SETTING: on the beach under santa monica pier. almost five am.
she doesn’t realise how far she’s driven from the city centre until she sees the horizon past her windshield. the beach of santa monica sprawls out before her, and it’s more instinct than conscious decision for her to drive right onto its sands. she parks below the pier, the right side of her car shadowed beneath it; she kills her engine and sits in the quiet. the waves break against the shoreline, and colourful stray lights from the amusement park filter in through the wooden boards overhead. finally, for the first time since she heard the first wail of a police siren earlier that night, romilly feels herself really breathe.
her hands clutch instinctually to the wheel, still, and she presses her forehead down against her knuckles. closes her eyes. this isn’t at all how she’d thought tonight’s race would go. even though she’d made a relatively quick getaway, she couldn’t shake the feeling of constriction she felt. and so she drove — drove restlessly around the city, damn the risks, then out to the very edge of downtown los angeles, until she couldn’t get any further. in time, her breathing steadies. after a beat, she hears the sound of another car’s engine, and she slowly, cautiously opens her eyes. it’s a sound she recognises; immediately, romilly snaps upright and whips her gaze out the window. her brows furrow in confusion and disbelief at the site of the familiar mustang a little ways down the shore, and without really thinking, she cracks open her door. she slings an arm over the frame as she stands, calling out to the silhouetted form she can only half make out in the dark. “you following me, yu?” she teases on reflex, voice softer than usual against the gentle crashing of the waves. “i’d be flattered, if the time and place didn’t look so ideal for casual manslaughter.”
THE SKY SKIPS and runs past them in shades of deep cobalt streaks as he drives, further along the city, further along its neon and treasure trove of gold street lights and ruby districts, further from capture. The wind threads through his hair and skimming fingers like tendrils; he’s wearing silk beneath his leather jacket, and the breeze captures the tassels and strings too, carries them like sweet wine spilling off his skin. He thinks he might have been meant for this, for wind-whipped evenings and idle wandering.
It’s an hour for peril and adventure, and now that the peril has run its course, kirim is too eager to let go the tension and burdens of the day, to listen to the wind wail and the blaring of the radio drown it out. despite the late hour and the santa monica pier surely being absent of any activity, he finds himself driving out and parking across the water, eager for the cleansing wash, for the sea and salt to salve his bruises and memories. he thinks he’s shameless enough to strip and dive straight into the rip current, let the sea carry him away, but a sound nearby stops him as he’s peeling off his jacket.
“romilly,” kirim rumbles hoarsely. “what a pleasure, love. perhaps i was--i didn’t get the chance to leave you in the dust properly, after all, and i was looking forward to that terribly.” he’d rather she not see him like this, absent of his usual languid confidence, but for some reason he’s not particularly surprised that he happened upon the same exact spot she’d laid claim to for refuge. “don’t be silly. if i wanted to kill you, i’d pick a better method that wouldn’t be so strenuous as dumping you over the pier.” his dark humor rings hollow, even in his own ears. “i’m not intruding, am i?”
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