The woman looks tortured. By me, by someone else, by everything. And she comes to the beach again, predictably, because she must have reconsidered, she must have craved something.

I mirror her, without a doubt. The trouble I see in her eyes, she sees in mine. We are both haunted. We are both haunting.

I know who she is, now. A captain, a leader, a savior for something petty – a sport, a 'living'. She wears the weight of her burden like a defeated general on the ship home from war. She acts like that is fighting, that is conflict, but she does not know of blood nor true despair.

War ruins you. War makes the pain you once felt insignificant, and the pain it brings you all the more agonising.

I have held children in my arms, the wails in my ears, their tears on my clothes, and felt the life leave their bodies. Hands have grasped mine, begged me to change things, and asked me why no one cares. Answers have left me, kept me starving, kept me yearning, kept me going back.

What has happened to her that makes it as though she is one last soldier with one final bullet?

What does her worst day look like? A missed shot that loses a trophy. An injury that rips awards from her grasp, makes her feel mortal for the first time. Or something else entirely, which cannot be seen from the surface. Are her ghosts so different to mine?

The thought of that unsettles me. She must be a trivial thing, living a trivial life, held down by trivial troubles. It's easier to believe, and it is the most convincing role to give her. But the way she sits, her jaw clenched and her hands curling into the towel beside her, suggests otherwise.

She is fighting, but there is no war around her.

Perhaps that is the difference between us. Her battle is one she can name, one she can frame neatly within the boundaries of her world. Mine are many, sprawling, murdering, destroying. I cannot contain them, I cannot stop them. Mine are battles I am not supposed to fight.

The sand next to Captain Putellas is empty. Her towel is spread for two.

I hesitate. There is a risk in closing the distance, in sitting down beside someone who reflects my cracks, but the pull is undeniable. Her presence demands an answer to the question has been asking since the first moment we met: why are you here?

My bones creak and sway but they bring me into the space she has left for me. We are not close enough to touch, but I can feel her. I can smell her; something fresh, something new.

Moving instinctively, I pull out a cigarette from the crumpled pack I've stolen from my little sister. The lighter clicks once, then twice. It sputters, stubborn, much like me.

She shifts by my side, the sound of fabric brushing fabric – waves lapping on waves – and I glance sideways. Her eyes meet mine, and the world tilts. It's not that she is looking, but rather how: locking me into place, forbidding me to wander.

"Do you always smoke?" she asks, her voice soft, like she's afraid of breaking the fragile silence we've created between us.

"Do you always leave space for me on your towel?" I counter, the cigarette dangling from my fingers unlit, unimportant.

Her lips twitch at their corners, a phantom smile that does not reach her eyes. And while I am staring, she is staring back.

The cigarette trembles in my hand, still unlit, and I lower it to the towel between us like an anchor.

"Why do you do it?"

I almost don't hear her.

"Do what?" I ask her.

She doesn't answer, not with words. Instead, her eyes drop back to my mouth – just for a second – before snapping back up to my face. It's fleeting. I might have missed it.

My breath hitches, and the space between us suddenly feels unbearable.

I don't think she will move. She's too restrained, too careful, too much like someone who has been drilled to stand up straight and never waver. But I see it – I see her waver, I see the slightest lean toward me. She is daring the silence to break, but she is daring me to break it.

Our foreheads almost touch as I move instead, the tips of our noses brushing, and the sound of the waves disappears. Her resolve crumbles.

She exhales sharply, a rush of air between us that feels like her surrender. And then she closes the distance: tentative at first, her lips grazing mine, seeking something, searching.

But when I don't pull away – when I press back, whe my hand reaches for the space between her towel and mine – her hesitation dissolves. The kiss deepens, salt on her lips, salt in the air, salt in my mouth.

There is clarity and there is none. And I don't know how it feels, how to describe how it feels.

But just as the kiss deepens, she pulls back. Her breath is uneven, her lips parted, and I can see it – the way her hands curl into fists against the towel, no delay as she chastises herself.

"I–" she begins, her voice tight, almost trembling. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry–"

"Kiss me again," I interrupt, my voice low but unyielding. Her apology fractures. "And then you have a choice."

Her brows knit together in confusion, her lips still slightly parted. "What choice?" It is barely even a whisper.

I come closer, until the space between us is holding its breath. My fingers brush hers on the towel and I let my smile flicker, slow and deliberate. "Your choice is where," I murmur. I let it hang in the air.

She blinks, her mouth opening, but nothing comes out. I watch a realisation dawns on her, the way her cheeks flush and her breath hitches, though she doesn't look away.

"Where?" she repeats. It sizzles on her tongue; it's being tested.

"Yes," I say softly, leaning just close enough to bring us together and apart. "Here, with the sand and the sea and no control over who sees... or somewhere with a door we can close behind us."

Her eyes darken, her gaze flicking between my mouth and my eyes. Her computer falters again, but this time, she makes no attempt to piece it back together.

Instead, she moves. The kiss she gives me now is urgent, fevered, her hands gripping my shoulders and pulling me towards her as though there are no more questions to be asked. I respond just as fiercely, my hand sliding to her back, pulling her flush against me as we kiss.

Her lips part against mine, and I don't hesitate, tasting her, drinking in her heat. She presses closer, hands tangling in my hair, and the sound she makes – low, almost desperate – brings me aflame. For a moment, my chest tightens, my breath catching, but fire burns away the unwanted thoughts, letting me forget.

When we finally break apart, gasping for breath, she does not pull back very far. Her forehead rests against mine, our lips brushing as she whispers, "not here."

I smile against her mouth, my own breath uneven, and I tighten my hold on her. "Then lead the way."

Her eyes flick towards where the beach meets the road. It's not yet time for darkness, but the sun is slowly drooping and the street lamps grow brighter, long shadows cast out over the asphalt, stretching into a parking bay with only one car parked. She doesn't speak, doesn't explain. She just stands, gathering her towel in swift, deliberate movements.

I follow slower, my steps dragging in the sand as my body protests, hungover from malnourishment. I am light and unsteady beside her, but she moves like a current – fluid, strong – and I am swept away.

The parking bay is only a few strides from the edge of the beach, and her car waits near the far end, as though politely leaving room for visitors who will not come. It's secluded, but visible. Open. Hidden.

She stops beside shining metal and black windows, her hand lingering on the handle. Breath shallow, I join her, and she glances down at me.

"Here?" she asks, steady, expression unreadable.

I nod, stepping closer. "Here."

She pulls the door open, movements confident, almost mechanical, while I duck into the backseat first. The car feels smaller than it looks: close and airless, cleanliness clinging to her seats. She follows, and I feel impossibly small next to her – not fragile, but something near it.

Her weight shifts as she closes the door, the car dipping slightly, and when she turns to me, her face is a mix of certainty and hesitation. She is holding herself back, afraid of breaking me.

"You're thinking too much," I whisper, piercing the thick silence.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head, and before I can say anything else, she leans in. Her hands find my waist, firm but careful, and the kiss she gives me is controlled at first. Here is her composure.

It crumbles as I lean into her, clutching at the fabric of her hoodie as if to steady myself.

Her strength feels like gravity, pulling me into her orbit. She lifts me without effort, adjusting me so that I'm straddling her lap, her hands bracketing my hips to hold me in place. I sink into the surface beneath me, feeling heat sear through us where we connect.

Fingers brush underneath the thin fabric of my t-shirt, followed by calloused palms and a growing sense of urgency. She says nothing about the ridges and bumps she finds – the wounds that I know she can feel. If she is horrified, it is dulled by her desire.

I can't catch my breath, every nerve alive, trembling under her touch. Her lips are everywhere – on my neck, my jaw, tracing the line of my collarbone – and the world outside this car ceases to matter.

I shift against her, feeling her strength, feeling the way she holds me, guides me, presses me closer with every movement. My hands slide under her hoodie, feeling the solid, toned planes of her skin; ridges of merit, bumps that she wanted. She's hot, sweating. She's so much more than I can grasp, but that does not stop me from trying.

Her grip tightens and my hips grind instinctively against hers. She's solid beneath me, unyielding, and I am dizzy from it. I kiss her back, hungry. Starving. Wanting to be both the meal and the one holding the knife. Wanting to take all of her, and for her to take all of me.

It has been a long time since I was fucked.

She pulls away just enough to look at me, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, but I don't want to stop, I don't want to wait for her ingrained intimacy and slight guilt.

"Please," I beg, lips to her ear, nails scratching at her skin.

Her hands find their way to the waistband of my joggers. Tugging. Slipping inside.

She groans as she finds me soaked, something vulnerable, something from her soul that ripples and echoes and makes me want to consume every drop of her.

Her touch ignites a spark that rushes through me, setting every nerve ablaze. My breath stutters, my back arching involuntarily as her fingers slide into me, confident, deliberate. There is no space, no distance, and her hands continue to explore, drawing shivers and gasps from my lips. She is both rough and gentle. I am trembling in her grasp.

I press harder against her, my hips moving against the rhythm of her fingers. My nails scrape down her back, clutching at her hoodie and pulling it up until my hands find her bare skin again, warm and damp beneath my palms. I want to drown in her, to lose myself.

She groans low in her throat, the sound reverberating through me as her pace quickens and she pushes deeper. Her lips attach to my neck, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through my spine. Her breath is hot against me, each exhale making me ache for more.

I try to keep up with the tide of sensations that threaten to pull me under, feelings foreign yet familiar, buried memories leaking out.

It's not her fault – nothing she's doing is wrong – but suddenly, the pressure of her hands, the way she's holding me down, is not the stranger from the beach. It's someone else, someone from before. A blur of a face – too many faces to count.

A memory flickers behind my eyes, sharp and vivid. The air in the car turns stifling, panic clawing its way up my throat.

Her fingers brush over the ridges on my side, scars that have barely healed. I know she feels them. Her lips don't falter, but mine do. The marks burn under her touch, each one whispering of a moment I've buried. I close my eyes, but the memories push forward anyway, crawling through the cracks I can't seem to seal.

"Para." My voice cracks as I push at her with shaking hands.

She freezes immediately, her body going rigid as she jerks back, wide eyes searching mine with confusion and alarm. "What– What's wrong?" she asks, her voice low, cautious.

I scramble off her lap, my movements frantic, clumsy, as I retreat to the furthest corner of the backseat. My chest heaves with shallow, rapid breaths, my pulse pounding in my ears. The car is not big enough and it is closing in on me. I can't catch my breath.

"Hey," she tries again, softly, carefully. I shake my head, holding up a hand to keep her away.

"Don't," I whisper, hating how fragile my voice sounds. I can feel the car door against my back, drawing my knees up to my chest as I try to steady myself. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall.

Her hands drop to her sides, her expression crumpling with guilt and worry. "I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't mean to–"

"No, it's not you," I interrupt. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming, and I cannot look at her. "It's not you. I just... can't–" My words falter, the lump in my throat choking off the rest of my sentence.

She doesn't try to get closer or touch me again. She just sits there, hands resting awkwardly in her lap. She doesn't know what to do.

The silence stretches between us, thick and unbearable, and I can feel her watching me. Her lips part but she says nothing, as though she is afraid of making it worse.

"I have to go," I say abruptly, the declaration tumbling out in a rush as I reach for the door handle.

She watches me pull my joggers up sticky thighs as I push the door open and let the world come rushing back to us. I do not cry – I won't cry here.

I am fine.

As the cold air from outside seeps into the car, I feel my skin cool and my senses sharpen. The hum of the ocean reaches my ears, grounding me just enough to stand on shaky legs. She's still in the backseat, one hand gripping the opposite door handle, knuckles pale.

She doesn't try to stop me. 

notes: 

i want to reiterate general content warnings

this story contains themes of violence and sexual assault.