Page 17 of Heatstroke

"You missed your boat," Thierry said.

Daniel huffed a laugh. "Yeah."

Thierry studied him for a long moment, his eyes dark with something unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and started walking down the beach, the surfboard balanced effortlessly under his arm. Daniel followed.

They didn't speak. The only sounds were the crunch of sand and shells underfoot and the distant cry of gulls. After a while, Thierry stopped near a half-buried log and set the board down, brushing sand from his hands.

Daniel watched as he crouched, gathering driftwood with practiced ease, stacking it into a loose pyramid.

"You're building a fire," Daniel observed.

Thierry struck a match, the flame flaring to life between his fingers. "You're staying."

It wasn't a question.

Daniel swallowed, the truth of it settling into his bones. He crouched beside Thierry, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The fire caught, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of salt and burning cedar.

Thierry reached over, his fingers threading through Daniel's, their palms pressed together. No promises. No granddeclarations. Justthis—warm skin, the crackle of flames, the endless murmur of the sea.

Daniel exhaled, slow and steady. "I'll need to call my job."

Thierry squeezed his hand. The fire burned brighter.

Somewhere down the shore, the waves broke against the sand, again and again, relentless as time.

Shattered

Outside, Amsterdam was waking up. People were having breakfast, reading newspapers, complaining about traffic. Normal lives continuing their normal rhythms, blissfully unaware that somewhere in the city, a woman had died and left a hole in the world that could never be filled.