The invitation came in a note, tucked beneath Ava's door in Max's messy handwriting: Meet me by the lighthouse at 8. Bring a sweater and your sense of adventure.
She smiled the whole way there.
The lighthouse loomed above the rocky cliffside, its white tower bathed in the last blush of twilight. Max stood waiting with a blanket slung over his shoulder and a bag at his feet, looking out toward the ocean like he belonged to it.
"You're not stealing a boat, are you?" Ava teased as she approached.
He grinned. "Tempting, but no. Come on just a little hike."
They followed a narrow path that twisted through wild grass and wind-swept trees until it opened to a secret cove nestled between cliffs. The sand was cool beneath their feet, and the tide glowed under the rising moon.
"This place…" Ava whispered. "I've lived here most of my life and never knew it existed."
"I read about it in a journal from 1957 at the town museum," Max said, spreading the blanket out. "A sailor called it Driftwood Cove. Said he proposed here. Figured It had good vibes."
"You researched our date?"
"I call it inspired reporting," he said, pulling out a thermos and two mugs. "Hot chocolate. I didn't trust myself with wine on a beach with no railings."
They sat close on the blanket, knees touching. The night wrapped around them like a secret, and the world above the cove felt impossibly far away.
"Tell me something you haven't told anyone," Ava said after a while, her voice soft with curiosity.
Max stared into the dark horizon. "Sometimes I worry that all the places I go… I'm not actually part of any of them. Like I'm just passing through people's lives. Not belonging anywhere."
She turned to him. "You belong here."
He looked at her, startled.
"I mean it," she said. "You've made this town feel like home again. You've made me feel like home again."
For a long moment, they just breathed together, sharing the stillness, the sound of waves, the quiet pulse of something blooming between them.
Then, a song drifted from Max's phone an old love song, slow and aching.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, standing and holding out his hand.
She laughed. "Here? On sand?"
"It's tradition at Driftwood Cove. Or at least it is now."
They danced, barefoot and unsteady, wrapped in moonlight and each other. And when he kissed her again, it was different. Less searching. More certain. Like they'd both found something they hadn't even known they were missing.