There are three things you should never trust: seagulls, sunscreen expiration dates, and your brother when he says, "We're just going for a chill beach day."
Because chill did not explain why I was currently sitting in wet sand, surrounded by loud uncles playing cricket, a dog trying to steal my chips, and—oh, yeah—Aarav shirtless and glistening like some Greek god who just casually wandered out of the Arabian Sea.
"Close your mouth, Tapu," Rishi said, plopping down next to me and offering me a soggy packet of glucose biscuits. "You look like you're going to eat him."
"I was staring at the waves," I lied.
"Sure," he said. "You were mentally dating the ocean. Got it."
Before I could smack him, Aarav walked over, dropping his towel next to mine. He ran a hand through his wet hair, sat down, and handed me something.
"You forgot your sunscreen."
I blinked. "What are you, the SPF police?"
"You'll thank me when you're not a tomato tomorrow."
He held out the bottle. I took it. Our fingers brushed. He didn't pull away.
I did.
Barely.
---
A few minutes later, I was struggling to apply sunscreen on my back. The universe, of course, was waiting for this exact moment to test me.
"Need help?" he asked, casually.
"No, thanks," I said, immediately trying harder to twist my arm like a yoga instructor.
"You look like you're trying to give yourself CPR."
I gave up. "Fine. Just... don't be weird."
His hands were warm. Gentle. And somehow the sun wasn't the hottest thing touching my skin anymore.
"There," he said after a moment. "All protected."
From the sun, maybe. But not from you, I thought.
---
Later, I walked along the shoreline, trying to cool off (mentally, emotionally, hormonally—everything). Aarav joined me, of course, because peace is a myth.
"Still writing poems?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Still about the moon?"
"Now I write about painful longing and sunscreen betrayal."
He laughed. Then, quieter: "I think your poems must be beautiful."
I looked at him.
He wasn't joking.
And just like that, the waves weren't the only thing crashing anymore.