When it’s over, Kellen lounges at the end of the couch and peels an orange. “So, what’s the plan for today? More beach?”
“Sure,” I say. “But first, I need ten more minutes of not moving.”
There are several grunts of agreement, and ten minutes turns into quite a few more. But we finally get ready for the day and head out to the beach.
There are two kinds of people in the ocean: people who swim like dolphins and people who just want to float and look good in a bikini. I am solidly in group two, and today I am in my element.
The water is a warm aquamarine and so clear I can see my own toes in the white sand at the bottom. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one here actually using my snorkel for anything but prop comedy, but the others try.
Nolan is the surprise. He’s as at home in the water as he is in a mosh pit. He’s also the first to spot a cool shell and bring it up to show me, triumphant as a Labrador with a tennis ball. I collect each shell he finds and stash them in the mesh bag.
Elliot, for all his brooding exterior, is an expert at looking after people without them noticing. He drifts in slow, gentle arcs around the group, checking on me every few minutes, correcting Kellen’s mask when it slips, and keeping a watchful eye on Nolan in case the ocean tries to eat him. The easy way this pack cares for each other, despite our rocky and rather PR-directed introduction, makes something unfurl in my chest like a sea anemone opening to the current.
We spend an hour snorkeling like that. When we finally wash up on shore—four sun-stupid mammals and a bag of shells—I feel lighter than I have in months. I sit in the sand and dig my toes in, letting the salt water dry on my skin while my alphas unpack a picnic.
I’m about to comment on keeping sand off the sandwiches when a melody worms its way into my brain—one more folk than pop. It starts as a hum, barely audible under the sound of the surf, and then I realize it’snotgoing away.
Song ideas are like that. You don’t choose them; they choose you, usually at the most inconvenient moment possible.
I shake the sand off my legs, grab my phone, and retreat up the beach to the shade of a palm tree. I prop the phone against my knee, open Voice Memos, and start to sing.
It’s rough—always rough the first time—but the words come easy, and the melody sits right in my chest, so warm and raw that I nearly laugh giddily when I play it back.
I’m halfway through jotting down a verse when Kellen materializes beside me, towel around his neck and hair dripping wet. “Thought you got eaten by a sea monster.”
I smirk up at him. “It’s still early.”
He grins, then squints at my phone. “Is that a new song?”
“Maybe,” I say, deflecting, because admitting it’s a love song would be way too on the nose.
He plops down next to me, damp and insistent. “Play it.”
I roll my eyes but do as commanded, playing back the half-baked recording. My voice is shaky and there’s too much wind, but the bones of the song are there. Kellen listens, eyes closed and nodding in time. He’s quiet for a moment when it ends.
“That’s really good,” he says. “Like, old Piper Sumner good.”
I snort. “Was the new Piper Sumner not good enough for you? I thought you hadn’t really listened to my music before.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” There’s something soft in the way he looks at me. “I just—this is you. Not the Piper that exists beneath all those flashing lights and quick beats.”
It’s weird having someone see you that clearly. I’m not used to it. These three are the first.
Elliot calls out to us from down the beach. “Everything okay up there?” His voice is laced with a concern that would be annoying if it wasn’t so earnest.
“We’re good!” Kellen shouts back. Then, to me, “You want to go show them?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I want to finish it first.”
Kellen respects that. He gives me space but doesn’t leave, just sits there and lets me pick at lyrics until the next verse feels right. After a while, I forget he’s there, which is the best compliment I can give anyone.
The sun is brutal, but the shade is cool. I could stay here forever, but eventually the guilt of ignoring my pack gets to me.
“Ready to go back?” Kellen asks, reading my mind.
“Yeah. Let’s see if those two managed to build a sand city yet.”
We trek down the sand and Elliot and Nolan are waiting, both a little sunburned and smug about it. Nolan’s beard is fullof wet sand, which is a look I would not have predicted, but he wears it with pride.
