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Hell, I might just do it anyway. I put on my bathing suit first thing this morning and wore it under my dress.
Noah spreads out a blanket, and we settle down with the picnic basket he packed. He thought of everything—sandwiches, fruit, cheese, and even a bottle of chilled white wine, even though alcohol is usually a hard no as an omega. I’m lighter than the lightest lightweight.
“To us,” he says, raising his glass in a toast. His blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and I easily fall into them.
“To us,” I echo, clinking my glass against his. The sparkling wine fizzes softly, the bubbles tickling my nose as I take a sip.
Noah leans back, propping himself up on one elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Did I ever tell you about the time I built a tree house with my brother?”
I shake my head, intrigued. “No, you haven’t. Tell me more.”
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with the light of the setting sun. “Well, we were about ten years old, and we thought we were little architects. We found this perfect tree in the backyard, huge and sturdy, with branches that seemed to reach the sky. We decided it was the perfect spot for our tree house.”
I smile, picturing a young Noah, full of excitement and determination. “Sounds ambitious for ten-year-olds.”
“Oh, it was,” he says, nodding. “We scavenged wood from our dad’s workshop and borrowed some nails and a hammer. It took us a whole week of summer vacation to get the basic structure up. We were so proud of it.”
“What happened next?” I ask, leaning in, captivated by the story.
Noah’s grin widens. “Well, one day, we decided it needed a flag, so we took an old sheet and painted a huge skull and crossbones on it. We were going to be pirates, rulers of our backyard seas.”
I laugh, the image of two young boys playing pirates vivid in my mind. “That’s adorable.”
“Adorable until the squirrels decided they didn’t appreciate our new domain,” he continues, shaking his head. “One morning, we climbed up to find our tree house taken over by what seemed like an army of squirrels. They chewed through some of the wood and were making a mess of things.”
“No way!” I gasp, my eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“We tried to shoo them away, but they just chattered at us angrily,” Noah says, his expression comically serious. “We ended up having to call our dad for backup. He came out with a broom, chased them off, and then gave us a long lecture about structural integrity and respecting nature.”
I giggle, imagining the scene. “Did you rebuild the tree house?”
“We did,” he says, smiling softly. “Dad helped us reinforce it and even put up a proper flagpole. It became our secret hideout for the rest of the summer.”
The golden afternoon sun casts long shadows on the sand as the beach gradually empties. The sounds of children’s laughter and the distant call of seagulls fade, replaced by the soothing rhythm of waves gently lapping at the shore. We lie side by side on the blanket, the coarse grains of sand shifting beneath us. My fingers intertwine with Noah’s as we gaze up at the sky. Cotton candy clouds drift lazily above, their ever changing shapes sparking whispered debates over whether one looks more like a dragon or a sailboat. The salty breeze tugs at stray strands of my hair, and I breathe in deeply, savoring the mingling scents of ocean air and sun-warmed skin.
“This is perfect,” I murmur, turning my head to look at him. His eyes are closed, and he wears a contented smile on his lips.
“It is,” he agrees, opening his eyes to meet mine, but there is something there, a flicker of…something. I can’t quite place it.
“Noah,” I say softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, the smile returning to his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing, Aria. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About us. About the future.”
My stomach twists, a familiar knot of dread forming. I force a smile, pushing the feeling down like I’ve done so many times before. “What about the future?”
“Just…things we need to work on.” His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it that makes me uneasy.
“Like what?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Well, for starters, you could be a bit more considerate,” he says, his words laced with a hint of annoyance.
I blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“You know, like not making plans without checking with me first. It’s like you don’t even think about how it might affect me.”
