Quiet Hour

I was alone in the lounge, book in hand, trying to disappear into the quiet. Drink sweating beside me, waiting on my food.
Then I looked up— and there you were. Sun kissed skin, khaki shorts, your shirt unbuttoned just enough to look like summer had claimed you.
I never dreamed you’d walk my way. But your eyes found mine, and when I smiled, you gave it right back.
I dropped my gaze to the page, pretending the moment was nothing— until the barkeep set down another drink. I told her I hadn’t ordered it. She nodded toward you. The gentleman at the bar had.
I lifted the glass, thanking you with a smile you didn’t hesitate to return.
Then you crossed the room and asked, “Is this seat taken.” It wasn’t. Not the seat, not the moment, not me.
We talked until closing, until the staff laughed about two strangers who forgot the time. We parted ways— or so I thought.
But later, until the pier pulled me outside and found you waiting as if the ocean had whispered my name to you. 
We walked the boards, stood at the edge of the world, letting the waves write their own story beneath our silence.
Then the beach, barefoot, unhurried, like a scene borrowed from a movie we both knew had an ending.
And it did. At the elevator, we let the moment stay a moment. No floors. No future. Just two last names and a memory that still glows.