as he scours the kitchen for anything to eat. When he sees that there's nothing in the fridge but a single egg, butter, and a single can of light beer, he grumbles and searches the cupboards. As much as his stomach grumbles, the sight of stale cereal and trail mix is far from appealing.

Soon Jean sighs and reach for his keys again, submitting himself to his fate of an early morning grocery run. As he pulls on his shoes again, he wonders just how long he'll have to work as a firefighter before he can start living without a roommate.

The sun hangs a little higher as Jean finds his car in the lot. He checks his slightly charged phone again and sees a reply from Annie. Apparently, there is someone in her usual surf spot, someone she describes as a "perv with a camera."

Jean scoffs, amused, then puts his phone down and starts his car.

The drive to the shopping center is even short, barely five minutes. Normally, Jean would walk there, a habit built over his childhood in the city. But this morning he's a little too tired to bother, uncaring over his contribution to the stereotype that North Americans just love driving their fat asses everywhere.

As he pulls up and parks near Sooke's second-best grocery store, Jean is unable to ignore the remnants of his morning coffee still in his mouth. No matter who had brewed the pot he had stolen from at Annie and Pieck's place, the aftertaste is enough unpleasant enough to make him alter his plans.

Instead of heading straight to the market, Jean instead crosses the lot and heads towards a different business.

The aptly named the Grind-On-Me Cafe neighbours has served the town well, a venue that fluctuates between quiet and hectic depending on the time of the year. With the summer season now approaching it's end, the regular crowds now consist of Sooke's year-round residents and the occasional construction worker. The coffee is strong and the prices are relatively close to what it had been a year ago — making the place everything Jean could ever ask for and more.

But before Jean enters the building, he spots something that makes him stop in place.

Through the cafe window he sees someone he didn't expect to hear from until later today.

Behind a pane of glass sits Annie at a cafe table, and she's not alone. She looks relaxed as she leans back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest as she listens to a conversation like it's the easiest thing in the world. Her hair is as messy as can be after an early morning surf — the main mass tied back in a bun, the bangs falling carelessly over her forehead.

Sitting in front of her is someone Jean's never seen before.

On the other side of the table is a man with a similar head of blond hair, a pair of blocky eyeglasses, and the kind of boyish prettiness that makes Jean wonder just how old he is.

As the Pretty Boy speaks, Annie appears to nod along between sips of coffee and even interjects here and there.

Which strikes Jean as odd, as he had become accustomed to things like Annie's constant aloofness, her desire to be alone for most of her day, and her chronic inability to actually hold a conversation.

As Jean walks forward, the first two thoughts in his head are who on earth is that Pretty Boy and what the hell did he do with Annie?

Jean enters the cafe, where he is welcomed by the familiar scent of coffee beans and the whistling sound of steaming milk. Deciding to not approach Annie and the Pretty Boy for now, he instead re-focuses on what he actually came here to do.

In no time he spots Niccolo behind the cafe's counter, who is both a friend and yet another Sooke local who wears many hats. On most days and evenings, Niccolo is a sous chef at one of the town's waterfront resorts. But on this morning in particular, Niccolo will be playing the part of a barista.

Niccolo sees Jean approach the counter and greets him with a nod. With a skillful hand he pours steamed milk from a metal pitcher into a mug, effortlessly creating a leaf pattern on top of a reasonably-priced latte.

"Hey, Jean," Niccolo greets, putting the completed drink aside. "The usual?"

"Yeah," Jean answers, rubbing his tired face once more. Forcing himself to keep his eyes open, Jean looks at the array of sandwiches and baked goods inside the cafe's display refrigerator.

"And uh…"

The spread is decent, but Jean is too exhausted to be decisive. Instead he opts for a random muffin from the basket of day-olds near the cash register.

"…this, too."

Niccolo nods along before ringing up Jean's order, which is paid for with a handful of pocket change.

As the gangly blond barista assembles a double americano, Jean leans against the counter and looks towards the window.

As to be expected, Annie is still sitting and talking with the Pretty Boy. Evidently, she hadn't noticed Jean walking in, or maybe she had and is pretending she hadn't.

Sucking in a breath, Jean waits for his order and does his best attempt at looking nonchalant. But despite his efforts, he can't stop himself from listening to the only conversation happening inside a sparsely occupied cafe.

"My mom's Canadian, actually," says the Pretty Boy. "She was born in Delta."

"Was she?" Annie responds, sounding like she gives a damn for once in her life. "What'd she come down for?"

"For university, mainly. She actually went to UDub as well."

"Guess it runs in the family."

Jean's snooping is cut off by the sound of Niccolo placing a cup on the counter. After slipping his day-old muffin into his jacket pocket, Jean takes his drink. He plans his next move as he stirs splenda and oat milk into his coffee, then with long-legged strides, he hops into the belly of the beast and approaches Annie and the Pretty Boy.

As Jean gets a closer look at the stranger accompanying Annie, he tries to remember if he's ever seen the guy before. Sooke isn't exactly a small, backwater town, but the last few years have given him a pretty clear idea on who stays year-round, especially the people who are Jean's age.

By the time Jean realizes that he definitely hasn't seen the guy before, he's standing in front of the table. As to be expected, he towers over Annie in her chair, practically casting a shadow over her as she notices his presence.

Craning her head aside and upwards, Annie's eyes go wide with a subtle kind of shock. In contrast, the Pretty Boy looks over with a more neutral face, clearly confused regarding the absurdly tall stranger currently standing near him.

"Jean," Annie starts, her surprise soon shifting into her typical glare.

Something about her gives Jean the impression that she either didn't expect to see him here, or wished that she could've run into someone she had a more… chaste connection to.

Nonetheless, Jean nods along and smirks at her. "The one and only," he replies like it's a normal conversation. He very briefly considers mentioning that he missed her that morning, but decides against it. "How was your surf?"

"It was fine," Annie answers, her voice just the slightest bit stilted.

"That's good to hear," Jean says. Soon his gaze wanders and affixes itself to the person on the other side of the table.

The Pretty Boy has a friendly look on his face. He's clad in the kind of sweater that could make anyone look like a dork. The raincoat draped on the back of the chair and his well-worn wellington boots make him seem like the outdoorsy type. However, the shape of his eyeglasses exudes just enough bookishness to make Jean think otherwise. Judging by that, the university mention, and the extra large latte currently sitting on the table, Jean pegs the guy for student, but perhaps one in the later terms of schooling.

"So… who's your friend?" Jean asks Annie, getting straight to the point.

"I'm Armin," the Pretty Boy introduces before Annie gets a chance, his smile persisting. "Annie and I just met, actually."

"He gave me a ride from the beach," Annie quickly interjects. She grumbles in frustration, then shrugs in defeat. "My car fucked up."

Jean eyes her in concern. "What happened?"

Annie's glare sharpens at him. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Not willing press any further, Jean looks back to Armin. "Nice of you to give her a ride though. Good on you, Man."

Armin looks flattered, glancing down with a sheepish grin. "It was the right thing to do. And I got a free latte out of it." He taps the half-finished mug on the table to punctuate his point.

A vaguest hint of a smile comes onto Annie's face. "It's the least I can do."

"So… you and Annie know each other?" Armin asks to keep the conversation going.

In a split second Jean looks to Annie, who visibly stiffens at Armin's innocent question. Knowing full well that the last thing he should do is detail every facet of their particular arrangement, Jean decides to speak up.

"We work together," he answers.

Armin looks intrigued. "Oh, you work at the hotel, too?"

For a moment, Jean wonders what exactly Annie had told Armin about her little life in Sooke, to what extent did she detail the way she spends her days and kills time between work. He glances aside again, briefly watching Annie sigh in relief before focusing on Armin once more. As iffy as the subject is, at least Jean knows how to steer away from it.

"Guilty," he replies, jokingly putting his free hand up. "I bartend sometimes. Gotta pay for school somehow."

"What'd you study?" Armin asks.

"Paramedic school… then fire academy," Jean explains, then scoffs at himself. "I'm a firefighter. I won't bore you with the details."

Jean's instincts tell him that the little pretty blond boy isn't interested in the nitty gritty of it all, regardless to whether Armin's interest is feigned or genuine. As of now, all of Jean's past training, prepping, and bartending for tuition feels like a blur, though maybe that's less to do with the past and more to do with the lack of coffee within his sytem.

With that in mind, Jean takes the first sip of his double americano and ignores the way it burns his tongue.

Armin looks impressed while Annie looks decidedly not. Considering how many times Jean had droned on about random fire-related technobabble while Annie looked bored as balls, he doesn't blame her. It's moments like these where he understands why she prefers their arrangement to be the way it is — nothing more, nothing less.

"Holy shit, for real?" Armin asks, awestruck.

Feeling more than compliment, Jean can't help but smile. "For real."

"Wow… that's something I could never do." Armin looks Jean up and down. "Respect."

Feeling like he's soaring on cloud nine, Jean looks to Annie, knowing full well that she's hating the shit-eating grin on his face. Had they not been in public, she would've slapped him already.

"I like this guy, Annie," Jean lauds, affectionately tapping her shoulder. "You know how to pick 'em."

Unsurprisingly, Annie is stiff and unmoving underneath Jean's touch. Knowing full well that his teasing is slowly grating on her, Jean continues to smile as he looks towards both blonds.

"Well, I won't bother you guys any longer. I got a grocery run to do. You know how it is," Jean says. "It's good to meet you, Dude," he says to Armin, then looks over to Annie, who is still seemingly on the edge of delivering a solid smack across the face.

As much as he'd like to continue his little bout of teasing, Jean's instincts tell him to stop — just for now, at least.

"And… I'll see you around."

"Yeah, right back at ya," Armin says, blissfully unaware of the exact context behind Jean's playfulness.

Meanwhile, Annie does nothing but give a firm nod.

Without anymore fanfare, Jean turns around and heads to the cafe door. He steps out into the parking lot, coffee firmly in hand as the mid-morning wind greets him yet again. He takes another sip as he begins the short walk from the cafe to the grocery store.

Just as Jean begins brainstorming exactly what he needs to buy, he hears the sound of the cafe door opening again.

"Hey!" comes Annie's voice, causing him to turn around.

Jean witnesses Annie exiting the cafe with more haste in her steps than he expects. Through the window he can see Armin still sitting at the table, where he nurses a pull of his latte without a care in the world.

Jean refocuses on Annie, who's gone from utterly scowling at him to holding a more blank expression.

"Hey, do you have jumper cables?" she's quick to ask.

Jean blinks. "What?"

"Do you have jumper cables?" Annie repeats, speaking with the kind of caustic inflection that makes it clear just how stupid she thinks he is.

Jean sighs, at least finding some familiarity within the Annie he normally knows. "Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Because I was just dying to know," she replies, effortlessly imbuing sarcasm into her words.

Rubbing his face, Jean wonders just how long it'll take before the coffee finally kicks in.

"My car didn't start," Annie clarifies. "It's at the beach."

"Ah, makes sense," he replies, clicking his tongue. Suddenly a lot of pieces begin falling into place. "Yeah, I think I could drive you there later."

Annie is quick to shake her head. "No. I just need your cables. I'll pick them up later."

In no mood to argue, Jean simply nods along. With their height difference being what it is — him being on the long, leggy side and her being on the 'two shits tall' side — the experience of talking to her feels a lot like arguing with a temperamental pomeranian.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees. "Come over whenever."

For a moment they say nothing, wherein the only thing between them is the cold September air and the sound of various cars coming in and out of the shopping center parking lot. Jean takes another pull of coffee, a longer one this time, before speaking.

"He's cool, by the way. That Armin guy." Jean sucks in a breath, suddenly keen on picking his words carefully. "He seems like… your type."

"Don't even start," Annie warns, her voice low.

"Sorry, I… sorry," Jean pleads, raising his hand to placate her. He looks away for a second, gleaning the sight of the parking lot, the town, and the way the sun shines into their little corner of Vancouver Island.

"By the way, I saw the uni sticker on his phone," Jean mentions, refocusing on Annie before shrugging. "I uh… would advise you against seeing tourists, though. Makes things too complicated."

Annie rolls her eyes. "I'm not seeing him."

Jean blows more air out of his nose than usual. "If that's what you say."

Annie nods stiffly, though looks slightly relieved that he's understanding of things — not just her car troubles, but of the overall strangeness of the day and the uncertainty that comes with meeting someone new.

Too tired to press the issue any further, Jean mirrors her nod in response.

"I'll see you later then."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

“Are you going to talk, or are you just going to waste my time again?” Jean asks as soon as he walks in, letting the door shut behind him with a cold thud.

Annie doesn’t even flinch, just looks at him tiredly and watches as he slides into the seat across from her. Blowing her bangs away from her eyes, she tells him, “I’ve been telling you. You’ve been wasting your time all along, Jean.”

He hates the way she can say his name so easily even after everything she’s done. He doesn’t dare say her name unless he absolutely has to and even when he does, he spits it out, hating how bitter it tastes on his tongue. She calls him “Jean” so casually, as if they are still comrades on the training grounds, but even then she had been cold to him. He wishes he could slap that name from her mouth and forbid her from ever saying it again, but he’s learned from experience that no amount of force will make her budge.

“Do you enjoy being cooped up here so much that you don’t care for your own freedom?” Jean asks. He takes the papers in front of him – all empty with the answers she refuses to give them, and he doubts today will change anything – and taps them into a neat stack. He doesn’t even bother to pick up the pen, though.

“What does it matter?” Annie asks with a slight tilt of her head. “Even if I do crack and tell you the truth, you would never let me out.”

Jean grits his teeth, but she’s right. It was never their intention to let her go even if she did end up cooperating with them. She could lead them straight to the path of victory, but they would never allow her to be free. There is nothing she could do that would make them forgive her.

“…and besides,” Annie adds, looking away from him, “it’s not as if any of you could ever understand.”

“You keep saying that,” Jean says, leaning over the desk with a furrowed brow. The more he hears it, the more he fears that her words might actually be true. Why else would she hold onto that answer so fiercely? Even if she has no intention of giving them real answers, he sees no dishonesty in her eyes when she replies. But she knows that the Scouts have already uncovered most of the truths about the outside world already – Marley and their hatred of the Eldian people, the origin of the Titans, and the battle they face beyond the waters – they just need her to help them put together the pieces, so why…? “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because,” she tells him with that same even stare, “it’s true.”

He doesn’t know if he’s ever hated her more than at that very moment. There are only so many empty answers that she can give him, and this is just about the last damn time.

Jean reaches over, grabbing a fistful of her hair roughly in his hand and pulling her towards him. He wants to scream at her, spit in her face, and demand that she tell him the truth, the whole truth, but he stops when he sees her face.

He’s so used to seeing her so indifferent that her expression – tired and weary – startles him enough to loosen his grip on her. She doesn’t try to resist. She simply gazes back at him, the look on her face familiar somehow.

It takes him a moment to realize where he’s seen it before, but he finally remembers that it’s the same expression that greets him in his mirror at the end of the day. It’s confused and worn-out, a dull light in his eyes because he realizes that the answers they do have only lead them to more questions. Looking at Annie now is like staring at his own reflection, Jean thinks.

“It’s not something that’s meant to be understood,” Annie says hoarsely, and he sees how these truths have haunted her for all these years, have consumed her, have destroyed her.

Something draws him to her, but it is not sympathy. He thinks, perhaps, that it might be his overwhelming hatred for her, boiling and spilling over, that makes him do something so unthinkable, but he’s not quite sure how true that is when their lips meet. All he can think about as he tangles her fingers in her hair, pulling her even closer to him, is that they are both confused and lost amongst all the secrets and lies and truths in the world. He uses her lips, then, to anchor him because even if they’re lost in this world, then at least they are lost together.

He’s just using her, he tells himself. If she can’t tell them anything, then at least she can be useful this way, but it isn’t as if she isn’t using him as well. When he kisses her, she reciprocates, her lips pressing hard against his almost hungrily. Annie tugs at his bottom lip, coaxing him closer to her, and Jean lets out a moan. If he is using her as his anchor, then Jean supposes that it’s only fair that she shackles him to her as well.

When he finally pulls away, her hair slipping between his fingers, he’s still as confused as before, perhaps more, but it’s different this time. It’s a little less lonely, he thinks, but he’s not sure if this is better or worse.

Across from him, Annie sits back down in her chair with a hard thud. She’s slightly out of breath and her hair disheveled. Jean sees her expression and he knows that he’s wearing the exact same one without having to look in the mirror. It is the first time she looks at him in the eye since she’s come out of her crystal, and it seems as if she finally has something to say at least because her lips part, but she closes her mouth quickly and turns away.

“What is it?” Jean says, suddenly the reason why he had come there in the first place. Hastily, he grabs one of the papers that had scattered across the table and readies his pen thinking that this time he’ll finally have something to write down for once, but once again he does not get an answer from Annie.

She presses her lips into a thin line and shakes her head, that same lost look returning to her face. “It’s nothing,” she finally replies.

It’s enough to make him scream and shout again, to overturn the table in rage and scatter all the papers across the floor, to take her hair in his hand once more and show her that his patience has run out, but he doesn’t. He simply pushes himself away from the table, his chair screeching against the stone floor, and excuses himself because they’re getting nowhere and it’s doubtful that they’ll ever make any progress in this interrogation room.

He’s never hated her more than this very moment, he thinks, but there’s something else. He tells himself that he doesn’t know what it is even as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to erase that kiss even though the thought of Annie’s lips pressed on his is still on his mind. It was only a strange mix of hormones and rage that had caused it to happen, he reasons, but even he knows this isn’t true.