Cameron hated the beach.
The heat, the sand, the wet clothes, the open sky that felt like it pressed down too hard. It was sensory overload. It was chaos pretending to be paradise.
Rosalie knew that. Jasmine definitely knew that.
Which is why, when Cameron casually mentioned the upcoming beach trip—just a day trip, nothing big—Rosalie didn't say much at first.
They were lying in bed, tangled in the sticky quiet that always followed sex, a single sheet draped lazily across their legs. Cameron had stared at the ceiling when she brought it up, voice casual. Too casual.
"Jasmine invited me on a beach trip," she said. "I told her I'd go."
A beat of silence.
Then Rosalie gave a short, sharp laugh. Not amused—more like knowing.
"Hm," she murmured, reaching for a cigarette on the nightstand. "You barely lasted a month."
Cameron blinked. "What?"
Rosalie didn't clarify.
She just lit her cigarette and exhaled slowly, smoke rising toward the ceiling like it had somewhere better to be. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes focused on the swirling gray tendrils above them.
Cameron didn't ask again.
Maybe she already knew what Rosalie meant.
Maybe she just wasn't ready to hear it said out loud.
The morning of the trip, Cameron picked Jasmine up around 10 a.m.
Jasmine slid into the passenger seat like she belonged there. Oversized sunglasses, beach bag slung over one shoulder, a bottle of iced tea in one hand.
She grinned. "Hi, driver."
Cameron rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched up. "Princess."
"Obviously."
The drive started off awkward—too quiet, too careful. But it didn't last long. Jasmine couldn't help herself. She began singing along to the radio, her voice light and bright, not perfect, but something better than perfect—familiar. She nudged Cameron when her favorite parts came on. Danced in her seat. Made stupid jokes. Laughed at everything.
The tension melted, bit by bit, like sugar in tea.
Cameron found herself smiling more than she wanted to.
Found herself singing along.
Found herself forgetting.
The beach was exactly how she remembered it.
Too bright. Too loud. The heat pressed down like a second skin, and even before stepping out of the car, sand had found its way into her shoes.
It was the kind of place she'd normally avoid at all costs.
But then she looked up—and saw Jasmine.
Already barefoot. Already running toward the water. Her dress whipping around her legs in the breeze. Her hair catching the light like fire through glass.
She turned, laughing, and called out over her shoulder: "Come on, Cam!"
And Cameron just… froze.
It hit her all at once.
Flowers.
That was the only word for it.
It was like they bloomed around Jasmine—bright, vivid, impossible. She made the sky look bluer. Made the sand feel softer. Made everything seem like it was worth enduring, just for this moment.
For her.
Cameron's chest ached.
She hadn't felt this in weeks. Months, maybe.
She stepped out of the car and into the heat, already sweating, already irritated by the sand working its way into her shoes.
But then Jasmine turned and smiled again—really smiled—and all of it vanished.
Cameron kicked off her sandals and walked barefoot across the burning sand, toward the one thing that had always made her feel both alive and ruined.
Jasmine grabbed her wrist when she reached her, their fingers brushing. "You're actually here," she said, her grin wide, teasing.
"Apparently," Cameron said. Her voice was too soft. Her body already leaning forward.
Jasmine pulled her toward the shoreline, their steps syncing without thought. The water lapped at their feet, cool and relentless.
They didn't talk much.
They didn't need to.
Later, they sat on a blanket, watching the sun trace lines across the ocean. Jasmine talked about nothing—new music, dumb coworker drama, a weird dream she'd had. Cameron half-listened, her eyes fixed on the way the sunlight curled into Jasmine's eyelashes.
She realized, with a kind of quiet horror, that she was forgetting Rosalie entirely.
She didn't want to. Not really.
Rosalie had been good to her. Steady. Solid. Safe.
But Jasmine was none of those things.
She was fire.
She was danger wrapped in gold ribbons.
And Cameron had never stopped wanting to burn.
As the sky turned orange and the wind picked up, Jasmine turned to her and said, "This feels right, doesn't it?"
Cameron didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because yes—it did feel right.
And that was the scariest part of all.