DOPAMINE TEASE | ellie williams
In a sleepy Southern California town, Ellie chases waves at dawn while you open the ice cream shop, rubbing sunscreen into tired skin. The beach hums â salt air, sticky heat, laughter. Then, her eyes meet yours; ash green, sea-burned. A brush of fingers. What begins as a moment stretches into something slow, electric, and impossible to ignore â bleeding into sunburnt days and salt-sweet nights. A summer fling.
surfer!ellie, working!fem!reader, modern!au, one-shot, language, eventual smut, they make out through an ice cream cone, fingering (r!receiving), tit play (e!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), afab reader, drugs, ellie cannot hold a conversation, author doesnât shut the fuck up, you and dina are close friends, this is really bad and messy .
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âVanilla bean, cookie monster, mint chocolate,â you mumble to yourself, reciting the flavors like a chant as you haul tins heavy with fresh ice cream from the back freezer.
Your arms ache under the weight, muscles dragging like the slow mornings here. You slide them into the empty wells behind the glass, the ones licked clean by yesterdayâs sunburnt crowd. A couple scoops go into the hot water basin to soak â makes it easier later, once your coworkers drag in, still half-asleep, with sandy ankles and sun streaked hair.
Living by the coast had its perks âlike being ten minutes from the shore, barefoot and at easeâ but also meant you had no excuse for being late. Which sucked, especially when you seriously did not feel like spending another hot ass day on your feet, scooping ice cream until the sky went pink and the seagulls got excruciatingly loud.
Lemon Peel Creamery wasnât much of a âshopâ anyway. It was basically a pastel-streaked standâmore blue and yellow than youâd like, but retro enough to catch the eye of tourists whoâd stumble to it, sun-kissed, and confused. Someone once asked you what was in the cookies nâ cream. Like â what was in it. Youâd blinked at them, scooper in hand, trying not to let the exhaustion or existential dread show.
âItâs⊠Oreo. Cookie,â youâd replied slowly, gesturing to the tub as if that would explain everything. âWith a cream base.â
Your parents always said Carmellon Bay used to be a hot spot in the â80s. Said they met playing beach volleyball on opposite teams â arguing one moment, kissing the next. Sharing early mornings and tangled legs in the sand. Now itâs a sleepy, sunwashed kind of place. The kind where gossip floats in on the sea foam and everyoneâs known each other since forever.
Tourists come and go, but the locals are what keep it alive. Kids sprint toward the stand with beach buckets and wild eyes, fingers sticky with salt and sugar, chests burnt from the sun. They call it their âfavorite place in the world,â and sometimes âif you squint hard enoughâ you almost believe it too.
Youâre nineteen, pushing twenty. Skin also wrapped in a layer of sweat and salt. Opening shift is yours again. Itâs always yours. Your aunt opened the place ages ago, and now youâre stuck holding it down for the summer, running on fumes and freezer burn, with barely a team to help. You said yes before thinking it through â before remembering this wasnât your plan.
You were supposed to go north. To L.A. To cruise through Beverly Hills in a friendâs BMW, roof off, music too loud. Spend the summer sipping mocktails, biting into ripe fruit, messing around with a digital camera and pretending not to care how the pictures turned out.
âSome force wake me up from this sticky nightmare and toss me headfirst into Hollywood,â you mutter, pressing down on the thin waffle maker. The smell of sugar and batter already clings to your skin. You prep a few dozen cones, the chocolate dipped ones thick with rainbow sprinkles â always the first to go. âPlease.â
Opening this place for the day was hell. And the dry heat didnât help. At least the two big fans pointed directly at your face made it bearable. Sort of.
One upside to working at a family-owned creamery near the beach? No uniform. Which meant no clingy polo shirt, no ugly logos. Just jean shorts, an airy top, and tennis shoes. You always wore a bikini underneath, just in case things got too sticky or someone spilled something cold and catastrophic, you could run to the shore and sub urge yourself after shifts.
Oh, and flip flops were a no-go. Youâd learned the hard way â one tub of ice cream dropped on your foot and your pinky toe still hadnât forgiven you.
Your coworkers had winced when it happened. One gagged a little.
âItâll work one of these days,â you say under your breath when your half-joking prayer, unsurprisingly, goes unanswered. Not that you expected a miracle. Youâve been here every day this summer â full time. Breaking your back, folding and sealing waffle cones like some tech-powered machine.
At last, the cones are done. Fifty. Not a ton, but enough. Youâre not some corporate froyo chain; youâre Lemon Peel Creamery. Family-owned, underfunded, and lucky if more than three employees are on the schedule at once. Including you.
But even when your coworkers showed up late and sandy, the customers never seemed to mind. Something about the beach made people more forgiving.
âKay,â you exhale. No one else has shown up yet. Youâve been working for an hour and a half, earbud in, sweat lining your hairline. You swipe your forearm across your forehead.
You really should hit the gym one of these days. You should also stop talking to yourself â but that feels like asking too much.
âThatâs done, thenâŠâ
You peel off your gloves, streaked with batter and chocolate drizzle, toss them into the trash, rinse your hands in hot water and soap, then slip on a fresh pair. Sanitized and ready. Ice cream: stocked. Cones: check. Cups, spoons, sample spoons, napkins⊠check, check, check. You tick things off in your head, blinking slow as your brain tries to buffer.
You give yourself a thumbs up. A little mental pat on the back.
âIâm so good at this.â
Dina swings in like she owns the place â hair up in a high ponytail, sweat shorts, cropped tee, and more shell bracelets than wrists. Sheâs glistening with beach sweat and smugness. You spin around on the heel of your shoe.
âDina,â you beam, clapping your hands together with a sigh of relief. âI totally forgot youâre covering for Sloane today.â
You and Dina make a good team. Sheâs easy to talk to, sharp, funny. Always has some ridiculous story about sneaking into a beach bar after midnight and how some guy always bought her mocktails before she even asked.
âIâm flattered, Iâm flattered,â she says, pressing a hand to her chest like a celebrity accepting an award. She tosses her tote bag onto the hook next to your crocheted one and heads straight to the sink. âDidnât even know until this morning. Your aunt called me like, âSloaneâs got food poisoning, can you cover?ââ
âOh.â Your brows lift. âThat sucks. I just figured she didnât feel like coming in. Last time she was hungover and made that tourist guy cry.â
âSeriously?â Dina lets out a snort, drying her hands on a paper towel before slipping on gloves. âIâm getting FOMO. You get all the fun shifts.â
FOMO was one way to describe it.
âDonât,â you warn her. âSeriously. It might sound funny, but in the moment? Torture. I nearly snapped last week. I was this close to jamming a cone into someoneâs face and closing up early.â
She laughs. Loud. You grin.
You werenât actually a jerk. Not really.
Expressive was the right word for it. Very expressive â and apparently fun to be around, if you asked Dina. Only Dina, really, considering you two were stuck to each other like kids on a field trip with matching name tags and shared snacks.
You liked Sloane well enough. She was cool when she wanted to be. But she spent half her shifts whispering to you in the back about how she refused to serve someone ice cream because she âlooked awful todayâ or because she âknew them from school.â Sloane was also a senior in high school, so it tracked.
High school sucked for everyone in its own way. You didnât blame her. If you were seventeen and stuck scooping ice cream in a tiny beach town, seeing people from your school show up mid-shift would be mortifying â especially with your hair plastered to your neck and sweat lining your spine. Or worse: mid-rush, fumbling five cones at once for a sunburnt family with three screaming kids.
âItâs like â oh my god, have you seen those Turkish ice cream stands? Where the guy messes with people before giving them the cone?â Dina was snickering as she reached for the switch and the front blinds started to hum open, letting a streak of harsh golden light pour in. The ice cream glowed behind the glass, like some sugary, holy offering to the scorching heat. She didnât flip the âopenâ sign yet.
The place was old. Really old. But it had a vibe. Aesthetic, even. The pastels âblue and yellowâ were either growing on you or slowly making you lose your mind. Juryâs still out.
âIâd murder to mess with people like that,â you muttered, eyes wide, voice pitched up in a customer service nightmare version of yourself. âInstead of being like this.â Dina gave you a matching look â deadpan, stunned.
âPretty sure itâs kill, not murder,â she said, puffing out her cheeks like she couldnât hold in a laugh. Her skin was flushed, golden â sun-kissed all over. You could just make out the faint tan lines beneath her oversized tee, cut off at the neckline to make it breezier. It was cute. You liked it.
You nodded solemnly. âTotally. But I prefer the term murder.â
âPlease donât let this job turn you into a serial killer. Carmellon Bay is, like, very peaceful,â Dina said, folding her arms and swatting at a bee that wandered in like it had business here. Probably drawn in by the sticky-sweet smell of jam drizzle near the toppings station. Typical.
âCarmellon Bay is too peaceful,â you correct her, rocking forward on your toes to slap the little wooden sign. It flipped with a satisfying spin â closed turned to open, just like that. Their shift had officially begun.
Dina cranked the fans to full blast. Thank God for those.
âYouâre gonna give your aunt a heart attack one of these days,â Dina said, grinning crookedly.
You gave her a half-smile back. âShe already knows what she signed up for.â
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Two vanilla cones with rainbow sprinkles. Two vanilla cones with rainbow sprinkles.
You repeat it in your head like a mantra, jabbing the scooper into the soft vanilla and rolling it into a decent ball. You balance the second cone in the same hand as the first, carefully repeating the motion, then hurry to sprinkle the rainbow flakes over both â sticky, uneven, already dripping under the weight of the sun.
âHere yâgo. Two cones for you, kid,â you say quickly, offering a tight smile. No small talk. The lineâs too long for that.
âThank youuu,â the blonde preteen sings, slapping a wrinkled ten onto the counter. The edge is torn. She grabs both cones and scampers off barefoot toward the sand, yelling, âI got us ice cream!â
She doesnât wait for change. You donât argue. Tips are tips â and you need gas money.
You slip the bill into your pocket and glance over at Dina, whoâs just dropped her scooper into the hot water tray. Youâre flushed. You can feel it â sweat pooling at your lip line. You turn your head and wipe it off with your upper arm.
âPhew. Youâre a mess,â Dina teases, elbowing you lightly. She focuses on her next order âa double scoop of butter pecan for an older womanâ while flipping through bills and slipping the change into the register. You two always keep the tips. When a larger one comes through, you two split it.
âThe UVs are melting me today,â you mutter, grabbing a warm scooper from the tray. Your gloved hands feel clammy. Gross. âChecked my phone this morning. Itâs at a ten.â
Dina lets out a slow breath and plants herself in front of one of the fans on high. âJeez. No wonder it feels like hell out here.â
âSpikes at noon,â you say. You already reapplied sunscreen to your face, knowing youâd be sticking your head halfway out the window eighty percent of the day, trying to decipher mumbled orders. Sun damage was not what you wanted to get out of this summer.
The two of you work through another brutal line of customers. One to five was always the worst. Especially Saturdays like this: heat high, patience low, everyone melting in line for a taste of cold.
Honestly, you get it. Youâre one cone away from snapping yourself. The heat makes you want to toss your clothes, sprint toward the tide, and dive headfirst into a wave. Salt in your eyes, seaweed clinging to your ankles? Worth it.
Note to self: invest in some damn swim shoes to avoid the squishy feeling. Even if youâll never be caught dead actually wearing them.
âAll out of waffle cones for today, officially!â Dina calls out. A few kids slump dramatically, like theyâve just been told summer is canceled. Some mumble complaints, others look to their parents with betrayed little faces. The parents just pat them on the shoulder, murmuring something about âstill a treat.â
You shake your head. âI wish my biggest problem was a waffle cone shortage.â
Dina stifles a laugh, scooping a swirl of strawberry and chocolate into a cup, stabbing a spoon into the strawberry side, and handing it to a dark-skinned girl who beams before running to rejoin her family.
âWaffle cones are overrated,â Dina shrugs. âI like those little waffle cups. The ones you stick into the regular cup to hold the ice cream. Way cuter.â
Your brows lift, sweat lacing the crease between them. You let out a dry, humorless laugh. âDo not give my aunt ideas. You know damn well Iâm the one making these at the crack of fuckinâ dawn, Dina.â
She pulls off her gloves and slips on a new pair, grinning. âRight, right. Just a suggestion. Could double our business, though. Just sayinâ.â
You level her with a stare. âI hate you.â
âAt least youâre honest,â Dina said, grabbing a fresh stack of napkins to restock the counter. You absentmindedly nibbled at the skin on your bottom lip as you got back to prepping more flavor combos for the next inevitable rush.
It took forever to get through the last line of customers. Between awkward small talk, a few too many picky parents, and at least one guy who tried to haggle (as if you owned the shop), the day dragged â but for a summer weekend, it was surprisingly tame. Youâd take it.
Dina was now leaned back, scrolling through her phone, probably checking for texts from that guy sheâd been gushing about all week. Jess? Jesse? Honestly, youâd stopped keeping track.
You reached up and slapped the sign to flip it to âclosedâ.
You flinched slightly, snapping your head up at the voice. Your hand froze midair, hovering just over the swinging sign. A few strands of hair clung to your sweaty skin, making you itch with irritation. You were so ready for a long, cold shower the second you got back home â no way you were laying down like this.
But first⊠whoever just interrupted your end-of-shift ritual better have a damn good reason.
She stood just outside the open window. Big, worn-out white tee clinging to damp skin. Long boardshorts stuck to bruised knees, sandy sandals faded from salt and sun. You raised a brow, squinting. Waiting.
âYeah?â you asked slowly. Not mean â just tired. It was the heat talking. Her hair was short and wet, sticking to her sunburnt shoulders. Her freckles had darkened under the day, cheeks a flushed red, hair faded and crispy at the ends like it had been bleached a few too many times before deciding on this sun-drenched auburn color.
She glanced down at the half-empty tins inside the glass, then scratched the back of her head, fingers catching on a knot. âSorry â I know you guys just closedâŠâ
You blinked. Nodded slightly, waiting. You glanced at the digital clock inside the parlor, then back at her.
âWas wondering if I could grab something real quick? I didnât have time earlier. The line was â crazy.â
Behind you, Dina glanced up from her phone and clocked the interaction. She rolled her shoulders and gave you a shrug that basically said: Whatever. We donât get paid enough to argue.
You sighed. Not loud. Just to yourself. âKay. What flavor?â
You dumped your gloves into the bin near your feet and grabbed a fresh pair. Wasteful, maybe, but whatever. She hesitated.
âUhh⊠what do you guys have? I havenât been here in a while.â
You glanced up from behind the glass, then looked back down at the tubs. Some were scraped clean already. Banana had disappeared before noon. Vanilla bean was always a hit. People stuck to the classics â safe bets.
You grabbed a scooper, cold in your palm.
âDepends,â you said, tapping the counter with it before pointing toward a bright yellow tin. âYou want something creamy? Citrusy? OrâŠâ
You nodded toward the mint chocolate chip. âWanna risk falling in love with the flavor thatâs probably getting kicked off the menu next summer?â
She smirked a little, squeezing water out of the ends of her hair and wiping her hand on her long shorts. Her eyes were rimmed red, probably from swimming, or exhaustion.
âMint choc,â she said finally. âAnd⊠chocolate.â Her finger hovered, then landed. âIn a cup. No cone.â
You gave a small nod, scooping quickly and efficiently. She kept talking.
âYâallâre always packed. By the time Iâm done at the beach and come by for a cone, the shopâs closed. It sucks. But â hey. I made it this time.â
From behind, Dina called out, âBarely did, Williams.â
Williams? You glanced at Dina, nose scrunching slightly. Of course she knew her. Dina somehow knew every person in this town, like she had a built-in memory bank for faces, names, and drama. Youâd never understood how she had the social battery for it. But she made it look easy.
âHey, Dee,â the girl âWilliams, or whatever, apparentlyâ said, cheeks flushing a deeper red, half from the sun and half from recognition. âDidnât know you worked hereâŠâ
Dina strolled up and leaned against the counter while you reached for a napkin and tucked it under the cup. Spoon in, clean lines. That meant you were officially closed.
âYeah,â Dina said. âFinally got a job. Boring, but not terrible. I mean, a beach parlor? Could be worse.â
âWe get paid ten dollars an hour,â you deadpanned, handing Ellie the cup. She took it with both hands, mumbling a soft thank you and offering a half-smile that was crooked but kind of sweet.
âWhich isnât bad when you work ten hours a day,â Dina said, hands in the air.
âThatâs a very funny way to cope,â you said, rolling your eyes in a way that didnât lack affection. âYou just said we have to work ten hours a day for a decent paycheck.â
Dina smirked. âStill better than nothing.â
She turned to Ellie, thumb pointing casually. âThis is Ellie.â
Ellie nodded once, eyes on her cup. âHi.â
She scooped a small bite of mint chocolate into her mouth and blinked like she wasnât expecting it to be that good. Her tongue ran over her teeth, processing the cool, rich flavor, and the slight snap of frozen chocolate against her parched mouth.
âEllie,â she repeated, quieter this time.
âAlready told her your name like a second ago,â Dina teased.
âForgot. My brain is⊠genuinely sun bleached from today.â Ellie laughed under her breath, then lifted the spoon slightly. âThis is really good, by the way.â
âYou two friends or something?â you ask, glancing over at Dina, who just purses her lips and squints like sheâs trying to solve an equation. She brings her hand up and flips it side to side in a so-so motion.
Ellie mirrors the same noncommittal shrug, even though the question was technically aimed at her.
âWe⊠talked for a bit,â Dina says, casual. âWe hang sometimes. When we have time.â
âWhich is never,â Ellie adds, quietly.
Dina snorts. âYeah. Ellieâs always busy â surfing or reading those geeky little comics with a pink lemonade in her hand. I swear, every time I text her sheâs either soaked or sticky.â
That earns a small huff of amusement from you. âSurfing? You surf?â you ask, tilting your head toward Ellie. Her ashy green eyes flick up to meet yours, mid-taste. She swallows down a mouthful of chocolate ice cream, licks a drip off her lip, and nods her chin toward the beach sign a few yards away. A battered surfboard leans against it, its paint half faded from the salt.
âKinda means yes,â Dina cuts in. âSheâs pretty fucking good, too. Donât listen to her fake humility.â
Ellie rolls her eyes, lips tugging into a sheepish smile. She doesnât argue. She just shovels another bite of ice cream into her mouth, clearly more comfortable eating than bragging. The fans hum behind you both, blowing against your faces, thick with sweat and salt. The air inside is stifling, even now.
âWell, Dinaâs not a liar,â you say with a small nod. Ellie lets out a soft, crackly laugh â low, nervous, like she didnât expect that to land. Sheâs trying not to come off as cocky, you can tell. Trying to balance that surfer cool with something a little softer.
âI just practice a lot,â she finally says. âItâs not that surprising.â
She looks over at Dina, whoâs half-scrolling through her phone, half-drumming her fingers on the countertop. Then back at you. She studies you â subtle, but not subtle enough. Her gaze traces the curve of your jaw, the quiet behind your eyes. Sheâd never seen you before. Last summer, it had been your aunt holding down the shop. You looked a bit like her⊠but newer. More reserved in some ways.
You meet her gaze. You feel it when she zones out â unintentional. Like she forgot she was looking. âYeah,â you say suddenly, cutting through the moment, pulling off your gloves and tossing them into the trash. The sound brings her back, her eyes blinking, her attention snapping back to the melting swirl in her cup.
âMy scheduleâs way too packed to make time for a surfboard, pink lemonade, and picture books,â you add, not unkindly.
Ellie licks her spoon clean, like sheâs trying to savor the last of the mint before it disappears. âYou own this place?â
âNo. My aunt does. Iâm just here for the summer to help out.â
You keep it short. No need to go into how it used to be your grandmaâs, how itâll probably be your cousinâs someday, how it makes you feel weirdly homesick to think about all that. Everyone here seems to know each other. You only really got lucky with Dina.
Ellie tilts her head, like sheâs piecing that together. Thatâs when you notice the tattoos on her arms â scattered like driftwood up her forearms, with sun freckles filling the spaces between. It suits her. All washed-out ink and August skin.
âIce cream shop nepotism,â she teases.
Your eyes shoot up at her.
âNot â actually,â she stammers. âSorry. That sounded funnier in my head.â
You exhale through your nose. The apology, oddly, was funnier than the joke. She clocks that, too.
âImagine your strong suit being taming waves, but you canât front a simple joke,â Dina says with a sigh, already heading toward the back exit. She throws her tote over her shoulder, dramatic as ever.
You follow behind them slowly, grabbing your own bag and locking the heavy door with the rusted key clipped to your house key. You glance back at the parlor â a boxy little thing with chipped paint, a single window, and a view that always caught the sun just right. Even with the line gone, it still felt full. It looked like a lemonade stand if someone had funded a couple thousand to make it larger.
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âGold-fish,â Dina announces, dropping a card onto the towel between you two, her voice a little smug.
You blink slowly, staring at her, a little betrayed by the universe. Or maybe just by her luck. You glance down at your pitiful hand of mismatched numbers and patterns, then up at her again. Her dark hairâs down â wet, tangled around her shoulders like kelp. Her skin darker now, flushed beneath the sun.
âOkay, first off,â you mutter, flicking your cards down with dramatic flair, âitâs go-fish. Not goldfish, asshole.â
Dina snickers, shifting to sit on her heels, feet buried in sand. Thereâs a silver anklet glinting on her ankle, catching the sun like a little secret. âWow. Very mature. Real graceful in defeat,â she says, reaching for the mango container between you.
She uses your fork â though itâs hard to even remember whose is whose anymore. You donât care, not right now. Itâs too hot to start caring about little things like that.
The mangoâs soft and sweet and slightly warm from sitting out in the sun, plastic container half-fogged on the inside. You both eat slowly, lips sticky, fingers lazy. You lick the edge of your thumb without thinking.
The towel underneath you both is held down by whatever random crap you brought along â her flip-flops, your tote bag, a full bottle of sunscreen, a pair of cheap sunglasses neither of you had worn once.
She shuffles the cards back into a neat pile, but her movements are slow, loose, tired. The sun is unforgiving, a gold filter casting down across everything: sand, skin, the backs of your legs. Even the air feels sentimental. Everythingâs buzzing a little; heat, annoying flies hovering around their snacks, laughter in the distance from kids sprinting back and forth to the tide with squeaky floats and foam balls.
Work had been the same as always: boring, hot, sticky. But today, your aunt was installing the new AC unit back at the shop, which meant the parlor was closed. A small miracle. No scooping. No sweat-slick gloves. No melting waffle cones slipping down kidsâ wrists.
No paycheck either, but whatever.
You needed this. A day off. A few more hours of sleep than usual. You didnât even get up till almost noon. That alone made today feel like a holiday.
âI donât wanna play anymore,â you say suddenly, letting your body drop flat onto the towel, arms flopping out beside you like youâve just given up on existing.
The cards rustle a little as you shift, some of them brushing against your thigh. You donât move to fix them.
âYou were never winning anyway,â Dina says, but itâs half-hearted. She gathers the cards and stuffs them into her beach bag. Then she stretches out beside you, mimicking your pose, her bare shoulder brushing yours as she lays back. Warm skin against warm skin. Sand shifting slightly underneath.
The skyâs so blue it almost looks fake. That perfect cartoon kind of blue. No clouds today. Just heat.
Dina lets out a slow breath. âI need to cool off.â
You roll your head to look at her. Her eyes are squinted, her lips a little parted. She looks kind of baked, in that sun-drunk way. âDrink some water, then.â
She groans. âNo. I mean, like â cool off. Like ocean-cold, not plastic-bottle-warm.â Still, she reaches blindly for her water anyway and takes a long sip, her throat working, jaw flexing a little as she swallows. Then she grimaces. âUgh. Gross.â
You close your eyes again, trying to ignore the way your own skin is starting to feel like itâs sticking to itself. You havenât even been in the water yet. Dinaâs gone in twice â once fully clothed because she said she âfelt like a dramatic movie character,â and another time just to rinse the sweat off her neck. She came back both times soaked, laughing, her hair slapping wetly against her skin, sunglasses lost somewhere in the chaos. Youâd giggled both times without meaning to.
You feel a bead of sweat roll down the side of your neck. You swipe it away lazily, fingers gritty with sand. âYouâre gonna get salt rash or whatever itâs called if you keep going in and sitting out here without drying off.â
âLet me die how I wanna die,â she says, rolling her head toward you. âIf I drown, you get the anklet.â
You hum. âI was hoping for the mangoes.â
Dina laughs, soft and real. The kind that hums through her ribs. The kind you feel.
Thereâs a lull after that. Just the sound of kids in the surf. Someoneâs bluetooth speaker playing a song you half-recognize. The wind rustling the corner of your towel.
A sudden spray of water slaps across your legs, chest, and face. Your reflexes jerk you upright, scrambling onto your butt with a loud gasp, spitting salt and heat off your lips. For a second, you just sit there, blinking, stunned, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth â trying to decide if youâre tasting mango or ocean.
Itâs both. Somehow, itâs both.
You hold your arms out and flick them downward like youâre airing out a soaked jacket. âNo. No, what the hell.â
Dina lets out a sharp inhale beside you, just as caught off guard. She props herself up on one elbow, blinking like sheâs still buffering. Her hairâs wetter than before. A few stray droplets drip down from her lashes. âDude,â she mutters. Then she looks over at you and breaks into a grin. âMy prayer was heard.â
You glare. âGod plays favorites.â
You reach for your phone, tucked under your towel to avoid exactly this kind of disaster. Thankfully, itâs just damp â not drowned. The screenâs still playing music at that low, secret volume youâd set. You wipe it on the driest corner of the towel, pressing your thumb along the speakers and charging port. âAnd for some reason, only your prayers get through.â
Before Dina can answer, a voice chimes in hoarse and heavy, like whoever owns it just ran a marathon through the city.
âSorry â seriously, I didnât see you guys. My eyes are, like, burning. I was racing my friend down the beach andââ
The voice falters, stops altogether.
You and Dina both glance up.
Ellie. Wet-haired, dripping like a soaked towel. Her board half dropped into the sand beside her, sea water trailing off the edge of her soaked oversized t-shirt and darkening the waistband of those same long shorts. Sheâs hunched over slightly, catching her breath, eyes squinting like the sunâs too much.
The recognition hits at the same time for all of you.
âSeriously, Ellie?â Dina groans, flopping onto her back. âAgain?â
Your eyes dart between them. âAgain? This isnât the first time sheâs done that?!â
Ellie tries for a sheepish smile. It comes out crooked. âHey. I swear I didnât see you guys. You blended in with the sand⊠which isnât a dig, by the way.â She clears her throat. âAlso, even if it wasnât you, I wouldnât have just â yâknow. Body slammed a wave into someone for fun.â
Youâre only some what listening now. Your attentionâs shifted to the mango container, which is officially a crime scene. You let out a quiet groan as you pick it up: sand coating the lid, a few golden cubes looking soggy and fucking doomed. Dina leans over to peek and winces in shared grief.
âSorry for splashing you, by the way,â Ellie says, clearing her throat again like her voiceâs still catching up to the moment. âDid I get anything else wet?â
Dinaâs already shaking her head, but she doesnât let the moment slide. âNah, youâre fine. You donât get enough girls for that to happen.â
It doesnât register right away.
Youâre still holding your mango, mourning.
But Ellie looks like sheâs been physically nudged by the comment. Her jaw shifts, her mouth opening just slightly like she wants to say something back, but decides against it. She presses her lips together and exhales through her nose instead.
âGross, Dee,â she mutters, scrunching her face at the jab. Dina just snickers and shrugs like itâs not the first time sheâs crossed a line and enjoyed it.
You, finally tuning back in, shoot them both a flat look. âAre we not gonna talk about the fact that our snack is dead?â
Ellie lifts a hand, half-raising it in apology, like sheâs guilty in a courtroom. âI owe you mango. A whole new tray.â
You sigh and set the container aside, flicking your wet fingers in defeat. âItâs fine. Just⊠maybe next time donât surf directly into people.â
She rubs the back of her neck. âIn my defense, I was winning the race.â
âAgainst who?â Dina asks.
Ellie blinks. ââŠMyself.â
That gets a quiet snort out of you.
Not enough to forgive her, but enough to stop being annoyed.
For someone who surfed like it was a second language, Ellie was surprisingly useless off the board. Clumsy, distracted, kind of always two steps behind. Youâd seen her plenty from the window of the shop â cutting clean across a wave, eyes squinted in concentration, hair slicked back with salt like she belonged to the ocean itself. But then sheâd walk up to the counter, soaking wet and blinking like a sleepwalker, and ask something like:
âIs the chocolate here⊠like⊠artificial?â
Youâd just stared at her that day. Processing.
What in the actual hell did artificial chocolate even mean?
You didnât dignify it with a real answer. Just shook your head, rang her up, and told Dina about it over text while working with Sloane. Dina lost her mind. Sent at least five voice notes gasping for air and screaming. âArtificial chocolateâ became an inside joke practically overnight â whenever Ellie came around, it was impossible not to bring it up.
âA scoop of artificial chocolate for you then, Williams?â youâd say casually, lifting the scooper with a flourish, passing it between your left and right hand like a magic trick.
Sheâd roll her eyes. Scoff. But her lips would twitch, always. Not annoyed-annoyed â just playfully resigned, like she knew she was doomed the second she stepped foot near that damn counter. âSure,â sheâd mutter, pulling out a wrinkled five like it was hush money.
You honestly werenât sure if she was conscious half the time. Her thoughts seemed to drift in and out like waves; there when they wanted to be, gone the second something shiny caught her eye. Except when she was talking about internships with Dina, rattling off long-winded plans about applying next fall and getting out of town for a while. Then she was sharper, more focused.
Youâd brought it up once â told her you had people back in Houston who maybe knew someone at one of the places she mentioned. It was meant to be helpful. Supportive, even.
She just blinked at you, slow and wide-eyed, like youâd threatened to shut down NASA or something.
âThatâsâŠâ Sheâd paused. âCool.â
Dina had managed to convince her to take a break from the water and hang out for a bit. You didnât argue. It wasnât like you minded. Ellie wandered over still dripping, setting her board down somewhere behind her, flopping into the towel like a kid whoâd been forcibly pulled out of the pool by her mom.
Legs splayed, elbows hooked on her knees, sleeves of her worn t-shirt clinging damp to her arms. Her knees looked scraped and bruised raw from wiping out, or maybe just from general recklessness. She was nursing a bag of watermelon Sour Patch Kids, plucking one out every minute or so and chewing slowly, like it physically hurt her jaw to eat anything sour.
You watched her out of the corner of your eye.
Who the hell swam in long board shorts and a thrifted cotton tee unless they were either hiding something or had a bone-deep fear of melanoma?
She sat there like a fucking lifeguard whoâd quit her post mid-shift and never got back up.
Hair still damp, a halo of sun freckles scattered across her nose. When she caught you looking, she offered you the bag of candy with a shrug: no pressure, no explanation. Just a sticky crinkled bag halfway to your face. Sugar on her own fingers.
You chewed slowly, the two of you working through the last of the sour candy in quiet. Sharing the crinkled bag like it was some rare delicacy. Your fingers were sticky from sugar and faintly gritty with salt. Hers too. The kind of tacky feeling you couldnât wipe away unless you dove back into the water, which neither of you seemed in a rush to do.
The sun baked down on your back. Her soaked shirt clung to her like it had melted onto her skin. You swore surfing in cotton had to be a hazard, but you didnât ask. She adjusted her shirt now and then, tugging it off her stomach or wringing the hem out absentmindedly, like she hadnât figured out how to sit still in it yet.
You couldnât help but notice how her fingers always hesitated when they got too close to yours in the bag. Like the graze of skin sent her whole body into a reboot. You said nothing, but mentally shooed it away.
Not in a mean way. Just⊠in that endearing, quietly scrambled way she always seemed to exist. Awkward, but not exactly shy. Shy felt too delicate a word for someone like like her. She was the type to avoid eye contact when someone brought up anything remotely emotional, but would happily drop into a wave taller than her house.
Youâd seen it before: whenever Dina told some absurd, embarrassing story âlike that one time she threw up on a date after eating a questionable seafood tacoâ Ellie would suddenly remember she needed to check on her board, or had to grab something from her car. Anything to escape the secondhand horror.
You found it fucking hilarious.
And picked on her accordingly.
Then, for the third time, your hands collided. Both of you reaching for the last piece of sour candy â fingertips brushing again. This time, the pause was longer. Ellie froze. You didnât move either. She looked at you first, her ash-green eyes flicking up with that same dazed slowness like she hadnât quite processed what just happened.
You raised a brow. Then pulled your hand back. Noting her hesitation.
She blinked once. Then dropped the last candy into her mouth without a word.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
âIâm doing it! Iâm doing it!â Dinaâs knees buckled like cooked spaghetti as she wobbled on top of Ellieâs surf board, arms swinging wildly like she was trying to swat away a dozen bees. Her voice cracked with something between fear and excitement.
Ellieâs hand clamped over her mouth to hide her grin, eyes locked on Dina with the kind of nervous attention youâd give a toddler attempting to do anything dangerous. You stood beside her, both of you submerged in the glittering shallows, UVs blazing on your neck, salt crusting on your skin.
You turned your head just enough to catch Ellieâs expression and nearly fucking lost it â shoulders trembling as you tried to keep your laugh contained.
âYeah,â Ellie finally said, clearly struggling to keep her voice from betraying her. âYouâre not doing that bad for someone whoâs never stood on a board before. Iâll give you that.â
You gave her a playful shove with the back of your wet hand, your fingers leaving a faint print on her arm. âLying ass. She looks like sheâs learning how to walk for the first time.â
Ellie tightened her arms across her chest in mock offense. âThatâs what I looked like too when I started.â
âSure, sure. Go ahead and waterboard yourself. Pretty sure itâs coming anyway if you keep surfing in that damn shirt. Your farmerâs tan must be lethal.â
Her head snapped toward you at that. Wide-eyed, caught. âOh my God.â
You smirked. She glanced at Dina âwho was now awkwardly crouching on the board like sheâd seen someone else do it betterâ and tried to justify herself. âMy surf suit already gives me the worst tan lines in the goddamn world. If I end up looking like Neapolitan ice cream tonight, so be it.â
You gave a slow nod, overly impressed. âLove the way you cope.â
You followed her gaze back to Dina, who was now fully squinting at the horizon like it held the answers to her balancing issue.
Over the last few weeks, Ellie had definitely loosened up around you. At first, it had just been Dina dragging her along. But now she lingered. Stuck around. She made jokes. She listened when you talked. And, yeah, she read. A lot. Dina wasnât exaggerating when she said that. Youâd seen Ellie curled beneath a sun umbrella with a beach towel draped over her shoulders, her comic open and her eyes flicking across the page like it was gospel. Always drying her fingers carefully first, too. Never letting the sand or water touch the ink.
Youâd call her a friend. Or at least, you wanted to. You just hadnât said it aloud yet. Not sure if she felt the same way. So for now, you stayed in this soft middle ground. Friendly. Comfortable. Tossing jabs her way to see if sheâd bite.
Most days she stopped by the shop, traded a five for a scoop, made some offbeat comment about life or the weather, and bolted down the sand with the cone dripping between her fingers. Youâd watch her go, shake your head, and get back to work. Always smiling a little when you turned to scoop the next order.
A sudden splash broke your thoughts.
Dina flopped backwards off the board in dramatic defeat, limbs flying. She hit the water with a yelp and disappeared under the foam. You burst out laughing. Ellie took a couple steps forward in response, just in case Dina had broke something. But she surfaced seconds later, rubbing her eyes and coughing.
âI lasted, like, five minutes! Not bad!â she declared proudly, blinking against the blinding sun as she stumbled through the water toward you two.
âFive minutes and you were likeââ You shook out your arms in a floppy, exaggerated motion, doing your best impression of her. âThis. The whole damn time. Pretty sure a lifeguard started walking over.â
Ellie snorted behind you, her fingers dragging across the top of her board as she checked the wax. It was curling up around the edges like it had been used for a hundred summers straight. She made a mental note to rewax it before her next long session.
âLike you could do any better,â Dina jabbed, grabbing your arm with a wet pinch that made you jerk back. âYouâd get taken out by the first wave and still find a way to blame me.â
âI would blame you. Thatâs a guarantee.â
Dina turned toward Ellie, eyes wide with mock sincerity. âSheâs living proof that the universe sends certain people just to ruin your summer.â
That was so absurd, you choked on your laugh.
âWow,â you said, grinning. âIâm honored.â
Ellie just smiled, shook her head, and tucked her board under her arm. Her shirt was soaked, clinging to her torso in uneven patches. She didnât seem to care. And honestly, at this point, neither did you.
The tide was coming in slowly now. The sun inching closer to its golden hour curve. This âwhatever this was between the three of youâ felt easy. Like how summers were supposed to feel. Warm skin. Salty air. Friendly teasing. And maybe, if things kept going the way they were, something even better brewing underneath it all.
L.A hadnât crossed your mind in weeks.
If this were June, you probably wouldâve been mourning the summer you could have had. Expensive cars revving through cracked streets. Your friendâs oversized beach house just five minutes from the shoreline. Trendy beachgoers, shiny sunglasses, the familiar roar of scooters, the overpriced acai stands set up next to water-stained âNO PARKINGâ signs. Loud blondes yelling over music, filming everything. Sunscreen that smelled more like perfume than protection.
Yeah, that summer had looked real nice in your head. But now?
Now you stood waist-deep in warm water, swaying your hands back and forth like kelp in the tide. Dina and Ellieâs voices buzzed behind you â something about a girl from Ellieâs surfer circle who she apparently could not stand. You didnât catch the whole thing. Your focus had drifted somewhere else entirely, lips pursed slightly, eyes flicking out across the waves.
Your hair was dry, pulled out of your face for once. Youâd started to get better at timing the water â knowing when to duck under and when to let it lift you like a paper boat. Around this time of day, the swells always got bigger. Ellie loved it. Said the early evening surf was unbeatable. Her group had already cleared out for the day, but she always stuck around longer now; drifting back to you and Dina like sheâd been bound there.
The sky was ridiculous. Pink bleeding into orange, melting into streaks of violet that dusted around a few leftover clouds. Like someone had smeared the whole thing with pastels. Youâd gotten used to orange, more than anything. It colored the end of every day here. Clung to the backs of your legs. Tinted your dreams.
August was right around the corner.
Hard to believe youâd gotten here in late May â back when the shop still smelled like paint and cleaning spray, when your aunt was still yelling about freezer delays and missing signage. Now the parlor felt lived-in. Real. Busy. The past few months had blurred into a routine of sweat, sugar, and sunburns.
âSheâs clearly captivated by the little fishies and sand fleas under her feet.â
Dinaâs voice sliced clean through your thoughts, jolting you out of them. Your head snapped up as her words registered.
You blinked, then grimaced. âAbsolutely the hell not,â you muttered, jerking one leg up in reflex. âEw, ew. Do not put that in my head. I just started getting used to the feeling of soggy seaweed rubbing my ankle, and now youâre talking about ocean-ticks?â
âSand fleas,â Dina corrected, biting back a grin.
âWorse. Thatâs worse,â you shuddered. âThey sound like something out of a cryptid documentary.â
Ellie hummed lowly, squinting at the horizon where the waves curled like lazy fists. âThey donât really bite people, I think,â she offered, not very convincingly. âUnless you stand still too long.â
You kicked gently beneath the surface, moving just enough. âAwesome. Standing still is now banned.â
Ellie glanced at you, mouth twitching. âShould I put that on a sign?â
You met her eyes and gave a tired smirk. âNext to âWeâre out of waffle conesâ? Sure.â
The water rocked gently around your waist. The tide was rising.
But instead of pulling you out, it felt like it was keeping you here.
âYou could give the surfboard a go too,â Ellie offered, voice dipping into sarcasm as she nodded toward it, âif youâre that grossed out by ocean life just⊠existing in their natural habitat.â
Her board drifted nearby, slow and steady, catching a soft push from the current. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck, strands curling from the salt. She ran a hand through it, shaking it out so it wouldnât dry in those heavy, separated logs. Dinaâs hair, on the other hand, was pulled tight into a wet braid down her back. Smart. It wouldnât tangle like hell later when she showered.
âI guess so,â you sighed, dragging yourself forward through the pushback of the water. âBut Iâm not standing on it. Thatâs where I draw the line.â
âIâll just sit and chill. Talk with you guys.â
âYou mean zone out and ignore us entirely,â Dina cut in, her tone smug.
You splashed water in her direction, catching her shoulder and some of her face. She let out a snort and wiped it off with the back of her hand.
Ellie steadied the board as you tried to climb on â which turned out to be a lot harder than it looked. You slipped the first time, crashing back into the water face-first with a splutter. The second time, a hard wave hit just as you straddled it, knocking your balance off completely. You fell in again, feet squishing into a cold bed of seaweed. Absolutely disgusting. You grimaced and tried to ignore the feeling crawling up your spine.
âOkay â nope, thatâs actually worse than sand fleas,â you muttered.
âRelax,â Ellie chuckled, stepping forward and placing a hand on your lower back, a light push to help guide you. It was hesitant, like she wasnât sure if touching you was okay, but it fell away quickly once you got your balance.
You finally got situated, legs dangling on either side of the board. The wax felt rough and oddly warm against your thighs. But at least you were no longer fighting the water.
âThere yâgo,â Ellie said, sounding mildly proud.
You looked down at her from your new, elevated position. âWow. You look even shorter from here.â
That earned a snort from Dina, who quickly bit her lip to keep from laughing too hard. Ellieâs expression went flat for a beat, like she was processing the insult in real time.
Then her mouth twitched. She exhaled through her nose in faux defeat and shook her head.
âAlright. You guys are relentless.â
âYou love it,â you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.
Ellie held up a finger like a warning sign. âI offered you a free ride on my board and this is how Iâm repaid? Called short to my face?â
âI couldâve said tiny,â you shrugged.
âDonât evenââ Dina cut in, waving a hand in front of your face like she already knew what was coming next. âYouâre about to make it worse.â
âIâm just being honest,â you shrugged, smile slow and sly.
Ellie squinted at you, pointing again, all bark and no bite. âYouâre lucky Iâm too sun-tired to launch you off that thing right now.â
You raised your brows, settling more comfortably on the board. âYou mean you canât reach me. Excuses, excuses.â
âSheâs so damn cocky now that sheâs above sea level,â Dina muttered, shaking her head. Tone light.
Ellie just gave you a long look, squinting through the orange-drenched haze of the setting sun, then turned away with a tired chuckle. âI swear. If I wasnât too lazy, Iâd absolutely flip that thing.â
You smirked, victorious, toes skimming the surface of the water. The board rocked gently beneath you, but you held steady.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
âYou two came mid-shift to tell me about a fucking bonfire?â you grumble, head still ducked under the wide brim of your navy Carmellon Bay cap. The sun was practically boiling over, and youâd had the audacity to forget your sunglasses on a day where the UVs were a staggering eleven.
Even with the brand new AC humming faintly from inside the shop, you were already sweating through your shirt.
âYup,â Dina replied with zero shame. âI was gonna leave Ellie to ask on her own, but then I remembered I also needed to suffer and remind myself I have work tomorrow at exactly ten.â
You gave a long, exhausted blink. âSo brave of you, Dina,â you said, your voice flat. A slow, sarcastic clap followed.
Dina ignored it. âCan we have two waffle cones? One scoop mint-chocolate for this weirdo,ââshe jabbed a thumb toward Ellieââand one scoop cookie dough for me?â
You sighed. Today had been a weird lull in the usual beach traffic. Wednesdays never made much sense for big plans like bonfires, but then again, this town thrived off spontaneous, semi-chaotic decisions.
You hadnât been to one since you were ten; your parentsâ idea, back when the idea of marshmallows and sticky fingers made you feel alive.
âYâallâre lucky youâre my friends,â you muttered, pushing off the counter and moving toward the tucked-away waffle maker in the back corner. You fished out the leftover batter from this morning âenough for two fresh cones â and started pouring slowly. You usually didnât make more past the original batch of fifty. Rarely worth it unless there was a swarm.
âNever answered our question about the bonfire,â Ellie said, lightly coughing like she was testing the waters.
Dina chimed in again. âYeah. Are you coming or not?â
âIâm probably gonna be too tired, honestly,â you said while flipping the first cone. âXanderâs barely done anything today. Heâs gone to the bathroom like ten times and keeps talking about how heâs got stomach problems or somethinâ.â
You shook your head. Xander was the kind of new hire that made you question every decision your aunt made. Clearly hired because his dad once fixed her mailbox â not exactly resume material.
âBooo,â Dina hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth.
You looked up just in time to see Ellie give you two dramatic thumbs down, her face dead serious.
âReally?â you deadpan, narrowing your eyes at the both of them.
They didnât stop â Dina still booing under her breath, Ellie nodding solemnly like youâd just betrayed the entire town.
âI work ten hours a day and you wanna come and boo me in my face?â you said. âYouâre mad I donât wanna drag my lifeless body to a bonfire after that?â
The waffle maker beeped, and you grabbed the first cone, rolling it in that fluid motion youâd mastered over the summer. You let it cool beside you as you poured the second.
No line, thankfully. If there had been, they wouldnât be here pestering you. They both knew better than to loiter when there was actual work to be done.
âDuh,â she said. âYouâre our friend. Weâre not letting you rot alone while a bunch of people play beach volleyball and burn marshmallows on sticks.â
âItâll be fun. Seriously.â Ellie stepped forward a bit, her voice cracking mid-sentence. You saw her wince at herself, which made your lip twitch, just slightly.
She pushed forward anyway. âThereâs gonna be volleyball, yeah. Dee said youâre good at it. And, yâknow, itâd be more fun if you came. With us.â
You stared at her for a second too long, then shook your head and rolled your eyes â not entirely out of irritation, more out of self-defense.
âYou guys are insufferable.â
But your voice wasnât nearly as annoyed as your words, and they both seemed to catch that.
Ellie smiled, soft and sheepish. Dina grinned. Knowing they won you over.
âOne hour,â you say firmly, like youâre sealing a blood oath with them â and maybe a little with yourself. A boundary drawn in sand. Both their faces light up in near-unison, Ellieâs first, soft and slightly surprised, then Dinaâs like she was expecting the win all along.
You roll up the second waffle cone and walk to the front window where theyâre leaned, watching you like kids about to get away with something. The fresh cones warm against your palm, crispy, still holding the scent of batter and iron.
You scoop a clean, full ball of mint-chocolate onto Ellieâs cone, then move on to the cookie dough for Dina. The scooper clicks softly against the metal tin.
âNothing more than that,â you warn as you drop the scooper into the rinse tray and hand them their cones over the glass. âOr Iâll kill you both.â
âFair,â Dina smirked, already licking a drop threatening to slide down the side of her scoop.
Ellie rummaged through her pocket like it was a trash heap. Crumpled bills, some coins, maybe a rogue receipt. She pulled out a ten, already softened at the corners, and passed it over. Always with the messy money, this girl.
You snatched it with two fingers. âYou ever heard of a wallet?â
âI like the challenge,â she muttered.
âI mean, you could always leave earlier than that if you donât like it,â Ellie added, her voice casual, unaware of the chaos sheâd just unleashed. Dinaâs head whipped around before you could even blink.
A sharp elbow met Ellieâs side mid-lick, making her jerk back with wide eyes. âThe fuck?â
âShe cannot leave early,â Dina snapped. âDonât plant ideas in her head. She will stay the full sixty minutes. Minimum. Longer if she decides she actually likes having fun.â
Ellie rubbed her rib with a small wince, still working on her cone. âJeez. Okay.â
âThank you, Ellie, for having some sympathy for me,â you say dryly, aiming the full weight of your sarcasm at her over the glass divider.
Ellie glanced up from her cone, the smallest guilty smile tugging at her lips. âYea, I got you.â
âWhat time will this bonfire thing start again?â you ask slowly, cracking your fingers one by one, mostly out of habit. God. Why couldnât they have picked literally any other day for this?
âAround seven,â Ellie answers, leaning slightly on the windowsill. âBut people donât really start showing up until eight, when the sunâs almost gone.â
Dina nods with her chin in her palm. âYeah. While we wait for it to get good, weâll keep ourselves entertained. Promise.â She flashes a lazy grin, like the thought of killing time together is enough of a draw on its own.
You squint at them, already regretting your one hour agreement, now probably two since apparently it doesnât really start till an hour in. âJust text me after my shift, or Iâm gonna forget. I donât wanna go home, shower, and pass out while you two blow up my phone with âwhere r uâ texts.â
âNoted,â Ellie says, lifting her cone slightly like a cheers.
Thatâs when Xander comes lumbering through the back, yawning like heâd just completed a triathlon. His lanky arms stretch overhead as he cracks his knuckles and slinks toward the sink. The guy had that perm-bedhead blond hair that somehow made him look younger and more confused than he actually was. He rinsed his hands with a dramatic sigh.
You clock the sigh. Bite your tongue. Tired of what exactly? His ten back-and-forth bathroom breaks? Or the emotional weight of holding up a wall?
You consider throwing him under the bus to your aunt âagainâ but think better of it. Summerâs almost over, and trying to train someone new with three weeks left would suck more than just enduring his snail pace.
You keep the complaint in your back pocket for now.
Meanwhile, Dina and Ellie are already halfway down the boardwalk, Ellieâs shirt sticking to her back, and Dina swinging her cone between two fingers. You glance at the clock. Four more hours with Xander.
Dread sits like a pit in your gut.
He wipes his hands on his apron and wanders over to the counter like a bored raccoon. âWas that Dina?â he asks, peering out the window toward the pair. His eyes linger a little too long on Ellie before shifting to you.
You give a clipped nod. âYeah. She and Ellie came by for cones.â
He hums. Taps his fingers on the counter like heâs trying to create a beat to pass time. âEllie?â
You resist the urge to sigh and instead start tidying up, reaching for a rag to swipe down the sticky spot youâd been ignoring on the counter. âYeah. Ellie.â
âLike⊠Williams? Surfer girl?â he says while opening the freezer to dig out a sample spoon. You already know whatâs coming. Sure enough, he scoops a sample of rocky road and gives it a lazy taste. Like clockwork.
You pause, then glance up. âUh-huh. Who else goes by Ellie Williams around here?â
He shrugs, licking his spoon and leaning against the wall. âYou two got somethinâ going on?â
You blink. Then furrow your brows, genuinely irritated. Not at the question, but at how casually he tossed it out there â like it was some casual observation and not a stupid assumption.
âNoâŠ?â you say slowly, drawing out the word like it might help him catch on to how weird the question is. âSheâs Dinaâs friend. Now kinda mine. We hang sometimes. Thatâs it. Why?â
Xander shrugs again, unbothered. âJust askinâ. I see you two talkinâ after her sessions. Looked like a thing. Thatâs all.â
You shake your head, pressing the rag into the tile a little harder than necessary. âNo duh we talk. Iâve seen her almost every week since the summer started. Ice cream shopâs open again, she stops by. We talk. Not that deep.â
He tosses the used spoon in the trash and grabs another, and you finally turn toward him, narrowing your eyes.
âAnd donât eat all the damn samples. Thatâs for customers. Not your personal buffet.â
Xander holds his hands up, grinning around the spoon like he didnât hear you the first ten times you said it. You roll your eyes and turn back to wiping the floor, resisting the strong, sudden urge to chuck the sample tray into the sea.
Youâd take a crowded, sweaty bonfire over this shift any day.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
wtf are we wearing tonight???
You sit hunched on the edge of your mattress, one foot tucked under your thigh and the other dangling, heel brushing the wooden frame. Your phone glows in your hands while you stare down at the group chat, your thumbs waiting like theyâre about to sprint â but none of the other runners are even on the track yet. All your messages turning green. Because of course Ellie has a Samsung.
Every time she sends one of those Samsung-only emojis and it pops up as a blurry PNG, Dina sends a screenshot to the chat with ten laughing reactions.
Ellie finally replies first, screen lighting up with her signature lack of urgency:
Do we need to match or something�
You sigh and glance across the room. Your suitcase, still half-unpacked from May, is a mess of tangled clothes and wrinkled tanks. You respond:
I just need to know what direction yâall are going in because my room looks like a Goodwill bin exploded
WHERE IS DINA. WHY AM I ASKING YOU FOR FASHION ADVICE.
Ellieâs typing bubble bounces, then disappears. Then comes back again.
Did Xander thread every one of your nerves and knit a dick blanket with them??
You flop back against your pillow, the one your hair better not smudge your light makeup beat on. Your oversized shirt from your shift clings to your back. Underwear, socks, no motivation.
I just have no idea what to wear, and Iâm charging my phone so it doesnât die while weâre out
Ellieâs bubble appears again, then lingers long enough that you know sheâs overthinking her answer. Your phone buzzes with her eventual suggestion:
Uhh, wear shorts and a nice shirt?
Or a big shirt if you want. iâm doing that. dinaâs dressing up more, so maybe do that too??
Idk. I just donât want sand in my clothes.
Iâm getting FOMO reading your chats rn
guys wear whatever the fuck u want itâs a bonfire weâre getting LIT TONITE đ€đŒ
Ellie reacts with an alarmed emoji. You snort through your nose.
You toss your phone onto the bed and drag yourself upright. Digging through the abyss of your suitcase, you eventually settle on denim shorts that still kind of smell like the detergent you used back in Houston, a fitted white tee that hugs in the right places, old tennis shoes, and the dumb navy Carmellon Bay cap you always say youâll stop wearing â but donât.
Makeup: still intact. Hair: manageable. Earrings: secure. Mood: well, getting there.
Your phone continues buzzing while you slip your wallet into your bag and tiptoe through the dim house. The TV drones in the background, your aunt fast asleep on the recliner, curled around the cat like they both own the place. You pause to smile at the scene, then quietly grab the car keys and slide out the front door, locking it with a soft click behind you.
The heatâs mellowed, but the air still holds warmth. The sunâs half-dipped behind the palm trees, casting streaks of gold across the street as you slide into the car and flip down the visor to double-check your face.
Fine. You look fine. This is fine.
The drive is short, careful. You avoid speeding past side streets â lesson learned after a woman practically chased you down over her kid on a scooter. You spot the crowd up ahead near the fire pit zone, but more importantly: Ellie and Dina.
Theyâre impossible to miss. Dinaâs in something that looks like she stole it from a teenage boyâs closet and a fashion influencerâs page, and Ellie? Ellie is wearing jorts. Long ones. The kind that go just past the knee like sheâs about to do yard work or attend a county fair.
âLook who actually showed up instead of fake-canceling at the last minute!â Dina cheers, arms wide like she expects a hug. You step around her like sheâs an open car door and pat her shoulder instead.
Ellie, sensing the mild awkwardness, fills the space with a quick half-hug with Dina. Her shirt is a little wrinkled, and her hairâs already wind-blown. The usual.
âGreat,â she says, adjusting her waistband. âWeâre all here. Letâs head out before the place gets too packed and it turns into a slow walk of shame.â
âAgreed,â you nod, shouldering your bag.
Ellie gestures ahead, faux-chivalrous. âLadies first.â
Dina eyes her outfit with a grin. âThose jorts donât make you any less of a lady yourself, Els.â
Ellie sighs deeply, the kind of sigh that suggests sheâs already regretting the outfit but refuses to back down now. âThey have pockets. Real ones.â
You snicker and fall into step beside them, the three of you moving as the sun slides lower and music starts to echo from the beach. The smell of smoke, sunscreen, and sugar already curling in the air. You think you spot a volleyball net in the distance, and someone with a cooler full of drinks.
Treading down the boardwalk felt surprisingly good now that the air was shifting â slightly crisper, shedding the suffocating warmth of earlier. A soft breeze rolled in from the shore, threading through the gaps in the old wood beneath your feet. It smelled like sea salt and sunscreen and something vaguely smoky. The sun was on its last leg, dimming behind the hills, and the sky was starting to lean violet.
You passed under the shadow of a rusted sign that read Carmellon Bay Public Access, its lettering nearly faded, one corner bent up from a long-forgotten storm.
It had probably been hanging there for decades â same as the lifeguard tower nearby, covered in old Sharpie doodles and hearts scratched into the paint.
Further down, a group of people lounged on worn-out towels, some nursing canned beers, others standing in a loose circle and smoking rolled-up joints that glowed faint orange in the dimming light.
One guy laughed too hard at something, tilting his head back, spilling beer onto the sand. Ellieâs eyes flicked toward them briefly. Then she picked up pace to match you and Dina again, her face unreadable except for the subtle twitch in her brow.
The bonfire itself wasnât hard to spot â bright and crackling, like someone had shoved the sun into a pit. Two people hovered near it, one lazily poking it with a stick, the other crouched nearby talking low while watching the flames dance. Heat rolled off the blaze in soft waves, enough to be felt from a few feet away. Shadows stretched out around the group gathered there â some standing, some sitting on coolers or flat driftwood planks, a few already lost in loud conversations.
You caught a glimpse of some frat-looking dude shirtless in plaid shorts, clutching two beers while grinding into the air. No music even playing near him. Just his own internal beat. Ellie raised her brows and glanced at you like, you seeing this too? You barely stifled a laugh, your lips curling with hers in a mirrored, silent exchange of judgment.
Overall, it wasnât horrible.
Someone had set up a decent drink table. One big cooler full of beers and hard seltzers, another with just sodas and plastic water bottles. You could see condensation dripping down the sides of the cans. The ice inside popped faintly every now and then.
Off to the side, a dozen people were volleying a ball over a net, diving with zero grace. Legs sandy, knees bruised. But they were laughing, shouting across the net, sweaty and unbothered.
âIâm good on drinking,â Ellie mumbled, standing with her hands on her hips as she squinted toward the cooler. Dina raised a brow at her, already fishing through the ice for something fruity. She emerged with a lime White Claw and popped it open with a click, shrugging as she tossed her hair back and took a sip.
Dina looked effortlessly pretty, even with the wind kicking up her braid. Ellie too â though she didnât act like she noticed it herself. Just stood there with her back a little hunched from habit, shirt tucked loosely into her jorts. You werenât obsessed with how you looked, not unless it was time to dress up or put effort in. You were.. okay to say the least.
âYou guys are boring,â Dina grinned, glancing between you two. âHave some fun. Itâs rare weâre all off on the same day. No excuses.â She wasnât pressuring, but she did hold out a beer toward you.
You hesitated before taking it. âThanks,â you muttered, staring down at the label like it was written in hieroglyphics. Not your favorite taste in the world, but youâd survive a few sips. You cracked it open and took a careful drink â bitter, cold, fizzy.
Then a voice interrupted the moment. Low, smooth, familiar.
âDee, holy shit. Hey.â
All three of your heads turned as a guy strolled up. Tall, dark hair, clean-cut. He had that cool confidence that made it obvious he knew he looked good. Dina blinked as she lowered her drink.
âJesse,â she said, surprised, like she hadnât expected him to actually show. She looked over at you and Ellie with her brows slightly raised, almost like donât.
You and Ellie both clocked it immediately.
âI see,â Ellie muttered under her breath, subtly nudging your arm. Her eyes didnât linger long, but the nudge was obvious.
Then came the tap on your back. Light. Quick.
You met her gaze, already understanding. Letâs give them a minute.
You nodded. âOh, yeah. Weâll be⊠over there, Dina.â You motioned vaguely toward the edge of the beach where there were fewer people and more open space.
Dina gave a quick smile, half distracted, and turned her attention back to Jesse as you and Ellie peeled off toward the quieter side of the bonfire, beer in hand, breeze still rolling in like a sigh of relief.
Next thing you knew, you were sat in the sand. It was cooler now, not warm like earlier. The grains stuck to the backs of your thighs where your shorts rode up, and your elbows sank slightly when you leaned back into your palms. The tide reached just far enough to kiss the tips of your shoes, saltwater curling in like it wanted to tug you under before giving up and retreating with a hiss.
Ellie sat about a foot away, knees bent and drawn up loosely, arms slung over them with her fingers interlocked. The hem of her shirt was damp and clung slightly to her back, clashing against the loose, old jorts she wore like they were a lifeguard uniform.
Her auburn hair looked wind tussled and sorta dry, and every now and then she reached up to shake it out like it bugged her, only for it to fall right back into her eyes.
You took another sip of the beer, careful with it. Letting it fizz and settle on your tongue before swallowing. Not because it tasted good âit didnâtâ but the gentle buzz tugging behind your eyes was welcome. Enough to take the edge off the noise, the small talk, the overwhelming closeness of people crowded around a bonfire too big for what it was.
You lifted the bottle slightly toward her. âAre you sure you donât want any?â
Ellie didnât even look at it. Just waved her hand in a casual, dismissive arc. âNo, thanks. I donât drink.â
âOh.â Your voice came out smaller than you expected. Youâd assumed she just wasnât a beer person. The type who maybe went for fancy bottled ciders or moody cocktails made by tattooed bartenders who also moonlighted as DJs. âDidnât mean to pressure you or anything.â
âYâdidnât.â She gave a small, reassuring smile, the kind that didnât stretch far across her lips but still felt genuine. Her eyes didnât linger â they dropped back to the shoreline where shells had begun to collect in crescent-shaped drifts.
She didnât touch any of them.
Silence crept in â not awkward, just full. The kind that hummed with the sound of distant music, volleyball slaps, and fire crackles. You liked beach volleyball. Normally. But right now, the idea of standing in a crowd of strangers who all knew each other felt suffocating. You were good right here, planted in the sand with Ellie and the ocean doing its back-and-forth dance a few feet away.
You drummed your fingers against the bottle and glanced upward, admiring how the sky had gone full cotton candy â lavender bleeding into navy, the moon glinting high above, heavy and pale. The reflection danced on the shore like a second sun was hiding in the ocean.
Ellie reached into the oversized pocket of her shorts, rummaging for a second before pulling out a small, beat up maroon lighter. She flicked it a few times to test it â click, spark, click.
The glow lit up the lower half of her face, glinting off the edges of her nose ring and catching on the freckles across her cheeks. You swore they looked darker now after weeks in the sun, scattered like someone had thrown powdered cinnamon across her skin.
Your eyes followed her hand as she pulled out a crumpled little plastic baggie, corners torn, edges sand-worn. Inside were a few thin, hand rolled joints. You paused mid-sip, blinking.
She plucked one out and lit it with a practiced flick. The scent was soft but familiar, earthy-sweet and laced with that unmistakable sharpness. She took a drag and exhaled sideways, letting the smoke curl behind her as she looked forward, eyes a little unfocused.
âYou donât drink,â you said slowly, âbut you smoke weed?â
Ellie didnât blink. Just turned her head a little, one eye squinting as she took another drag. âI have my preferences,â she murmured. âDonât tell my dad though.â
You snorted. âPromise I wonât. If you donât tell my aunt Iâm drinking beer.â
That pulled a laugh out of her â short, soft, almost like she was surprised by it. âDeal.â
It was easy with her like this. No pressure to say the perfect thing. No need to entertain. You glanced over again. Ellie leaned her head back slightly now, letting the smoke drift out through her nose. It made her squint, and she rubbed at her nostrils with her wrist.
âDonât let Dee push her dumb drinking obsession onto you,â she said around a chuckle. âThe only kind of high youâre getting outta this summer is a sugar high.â
You palmed the beer bottle and tossed a handful of cool sand in her direction. âYou guys have a bad habit of bringing my job into every conversation ever.â
âWhat? Itâs impressive,â she defended, flicking ash off to the side. âThose cones are mind-blowing.â
âItâs a waffle with flavored, frozen milk.â
Ellie huffed. âOkay, rude. When you word it like that, it sounds like Iâve been hyping up prison food.â
You smirked and nudged her knee with your own. âWell. Youâve eaten like five of them this week.â
She shrugged, brushing some sand off her ankle. âNot my fault your âfrozen milkâ is the best thing on the strip.â
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest wasnât just from the beer anymore. Ellie wasnât exactly talkative ânot like Dinaâ but she was present. She paid attention. She noticed things. And even if she rarely gave much away, moments like this made her feel closer. Like sheâd slowly been opening one of those nesting dolls, layer by layer, and letting you see the one underneath.
From the corner of your eye, you caught her watching the shoreline again. Mouth parted slightly, lashes shadowed under the moonlight, that joint now pinched lightly between her fingers, tip glowing like a firefly.
You leaned back into your palms again, feeling the salt stick to your skin. Neither of you said much for the next minute or so, and it didnât matter.
You finish off the beer slowly, gradually, the fizz long gone but the warmth left behind. Ellie finishes her joint with the same lazy ease, flicking the last ash into the sand before snuffing it out with the edge of her sneaker. Her limbs seem looser now, head a little tilted, gaze soft.
Youâre not drunk, just buzzed. Tipsy in the kind of way where the ocean sounds feel rounder, and the breeze brushing your shoulders feels like it has weight.
Itâd take more than one beer to make you stumble over sea foam or trip on your own shoelaces, but still â you feel floatier. A little undone in the chest.
Ellieâs finger idly pokes at the sand between you, dragging lazy shapes into the dampened grains. You tilt your head to watch.
âWhatâs that supposed to be?â you ask, voice low.
âSpace station,â she mumbles, dragging out a rough rectangle and circling it with indents. She taps her finger to poke little dots around it, stars maybe. Or satellites.
You blink, leaning in slightly. âSpace station?â
She doesnât answer at first. Just keeps drawing, focused. You eye the odd little shape sheâs making. âJesus. I thought that was, like⊠a helicopter or something.â
Ellie snorts, just faintly. âWhy the hell would I be drawing a helicopter?â
You shrug, tossing a glance at her through your lashes. âI donât know. Why are you drawing a space station instead of something normal like a heart or a smiley face?â
ââCause space stations are cool,â she says simply, and keeps going â outlining the bottom carefully, like the proportions matter. Her voice is calm, grounded, and she says it like it should be obvious.
You hum and drag your own finger across the sand beside hers. She pauses to watch. You carve out a lopsided oval, add two giant cartoonish eyes, and a skinny little body underneath. You wiggle your finger, thinking. âAlien,â you declare. âHe lives in the station. Iâm naming him Jesse.â
Ellie gives a slow blink, then glances up with her brows raised. âLike⊠Dinaâs Jesse?â
You nod solemnly, even as a grin pulls at your mouth. âExactly. Jesse. But with a Y.â
Ellieâs lips twitch, her eyes narrowing in amusement. âJessy?â
âJessy.â You confirm, carefully writing the name into the sand beside the alienâs head and drawing a small heart next to it. âHe hijacked the space station. Sleeps in there when itâs cold. Got a little space blanket and everything.â
Ellie stares at the scene youâve created âJesse the alien, the crooked space station, the tiny starsâ and lets out a full laugh. A real one this time. Sharp, sudden, from the chest. It makes you glance over and catch her smiling fully now, her teeth showing, her eyes crinkled in that way that makes your ribs feel light.
âYouâre so fucking weird,â she says.
âLook whoâs talking,â you say back, gesturing toward her space station with an open palm. âI caught you out here drawing NASA schematics in the sand like itâs mission control.â
She just grins, pushing her hair back off her face as a gust of wind comes through and stirs both your doodles, half-smudging them into nothing.
âRest in peace, Jessy,â you murmur, watching the alien dissolve into the tide.
Ellie looks down, nods once like sheâs mourning too. âHe was too good for this world.â
You bump her shoulder lightly with your own. She doesnât move away.
And neither of you say anything for a while after that. But itâs not silence. Not really.
You fiddle with your car keys, thumbing the metal edges, letting the little dangling charms click softly against one another. A plastic strawberry, a tiny popsicle keychain from some beach gift shop, the parlorâs dull, brass key tucked among them. Ellie sits beside you, still, watching the tide like itâs trying to tell her something. Her hair shifts with the breeze, a few strands tickling her cheek, and she doesnât bother moving them.
The bonfire behind you crackles low, far enough now that itâs just light and murmurs in the background. The party had lost its charm half an hour ago. This wasnât really your kind of scene, and clearly, it wasnât Ellieâs either. She seemed more like she should be curled up in a hoodie, watching old sitcoms with the volume low and a journal open in her lap.
Laughter drifts over from the other side of the beach. Someone yells something unintelligible. A can hisses open. The ocean fills in the silence between it all, steady and reliable. Ellieâs eyes track a wave as it rolls in a little higher than the others, then retreats again like it changed its mind.
You glance down at your hands. The keys catch a bit of moonlight.
Thereâs a thought building in your throat, a dumb one. But your mouth moves before you can talk yourself out of it.
âYâknowâŠâ You toy with the ring of keys, then hold them out for her to see. âI have the keys to the parlor right now.â
Ellie shifts just enough to glance over. Her brows lift. She takes the keys from your hand like she needs proof, squinting slightly at the charm-heavy chain dangling between her fingers.
âYou were a blessing to that tiny creamery,â she says, her voice a little teasing. âItâd fall apart without you.â
You smirk. âThatâs what my aunt says. Usually when she wants something.â
Ellie twirls the keys once on her finger, then tosses them back to you. You almost fumble the catch. Her lips twitch like she expected you to.
âSneak us in,â she hums, voice low and playful, as if sheâs testing you.
You blink. âExcuse me?â
Ellie just blinks back at you. Her green eyes glint in the fireâs light, relaxed but sharp in that way she gets when sheâs half-joking, half-serious.
You narrow your eyes. âWas that the weed talking?â
She shrugs. âMaybe. Maybe Iâm just craving something zesty and sweet.â
âZesty and sweet,â you repeat. âAnd you think Iâm gonna march back into that place and scoop you a cone just because?â
âWhat if I say please?â Ellieâs grin curves crookedly, her elbows resting on her knees, hands linked loose in front of her. She looks so at ease here, wind kissed and sandy, a little stoned and a little smug.
A breeze picks up, and you shiver slightly in your t-shirt. When you glance over again, sheâs touching her face absently â fingertips brushing over the small, pale scar on her cheek. Itâs healed well, but you remember when it was raw and red, right after she wiped out during a morning surf session. You had teased her back then, but now⊠your gaze lingers.
You look away first. âWhatâs in it for me if I give you a free cone?â
Ellie lets out a scoff, dramatic. âWow. Canât break a single rule, can you?â
âI already broke one. I drank tonight. Thatâs a law.â
She laughs â quiet, low in her throat. âOkay. Fair.â
âI want something in return,â you continue. âIf I have to step back into that goddamn parlor again tonight, I deserve at least a trade.â
Ellie lifts one brow, still smiling. âWe can figure that out when Iâve got my cone in hand.â
Silence laps between you again. Not awkward. Just settled. Like the air had agreed on something for both of you.
You push up to stand, brushing the sand off the backs of your thighs. You donât bother picking up the empty beer bottle â youâll grab it later. Ellie watches you, but doesnât move until you speak.
âLetâs go now,â you mutter, eyes scanning the beach. âBefore someone sees and asks to come too.â
Ellie grins, rising to her feet with a stretch. âLetâs steal some dairy.â
You roll your eyes but lead the way. She follows, hands stuffed in her pockets, keys jingling softly between you.
You sneak in through the back, careful not to let the screen door slam shut behind you. The night air sticks to your skin âhumid, heavyâ and you pause for a second before stepping inside, scanning the empty lot behind the parlor. It was technically your place, but itâd look suspicious from a distance if anyone saw two people slipping into a closed shop at nearly ten oâclock.
You fiddle with the keys quietly, turning them between your fingers until you find the right one. Ellie leans in close behind you, peeking over your shoulder to watch you slide it into the rusted lock.
It sticks for a second, like always, before giving with a soft clunk.
The door groans open. You lead the way inside, the familiar smell of sweet cream and old waffle cones hitting your nose instantly. Ugh. Ellie follows with a soft whistle under her breath, nodding to herself as her eyes roam.
âI canât believe Iâve never been in here before,â she says, voice hushed even though youâre the only ones inside.
You close the door quietly behind her. âMaybe you should work here next summer if youâre such a fan. The new AC makes it more bearable when itâs hot.â
You donât bother flipping on the lights. Instead, you pull out your phone and switch on the flashlight, letting the narrow beam cut through the shadowy space. The parlor is peaceful when itâs empty â no rush, no ringing bell, no sticky-handed toddlers asking for samples. Still, thereâs something a little thrilling about being here off hours. Your aunt would lose it if she found out, and not in the fun, chuckling way. If anyone tipped her off that the place had company tonight, youâd be done for.
Ellie trails her fingers across the counter, brushing over a jar of rainbow sprinkles. âIf Iâm a fan, then why would I need the AC?â she mutters absently.
You pause, brows pulling together, then sigh when the joke clicks. âDude. Really?â
She grins and hops up onto the counter like sheâs done it a hundred times, swinging one leg as she settles in. âDinaâs gonna want to die when she finds out she missed out on a free cone.â
âSheâll survive,â you say, making your way behind the counter and digging out the small batch mix youâd prepped earlier this week. Itâs enough for one or two final cones before the freezer rotation kicks in tomorrow. âShe can grab one whenever she wants. Itâs not like she doesnât work here too.â
âFair.â Ellie watches you plug in the waffle maker, her legs still gently swinging. The low hum of the machine fills the space as it heats. She looks at home already.
âWhat flavor?â you ask, bending to open the glass freezer case.
âLemon,â she says without hesitation. That surprises you. She never ordered citrus before. Always went for chocolate or mint-chocolate, sometimes coffee. Maybe the weed was making her crave something tart. You donât question it.
âLet me know when it beeps,â you say, pointing to the waffle iron. She salutes you dramatically, eyes narrowing on the small trail of batter already beginning to bubble out of the edges.
You use the downtime to wipe down one of the counters, then give up halfway through and toss the cloth into the sink. Youâre too warm and too buzzed to care about spotless surfaces. Instead, you lean back against the opposite counter, flipping an ice cream scooper in your hand like a baton.
âI wanna try scooping it myself,â Ellie says suddenly, pointing towards the tool.
You glance over at her. âYou wanna give it a go?â
She hops down from the counter, brushing past you with a grin. âWhy not?â
The waffle maker beeps softly and you move to it, prying the lid open. The golden cone is done â edges crisp, center soft. You gently peel it out and roll it into shape, wrapping the bottom with a pale yellow napkin while Ellie steps behind you, practically shoulder to shoulder.
âPush, roll, and enjoy,â you instruct, handing over the scooper like itâs sacred.
Ellie holds it awkwardly at first, but she adjusts quickly. She dips it into the tub of lemon, wrist flicking as she works it into a lopsided ball of creamy yellow, then plops it into the cone youâre holding out.
âHope Iâm doinâ it right,â she murmurs, glancing at you with one brow raised, a smirk curling at her mouth.
âBetter than most,â you admit, watching her steady hands, the soft concentration in her brow.
You offer her the cone, and she takes it with a quiet thank you. The shop hums gently around you both â the freezer, the cooling waffle iron, the buzzing of your phone flashlight, the kind of silence that only settles when the world outside is too dark to bother looking in.
Itâs weirdly intimate, standing in the empty shop this late, just the two of you. But not in a heavy way. It was nice. Like youâre both stealing a little slice of time. One scoop at a time.
Ellie licked the side of the cone cautiously, testing it like she wasnât quite sure if she trusted it yet. Her face twisted, eyebrows knitting, and for a second you thought she hated it.
But then â she licked it again, slower this time, and nodded like it was starting to settle in.
âHowâs that?â you ask, uncertain.
âJesus Christ,â she mumbled through a full mouth, nodding more eagerly now. She pulled back to lick her lips clean. âThis is great.â
You leaned against the edge of the prep counter, arms folding over your chest. The metal was cold against your back, almost jarring after the humid night outside.
You stayed quiet for a beat, watching her work her way through the cone with steady, deliberate swipes of her tongue. It was messy in a kind of charming way.
At least she liked it. Youâd worried at first, with how intense her reaction had looked. That small, sick twist in your stomach when you thought maybe the lemon was off, or maybe she was too high for tart. Not that there was much left of the batch anyway. Youâd scraped it together thinking she might change her mind last minute, and there was no way you were making a new one this late at night.
âIs it?â you press lightly, the corners of your mouth tilting up. âI mean, it is becoming a fan favorite now that itâs getting hotter.â
âI can see why,â she muttered, eyes narrowing in concentration as she chased a melting streak of cream down the ridges of the cone. âItâs like⊠bright. Like citrusy sunshine in food form.â
You snort softly. âTold you itâs the weed talking.â
âOr, maybe, take this, Iâm just poetic.â
The phone flashlight sat face up on the counter beside you, casting its soft circle of light across the tiles and reflecting faintly on the glass of the freezer case.
The rest of the creamery was blanketed in a quiet kind of darkness, shadows stretching long and slow across the floor. The machines were silent. The hum of the fridge low enough to almost forget. It wasnât cold, just cool enough to notice the difference from outside.
You rubbed your arm absently, fingers catching on the rough patch where your skin had burned earlier that week. You couldnât even see it clearly under the flashlight, but the sting had been lingering all day.
Sun damage doesnât always show up right away â it just settles in, slow and deep. You swipe at it once, then shake your head and sigh.
Ellie shifted her weight to lean a hip against the counter opposite you, cone in one hand, elbow resting behind her for balance. Her eyes flicked to yours, thoughtful.
âYou want some?â she asked suddenly, holding the cone out toward you. Her tone was casual, almost teasing. She tilted it your way like she was offering a peace offering or a dare.
It reminded you of earlier â when youâd held your beer out to her with the same half-smile and the same tone. Only now, the offer was flipped.
You looked at the cone, then at her. The ice cream was visibly licked around the top, glossy where her mouth had been. You raised a finger at it, skeptical. âYou sure you donât mind? Iâd make one for myself, but I donât want to waste the rest.â
She shrugged like it was no big deal. âJust a lick. Iâm not asking you to eat half of it.â
You hesitated a moment longer, then pushed off the counter. âFine,â you murmured, stepping closer. The air between you smelled like vanilla, lemon, and warm sugar â the scent youâd grown used to after all these months of working here, but tonight, with no customers, no chaos, it felt somehow softer.
You leaned in slowly, eyes flicking up to hers just once. Her gaze was steady, relaxed, maybe a little amused. You took a quick, modest lick off the other side of the cone and stepped back just as quick.
âDamn,â you admitted. âThat is good.â
She took it back without hesitation, licking over the edge again like it didnât bother her at all that youâd just shared it. Her mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something close.
The moment lingered. Long enough to count. Long enough to register the stillness around you. Then the freezer hummed a little louder and the ice inside settled with a crack, breaking the silence gently. You breathed in and let your arms cross again, shifting your weight.
âI canât believe Iâm saying this,â you said, almost under your breath, âbut I donât hate being here right now.â
Ellie glanced over. âTold you again.â
You roll your eyes. âDonât get cocky.â
Ellie was leaning slightly over the counter. Her tongue poked out in concentration, eyes a little glassy, her focus way more intense than it had any right to be for something that would melt in under ten minutes.
You tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling â part out of boredom, part to give her a moment. The air inside the parlor was still, comfortably cool, with only the buzz of the overhead fridge and the occasional creak of shifting metal shelves filling the quiet.
âOh, fuck,â Ellie hissed, voice tight with frustration.
You blinked and looked over. She was staring down at herself with a frown, the half-loved cone tilted just enough to let a fat drip of ice cream splatter dead center on her chest. You watched as she pulled her shirt forward with both hands, trying to keep the melting lemon from gluing to her skin.
You winced sympathetically. âYikes.â
It was the kind of mess that only got worse the longer it sat, and ice cream on skin always went from fun to miserable in about five minutes flat. You stepped over to the drawer near the sink and pulled out a torn pack of napkins. The edge of the stack was crinkled and soft, but you peeled a few clean ones off and walked back toward her.
âHey,â you offered gently, âI mean⊠at least you still have some on the cone.â
Ellie grumbled, still looking at the stain with dramatic betrayal. âMy ice cream,â she said mournfully, like it was a fallen soldier. Her arms lifted slightly, elbows out, surrendering to the cleanup without protest or awkwardness.
You dabbed carefully at the mess, wiping in small, careful circles across the fabric. Her shirt was one of those old, soft cotton ones â already worn thin and stretched from saltwater and sun, and now ice cream.
You bit the inside of your cheek as you worked, trying not to be too delicate or too firm. Once the worst of it was off, you took a step back and flicked the used napkins into the trash by the sink. Your fingers were still sticky, so without much thought, you licked the side of your hand and then your lips, tasting the tangy lemon on your skin.
Ellie snorted faintly behind you.
âJust make yourself a cone if you like it that much,â she teased, her voice quieter now, like the night was starting to settle in her chest too.
You laughed once, shaking your head. âNo, no. Promise Iâm goodââ
âLetâs share,â she said, without warning.
You turned your head toward her slowly, brows furrowing. She was holding the cone out in your direction like it was no big deal, like she hadnât just crossed some imaginary boundary that was definitely there, even if neither of you had drawn it on purpose.
You stared. âOne lick was okay,â you said carefully, âbut sharing a cone is⊠crazy.â
Ellie raised a brow, unimpressed. She looked entirely unbothered by your hesitation, licking a stray drip from the edge as if to make a point. The motion was slow, lazy, too confident for someone who had just dumped dessert down their shirt.
You shook your head again, feeling the heat creep from the base of your neck up to your ears. You werenât blushing â not really. It was just⊠warm. And you were caught off guard. That was all.
Note to self: Ellie is weirdly bold when high.
âShare?â you repeated, blinking a few times. âLike⊠the same cone?â
She tilted her head at you, mouth curving just slightly. âWhy not?â
You hesitated, then scoffed, just under your breath. Why not, she says, like that kind of closeness meant absolutely nothing. And maybe it didnât to her. Maybe she was just riding the high and the sugar and the quiet and didnât care.
But you were acutely aware of the small space between you. The way your shoulders brushed when you leaned in earlier. The fact that her shirt still had a damp patch near the collar. The way she watched you now â unapologetically present.
You rubbed your arm. âBecause itâs weird?â
âItâs not that weird,â she argued. âYou wiped melted ice cream off my chest like thirty seconds ago.â
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Fair point.
Ellie held the cone up again. Close enough now that you could smell the lemon, the sugar, the tang of her chapstick underneath it all.
âCâmon,â she said, laughing. âDonât punk out now.â
You sniffed the cone instinctively, like your brain needed to double check what your mouth already knew. Then you swiped your tongue across the side, catching a fresh taste of lemon cream. It hit right â the sharp, sweet tang melting across your tongue and making you sigh, just a little.
Ellie didnât say anything at first, only leaned forward and tilted the cone toward herself. Her tongue flicked out to catch the opposite side. You angled the cone slightly to give her room, and she licked again. Then you did. It sort of alternated. Back and forth. Small, spaced out licks, edging along the ridges and melting curves. You werenât thinking much. Not at first.
You could feel it happening in real time â your head drifting, eyes going a little unfocused as you stared at the cone, then her mouth, then her hand holding it, then back again. It was easy to brush it off.
Just sharing. Just tasting. But each pass of your tongue edged a little closer to where hers had been, until the space between felt almost intentional.
You leaned in again, this time slower. The lemon was stronger toward the base. You closed your lips around it gently and let your tongue curl up to catch the flavor where it had started to drip down. Something warm brushed against your forehead â Ellieâs.
The smooth, velvet slip of cream wasnât what you felt next. It was a softness â something warmer, alive, brushing against your tongue. Then stillness. Then recoil.
Your eyes widened as hers did. A sharp breath punched between you both.
âOh my gosh â sorry, what the â sorry,â Ellie stammered, immediately pulling back. Her voice cracked around the edges like she was trying to laugh it off and couldnât find where to land.
You blinked fast, stepping back a step, the sticky cone still in your hand. You could feel your pulse in your mouth. You tried to find the right thing to say, but the silence got there first.
Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, not looking directly at you. âThat wasnât â I mean ââ
âI know.â You said quickly. Too quickly. âItâs fine.â
Neither of you moved. The air between you felt heavier now. More aware. You glanced at her hand, then the cone, then back up at her mouth, and couldnât quite figure out what part of it made your stomach twist â like the moment had happened in a dream and you werenât fully awake yet.
âYeahâŠâ Ellie says, her voice soft, like sheâs trying to pretend the last two minutes didnât just shift the entire air in the room. Like if she plays it cool enough, the tension will dissolve on its own. But it doesnât. It just lingers. Hot and slow in your throat. In hers, too, by the look of it.
The cream still clings to your mouth somewhere â you feel it in the way her eyes stick to your lips, not entirely subtle. You think sheâs trying not to make it weird. Or maybe sheâs trying to justify what just happened in her own head.
âYouâve got someâŠâ she murmurs, lifting her hand vaguely toward your face, âright there.â
You instinctively lick the wrong side of your mouth.
Ellie watches. Blinks. Then shakes her head once and steps closer. The soles of her shoes stick slightly to the tiled floor, that faint suction sound cutting through the silence like a pin dropping.
Her fingers brush along your chin, gently. You freeze. Youâre not even breathing as her thumb trails higher and catches the edge of your bottom lip, smearing the remaining lemon cream away with one slow, uncertain stroke.
Your brain short-circuits.
Her fingers hover there like theyâre waiting for permission. Your skin lights up under her touch âcool and warm all at onceâ and you canât tell if youâre trembling from how close she is, or how long sheâs staying there. You stare. So does she. Thereâs something barely shy in her expression, like sheâs silently asking, what now?
And because your body is on autopilot âand your nerves are friedâ you do the dumbest thing possible.
You shove the cone gently toward her face.
Not hard. Not mean. Just enough to press the cold against her lips, startle her, break the moment. Her eyes snap wide, then crinkle as she exhales a stunned laugh, muffled around the lemon cream you just smeared into her mouth. Her shoulders jump from the cold, and you canât help it â you laugh too. Shoulders shaking, stomach curling up like it needed release from all that held back tension.
Ellie doesnât hesitate this time.
She leans in and catches your mouth with hers in one sudden, dizzying press. Itâs wet and sweet and a little too much, the taste of weed and sugar clashing but not in a bad way. You gasp softly against her lips, stumbling a small step. Her hand shoots out, catching your waist to steady you, her fingers squeezing just slightly before she lets them settle. Like sheâs giving herself permission, piece by piece.
Your body follows the movement, your back arching instinctively into the space between you. One hand clutches the cone, the other pressed flat against her damp chest, the thump of her heart loud beneath your palm.
You accidentally step on her foot as you shift again, too tangled in limbs and sensation to register it right away. Your lips drag across hers, then part again as your teeth scrape her lower lip. You suck gently, tasting the last edge of the zesty cream, your breath hitching as her hands ânow both at your waistâ clutch firmer.
âYou taste better with the ice cream,â you murmur, mouth brushing against her jaw as you pull back to speak. Your voice sounds far away. Like itâs floating underwater. Fuck.
Ellie exhales a shaky breath. Her cheeks flushed, pupils wide. âYeah?â she manages, voice wrecked and hoarse.
You nod, eyes half-lidded. You lick your bottom lip once more and lift the sad, melted cone between you again. âYeah.â
Ellie watches you, eyes flicking between the cone and your mouth. She lets out a small chuckle, biting her cheek. âI could say the same about you.â
That makes you smile. An actual one. Crooked and giddy. You lean in, giggling now as you give the cone a last swipe. Ellie licks her lips, then leans in to do the same. You meet in the middle. Your tongues bump. And then linger. The moment doesnât break this time â it just morphs. Thickens.
Your breathing gets louder. The silence between breaths feels stretched and strung tight. You lick again, and this time, so does she â and the overlap turns into another kiss. More desperate.
Ellieâs hand slides from your waist and curls under your shirt, her palm flat and warm against your skin. Her fingers tremble slightly as they press in â testing, not rushing. Her other hand braces behind your shoulder, drawing you in like she needs to hold you steady.
You melt into it. Quite literally.
The cone drips down your wrist, forgotten. Your fingers sticky. Both of you are chasing the flavor, the contact, the way it all blends together and drowns out the world outside this moment. The cool steel of the freezer behind you jolts against your back as she gently nudges you there, close. Anchoring you.
You gasp softly as she wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb again. Gentle. Careful. Her touch slowing things down again, like sheâs afraid of where itâs going next, or maybe just trying to commit this version of you.
âMight regret this tomorrow,â Ellie murmured, her voice low, almost thoughtful. Like the words werenât meant to be said aloud. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth â nervous.
You were quiet for a second. The room was still, except for the quiet hum of the freezer behind you. The kind of silence that wasnât awkward, but charged. Full of all the things neither of you knew how to say yet.
âWeâre already here,â you finally say, and your voice comes out quieter than intended. A little breathy. Your teeth sink lightly into your bottom lip as the moment stretches again. Your skin prickles all over, the cold room doing nothing to calm the warmth pooling in your stomach.
Ellie scrunches her nose. âYouâre a bad influence.â
You donât answer. Just press your forehead against hers for a moment, your breathing syncing up â shallow, a little uneven. Her hand finds your hip again. She doesnât grip. Just rests it there, fingers splayed like sheâs steadying herself.
Tangled up against the fridge door, time feels slippery. Youâre not sure how long youâve been in the parlor. Ellie doesnât seem to care. Neither do you.
Your lips find hers again, slow and soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. The taste of citrus and sugar still lingering, though faint now â buried beneath something warmer. Heavy. Your mouth drags lower. Down her jaw. Along her neck. You pause every so often to breathe her in, feel her pulse flicker under your tongue, your lips swollen and clumsy from how long sheâs been on them.
She leans into it. Her hand sliding up your back, fingernails lightly scratching at the fabric of your shirt. You shift closer, your thigh slotting between hers as your hand moves higher, sliding over the curve of her chest. Her breath catches.
Your fingers squeeze lightly.
âGosh,â she exhales, voice catching somewhere in her throat. Her neck arches, exposing more of her to you. Your tongue follows the dip between her collarbones. The skin is warm and faintly sticky, from the earlier cone or maybe just sweat. You donât care. You lap it up, soft and slow, your hands smoothing over her sides.
You tug lightly at the hem of her shirt. She opens her eyes slowly â flushed.
âWoah,â she whispers, blinking a little like sheâs trying to keep her balance. Her fingers trace a slow, grounding circle on your lower back. âYou wanna go there? Not a lot to see.â
You huff out a breath. âJust â take off your shirt.â
Thereâs a moment where she just looks at you. Like sheâs reading your face for something. A sign. A window. You donât flinch.
So she reaches for the hem. Pulls it off slowly â her arms moving over her head, the fabric sticking a little from heat. Her hair falls back around her face as she tosses the shirt on a clean counter, then leans back against the freezer again.
No bra. Just skin, slightly freckled, still holding the faintest tan lines across her shoulders and chestâuneven and sun warped. Sheâs slightly self conscious about them. You know that. Youâve teased her before, casually. Joked about the insane pattern her surf suits must leave behind.
Now, you just stare. Not in shock, or lust.
âImpressed?â Ellie says, and her voice is that same Ellie-tone: dry, just on the edge of a joke. But thereâs a small flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
You tilt your head slightly, eyes dropping. âCanât say.â
You duck down and kiss the underside of her breast, soft and slow. She twitches just slightly.
Your tongue flicks the spot where the ice cream had spilled earlier, and you smirk against her skin. âJust cleaning you up.â
Ellie lets out a shaky breath and scoffs, her chest rising under your mouth. âPlaying janitor?â she teases. âBoring.â
You kiss her again, right over her heart. âYou shouldâve thought about that before you dropped half a lemon cone down your front.â
Her laugh vibrates, soft and real. One of her hands slides into your hair, tugging lightly â not pulling, just holding. The moment slows again, not from hesitation, but reverence. Both of you sinking deeper into the intimacy like itâs pulling you under the tide.
Thereâs no rush. Not here. Not tonight. Just the hum of cold appliances, your breaths mingling, and her bare skin warm beneath your palms.
You suck gently on her nipple, warm skin fitting perfectly between your lips. Then, with a careful nip of your teeth, you tug lightly â just enough to make Ellie groan. Her breath stutters, and her palm finds the back of your neck, pressing it deeper against her chest. Your skin is clammy from heat and nerves and everything else thatâs built up between you two, but she doesnât seem to mind. If anything, she pulls you in closer.
Your other hand cups her opposite breast, fingers squeezing just enough to earn another quiet noise from her throat.
âKeep that up,â Ellie mutters, her voice thick with arousal, âand Iâm gonna have to teach you a little lesson.â
She pinches your sideâ just enough to make you jolt in surprise. You shoot her a look.
âSave your lecture for after,â you say, voice low as you mouth your way down the curve of her breast. You suck lightly at the skin there, leaving faint, wet marks in the wake of your tongue. You kiss where you bite. Bite where you kiss. Itâs messy, a little sloppy, but god itâs good.
Your hand slides down, slow and curious. You trace along the soft ridges of her stomach, fingers skating over sun warmed skin and the subtle muscle underneath. The faint outline of her abs is enough to make your breath catch.
Of course she had a nice body. The idiot surfed nearly every damn day. She was insane at it, too. All that paddling and balance and salt and sun â yeah, of course she looked like this.
âYouâre wasting time,â Ellie murmurs, tugging gently at your hair again. This time her grip leads you down, tilting your head until youâre staring back up at her, lips still ghosting the edge of her chest.
Your eyes lock. Yours: dazed, glassy. Hers: dark, a little glazed over too, like sheâs holding back more than sheâs letting out. Your phone buzzes again across the room, for the fourth time now, but neither of you flinch.
âUp,â she says suddenly.
âI said up.â Ellie coughs once, eyes darting to the side. Her voice tries to sound stern, commanding, but thereâs a crack in it. Like sheâs unsure whether sheâs being too bold.
You straighten slowly, confused at first, but letting her guide the moment. Ellie steps forward, hands firm at your hips, and gently walks you back until the edge of the counter catches behind your thighs.
She taps at them, and you get the memo. You hop up with a soft laugh, and she steadies you as you settle on the cold metal surface. Legs parted on either side of her, knees bent loosely. She leans in, her hands soothing along your thighs, rubbing slow shapes with her thumbs like sheâs mapping something. Then she pats them âtwiceâ just soft enough to earn a glance from you.
Sheâs grinning. Just a little. High and trying not to show it too much.
You nearly laugh, but bite the inside of your cheek to stay in it.
Her fingers dip lower, to the button of your shorts. She pauses, looking up.
Ellie pops the button open gently. Her fingertips work the zipper next, slow and careful, before easing the waistband down. You lift your hips to help, and she guides the shorts to your ankles. She tosses them in the direction of her own discarded shirt without thinking.
The small, spreading wet patch on your underwear. The room suddenly feels heavier, quieter, like that alone said more than either of you had yet.
Her gaze lingers. Yours drop to the floor.
She doesnât say anything.
But her breathing deepens, and so does yours.
âThatâs cute,â Ellie says, her voice laced with a hint of teasing. She taps lightly at the center of your underwear, right over that fucking damp spot, and the sound it makes is barely there â but it echoes through you like a bell.
The world seems to narrow, sounds dimming at the edges. You canât even hear the hum of the freezer anymore. Just your pulse in your ears and the soft shift of her breathing.
That tap shouldnât have made your knees tremble, but here you were â already dizzy from the build up. Your chest tight, your lungs forgetting how to breathe for a beat too long.
Thereâs something a little tentative in the way Ellie holds herself still afterward. Like she doesnât want to push you, even though her hand hovers exactly where you need it. Itâs kind of sweet, really â how she waits.
How she always seems to need your permission a hundred different ways before her confidence kicks in.
You know her well enough to read the hesitation between the lines of her expression. She wants you, but she wonât move first. Not all the way. Not unless you give her something back.
âCute wonât do it,â you murmur, voice low and throaty with want. You reach down and place your hand over hers, gently curling her fingers so they press more firmly against you. Heat blooms through your stomach as the pressure deepens. You swear you can feel the pulse in your core against the tips of her fingers.
Ellie breathes in, slow and shaky. Her lashes flutter once as the scent of your arousal hits her. You see it, it stuns her for a second; and her fingers twitch slightly under yours. She doesnât move them away, though.
Your hips roll forward without much thought, nudging your slick heat into her palm. The friction is faint, buffered by fabric, but you chase it anyway. You want her hand there. You want her everywhere.
She blinks, dazed. âYâsure?â she whispers, her voice so quiet it feels like it was meant for the air between your mouths and nowhere else.
She still hasnât moved her hand. Just lets it rest there, the pads of her fingers soft over your slit, like sheâs waiting to be told again. Like she wonât take more than you give.
You nod, fast, eager. âYeah,â you breathe. It comes out needy. Honest. Maybe too much, but she deserves your too much.
Ellie swallows. And you swear, her pupils blow wide enough to swallow the green around them.
Ellie blinked slowly, pushing her thoughts aside as her fingers found the edge of your underwear. She hesitated for half a second âjust long enough to collect herselfâ before gently nudging the fabric to the side. The cotton clung for a moment, then gave way, revealing the heat underneath.
The sound that followed was barely audible, but thick â sticky, wet, and unmistakably obscene. It made Ellieâs knees falter, breath catching in her throat like she hadnât fully prepared herself for how turned on you were.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she hovered, then carefully let them glide down the soft length of your pussy.
She moved slowly âcuriouslyâ drawing her fingers through the warm wetness to get a feel for you, her brows knitting the tiniest bit as her touch mapped out something new. Her gaze stayed fixed between your legs, lips parted just a touch. Reverent. Almost awestruck.
You twitched under her hand and exhaled hard, unable to keep quiet even though she hadnât even touched your clit yet. The tension in your core had already twisted so tight it felt like you were teetering right at the edge. Every part of you fluttered and pulled tight, your gut flipping over itself like you were about to fall.
âI hope you donât have sand under your nails,â you rasped, trying for teasing but landing somewhere closer to breathless. You werenât sure if you were joking or praying.
Ellieâs eyes flicked up at you, amused. Her head tilted to the side, that sly little smile appearing: faint, but definitely there.
âYou want an audience?â she murmured, fingers still tracing lazy, feather light strokes. She didnât wait for an answer before dipping lower again, the pads of her fingers slick from your arousal.
You blinked fast, heart stuttering. âNo?â you managed, quieter now.
âThen keep it down,â Ellie said, barely above a whisper. âSave your voice.â
And with that, she shifted her thumb up, easing it over your clit with an infuriating amount of patience; just the lightest, circling pressure. You gasped, hips jumping under her touch.
Then she slid her fingers down, gathering more of you before slowly easing two of them inside. The stretch was steady, careful.
You clenched around her without meaning to.
Ellie breathed in through her nose, calming herself. Her hand moved with such slow precision it made your eyes flutter shut. But her gaze never left you.
She wanted to see what she was doing to you.
Ellieâs fingers moved deeper, pushing in with intention but never rushing it. She let you adjust to the length before she even thought about thrusting, holding still in that first stretch as your body clenched, then gave way around her. You felt her shift slightlyâjust enough for her fingers to gently curve and test how your body responded.
You made a noise âsmall, involuntaryâ and her hips twitched like the sound shocked her, like she wasnât ready for how much it affected her. One of her hands shot up to cover your mouth instinctively, and the other still inside of you. She needed something to hold on to. Some kind of anchor while she watched you fall apart.
âRelax,â Ellie whispered. Her voice was low and warm, soft against the tension rippling through you.
She was stroking right against that place that made your own fingers curl and your spine arch off the counter. Her thumb slid up, barely there, and flicked once over your swollen clit before moving away again. Like she knew just how much to give you, and how much to withhold. Your jaw dropped open with a stuttered sound that never really made it out, and you could feel yourself spiraling.
Your head lolled back. Eyes rolled. The heel of your sneaker jabbed against her hipbone, like you were trying to get closer, to grind yourself deeper into her touch. The overhead light from your phone lit the sharp lines of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her bare chest, her eyes narrowed as she watched you unravel in real time.
âDeeperââ you gasped out, voice ragged. âYeah. Oh, yeah, thatâs fucking good. Curl them a little morââ
You didnât even finish the sentence. A full bodied groan split out of you, deep and open mouthed. Your thighs trembled around her hand. You swore you could feel every detail of her fingers â every flex and drag. The pressure, the shape of her nails, the way she filled you just right. Almost too right.
Ellie slipped her fingers out suddenly. Your hips jolted at the loss.
She didnât explain. She just placed her hands firmly on your hips, pulling you toward the edge of the counter, urging you forward like she needed you closer. You nearly lost your balance. One hand instinctively shot back to catch yourself. Your cap had shifted, crooked on your head now, forgotten. The sound of the bonfire outside barely registered anymore.
âPush,â Ellie murmured. You blinked down at her, confused â but she wasnât talking to you. She was talking to herself.
She lowered to her knees with calm focus, her expression unreadable but her movements full of purpose. She hooked your underwear the rest of the way down your legs, handling them with surprising care â folding them and setting them aside like she didnât want them to touch anything sticky or grimy. Her fingers slid up your thighs again, firm and slow.
âRoll,â she said, almost under her breath.
Her tongue rolled up over your clit in a slow, confident stroke, and at the same time, her fingers slid back inside â sinking in with ease, like theyâd never left. The sudden double-sensation made your legs clamp around her shoulders and your whole body tense.
A helpless, mewling sound left your throat. You tried to hold it in.
The finger-tongue combo was insane. She kept the rhythm steady at first âalmost tauntingâ then gave in to the way your hips rolled against her mouth, matching your pace with small, sure movements. She flicked her tongue just enough to send your nerves lighting up again, mouth sealed to your clit in a way that made your thighs shake.
âMm, and enjoy,â Ellie murmured against you.
You groaned, loud. âDid you just fucking quote meâ?â
You tried to laugh, but the sound came out broken, chopped up by a series of shudders and breathless exhales. Your hips bucked. Her mouth was warm, so warm, and she was sucking gently now, tongue flicking in practiced circles like sheâd been waiting for this, thinking about this.
She smiled against your skin. You could feel it.
âI guess I did,â she said, voice muffled.
The low vibration against your clit hit you like a jolt. You forgot how to breathe. Your fingers gripped the counter so hard your palm ached, the only grounding point in a moment where everything else âyour thoughts, your nerves, your bodyâ felt like it was spinning out.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
âWhere the hell did you and Ellie go off to last night?â Dina asked, lazily mopping up a spill behind the counter. Her voice was scratchy, like she hadnât fully woken up yet â or was halfway through recovering from the night before.
You adjusted your sunglasses on the bridge of your nose and kept your eyes on the countertop you were already wiping down for the second time. Today wasnât blazing hot like the others. You hadnât even bothered with a proper fit. Just the shirt, shorts, and the ball cap from last night, which now sat abandoned on the edge of the counter, slightly sand-stained and bent out of shape.
The morning rush had passed. Youâd shown up earlier than your usual shift and scrubbed everything down with an obsessive rhythm, spraying until the glass shimmered and the stainless steel reflected your flushed face.
âA walk,â you say, flatly. âWe went home after.â
You clear your throat and keep wiping. Dina doesnât seem suspicious â just nosy. Her face is pale, and sheâs moving like someone who had one too many beers and zero Advil.
The bell above the door jingles. Your hand freezes.
âLemon Peel Creamery,â you say automatically, eyes flicking to the glass window of the order counter.
Ellie. Wet hair, skin sun-pink and tight from saltwater. A crumpled dollar in her hand. You blink. She blinks back, face unreadable.
âA cone,â she says, tossing the dollar your way. You catch it. Nod.
âLemon?â Dina pipes up, wrinkling her nose. âYou donât even like lemon.â She nudges you with an elbow. âThat was, like, your one personality trait. Strictly mint-chocolate chip, or nothing.â
You manage a small laugh.
âI do now,â Ellie says, eyes still on you. Smiling just enough to make your stomach turn.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
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