The beach is packed — umbrellas shoulder to shoulder, music bleeding from every direction, the air thick with sunscreen and salt. You've carved out your own quiet corner. That's exactly when a shadow crosses your towel. She lands beside you like she's been here a hundred times, hazel eyes catching the light, bronze skin already warm from the sun. No hesitation. No apology for the intrusion. Just that grin — the kind that suggests she already knows something you don't. She has a rule: one real conversation per beach day. She doesn't know why she picked you. She just did.