It was a night like most others, except Bonnie couldn't sleep. The air conditioner in her room malfunctioned just after sunset, following a ginger tea session with Emi, leaving the walls to sweat and the sheets to hold on to heat like secrets. Bonnie tossed and turned, opened the window, closed it again, and turned on the ceiling fan, only to turn it off a few minutes later. The summer air felt thick, sticking to her skin like some kind of memory that refused to be forgotten. The thought was bold. Too bold, maybe. Bonnie held it for a breath, then let it pass.

A muted creak from Emi's side threaded through the hallway. Something about that sound encouraged Bonnie to do whatever was on her mind earlier. Bonnie stepped out of her room, soft socks muffling her steps. One hand rested at the back of her neck, thumb pressing into the worry pooled there, while the other hovered in front of Emi's door, uncertain, almost knocking.

She had to do it anyway; the heat in her room was unbearable. It crawled beneath her skin, restless and clinging, not unlike the way Emi's hot and cold moods had been unraveling her piece by piece. What a strange summer this had turned out to be. So many layers, so many feelings, too many, maybe. Emi opened the door with a dull expression, brows barely lifted, a flicker of doubt passing through her eyes at the sight of Bonnie standing there.

She didn't ask anything; maybe it wasn't her place, or maybe she simply didn't care enough to question it. The fan behind her hummed a low, steady tune, stirring the air just enough to feel relief. That was when Bonnie noticed, there was no air conditioner in this room either. And yet, somehow, it felt cooler. Emi had always had a way of making things feel less suffocating.

"My aircon gave up. It is way too hot for me to sleep." Bonnie gave a small, sheepish smile before looking around.

Books were scattered around Emi's bed, some open, others closed, pages slightly waved from the humid air. It looked messy at first glance, but there was something strangely composed about it, like the chaos had intention. Like Emi had left them there just so, and the disorder was quietly beautiful.

Emi blinked, caught off guard, as if the answer had not formed fully in her mind yet. Then, without a word, she stepped slightly to the side, just enough to let Bonnie know she could come in.

Bonnie just didn't know what to do. She awkwardly stood there at the corner of the room, eyes wandering attentively around Emi's room. A boom box with stacks of cassettes lying around on a small counter next to her bed. A dimmed lamp glowed just enough to catch the last lines of a book before sleep, perched by the edge where she rested. Books were everywhere, scattered across the bed, tucked into corners of the floor, stacked along the counter, the desk, and the shelf near the window. And then it hit Bonnie: that was why Emi always smelled like wood, sage, and sea salt. The scent of her was shaped by stories she borrowed from worn papers, carved gently into her skin.

Emi gathered the books from her bed, stacking them on the desk in a careless sort of order, one she would probably fix tomorrow. Something was tugging at her, too, something she could not quite name that night.

"I'll take the couch downstairs," she said, one hand resting on her hip, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple as she finished tidying the room just enough for Bonnie to stay the night.

"But we can share?" Bonnie frowned. "It's not that deep. Girls do it all the time."

Emi didn't answer right away. She arched an eyebrow, eyes flickering between the bed and Bonnie, her expression unclear.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea," she said at last, voice low, almost casual. "Even if girls do this sort of thing all the time."

Bonnie crossed her arm, nose wrinkled, half-teasing, half-stung. "Why? Afraid that I'll kick you in sleep?"

But Emi was already standing by the door, a blanket and pillow tucked under one arm, a book in the other. She didn't waste any minutes. Just a soft "Goodnight," barely above a whisper, before she slipped out and closed the door behind her. Bonnie was left alone in the room, surrounded by the scent of Emi and the quiet weight of her absence.

Bonnie stood alone in the room, blinking. She had not expected that. Had not meant anything by it, or maybe she had, just a little. Maybe she had grown too used to the quiet comfort of Emi being around. But this was not a rejection. It felt more like... caution. Thoughtfulness, even. Still, it left behind a strange hollowness, where amusement used to live.

Downstairs, Emi stretched out on the couch and let her eyes follow the slow turn of the ceiling fan. She was tired, but her thoughts were wide awake. She hadn't lied. Sharing a bed wouldn't have been a good idea. Not because it would be awkward. Not even because of Bonnie. But because of herself.

Because somewhere, quietly and gradually, something inside her was shifting. Bonnie wasn't just a summer tenant anymore. And if Emi were to lie beside her, too close, half-asleep and unguarded, she might forget to hold back. Might brush against her hand and not move away. Let her leg drift just a little closer. Say something soft, a little too honest.

Bonnie felt like something rare and golden, a moment she wasn't sure how to name yet, but wanted to keep anyway. Like a blanket on a rainy day, warm and easy to hold onto.

.

The days passed in small, familiar rhythms.

Mornings meant Emi lying on a thin mat on the sand, eyes closed behind sunglasses, book half-finished by her side. A few steps away, Bonnie bathed herself under the sunlight on the lounger, pretending not to glance sideways every time Emi shifted, yawned, or turned a page.

Bonnie was not a kid anymore. She knew what this was, this stir in her stomach that came and went when Emi reached for a cup, or squinted into the light, or brushed past her with the scent of sea salt and sunscreen.

But it was too early. Too small. Maybe just affection, maybe something tender growing because there were only two of them in this whole summer-shaped space. Familiarity, mistaken for something more. That's what people said could happen when you spent enough time around someone.

Still, she hated how calm Emi was. How mysterious. Like nothing was ever stirred in her. Like the heat didn't reach her the same way.

"So, how long have you been here before I come back?" Bonnie asked, hugging her knees, chin resting atop them as her gaze drifted towards the coastal landscape, framed perfectly by their doorway.

"Around two weeks," Emi said, her hands busy making them breakfast.

Bonnie had no reply for the brevity. A cold oat milk and hot black coffee already waited on the dining table. Emi always prepared breakfast; her cooking filled the house with the scent of home. This beach house, which originally her or her parents, felt increasingly like Emi's. With the weather so pleasant, Bonnie hoped to spend the day outside, with or without Emi.

"Come," Emi urged, setting down two plates of grilled sandwiches and scrambled eggs on the table, followed by a bowl of freshly cut peaches for Bonnie.

How inviting that is.

Bonnie gravitated to her usual chair, and Emi noted her composed posture before easing into her seat. Their breakfast unfolded in silence, a familiar and deeply peaceful quiet. For both, these early morning moments of introspection were essential. Emi required silence before her first sip of coffee; Bonnie before her inaugural bite. To forgo it, they often joked, risking immediate combustion.

.

For the first time in days, Emi was wearing a sling top that highlighted her fair skin and that birthmark on the top right of her chest. Bonnie liked the birthmark, though. She sat curled on the couch, quietly watching as Emi rummaged through her things, searching for the book she had been reading on the beach earlier.

It was already afternoon by then. Restless, Bonnie found herself wanting to go somewhere, anywhere. The thick, unmoving air of the summer heat made the house feel stifling, too still. Emi's blue sling top lingered in her thoughts, the image refusing to fade. When Emi stepped out into the garden to pick a few chilies she'd grown, she had thrown on a thin beige linen shirt over it, light, casual, and somehow more memorable because of it. Bonnie stole glances at Emi's silhouette infrequently, always with the nagging thought that if she ever acknowledged it, Emi might snap at her.

So she stood up, still uncertain whether she should leave now. The sun was high, its harsh beams burning down with relentless heat. She slipped into her brown Birkenstocks, socks still on, and stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind her, not too loud, but just enough to announce her exit. She told herself it was habit, but truthfully, she hoped Emi would hear it. Maybe, just maybe, she would come to the door, offer to keep her company. Bonnie didn't know where she wanted to go. Only that it might feel nicer if Emi went too.

Bonnie figured she must've used up all her luck for the day, because Emi did come to the door and, without asking where she was headed, simply offered to accompany her to nowhere.

"Wait for me here," Emi said, a worn straw hat settled on her head. Strands of hair clung to her neck in damp bundles, giving her that effortlessly wet, sun-kissed look. Captivating. "Needed some air?" she asked.

But Emi didn't wait for her response. Bonnie clasped her hands behind her back, legs loosely crossed as she stood there, stealing glances down the stone path that led to the beach house gate, where sunlit grass swayed gently on either side. She breathed carefully, in time with the slow-moving wind. Emi came back out with a small canvas tote slung over her shoulder. With a simple gesture, she signaled that they could head off.

Bonnie wandered aimlessly, and Emi walked beside her—patiently, quietly—like a friend would. A friend, though? Bonnie had never really thought of Emi as one. Not even on the first day they met. She hadn't considered building a friendship with her; the idea of it felt awkward, like trying to frame a picture that simply didn't fit. So then... what was it, exactly? What did Bonnie expect it to be, if not friendship? A housekeeper and her employers' daughter? That sounded even more ridiculous.

"Wanna have that afternoon drink?" Emi asked suddenly, her voice a little rough, like her throat was dry.

"Drink? Like... wine kind of drink?" Bonnie replied, unsure where the idea had come from. "If so, I can't really tolerate alcohol."

Emi squinted slightly, then let out a soft chuckle. "Oh."

Bonnie knew that laugh—and she hated it. Hated the way Emi seemed to see her as someone not quite grown. Like she was still a kid playing dress-up in an adult world.

"Then how about a long walk into town? I can treat you to something at one of those fancy restaurants," Emi said, glancing at her leather watch. It was just past 3 p.m. "What are you in the mood for?"

.

They stopped at a restaurant in town. It was already at 4 when they arrived. Inside, the space was calm and understated. Soft light filtered through gauzy curtains, brushing gently against the warm tones of aged wood and pale linen. There were no elaborate decorations, just a few small ceramic vases on each table, holding single-stemmed wildflowers. The air smelled faintly of rosemary, sea salt, and something being baked.

The menu was handwritten on a single sheet of cream paper, clipped to a board, local ingredients, seasonal dishes, nothing showy. The kind of place where the waiter didn't hover, where conversation felt safe in the hush between songs playing softly in the background. It was the kind of restaurant you might stumble into on a quiet afternoon and never forget, even if you never learned the name of the song that played while the food came.

Bonnie loved this place. Emi kept surprising her with her taste, quiet, thoughtful, somehow always right. Or was it? Maybe it was not about taste at all. Maybe Emi just had a way of seeing straight through her, knowing exactly what she'd like before she even knew it herself.

"Bonnie!" A voice caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer, almost tender. There was a hesitation in the way he said the name, like it had lived in his memory far too long to come out easily. "It has been so long!"

Bonnie looked up at the sound of the voice, and gasped. Standing just a few feet away was a young man, tanned, taller now, but familiar. It took only a second for memory to catch up. Theo. The boy she used to run barefoot with through summer streets when they were twelve. A flicker of shock crossed her face as the name came back to her like a jolt. She stood up from her chair across from Emi, too startled to register Emi's expression, too caught in the strange, sudden moment of a past she never thought she'd see again.

"This is Emi. She's, um... living with me this summer. My parents asked her to," Bonnie said, introducing Emi in the most awkward way possible.

Theo gave a small nod of acknowledgment. They chatted for a while, light, easy talk, before exchanging phone numbers, promising to catch up properly sometime soon.

Across the table, Emi kept her eyes on the menu, flipping the page slowly as their laughter drifted around her. She hadn't meant to listen, but the words slipped in anyway—bits and pieces about Bonnie's life since the last time they'd seen each other. Emi didn't care much for Theo. Who was he, really? Just some name from a past Emi had no part in.

The scent of rosemary clung thick in the air, grounding her in a place that suddenly felt full.

After a few minutes of catching up, Theo excused himself, something about errands to run. Bonnie waved him off with a small smile before slipping back into her seat, just as the waitress arrived to take their orders. The exchange was light, a few playful comments passing between the three of them. Emi ordered grilled cod and a lemonade; Bonnie went with linguine vongole, classic coastal comfort.

"I thought you couldn't tolerate alcohol?" Emi asked casually, reaching across the table to set down two pairs of forks and knives.

"That won't hurt," Bonnie replied with a cheerful grin. She loved clams, especially when paired with a generous touch of parsley and garlic. Something about it always sparked a wild, familiar comfort in her chest, like home wrapped in flavor.

"If you get tipsy, I can read you to sleep," Emi said with that half-laugh she always used when she wasn't sure if she was joking or confessing.

Bonnie turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing, not because of the offer itself, but because of how gently Emi had said it. Like she meant it. Like she had already imagined the scene: dim lights, Bonnie curled up somewhere near, her voice soft in the hush between lines.

The idea lodged in Bonnie's chest, warm and aching. "A hug to sleep would be better, though," she blurted, then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in.

Emi looked at her long enough that Bonnie almost shrank under the weight of it. Then came the quiet response, just one syllable, curved like a smirk: "Bold."

Her voice was low and even. "But no." Something in her tone wasn't teasing anymore.

Bonnie looked at her with her eyes, lips parted moderately, unsure if she was more stung by the rejection or the way Emi said it, so steady, like she was guarding something.

"But no?" she repeated softly, as if testing the firmness of Emi's answer, hoping there might be a crack in it.

Emi didn't look up right away. She took a slow sip from her glass, eyes fixed on the condensation trailing down its side. The silence extended between them, thin but fragile, like the moment could break if either of them spoke too loud.

"It's not about you," Emi said finally. "It's about me. I... just try not to make promises I'm not sure I can keep."

Bonnie frowned. "What promise is there in a hug?"

Emi leaned lightly against her seat, lemonade in her hand, but her gaze was softer than before. "The kind that lingers."

Bonnie blinked, a small breath stucked in her chest. She hadn't expected that. Not from Emi. Not so directly.

"Oh," she said.

That was all. Just oh. But it held more than surprise; it held understanding, too. Because maybe that was why everything about Emi felt so complicated. She was always holding herself back, careful not to give away too much. Not because she didn't feel things, but because she did, too deeply, too quietly.

"You think I don't mean the things I say," Bonnie murmured, eyes lowering to the rim of her glass of water. "But I don't throw things out for fun, you know."

"I know," Emi replied. "I think you say them because they feel true in the moment. And that matters. But feelings change. Especially in the summer."

Bonnie didn't have an answer for that. Not a convincing one, anyway. Instead, she pressed her thumb against the side of her glass and nodded faintly.

The silence returned, but it wasn't sharp this time. It hummed low, like something unresolved but not unwelcome. The sky outside the restaurant window had begun to turn a soft violet, and somewhere nearby, a cicada cried out for the end of day.

Emi looked at her again, longer this time. "You feel things fast, Bonnie."

"And you don't?"

Emi's mouth quirked slightly.