Work Text:
Megan doesn’t really mind working at her father’s surf shop.
For one, it gives her a break from her overbearing mom and pain-in-the-ass older brother. It’s technically only a summer job, the kind of gig her mother thinks will “encourage maturity”. And like most things in Hawaii, it’s chill, breezy, and easy to deal with — a laid-back routine that honestly could be a lot worse. (Like, being stuck as a lifeguard with Lara and Daniela while they flirt with everything that breathes).
The shop sits across from a stretch of beach where tourists tan like lizards and local kids toss boards into the ocean like second limbs. It smells like sea salt, sunscreen, and wax, the kind of place where the floor’s always a little sandy and the radio plays Jack Johnson on loop. Compared to her mother’s constant nagging or her brother’s genius-level ability to be annoying at every hour of the day, it is practically a spiritual retreat.
The only unfair part of it is that she has to do it in the first place. Those were her mother’s conditions, she said. Megan had to show discipline if her mom was going to let her compete in surfing. She had spent her spring focused on doing well in her classes and keeping fit during the off-season, but now it was summer, and she had to prove she could handle responsibility, even if that meant spending her entire school break working at the shop. It’s the same deal her brother had to go through when he was her age, and Megan knows for a fact it didn’t teach him a damn thing about discipline. All it really taught him was how to complain louder than anyone else in the house.
At least tryouts for the state team were coming up soon, meaning that if Megan just stuck it out until then, she’d have a shot at joining a real competitive crew — not just small local comps in Waikiki's waves, but actual state and national tournaments.
The work gets pretty boring sometimes, like every retail job does. Megan is always daydreaming that something exciting will happen one day. Maybe a cute guy with frosted tips will stroll in and tell her she has a beautiful smile, or a pretty girl with boho braids will ask for help sanding her board, their fingers brushing.
It's just that there’s a lot of the same pattern going on: Preteen surfers come in, chattering at lightspeed about fins and breaks and wipeouts. High school boys hover around the front desk pretending to browse when they’re obviously just trying to flirt. Seasoned surfer adults ask if her dad’s around, then grin and say, “Tell him Keoni sends his best.” Like she’s a damn walking message board.
Megan is used to all of it.
What she isn’t used to, however, is this: She’s halfway through ringing up a nine-year-old’s rash guard (neon green, size XS, definitely going to get left at the beach within a week) when the bell above the door chimes. Reflexively, she glances up, and there she is.
A customer walks in. Of course, the bell always announces when someone enters. It’d be spooky if it didn’t. But this isn’t just any someone, Megan realizes, as her eyes lock on the girl and widen almost on cue
She’s gorgeous. Like, unfairly so. Model-level gorgeous — 5'7", long silky black hair, pink lips, feline eyes. She’s wearing the most basic pair of jean shorts and a loose white hoodie with the strings missing and the sleeves rolled to her elbows, and still, she’s striking. Her hands are shoved deep into the kangaroo pocket, and she has a distracted frown on her face like she’s here against her will.
Megan is stunned. Like... Actually stunned. Just straight up stares, forgets the card reader beeping at her for attention.
It’s not like she rarely sees good-looking people. This is Hawaii, good-looking people sprout like coconut trees. The place is crawling with surfer boys with a perfect tan, girls with flawless beach curls and influencer-types who swarm in like they own the place and then disrespect the natives and treat every local like a mascot for their travel vlogs.
Even her best friends are crazy attractive. Lara, for instance, walks into a room and looks like a walking summer campaign. She’s all sun-kissed golden skin and dark glossy hair that always looks like it’s just been tousled by the ocean breeze, with her effortless, confident smile that makes people passing by trip over their flip-flops. It’s honestly kind of rude.
And Daniela? Don’t even get Megan (or any of the tourists she hooks up with, for that matter) started on Daniela. She’s like a real-life siren, but instead of luring fishermen to the deep sea, she gets the tourist white boys with dumb seashell necklaces who follow her around like seagulls into her bed and then never calls or texts them again, which Megan thinks is fucking legendary. She will always support women in male-dominated fields.
It’s just that she’s not used to seeing attractive people in this godforsaken shop that not even her own friends could be motivated enough to visit her in. And this girl who just walked in? Ugh.
She’s not even trying, and somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. Megan hasn’t decided yet. All she knows is that she looks completely out of place here, like she got dropped into the surf shop by mistake. She sticks out like a sore thumb among the sky-blue wood walls that are peeling from sun damage, the faded posters of old surf competitions, and the mannequin with one arm missing wearing fugly banana yellow shorts. In fact, she looks like she belongs in a fashion catalog. Not in a shop that smells like wet neoprene and half-melted air freshener.
“Hey!” the kid with the missing front tooth tugs at her shirt. He’s been clutching the too-big rash guard like it might run off without him. “Can I go now? My mom’s at the shaved ice truck and she said if I take too long she’ll leave me.”
Megan blinks, still slightly short-circuited, and glances down at him. “Yeah, yeah. One sec, tiny dude.” She finishes the transaction on autopilot, slipping the receipt into the bag and handing it over like she hasn’t just forgotten how words work. “Alright, future pro surfer, you’re free to go.”
The kid beams, revealing the full extent of his dental disarray. Yikes. “Mahalo!” he calls, darting out the door with the bag swinging wildly at his side.
Behind her, there’s a sharp exhale — not quite a laugh, but definitely in the same family. Megan turns just in time to catch the new girl biting the inside of her cheek, amusement flickering behind her eyes. Was that... Her chuckling? At her expense? Megan isn't sure whether to be annoyed or flattered, so she splits the difference and decides to be mildly embarrassed but secretly honored to have made a pretty girl laugh.
When she’s back behind the counter, she finally remembers she’s supposed to be, like, a functioning human being. So she pastes on the polite smile she’s worn a hundred times before. “E komo mai, how can I help you?” Megan says, of course, because that’s the classic, default greeting she dishes out to all the clients. No brainer. Just because this girl looked like that didn’t mean she could look her in the eye and say, ‘Well hello there, you otherworldly absolute goddess. Need help finding your way back to Olympus? ’Cause that’s where you should be.’
Yeah, no. ‘How can I help you?’ would have to do the job.
“I need a board leash,” the girl says, her tone casual. She has a very clear accent — not too thick, but enough to make its presence known — and it makes her husky, sugary voice sound even prettier. “And probably wax. And a fin key, I don’t know. Whatever else someone might need to keep my sister from whining.”
Megan nods, already reaching under the counter. “Your sister surfs?”
“Apparently she does now. She’s ‘finding herself’.” she air-quotes it, deadpan. “But can’t find her way to a damn store, apparently.” the girl smiles. It’s not a big one, more of a crooked half-smile, but it lands with the force of a sledgehammer in Megan’s brain.
She gulps and manages, “I see. Is she a tourist trying to connect with the beauties of Honolulu while on a soul-searching quest?”
“Not quite. We just moved here, our dad started working for a new place.”
“Oh, cool. Moved from where?”
“Busan, South Korea.”
Megan whistles, eyebrows raised. “Very urban city, I see. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it here soon enough.”
The girl hums, her eyes scanning Megan in a way that makes her squirm a little. Megan knows it isn’t flirty — she’s not shamelessly checking her out or anything — but it kind of feels like that.
Then, she tilts her head. “Will I have to ‘get used to’ the fashion, too?”
Megan frowns and follows her line of sight. Oh God. The shirt.
Floral button-up. Oversized. Technically blue, but mostly an assault of palm trees and hibiscus patterns. The kind of thing your uncle wears to a barbecue or Adam Sandler rocks in ‘50 First Dates’. And to make matters worse: chopped-up cargo shorts that had once been Bermuda length but which Megan mutilated into something vaguely resembling booty shorts, all topped off with a name tag scrawled in sharpie that looked like it had been written mid-earthquake. Not her best look.
“Rude, but fair.” The surfer says, glancing back at her client. The girl snorts, her eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly trying not to laugh but failing spectacularly. Megan sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “It’s the uniform, alright? I don’t dress like this voluntarily, I have real clothes somewhere…”
“I’m sure you do.” The other girl utters, and Megan can’t tell if it’s teasing or sincere — probably both. Somehow, it lands somewhere warm in her chest either way.
She clears her throat, trying to reboot, and turns to the display behind the counter. “Okay. Let’s save your sister’s surf dreams.”
“Good,” her unfairly beautiful customer says, now wearing a full grin. Her lips are the most ridiculous shade of pink Megan has ever seen. Not lipstick, not gloss, just naturally that color. “Otherwise, she’ll make me sit on the beach with an ukulele or some crap and say it’s sisterly bonding.”
“You could always sabotage her board.”
“That is tempting.”
Megan pulls the leash, the wax, and a fin key, then carefully passes them across the counter, making very sure their fingers don’t touch. She cannot risk another system crash. “So,” she says, aiming for casual, “do you surf too, or just here for moral support?”
The girl shrugs, one shoulder lifting with effortless ease. “I might start. Depends who’s teaching.”
Megan opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. Her brain blue-screens.
Was that flirting? That definitely sounded like flirting. And if it wasn’t, Megan’s still going to need to sit down for five to seven business days. She scrambles: “Maybe your sister will. If she gets good enough at it.”
“Doubt it.” Pretty-Girl (Megan decides that’s what she will call her now) smiles and pulls a crumpled twenty from the front pocket of her hoodie. She slides it across the counter casually, like she isn’t messing with Megan’s entire nervous system.
Megan counts the change with what she hopes looks like basic motor control, hands it over, and absolutely does not think about the way her own fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. Pretty-Girl eyes the total, then glances down at Megan’s name tag, squinting slightly like she’s deciphering ancient runes (and with how messy the handwriting is, it might as well be). When she looks up again, her smile is soft, almost satisfied.
“Thanks. I’ll see you around, Megan.” she said, Megan's name slipping out like honey in her tongue.
And just like that, she leaves, hoodie strings still missing, long black hair catching the breeze as the bell chimes behind her. All the girl had gotten was a swinging bag full of surf gear, overpriced wax and, well. Megan’s full attention.
The surfer stands still for a long moment, blinking like she just got hit with a rogue wave.
‘I’ll see you around’? That’s it? That’s not enough. A million people walk through Honolulu every day. What are the odds she’d actually see her again?
She sighs and tells herself it’s fine. It is fine. They probably would never bump into each other, and Pretty-Girl bought everything her sister could possibly need in one go, so there’s no reason for her to come back.
Still, her heart’s doing this weird pitter-pat thing. Not quite racing, more like fluttering. It’s not the cute guy with frosted tips complimenting her smile that she fantasizes about sometimes, but it’s something. And that night, when Megan closes her eyes, she doesn’t dream of boho braids or brushing fingers. She dreams of feline eyes and long black hair like black coral glinting in shallow tidepools.
Life goes on, obviously.
Megan keeps doing her thing. Working. Studying. Pretending to study. Going out with Lara and Daniela in her M3 and partying when she can, even though none of them are really into the people they end up kissing, nights blurring into laughter, gossiping like they’re still fourteen on their way home from school.
She surfs when she has time to, but she usually doesn’t, even though she knows s he needs the practice. Part of that is because her shifts at the shop are long. Too long. She’s stuck there every day from 7AM to almost 2PM, which feels like a lifetime. Her mom says it builds character. Megan thinks it’s mostly just building lower back pain and a deepening contempt for mankind.
The customers never change. There’s the usual rotation: sleepy-eyed tourists in straw hats, confused families holding boards upside-down, teenage boys sneaking glances at her chest, and old uncles who think it's hilarious to flirt with her jokingly. Sometimes, the same man comes in three times a week asking if they sell banana wax (they don’t) and swearing someone told him they do (they didn’t).
And no other pretty girls with soft pink lips and feline eyes show up again. Megan is only mildly disappointed. (That is a lie. She is very disappointed. In fact, she keeps embarrassingly replaying that eight-minute encounter from five days ago on a loop in her head).
“No, sir, I already told you,” Megan says through a sigh, spinning the cherry pendant of her necklace with two fingers. “I can’t replace your fins for free just because they got scratched. That’s not how the policy works.”
The man keeps insisting, something about his cousin being friends with her dad, and how that should clearly entitle him to free products, a discount, or maybe the keys to the shop, who knows. Megan nods vaguely, letting him rant, already mentally checked out. Eventually, he realizes he’s not getting anywhere, huffs like a kettle about to boil, and storms off in indignation.
As soon as the door slams behind him, Megan exhales like she’s been holding her breath underwater. “Sweet mercy…” she mutters, reaching for her phone like it’s a life raft.
She busies herself with something infinitely more important: replying to the group chat. Daniela had just sent a particularly scandalous gossip. Apparently, she ran into her ex at Foodland, and he was “shockingly wearing linen pants and talking about finding Jesus”. Megan snorts, half-smiling as she types out a reply: Was he barefoot too or just spiritually enlightened?
She chuckles lightly and taps send. That’s when the bell above the door rings again, and Megan doesn’t even bother looking up.
“Sir,” she mutters distractedly, scrolling through her Instagram feed, fully committed to not giving that old man another second of her attention, “the surfboard rental place is two doors down. If you really want to argue about fins, go ruin their morning.”
“Wasn’t looking for the scuba shop. I was looking for you.”
That voice. Smooth. A little husky around the edges, but still sweet, with just a hint of a Korean accent.
Oh God. Oh God, she’s back. Pretty-Girl is here.
Megan freezes. She lifts her gaze slowly, like she’s afraid looking too fast will scare her off. There she is, standing by the door like a mirage conjured by daydreams. Alive. Very much present, her perfume filling the room. Not a hallucination caused by fatigue and exhaustion.
This time, she’s wearing sunglasses perched on top of her head, a cream-colored miniskirt and a bubblegum-pink tank top that says HAWAII in bold white letters. Tourist chic. They've gotten to her already, Megan notes it with mild horror, registering the ensemble. But the thought passes, because... Jesus. Somehow, impossibly, she looks even better than last time.
Her black hair is no longer perfectly straight but tousled into loose, sea-touched waves that look sculpted by the saltwater. There’s a faint sun-kissed flush across her cheeks and nose, like the sun's been flirting with her all morning, and Megan is suddenly unsure how faces are supposed to work, because hers feels like it’s melting.
Pretty-Girl is glowing.
Megan looks, open-mouthed like someone who’s just seen an angel, definitely bordering on creepy, until Pretty-Girl raises an amused eyebrow.
That’s when Megan snaps out of it and finally blurts out a clumsy “Oh. Hi. You again.”, and then winces. Immediately purses her lips like she can shove the awkwardness back in.
Great. Amazing job, Meiyok. Didn’t even get out the friendly customer greeting.
The girl just blinks once and replies with that same infuriating calm, “Hi.”
There’s a pause. Megan tries to remember how conversation works. “So,” she says, dragging her voice back down to something casual, attempting a cool approach, “what brings you here today?”
“I’m looking for a board bag.” The girl steps closer, running her fingers lightly over a display near the counter. “My sister’s now worried about UV damage and spiritual auras, apparently.”
Megan squints. “Spiritual auras? That’s…” She pauses, searching for diplomacy. “Weird.”
“Yeah. She’s very weird.” she says it without blinking, like it’s just a fact.
Megan laughs (an actual, startled laugh) and quickly ducks behind the counter to rummage for inventory, mostly so she doesn’t say something dumb like do you want to go out with me forever. “I’ve got a couple of board bags in stock. But if she starts talking about chakra alignment, I’m charging double.”
“She already burned sage over the leash I bought last week.”
“No way.”
“I had to air it out on the balcony. Now our house smells like an exorcism.”
Megan snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the stock tags. “You poor thing.”
There’s another pause, quieter this time. Megan can feel the girl’s gaze on her. It’s steady, curious, and, for some reason, it makes Megan’s face heat up. She has the urge to look away, because she’s definitely not going to let herself glance in the girl’s direction again. Nope. No way.
“Do you surf?” Pretty-Girl asks, her voice a little more subdued now.
Megan blinks, completely caught off guard. She only ever gets questions like these from tourists looking for beach recommendations. “Me? Yeah, since I was little.”
There’s even more warmth creeping up into her cheeks now, and suddenly, Megan’s acutely aware of every small thing — the way the girl’s eyes linger just a little too long, the way she’s standing so close to the counter. She fumbles with the stock tags in her hands, half-wishing she could disappear.
“I think I’ll try,” Pretty-Girl says, her tone light, lips twitching in a half-smile. “At least... Once. We’ll see how long it takes for my sister to burn out and give up.”
Megan nods, relieved that the conversation is moving away from her before she says anything stupid. She clears her throat. “Well, if she does, I’ll be here to help her return everything. Unless you want to buy a surfboard and some emotional support along with it.”
The girl cracks a smile, and Megan feels her heart do that little skip it shouldn’t. But before she can really think about it, Pretty-Girl taps the counter again, drawing her attention. “I’ll take the bag.”
Megan nods, still flustered, grabbing the bag and setting it on the counter before counting out the total. The girl pulls out two bills and slides them over with ease. Megan takes the money, her fingers brushing against the other girl’s, but she doesn’t dare look up, far too aware of how red her face must be right now.
She counts the change, doing everything in her power not to glance up again, even though her whole body is basically screaming LOOK AT HER. She too slides the coins across the counter, hoping the motion comes off cool and effortless, but when Pretty-Girl smiles at her, Megan’s stomach flips like she just wiped out on a wave.
“Thanks. I’ll see you around, Megan.”
Megan’s breath catches. She watches Pretty-Girl leave, silently cursing her inability to be a normal human being. The door chimes behind her before the surfer can even say Wait, what’s your name?
She barely registers it when a new customer walks in, still staring at the spot where the girl had been standing just seconds ago, her heart doing full laps in her chest.
Jesus Fucking Christ. She never even got her freaking name.
“Really rocking it, Megan,” she mutters to herself, slumping behind the counter like a dramatic Victorian widow. “Truly killing the flirt game.”
Megan's body feels like it's been steamrolled by the waves themselves. Her muscles are sore in places she didn’t even know existed, and her shoulders ache like they’ve been carrying an invisible weight for hours. She wipes a sheen of sweat off her forehead, exhaling as she squints against the blinding sun. The boards are stacked on the sand in front of her, and the shore stretches out into the distance, each wave that rolls in mocking her inability to properly ride them.
It’s getting exhausting, but this is the price to pay if she wants to make the team. No pain, no gain, right?
Lara’s been following Megan to the beach for the past couple of days now, claiming that she wants to support her best friend, but she always gets bored watching Megan practice. She mostly just tans in her towel while sprawled in a bikini like she’s waiting for a coconut drink with a paper umbrella. Lara’s more of a beachside model than a surfer — always pretending she’s one to attract pretty girls, anyway. Megan can’t help but roll her eyes.
By the second day, it became obvious: she wasn’t here for Megan. After a couple of hours of half-hearted cheering, Lara would inevitably start dragging her gaze elsewhere. She was indeed here for the ‘company’, but the company was a tall, long-haired hotshot who kept paddling out beside Megan — a girl with unbelievably glossy lips and perfect full eyebrows and jet black hair so healthy and shiny that it looked like she had no salt water damage at all.
Megan scoffs inwardly, shaking her head as she watches Lara now, hands on her hips, gesturing with way too much confidence to the girl on the surfboard. “No, no, like this. Your posture’s off, babe. Let’s work on your stance. You’ve gotta move your feet here, and your hands need to be like this…”
She’s parroting out all the tips and tricks Megan’s dad has yammered about for years on the infamous Raj-Skiendiel family dinners, like she’s some kind of surf expert. And, you see, Lara’s not a surfer, she’s a poser. She doesn’t even know the difference between a drop-in and a cutback. But here she is, giving advice to the newbie like she’s the second coming of Kelly Slater when she can’t even handle the basics herself.
The (actual) surfer sighs. She’s already tired of watching her friend trying to impress the girl. It’s honestly almost painful to watch.
But something else was bugging her, not just the unbearable soreness in her arms from paddling for too long in the heat. It’s Pretty-Girl. Megan’s distracted by the thought of her, and it’s driving her crazy.
Her frustration starts bubbling up. She’s been here, busting her ass in the scorching sun, trying to actually improve, but can’t even stop herself from thinking about her.
She tries, she really does. But it’s like she’s stuck on repeat — on that first day Pretty-Girl walked into the shop, the soft glow of the sun reflecting off her porcelain skin like some perfect vision Megan couldn’t look away from. She’s been trying to make sense of why this chick, this random chick, has such a hold on her thoughts, especially when she doesn’t even know her name.
She shouldn’t be thinking about her. She should be thinking about her turns, how to stop falling off at the last second, how to fix her stance, about how the new coach, who’s allegedly some sort of wave-whispering drill sergeant, might be watching from somewhere right now, judging her shoulders and the way she’s surfing like a tired seal who’s seen better days.
But instead, Megan gave up. With a groan that seemed to spill out from her bones, she dragged herself off the teal surfboard, the white sand of Waikiki swallowing her feet as she trudged back to her towel. She collapsed onto it, sinking into the warmth, the grains sticking to the sweat on her skin, coating her temple and cheek like a gritty badge of defeat. For a moment, she let her face press into the rough fabric, willing her thoughts to shut off, even if just for a second. The sun was relentless, heavy and bright, but Megan didn’t care.
“Hey, Medina!” Lara’s voice cut through the hum of the ocean, light and teasing. Megan barely lifted her head, cracking one eye open just enough to see her friend dazzling under the sun, a grin playing on her lips as she approached. “You okay, or are you just baking yourself?”
Megan lifted her head enough to shoot her a glare. “I’m training, thank you very much.”
“Training?” Lara laughed, eyebrows arching. “You’ve been lying here for minutes.”
Megan opened her eyes wider, ready to argue, but then her gaze drifted toward the water. She sees that aside from a group of guys catching large waves farther out in the ocean, wearing their black wetsuits, the only other person still trying to surf was Sophia, the girl Lara’s been flirting with, clumsily wiping out over and over again.
Meanwhile, Lara had flopped onto her towel, sunglasses twirling lazily around one finger. Her smirk was smug, almost contagious, as she watched Sophia struggle out there like it was the most attractive thing she’d ever seen. Like a pro Olympic surfer was flailing in the waves, not some preppy princess who looked like a six-foot wave would scare her off surfing forever.
“You’re unbelievable,” Megan muttered, pushing herself up and stretching her aching arms with a sharp wince. Her muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti, limp and useless, and the sand stuck stubbornly, but she didn’t move to brush it away. “You know she’s never gonna learn like that, right? Just taking your sloppy advice and winging it out there on the ocean?”
Her friend shrugged, totally unfazed. “Hey, I’m here to be a supportive presence, not a coach.”
“You’re a flirt who’s stealing all my dad’s coaching lines.”
Lara grins. “They’re our lines, Mei. Family knowledge is communal.”
Megan lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head, playing with the tight fabric of her black and pink wet suit. The wind tosses her damp hair into her eyes and she brushes it back with the heel of her hand, glancing again at the water. The tide’s starting to shift, a subtle pull, but enough to make her restless.
Her board’s lying on the sand next to her, speckled with wax and faint scratches from use. She should get back out there. She needs to. She knows that every session counts. But instead of reaching for it, she finds her gaze sliding back to the shoreline.
Her mind drifts back to that place in her mind where Pretty-Girl is still standing in front of her with a paper bag and a crooked grin, her voice just a little breathless like maybe she was nervous too.
Megan tries to remember exactly what the girl said last time — something about her weird “sister” stressing over spiritual auras. The surfer had nodded like it was normal, like she wasn’t trying to memorize every blink and gaze and smile like a stupid, lovesick middle-schooler.
And maybe that’s what she is. Stupid. Because Megan didn’t even ask for her number.
She’s waiting. For what, she doesn’t know. Maybe for a sign. Maybe for the courage. Maybe for this crush to pass.
She looks at the horizon, where the waves roll in under the lazy gold of the afternoon sun. The water is glittering like glass, inviting her back in. And she knows if she doesn’t push through, if she doesn’t get ready now, it might be too late. Tryouts are coming, whether she’s prepared or not.
Still, as she drags herself back into the water, Megan thinks — if Pretty-Girl walks into the shop tomorrow? Maybe this time, she won’t let her leave without getting a name. Hell, maybe she’ll even get the girl to give her number. Write it down on a napkin, on a receipt. Anywhere.
She’s gotta start somewhere.
Megan swipes a hand over her forehead, pushing a strand of hair from her face, feeling the heat of the sun beating down through the open shop windows. The air smells like salt, but it’s thick with exhaustion, and the momentary breeze that drifts in feels like it’s too little, too late. She shifts her weight, wiping her palms against the Hawaiian shirt. The shirt sticks to her skin, the collar uncomfortably tight around her neck. She can feel the sweat soaking into the fabric, making her skin itch.
Today is no different from yesterday or the day before that. She’s here again, buried in the monotony of stock lists, surfboards, and customers who ask the same stupid questions. The routine is almost suffocating. She’s stuck, unable to perfect the one trick she’s been obsessing over — a quick turn she just can’t get right no matter how much she practices on the waves or visualizes it in her head. But she’s glued to the counter, her mind spiraling in a thousand directions.
Wonderful, Megan thinks, squinting at the list of rash guard sizes. Another thrilling day of being trapped here while stressing about tricks I can’t even practice and... Probably the fact that Pretty-Girl won’t ever walk through that door again.
But of course, today had to be the day that Pretty-Girl proved her wrong.
Megan feels a rush of heat in her chest, something familiar but quickening as she hears the door chime. Reflexively, she glances up.
Pretty-Girl walks in, the sound of the bell above the door announcing her presence. Megan blinks twice, unsure if she’s hallucinating or if the shop is just playing another trick on her. She rubs her eyes, then looks up again — no, it’s real. It’s her. Again.
What is she doing here again? This is the third time she shows up now, and Megan has questions.
Namely: How often does your sister even surf? What’s the deal with all the gear if she's just starting out? And why do you seem to be the one doing all her errands, anyway?
Either way, she can feel the corners of her mouth twitching slightly as Pretty-Girl walks over to the counter. This time, she’s wearing a lilac bikini top with thin straps, paired with light-wash jean shorts. A canvas tote bag swings from one shoulder, faded print peeling at the edges like it's seen a lot of sun. Her hair is damp and a little tangled, clinging to the sides of her neck like she’s just stepped out of the ocean — and maybe she has. The pink in her cheeks is still there, that subtle sunburn telling its own story about her day.
And Megan, of course, is drenched in sweat while doing nothing but trying to keep her heart from doing backflips in her chest.
“My sister’s suddenly worried about skin damage from the sunlight,” Pretty-Girl says, not sounding mad about it, but also not entirely thrilled. “She’s getting one of those UV+ rash guards, I think.”
And that’s it. She just strolls in, doesn’t even wait for Megan to parrot out her usual 'e komo mai'. Megan figures they’re well past that point in their client-attendant relationship.
She stares at the girl for a second, narrowing her eyes, but still can’t get the question out of her head. “Does your sister even exist?” she mutters, the words escaping before she can stop herself.
“She does!” her very loyal client answers with playful defiance, hands gripping the counter for a second. “I swear she’s real. She's just spoiled and hates doing anything that even remotely counts as an errand.”
Megan looks at her, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, but there's a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m starting to think you’re just buying all this stuff to resell.”
“I’m definitely not that business-savvy. I just happen to have a very needy sister.”
“Sounds like a convenient excuse.” Megan replies, half-serious, half-joking.
“Trust me, I wish that’s what it was.” The girl chuckles, and then, as though she’s remembering the task at hand, shifts back to her more casual tone. “But yeah, I’ll take a rash guard. And whatever else you think she might need, if you’re that desperate to get rid of me.”
The surfer can’t help but giggle. “Ok. If that’s the case, then I’ll throw in a free SPF 50 sunscreen because I care about your mysterious sister’s very sensitive skin.”
Pretty-Girl laughs. It’s not the soft, polite chuckle from before — this time, it’s full-on, warm and genuine, a sound that fills the space between them and makes Megan’s heart skip a beat. “I’ll tell her you’re invested in her survival.” she says with a little smile.
Megan laughs too, a little too quickly, hoping she doesn’t sound too awkward. But as the sound escapes, she realizes she’s grinning, practically giddy. She tries to focus, pulls her attention back to the receipt she’s writing on, but the pen feels like it’s slipping between her fingers.
She’s just supposed to be ringing up some gear, and yet, here she is, getting caught up in the sound of a customer’s laugh. A very attractive customer’s laugh.
“So,” Pretty-Girl says, leaning against the counter like she’s been here a hundred times before, like this is her usual afternoon hangout. She’s got one elbow propped casually on the wood, her other hand tugging lightly at the strap of her tote. “Have you lived in Hawaii your whole life?”
It’s not a complicated question. It’s simple, even. It’s casual, small talk.
But to Megan, it lands like a firework — loud, bright, unexpectedly close. Because Pretty-Girl is looking directly at her, and Megan’s brain forgets how to string words together looking at those eyes. Warm. Curious. Just the tiniest bit amused, like she’s enjoying this moment too much to rush it.
Megan clears her throat and tries to play it cool. “Uh, yeah I have," she slurs, "born and raised, actually. Good thing that the waves are pretty damn good here.” She laughs a little too nervously, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall right back into her face.
“Yeah?” Pretty-Girl asks, and it’s not just polite. It’s open, engaged. She leans a little closer, like she's genuinely intrigued. “What’s your favorite beach?”
Megan fumbles with the pen, her hand shaking slightly. God, don’t mess this up, she thinks, but the words just pour out. “The North Shore of Oahu. It’s the only place that feels, like, right to me. I mean, it’s insane— The waves there are so much bigger, but there’s just something... Different about it. It’s like, you’re actually riding the ocean instead of just floating on it, y’know?”
Megan finally stops talking, realizing she’s rambled and her words don’t sound nearly as cool as they did in her head, but Pretty-Girl just watches her with a soft expression that makes Megan’s stomach flutter.
“That sounds amazing,” the customer says, smiling. She pauses, then adds with a playful eye roll, “I’ve met plenty of people who love how surfing looks on camera way more than actually getting tossed around by a ten-foot wave.”
“I mean, they’re not wrong,” Megan replies with a chuckle, her voice a little steadier now. “Surfing does look good on camera. But you get a lot more pleasure and rush from actually catching the wave than just posing next to one.”
“You would know. You’ve got that whole surf prodigy vibe going on. I can tell by how you keep shifting your weight like you’re balancing on an invisible board.”
The surfer snorts, loud enough to be a little embarrassing, and immediately brings a hand up to cover her face. “Wow. That’s the nicest backhanded compliment I’ve gotten this week.”
Pretty-Girl shrugs, clearly pleased with herself. “I’m very good at those.”
Megan tries to hide the flush creeping up her neck by laughing softly and focusing on writing down the return policies. She’s not sure what happened to her. The girl’s just talking about surfing, for God's sake. Get a grip. The pen slips in her hand, scratching across the receipt, but she catches it quickly. Snap out of it, Megan, she tells herself.
The surfer finally looks up again, forcing herself to make eye contact, but the warmth in Pretty-Girl’s smile makes her feel like the air is a little too thick. She taps her fingers on the counter, hesitating for only a beat before she says, “Hey... I didn’t catch your name last time.”
Pretty-Girl tilts her head, her hair falling forward over one shoulder. Then she leans in, just a little, and says it like it’s something she’s been waiting to give: “Yoonchae.”
Megan nods, the name sinking into her chest like a stone wrapped in silk. She repeats it in her head, like she’s filing it away somewhere sacred.
“Yoonchae...” Megan whispers under her breath, echoing softly, testing it aloud without realizing she has. She’s suddenly aware of how stupid she must sound.
But Yoonchae smiles at that — not just a polite curve of her mouth, but a slow smile that settles into her whole face. “I like how you say my name.”
Megan nearly drops the pen. For a moment, she forgets where she is. Forgets about everything that isn’t the girl standing right in front of her.
There is a heat to it, the weight and the possibility hanging between them like an unfinished sentence. But the evening light starts to dim as the sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the shop. Megan feels the moment shift, the weight of the day pressing in.
Yoonchae glances at her phone, sighs softly. “I should go. My dad is probably wondering where I went.” she says, reluctantly, like she’s not ready to leave but knows she has to.
Megan’s heart sinks, just a little. She nods, barely able to mask the disappointment creeping up her spine. “Right. Yeah. Tell your sister good luck with the… Sun damage.”
Yoonchae laughs again, backing toward the door. “Thanks, Megan.”
And there it is again — her name, spoken like it means more than it should, like Yoonchae likes the feel of it in her mouth.
“See you around?” Megan asks, not even bothering to hide the hope in her voice.
Yoonchae pauses in the doorway, hand on the handle. “You’ll definitely see me around.” she says, a little teasing, a little promise.
And just like that, she turns and walks out of the shop, her long black hair catching the fading light of the day. Megan watches her leave, her heart still fluttering wildly in her chest. The door swings shut behind her with a gentle chime, and she disappears down the sidewalk, hair catching the light like smoke in sunset.
She doesn’t move for a long moment, staring at the door. Then she exhales, long and slow, and slumps forward onto the counter, burying her face in her hands.
“Yoonchae…” she whispers into her palms.
Megan lets herself smile. She knows, deep down, this isn’t the last time she’ll see her.
Megan dresses a little nicer for her shift today. She lets herself wear the uniform’s Hawaiian shirt open, a thin white tank top underneath. Waves her hair with a curling iron, styles her fringe into soft curtain bangs. She even puts on makeup — lip gloss, mascara — getting fully ready at seven in the morning to work at her father’s rundown, almost abandoned shop.
She’s got to be the most unserious girl in all of Honolulu.
The dusty mirror behind the register, half-fogged and slightly warped, becomes her makeshift vanity as she fixes her hair for the third time, checking if the slightly messy look seems “effortlessly beachy” or just full-on neglected.
She needs to make sure she looks good. Of course, it totally has nothing to do with a cute girl who keeps visiting the shop and helping her meet her daily selling goal. Nope. Nothing at all.
Yoonchae stays showing up every five days like clockwork, always with some new excuse. So far, her 'sister' has broken her leash, lost her surf wax, needed hydration tablets, and asked for tips for her fragile ankles. (Megan still doesn’t know what that one was about, but she nodded along like it made perfect sense).
All she knows is that the girl lingers for six or seven minutes, leans casually against the counter, chats, laughs, flips her impossibly silky hair over her shoulder like she's auditioning for a L'Oréal commercial… And then bolts the moment she realizes how long she’s been there, all flushed and smiley.
Megan had tried to find her socials. Relentlessly. But without a last name, googling “Yoonchae, Busan, South Korea” got her nowhere. Turns out there are a lot of Yoonchaes in Busan.
She thinks about asking Yoonchae for her number or socials directly, but never actually does it. The excuse she gives herself is that she doesn’t want to scare her off, doesn’t want to come on too strong. The truth, though? She’s just too much of a chicken. Every time she even just thinks about it, her face gets hot. So for now, she's ok with just giving Yoonchae advice about what to look for in a wave — what’s worth waiting for, what’s just a passing swell.
Today, it’s officially been five days since Yoonchae last showed up, meaning that Megan was… On the lookout, to say the least. It’s ridiculous. She shouldn’t be thinking about this so much.
And yet, she does.
Her father offers to take over the shop for a few days, saying he can tell how worn out Megan's been lately. She turns him down with a polite smile. Her mom is absolutely over the moon, convinced Megan has finally transformed into a focused, responsible young adult with a strong work ethic. “Look at you, waking up early, showing up on time, working hard!” she’d beamed the other morning, holding her coffee mug.
Oh, poor Mom. Little does she know it has nothing to do with work ethic and everything to do with Yoonchae’s crooked grin when Megan says something silly and that soft, slightly embarrassed lilt in her voice when she asks Megan for yet another random item, like she hasn’t been steadily buying out the entire shop one excuse at a time.
Megan knows exactly what’s going on, knows there’s no sister, knows Yoonchae probably doesn’t need hydration tablets; but she’s smitten anyway. And curious. How much money does this girl have, spending it like Monopoly bills on stuff she doesn’t even need just to spend six minutes talking to her?
Not that she’s complaining. Being the focus of a pretty girl’s attention? Amazing. But a pretty girl who might also be rich? That’s a dream Megan didn’t even know she had.
It’s also the perfect distraction from the exhausting blur that is her current life. Every day is the same: up before the sun, quick breakfast, shift at the surf shop, and then straight to the beach for hours of wave drills with her dad. Paddle, wipeout, reset. Paddle again. She drags herself home with sunburnt cheeks and jelly limbs, crashes into bed, and does it all again the next day. She’s even stopped answering messages in the group chat. Not that she’d be able to keep up with Lara’s constant updates anyway.
Lara, who cannot stop yapping about the newbie-surfer girl she’s been flirting with. Megan has read the name Sophia at least twenty times this week alone. “Sophia is so cute”. “Sophia asked me to show her around”. “Sophia is so clumsy on the board, it’s adorable”. And if Megan so much as sent an “ew”, Lara would accuse her of being jealous because she isn’t getting any girl attention as of late.
(And even though she has a perfectly valid comeback – one that involves Yoonchae’s beautiful cat eyes and spending habits – she keeps it to herself. Keeps her to herself.)
“Sophia just told me she tried to duck dive with her board facing the wrong way. She wondered why she kept getting smacked in the face by every wave. She's so cute.” Lara’s voice pipes up with a snort, dragging Megan out of her mirror-checking trance. She sighs, adjusting her shirt one last time and turning away from her reflection.
It’s a miracle that Lara and Daniela are even here today. They never stop by the shop. When Megan pointed that out earlier, Daniela had dramatically flopped onto the nearest stool and said it was the only way to confirm Megan was still alive. (“I thought maybe you’d been abducted by tourists,” she said. “Or joined a cult.”).
Now Daniela leans against the wooden counter, hip cocked, a big pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. She’s wearing a sunshine-yellow bikini with jean shorts slung low on her hips, her blond curls tied high in a ponytail, skin tanned as always but slightly pink across her back — evidence that she and Lara had been frying under the sun minutes ago.
“When are you going to tell your little girlfriend she sucks at surfing and should give it up?” the latina girl says, smirking.
Lara scoffs, not even looking up from her phone. She’s dressed like she’s headed to kill and it’s not even 10AM yet, with a lavender bikini top and white boho maxi skirt combo, along with the gold bangles glinting on her wrist and the dainty chain around her waist. “She’s not that bad for someone who just started,” the girl says breezily. “I’m sure if she keeps training, she’ll be able to take Megan’s spot on the team soon enough.”
Megan tenses up like someone just poured a bucket of cold water down her back. “Don’t joke about that!” she snaps.
The truth? She’s been nervous. Way more nervous than she ever expected to be back when she thought things would stay the same — when she assumed their team trainer would still be Manu, the laid-back local guy who was practically family. He’d known her since she was five, watched her grow on a board, knew every strength and every weakness without her having to say a word. But no. Manu took a coaching gig with a rival team over in Kailua, and now tryouts are creeping up fast.
Sure, she’s won a few local comps. She knows she’s good. But the new coach? Megan doesn’t know him. He's a total wildcard. And Megan has anxiety, for God's sake. She doesn’t do well with wildcards.
“Chill out, Medina,” Lara says with a chuckle, finally glancing up. “You’re hands-down the best surfer I know. You’ll make the team, no doubt.”
Megan cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t lie, I’m not the best surfer you know. Karlee Tanaka lives two doors down from you.”
“Karlee hasn’t had a decent heat in ages,” Lara scoffs. “Half the time she just gets lucky with her waves, or the competitors are having bad days. She’s fine. You’re better. No need to worry.”
“Of course I’m worried!” Megan whines. “I don’t even know this new trainer. What if he’s super strict? What if he hates my style? What if he just... Picks a bone with me?”
Daniela rolls her eyes like Megan’s being ridiculous. “Nothing like that is gonna happen. You’re freaking out for no reason.”
“I don’t know, Dani… My dad told me the guy’s good. Too good. I heard he took his last team to three national titles. And now he’s just randomly here? Why? Dude was successful were he worked already. Manu told me his salary was cra-zy.”
She huffs, crossing her arms, and gazes out at the ocean through the shop’s slatted windows. Beyond the rolling waves and sun-glazed tourists, the future feels big and murky and looming.
Daniela sighs. “You should stop stressing before it even happens, y’know. You’re letting your head run wild with what-ifs and that’s not doing you any favors.”
Megan shakes her head, still smiling despite herself. “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right,” she admits. “But it’s hard to feel all zen about it with something so big on the line.”
Daniela tilts her head, a sly knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Megan, you don’t have to worry. We all know you’re the best one out there. No new coach is going to change that.”
Lara doesn’t even glance up from her phone as she chimes in, “Dani’s right, you’ve got this in the bag. Even Sophia would agree.”
“Lara, enough with Sophia.” Megan groans, but there’s no real bite in her voice.
“Oh my god, you’re so jelly!” Lara says, laughing. “It’s okay. Not everyone can handle watching their bestie get wooed.”
“Ignore Lara!” Daniela chimes in, nudging Lara with her shoulder. “Point is, you’ve got us.” she declares, crossing the room in a few long strides and pulling Megan into a dramatic bear hug without waiting for permission. She’s grinning, clearly enjoying the way Megan immediately stiffens like she’s been ambushed.
Lara joins in a second later, looping her arms around both of them. “We believe in you, Mei. You’re gonna crush it.” she says, voice full of encouragement that makes Megan feel warm, even if she’s still unsure about all the changes ahead. “Don’t let some random surf top dog mess with your head. You’re it.”
Megan tries to squirm out of their hold, laughing as she does. “Okay, okay, calm down! I’m not about to start crying in the middle of the shop.”
But then Daniela presses a kiss to her cheek, and Lara does the same, only with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder for good measure. Megan lets out a louder laugh, swatting at them both like they’re a pair of over-affectionate seagulls.
“Ugh, now I definitely need a shower,” she mutters, wiping her cheek, still grinning. “You two are the worst.”
“Correction: we’re the best!” Daniela calls, already halfway to the door.
“And you owe us lunch for all the emotional labor.” Lara adds sweetly, tossing Megan a wink.
“Lunch?” Megan scoffs. “You two just tried to suffocate me with hugs and smother me in sweat and sunscreen.”
“Consider it hazard pay!” Dani tosses back with a grin, flashing a peace sign over her shoulder.
“Love you!” Lara trills, nudging the door open with her hip as sunlight spills in behind them.
The shop’s bell chimes as they vanish, their laughter echoing down the sun-drenched street like the tail end of a wave. Megan watches them go, a smile tugging at her lips. For a second, the world feels a little less heavy. She turns back to the counter and exhales.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur of slow-moving hours. Megan's eyes flick toward the old clock perched atop a display board, the hands ticking by far too quickly. She finds herself checking it constantly, watching as the hours slip away: 11AM, 12PM, 1PM. The shop feels heavier with each passing minute, and she can’t shake the thought that she’s missed something — or that she’s waiting for something that won’t ever come.
The moment lingers, heavy and unresolved. The door chimes again, and Megan's pulse jumps, but it's just another customer asking about wetsuit sizes. She smiles politely, forcing her attention back to the present, but her mind keeps drifting to the same thing.
Two o’clock rolls around, and she feels a knot of disappointment form in her stomach. Yoonchae never showed up. Megan scans the shop again, half-expecting her to appear in the doorway with yet another excuse to buy more surf gear. But nothing. The shop is quiet, and all that’s left is the soft hum of the radio, the faded beats of freaking ‘Upside Down’ by Jack Johnson playing on loop.
Megan leans against the counter, arms crossed, her thoughts swirling. Did she say something wrong? Was she too obvious? Did she mess up in some way that made Yoonchae decide not to come back?
She shakes her head. It’s ridiculous, really. She didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. She hasn’t acted weird around her, has she?
A sigh escapes Megan as she grabs her bag and begins to straighten up the counter. Maybe, just maybe, Yoonchae’s sister is real. Maybe she did need all that stuff, and maybe she’s just... Done for the day. No big deal.
As Megan steps outside, the waves crash in the distance, and she knows it’s time to get her head back to her real goal. There’s no time to waste, no more distractions.
Tomorrow, she’ll wake up before the sun again, grab her board, and get back to work. Getting in shape. Surfing. Competing. Everything else? It’ll have to wait. She won’t have time for Pretty-Girls and their mysterious visits anymore.
At least, that’s what she tells herself as she locks the shop, trying to shake thoughts of her.
The shop feels impossibly small today. Megan’s barely awake, eyes burning from lack of sleep and too much practice. She spent the last few hours going over every drill she could possibly think of, replaying every mistake in her mind.
Tomorrow is tryout time, and her mind is racing with self-doubt and questions, questions, questions. Because what if she messes up? What if she’s not good enough? What if it was all just a fluke? Those local comps, the medals she collected, like they were meant for someone else?
Pull it together, Megan, she tells herself, rubbing her palms over her face.
It’s not like she doesn’t want to be here. It’s not like she hates the shop or hates this part of her routine. But today, it’s different. Her mind’s been spinning with anxiety for the last few days, and every minute she spends behind this counter feels like an eternity. Her fingers drag across the countertop, and she sighs, trying to ignore the racing thoughts. The radio playing in the background doesn’t distract her from the heavy pit in her stomach.
All she wants to do is get in the water. She needs to breathe. But no, she's stuck here for now, making sure everything’s in place for the next round of customers, pretending like she isn’t on the verge of spiraling.
Tomorrow.
She should only think about tomorrow. No more distractions. Just focus.
But her eyes keep wandering to the clock above the counter, ticking slowly toward noon. Where is she?
It’s been nine days since Yoonchae last showed up. Nine days of silence, and each second that ticks by only makes Megan’s mind spiral further. Was it real? Did Yoonchae actually take an interest in her, or was she just looking for an excuse to max out her dad’s credit card?
Maybe she made a fool of herself. Maybe it was all in her head. Yoonchae probably won’t show up again. Why would she?
That thought leaves a hollow feeling in her chest. This is stupid, she thinks. It’s just a girl. Just a customer. So why does it feel like she’s just walked out with something Megan forgot she needed?
Stop it, Megan chastises herself.
The door chimes.
Megan doesn’t look up immediately. The bell rings too often for her to get excited anymore, and besides, she’s half-expecting the usual crowd of tourists in mismatched shirts and oversized sun hats. But then—
“Hi, Megan.”
It’s that voice again, with an unmistakable hint of a playful edge that makes Megan’s stomach flip. She looks up, and there is Yoonchae. She’s wearing a white sundress, the sunlight outside spilling through the door, casting a halo around her. Her hair is windblown and carefree, but it still falls perfectly in perfect waves.
Megan’s pulse stutters, and she forces herself to focus. No time for being distracted, not now. She pushes aside the flurry of thoughts, trying to keep her cool.
"Hey," she says, clearing her throat and trying to sound casual. "Back again, huh?"
Yoonchae grins at her, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Yeah, my sister’s out of control. She needs a new rash guard, and she’s suddenly all about reef-safe sunscreen, so here I am, like the good younger sibling I am."
Megan nods. "So your sister’s an environmentalist now?" she teases, already reaching for the rack of rash guards.
Yoonchae shrugs. "Apparently," she replies, her tone dry but playful. "I think she watched a couple of documentaries and decided to change the world, one rash guard at a time."
Megan laughs, shaking her head as she hands over a couple of options. "Well, I’m glad she’s making a difference." she says, feeling her face warm a little as their fingers brush when she hands over the items. “A couple more of these, and we might save the entire ocean.”
“If we do, I’m taking full credit.” Yoonchae quips, flashing a quick grin.
“Absolutely not,” Megan shoots back, chuckling. “You didn’t even pick them out, you're the delivery system.”
Yoonchae glances at her, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the banter. “What happened to the ‘client is always right’ rule?”
“You’re not my client, your sister is.”
Yoonchae laughs at that, sound ringing in Megan’s ears like a melody. “Fair enough,” she says, still smiling as she takes the items Megan hands her. "I’m just the errand girl."
Megan shakes her head with a laugh, her heart fluttering a little as she watches Yoonchae’s expression soften. “I can’t imagine doing my brother’s errands like this.” she says, still feeling that strange pull in her chest.
Yoonchae shrugs, her gaze slipping toward the door for a moment before she glances back at Megan, her smile turning a little more serious. “It’s worth it.” she says softly, as if it’s something more than just buying sunscreen and rash guards.
The air feels thick for a moment. Megan feels her stomach tighten, unsure if she’s reading too much into it, but the way Yoonchae looks at her, the softness in her voice, makes her mind spin.
“I’ll take care of this.” Yoonchae says, slipping the items into her bag. Then she shifts the weight of her feet, like she’s hesitating, biting her cheek. That’s when she glances back up, eyes searching Megan’s face. “Hey,” the girl says quietly. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
Megan stiffens, fingers pausing on the register. Slowly, she looks up. “Tomorrow?”
Yoonchae’s gaze doesn’t waver. “The tryouts for the team. Everyone’s been talking about it.”
The surfer tilts her head, puzzled. Everyone’s been talking about it. That’s true, but it’s mostly been in her circle. Local kids, other surfers. Word spreads, but how does Yoonchae know?
She swallows. “I mean... A little. You know how it is.”
“Sure,” Yoonchae says, too softly. Then, almost with a smile: “Try not to psych yourself out.”
And that’s it. No follow-up. No explanation.
Megan blurts before she can stop herself. “How’d you know about the tryouts?”
Yoonchae’s expression flickers, but then she’s back to that same unreadable calm, smiling. “I’m following the local surf Insta account,” she says lightly. “Gotta keep up with the scene now that I live here, right?”
“Sure.” Megan nods, but the answer buzzes strangely in her chest. She doesn’t push it. Just smiles, trying to keep her composure. “Sooo. I’ll keep seeing you around, I guess? That is, if you don’t disappear again.”
Yoonchae pauses at the door, her hand on the handle. She looks back over her shoulder, her smile softening just a bit. “Of course, Megan. Thanks again for all the help. I always enjoy talking with you.”
Megan’s breath catches in her chest. I always enjoy talking with you? She feels a rush of giddiness flood her body, and before she can stop herself, her lips curl into a wide smile.
She’s still grinning like a fool when the music on the radio shifts, and ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ by The Beach Boys starts playing. The lyrics fill the space around her, and for the first time in days, everything in her feels lighter.
Without even thinking, she begins to sway to the music, her feet tapping against the floor as she hums along to the upbeat rhythm. She lets herself move to the sound, a little dance behind the counter as she spins in a circle.
Now she understands what Brian Wilson was on when he wrote the song.
Megan spins again, laughing softly to herself. It’s silly, but she feels alive, and for that moment, she’s not thinking about tomorrow or the pressure she’s feeling.
“It’s a beautiful day here at the wave pool! A few of our young hopefuls are getting in their last practice waves before the State Finals get underway. Make no mistake, even for the junior ranks, the competition is tough. No doubt some of these young hotshots will be the superstars of tomorrow! By the end of today, four girls and four boys will be selected for the State team.”
The announcer’s excited voice breaks through the salty air, crackling from the speakers mounted above the grandstand. The crowd buzzes with anticipation — parents with cameras ready, coaches murmuring strategies, teammates clapping one another on the back. The scent of sunscreen and ocean spray hangs in the air, mingling with adrenaline. The sun is high in the sky, and the shimmering water reflects the golden light, rippling in perfect harmony with the soft crash of waves rolling toward the shore. The sound of distant chatter mixes with the rhythmic slosh of the waves. The beach is full, each person either preparing for the competition or spectating. It’s the kind of day that should feel easy, but not for Megan.
She’s practically vibrating in her wetsuit, shifting from foot to foot, her nerves strung so tight she feels like she might snap in half. The pressure is almost unbearable. Her heart hammers in her chest, her breath shallow and quick, as if the entire ocean might swallow her whole if she lets it. The last thing she wants is for her family to see her acting like a nervous wreck, but that doesn’t stop the storm brewing inside her.
She glances at her parents, standing by her side. Her dad is shaded under a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses on, arms crossed over his chest, with a supportive smile on his face. Her mom stands a little closer, hands clasped nervously in front of her, eyes shining with pride and quiet encouragement. And then there’s her older brother, who’s scrolling through something on his phone, his usual 'don't care' demeanor frustratingly calm.
Megan’s nerves hit a new level of discomfort as she stands there, flexing her hands, palms already clammy. She’s trying to force herself to breathe, trying to ignore the cold feeling gnawing at her stomach.
This is what it comes down to, she thinks. This is the moment. All of her hard work, every painful wipeout, every day spent grinding on her board — now, all of it is up to this one day. Her eyes flicker to the water, watching the other girls take their practice waves, gliding smoothly as they nail turns and footwork she can only dream of pulling off today.
“Hey, Megatron,” Lara’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts, and Megan looks up, blinking rapidly to reset. Her friend is standing beside her now, shielding her eyes from the bright sun with one hand while casually weaning one of her oversized designer sunglasses down her nose. “Relax, you’ve got this. You’ll fucking rip it.”
“Yeah, chill,” Daniela says, stepping up next to Lara as she gives Megan an exaggerated once-over. She is wearing a loose tank top and cutoff shorts, her thick blonde curls pulled back in a messy ponytail. “You’ve been pacing like a caged animal since we got here. It’s just a little competition, you already have your spot in the bag.”
“Thanks, girls.” Megan tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her mind is still stuck on footwork, stance, and the turns she’s been obsessing over for the last week.
She lets out a tense breath and rolls her shoulders, trying to loosen up. But no matter how many times she tells herself she’s ready, her mind keeps cycling back to her movements on the water, the impossible trick she needs to land to prove herself.
She can hear the announcer's voice crackle over the loudspeaker, cutting through the atmosphere: “Our heat of under-18 girls are here, and we are frothing!”
Megan’s stomach flips, and she feels a familiar weight settle on her shoulders. Her dad’s firm hand on her shoulder grounds her immediately. His touch is strong, steady, like a constant that hasn’t wavered since she was a kid. She looks up at him, and for the first time today, he meets her eyes. His gaze is calm, sure of her.
“You’re ready.” he says simply, his voice like a rock, steady and sure.
But the moment doesn’t last long before Lara pipes up, clearly trying to keep things light. “Mr. Skiendiel is right, you’re as ready as you could possibly be. Now I’m literally begging you to relax. Look at me, I’m so relaxed right now, I might just fall asleep standing u...”
Lara trails off mid-sentence, her gaze drifting past Megan’s shoulder, pupils narrowing in interest. Megan frowns and turns to follow her line of sight, eyes catching on a glint of white at the far end of the beach. There, framed by the fluttering banners of the grandstand, sits Sophia.
She’s draped elegantly across the bleacher bench, legs crossed at the knee with casual poise. A navy blue bikini top clings to her like it was designed for her alone, paired with a sheer white maxi skirt. Compared to the relaxed beachgoers around her (tank tops, board shorts, sandy flip-flops) she looks like she’s stepped straight off the page of a summer fashion spread.
Daniela snorts, her eyes also locked on Sophia, not even trying to be subtle. “See something you like, Lara?”
Lara snaps upright like she’s been caught red-handed, pushing her sunglasses up with a single, dramatic finger. “Nope. Not today. Today’s all about my Megatron.”
Megan sighs. “You can talk to her. Go ahead.”
Lara flashes her a mischievous grin, then leans in to ruffle Megan’s hair with a quick, affectionate flick. “You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”
“Stop it!” Megan laughs, swatting her hand away, though the smile that slips onto her face is genuine.
She watches as Lara saunters toward the grandstand, already twirling a piece of her hair. Daniela is cackling, muttering something about Lara being “so fucking hopeless” under her breath. Megan shakes her head but doesn’t look away.
For the first time that morning, something inside her settles. The tension hasn’t vanished (her muscles are still taut with anticipation, her thoughts still racing ahead to heats and rankings and who’s watching) but it’s a little quieter now.
The waves roll in front of her, and the announcer’s voice continues to echo across the beach, buzzing in Megan’s ears. She forces herself to breathe, even as her heart beats faster. She knows what she needs to do. She can’t be distracted by other people, or other things. The only thing that matters is the surf.
“We've got a few new faces on the circuit this year. Hungry for a spot and ready to shake things up!” the announcer calls out over the loudspeakers, his voice crackling through the sound system. The crowd’s energy heightens in response, and the anticipation in the air is thick.
Megan barely registers the announcement. She hasn’t heard much about these “new faces”, but then again, she’s been too focused on her own routine to care about anyone else. She knows her competition well enough — the girls she’s battled against in local comps, the names that always come up in conversation. She knows who’s good at what, who’s got the cleanest footwork, the tightest turns, the best style.
She’s scanning the other competitors, keeping her nerves in check as the first girl is called up. Megan feels the heat of the spotlight even though it’s not her turn yet, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest as she watches the first contestant paddle out into the water.
The girl starts strong — clean takeoff, good control — but as she approaches her final turn, she hesitates, her back foot slipping just slightly on the rail. The board wobbles under her and she bails hard, the wave swallowing her up in a messy crash that makes Megan wince.
“Oh! And there it is. She loses her footing on the final turn! A missed opportunity right there. It’s the smallest slip-up that costs you the biggest points.” the announcer adds with a hint of sympathy in his voice. Megan knows exactly what that feels like. She doesn’t let it show, but she can feel the anxiety bubbling up again.
As the girl finishes, Megan shakes it off. She’s seen this happen before. It’s all part of the game. She needs to focus.
One by one, girls are called up, each of them performing their best tricks, each one rising to the challenge. But no one has really impressed Megan. The girls are good, sure, but none of them have shown anything that makes her question her spot on the team.
Then, Karlee’s name is announced over the loudspeaker, and Megan feels a cold rush of tension course through her. Karlee is good — no, better than good. She’s been at the top of every competition they’ve both been in, and her style has always been sharp, aggressive, fluid. She’s Megan’s biggest competition.
“Here comes Karlee Tanaka, always a top contender with a style that suits these fast-moving waves perfectly,” the announcer says, giving her a proper introduction. Megan shudders, the words practically reverberating through her body. “Let’s see what she can do today.”
She watches Karlee paddle out, her posture already confident as she positions herself, waiting for the wave. When it comes, Karlee launches off with incredible speed, cutting into it with a smoothness that Megan can’t help but admire. Her turns are sharp and quick, the spray of water following each move like a trail of fireworks.
“She’s carving through the wave beautifully,” the announcer narrates, “but... Wait, what’s this? She’s going for a huge roundhouse cutback, and... Oh no!” The announcer’s voice heightens with disbelief.
Megan watches with wide eyes as Karlee attempts the move, pushing herself too hard on the final turn. Her board slips out from under her, and she loses the wave completely, falling sideways into the water with a splash.
“Unbelievable. Her style was well-suited to that fast-moving wave, but a small mistake at the critical moment. A single misstep like that, and just like that, it’s game over!” the announcer says, his voice full of disappointment.
Megan can’t help but feel a flicker of relief. She knows Karlee will be back — of course she will — but that was the kind of mistake that could cost someone a spot on the team. Megan’s heart beats faster in her chest, her thoughts spinning. The pressure’s building, but now, more than ever, she knows she needs to stay focused.
The announcer moves on, calling out the next few girls, but Megan isn’t really paying attention to them anymore. She’s next. She’s got to be ready.
“Megan Skiendiel, folks! A big bet for the State reps, here to prove herself today!” The announcer’s voice cuts through the air, and Megan’s body stiffens at the sound of her name.
She feels her parents' eyes on her, their silent support, but it’s like they’re a million miles away. Megan doesn’t waste a second. She paddles out with determination, the nerves in her stomach swirling like a storm, but she pushes them aside, focusing on her breathing. She’s got this. She’s been here a hundred times before.
The first wave comes, and the girl takes off, carving into the face with precision. She cuts left, then right, the movements fluid, practiced. Her body feels right, like everything is coming together.
“Megan ripping here! Very solid start!” the announcer calls out as Megan finishes a smooth, tight turn, her legs strong and steady beneath her. She’s on. She feels it.
She pulls into the next wave, focused, every movement sharper than the last. She’s not thinking. She’s just doing. Her turns are clean, her footwork precise. The crowd is cheering from the stands, but it doesn’t matter. She’s not doing this for the crowd. She’s doing it for herself.
When the section of the wave steepens, she shifts her weight without hesitation, eyes locked ahead. It’s the critical moment — the trick she’s been second-guessing all week. For a split second, her timing balances on a knife’s edge. But then she commits, driving her board up and over with clean force, twisting through the rotation, and landing smoothly back into the pocket. Her board catches perfectly. No wobble, no delay. Just flow, just instinct.
When she’s finished, she glides off her board with a smooth, controlled landing. She’s panting, her heart racing, but her body feels alive with adrenaline. That was it. That was the ride she needed.
The announcer’s voice comes through again. “And there you have it! Megan Skiendiel, a big contender today. That performance is sure to impress the judges.”
Megan exhales, letting out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She can’t help but smile, her chest puffed with pride.
As she makes her way back to the shore, her parents are waiting, their proud smiles only fueling the fire inside her. Her brother even lifts his eyebrows in a rare show of acknowledgment, his lips curling into a quick smile. She gives them a big toothy smile, waving them off like it’s no big deal, but inside, her heart is still racing.
Megan can hardly contain herself as she walks back toward her friends, the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. She’s grinning ear to ear, chest puffed out with pride, and every ounce of doubt she’d been carrying just moments before feels like it’s been completely washed away by the waves. She’s done it. The performance was solid. She gave it everything she had, and it paid off.
“That was sick!” Daniela shouts, running up to her and pulling her into a tight, celebratory hug.
Megan laughs, trying to wiggle free, but she’s genuinely grateful for the support. Daniela’s energy is like an electric current, contagious and impossible to ignore. “I can't believe I just nailed it, Dani,” Megan says, still breathless from the surf and from the rush of adrenaline. “I think I actually did it.”
“You did it, girl! What you did out there was fucking gnarly!” Daniela says, with a huge, beaming smile. “Don’t think I didn’t see you tearing it up. Karlee Tanaka can eat dust.”
Megan’s smile grows, and her eyes scan the crowd as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, bringing her back into the moment with the sound vibrating in the pit of her stomach.
“We’ve got one last surfer of the day in the under-18 girls heat, and she’s ready to finish strong. Let’s give a warm welcome to... Yoonchae Jeung!”
Megan freezes. Yoonchae?
Her body jerks, the words sinking into her like ice water. There could not be another Yoonchae in Honolulu. There was no way. It had to be her.
She starts to move, too quickly, her legs tangling beneath her. Daniela looks at her, concerned, as Megan begins to walk frantically, her eyes scanning the crowd and her heart pounding. She’s not even aware she’s moving so fast until she hears Daniela’s voice.
“Megan! What the hell? Where are you going?” Dani calls, jogging to keep up. Megan doesn’t answer.
Yoonchae. She has to be the one out there — competing.
Her mind is spinning, racing in circles, with a mixture of disbelief and excitement. Why does that make Yoonchae even more attractive? What the hell is going on? She’s not sure why the thought of this makes her heart race a little faster. Focus, she tells herself. Focus.
She stretches her neck, cracking it as she scans the surf lineup, eyes desperately searching the wave pool. She’s moving like she’s in a trance now, her mind focused on one thing: finding Yoonchae.
And then, there she is.
Megan’s breath catches in her throat as she sees Yoonchae glide past, paddle strokes smooth and controlled. Yoonchae’s wearing the same rash guard she’d sold her just days ago, and she’s got the board leash that Megan had handed to her at the counter. There’s no mistaking it.
The sun catches her black hair as she turns, her movements effortless, like the ocean itself is giving her permission to dance across the water. The swell of the wave rises beneath her, but Megan can’t tear her eyes away from the way Yoonchae looks. Her posture is perfect, her balance impeccable. She’s a freaking A-level surfer, and there Megan had been giving her surfing tips like a total moron. Like Yoonchae needed advice when she surfed like she could be competing at the World Surf League Championship Tour.
Megan’s chest tightens, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. The sister? Not real. It was never about some random sister who needed gear. It was about Yoonchae, and only Yoonchae.
Her hands tremble slightly as she stands frozen on the sand, unable to move, eyes locked on Yoonchae as she rides the wave effortlessly, her technique flawless, nothing short of impressive.
“Holy shit…” Megan whispers to herself, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “She’s actually really good at this.”
As Yoonchae finishes her wave, the crowd’s applause fades into the background. Megan can’t even hear it. She can only hear the sound of her own heartbeat, rapid and wild in her chest. Her fingers are twitching, her body filled with a strange energy. She feels Daniela’s eyes on her now as the blonde girl catches up, watching her closely, but she’s too distracted by the feeling to care.
Yoonchae glides back to the lineup, her smile never fading, and Megan stands there, completely stunned. She’s perfect.
Megan swallows hard, excitement bubbling up in her chest. She realizes then, with sudden clarity: there’s no way she’s walking away without a spot on the team. Not with Yoonchae here, competing beside her, watching. The sense of competition sharpens, stakes rising higher than ever.
“After a day of highs and lows, the selectors are tallying the scores and putting their heads together. In a few short hours, we'll know who’s on the team heading to the biggest Junior comp of the year, the Nationals!” the announcer’s all-too-familiar chirpy tone cuts through the air, carrying over the beach as the crowd buzzes with excitement.
Megan’s fingers tremble hearing the words, her stomach still tied up in knots. She’s been listening to the announcer all day, but now, her mind’s focused on something else. On someone else.
She turns to her friend, her face set with an intense expression. “I’ve got something I need to do.”
Dani looks at her, frowning. “What? What do you mean, what do you have to do? The scores are being tallied, this is it!”
But Megan’s already pushing herself up, grabbing her teal board, her gaze darting toward the far side of the beach. Daniela’s voice calling her fades into the background as her thoughts turn completely toward Yoonchae.
Megan’s legs push through the sand, walking quickly. She knows where Yoonchae is. She saw her sitting under the tent near the edge of the beach after finishing her turn, hair still dripping wet as she tried to untangle the salty strands with an absent, distracted look on her face.
As Megan gets closer, her breath feels tight in her chest. She doesn’t wait; stops just a few feet away, eyes locking with Yoonchae’s as the girl looks up, clearly surprised to see Megan approach. The sunlight catches Yoonchae’s skin, making her glow as an embarrassed smile plays at the corners of her lips.
Megan’s words come out clumsily. “So,” she starts, her voice still a little shaky, “you were my competition the entire time, huh?”
Yoonchae gives her a soft laugh. “Yeah, sorry. I figured it’d be better if I kept it a secret.”
Megan frowns, still processing everything. “Why?” she blurts out. “Why keep it a secret? Why not just tell me? You even asked me for surfing advice!”
Yoonchae hesitates for a moment, her gaze dropping to the sand as if trying to find the right words. “I wasn’t supposed to find my competition cute,” she says with a shrug, her voice light. “And you looked way too adorable rambling about surfing for me to correct you when you said something totally wrong.”
Megan blinks, confused. Her heart is pounding, and she can feel the blush creeping up her neck. She opens her mouth and bursts out: “But you lied about your sister! You said you were buying all this stuff for her—”
Yoonchae cuts her off with a slight frown, a line of tension appearing between her brows. “I wasn’t lying about that,” she says, almost in a defensive way. “My sister’s real, and definitely the spoiled princess type. She actually did send me to get her that stuff the first time I came by the shop.”
Megan’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “So your sister really is real?” she asks slowly, as if she’s trying to make sense of it all.
Yoonchae points toward the grandstand, where a small group of people are gathered, chatting and laughing. Megan follows the direction of her finger, her mouth gaping when she spots someone familiar — Sophia.
Sophia, the girl Megan’s heard about nonstop for days now, the same one she’s watched wipe out over and over without a hint of progress. Megan blinks. That’s her? All this time, and she never once connected the dots. But now, it all clicks into place.
“Oh...” Megan breathes, suddenly understanding. "Sophia’s... Your sister?" She watches as Sophia laughs, her head tilted back as Lara chats with her excitedly.
Yoonchae doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Sophia’s my stepsister. My dad married her mom about a year ago. That’s why we moved to Hawaii, her mom wanted us to live in ‘less chaotic’ surroundings. And my dad? Well, he just does everything she wants.”
Megan blinks, completely caught off guard. The puzzle pieces are clicking together, but her mind is still spinning. “So that’s why she’s taking up surfing?” Megan asks, almost in disbelief. “Inspired by her insanely skilled younger stepsister?”
Yoonchae tilts her head, her expression turning a little more serious. “Hm, not really. More to do with the fact that my dad’s a surf coach. He tells her all about the wonders surfing does to your inner peace every family dinner.”
Megan’s mouth goes dry as the realization sets in. She doesn’t know why, but it feels like her heart is stuck in her throat.
Her dad is the...
She stammers, unable to stop herself. “Your dad is the new coach??”
Yoonchae’s eyes meet hers, and she can’t hold back the small, knowing smirk. “He is.” She scoffs a little, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You are really out of the loop, huh.”
Megan feels the world tilt, her legs suddenly wobbly under her. The words don’t fully sink in at first. “So this isn't a joke. Your dad really is the freaking new coach and somehow I never knew?? What the fuck!..” she says in a barely audible whisper, the shock on her face unmistakable.
Yoonchae shrugs, that small, self-assured grin still tugging at her lips. “I guess this little competition wasn’t enough to mention.” she says, the teasing edge to her tone almost too perfect.
Megan can’t speak for a second. She just stands there, frozen, trying to absorb the weight of it all. Her mind is reeling, everything clicking together in a way that feels impossible to process.
Yoonchae is competing against her, her stepsister is Lara’s new arm candy and her dad was the coach all along.
The waves crash in the distance as Yoonchae watches her, a slight flicker of amusement in her eyes as Megan stumbles to make sense of it all.
“Hey,” Yoonchae says, her voice soft. “It’s okay. I know you’re a little shocked, but you’ll be fine. You’re one of the best here. I saw that.”
Megan can’t help the small, shy smile that tugs at her lips as she meets Yoonchae’s eyes. She’s still in shock, but hearing that coming from her makes her heart flutter in an entirely different way.
Before she knows it, Yoonchae’s turning away, her hair catching the sunlight once more as she turns her back to Megan. “Good luck, Megan.” she calls over her shoulder, her voice warm, but with a hint of something unspoken.
Megan’s breath catches, and she stands there, eyes fixed on her. For a moment, she forgets about everything else — the competition, the tryouts, the pressure. Her mind is still spinning when Yoonchae begins to turn away, but then her voice calls out. “So you weren’t making up excuses to see me??” she asks, the words slipping out before she can stop them.
Yoonchae stops in her tracks, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, no, I was totally doing that. Sophia never needed all that gear.”
Megan blinks, her mind momentarily scrambling to process what she’s just heard. “Sorry, I’m not following,” she stammers, feeling like she’s lost the thread of the conversation entirely.
Yoonchae steps closer, her gaze never leaving Megan’s as she closes the distance between them. She tucks a loose strand of black hair behind Megan’s ear in one fluid motion, the touch gentle and intimate. Megan’s breath hitches in her chest, her heart skipping a beat. The simple touch sends a wave of warmth through her, filling her with a sudden, unexplainable energy.
Before Megan can fully process it, Yoonchae leans in, her lips pressing softly against her cheek in a quick, almost shy kiss. The contact is light, like a feather brushing against her skin, but the shock of it sends a rush of electricity through Megan’s exhausted body. Her skin tingles as the world around her seems to slow down, the sound of the waves and the chatter of the competition fading into the background.
Megan stands there, her hand instinctively reaching up to touch her cheek where Yoonchae’s lips had been. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her pulse rushing in her ears.
Yoonchae pulls away just enough to meet Megan’s eyes, her smile still soft but now more sincere, almost affectionate. “Now are you following?”
Megan doesn’t trust herself to speak. She’s frozen in place, still processing everything that’s just happened. She blinks a couple of times, trying to ground herself in reality, but it’s hard when her body is still ecstatic with the memory of that soft kiss.
Yoonchae smiles as she takes a step back, her gaze sweeping over Megan with that same quiet intensity. “Get some rest, Megan,” she says, her tone gentle. “You’re making the team, and we’ll have a training sesh in the morning. I’ll see you then.”
And with that, Yoonchae turns away, walking toward Sophia in the grandstand with her board under her arm, her figure gradually disappearing into the crowd.
Megan stares after her, her heart still racing. She feels almost weightless, the world around her a little less clear now, like everything has shifted. As the final sound of Yoonchae’s footsteps fades away, Megan touches her cheek again, the sensation of the kiss still lingering on her skin.
The announcer's voice crackles to life over the speakers, jolting the beach back into motion.
“The four female athletes selected for this year’s state team are… Emily Kelavos, Ezrela Abraham, Yoonchae Jeung, and…”
A pause.
“Megan Skiendiel.”
For a beat, Megan just stands there. Blinking. Processing.
Then her family is on her, running from the sidelines — her dad pulling her into a tight hug, her mom laughing tearfully, and even her brother joins just in time to get pulled into the group hug. Lara and Dani are shrieking, whooping and hollering as they charge over, nearly tackling her in the sand with the force of their excitement.
Megan laughs through it all, breathless and a little dazed, hugging them back. But even in the chaos, her eyes wander, scanning the beach until they land on Yoonchae, now at a distance.
She’s smiling. A soft, proud smile just for her.
And then Sophia throws her arms around her little sister, lifting her clean off the ground in a spinning bear hug. The two of them are laughing, sunlit and tangled together like a scene pulled from a memory Megan hasn’t made yet.
Megan’s chest tightens in the best way, the kind that makes you feel like something new is just beginning. She waves back, just as Yoonchae lifts her hand, their eyes meeting across the beach for one small, glowing moment.
The days following the tryouts feel like a whirlwind. Megan can’t quite believe it. Megan Skiendiel, the new recruit for the State Surfing Team, heading to Nationals. It’s a victory that tastes sweeter than any competition she’s ever won, not just because of the win itself, but because it feels like everything she’s worked for — all the hours spent paddling out, perfecting her turns, battling the waves — has led her to this moment.
But the surprise doesn’t end with the spot on the team. It’s what comes after. Yoonchae, the girl who’d made Megan’s heart skip a beat more times than she cared to admit, is right there by her side.
The two of them, incredibly competitive as individuals, find a strange balance between rivalry and something deeper. Surfing dates turn into competitions. Every time they hit the waves, they push each other harder, aiming to outdo the other. It’s playful, filled with teasing and laughter, but beneath the surface is a mutual respect. Every time one of them lands a perfect trick, they both feel the adrenaline rush — and a little part of them, unspoken, knows it’s because the other is there, too.
Off the waves, things move slowly. They start going out for frozen yogurt, sharing an awkward yet sweet moment over large cups topped with excessive sprinkles, sharing smiles over each other’s ridiculous toppings. They don’t mind the double dates with Lara and Sophia, though their PDA could be a bit much at times. Megan would catch herself rolling her eyes when the couple got too lovey-dovey, but even she can’t deny that the affection is infectious. It’s all fun and games until Yoonchae leans into her, brushing her lips against Megan’s cheek, and the heat that rises in Megan’s chest is undeniable. She is just as gay and hopeless as Lara, she realizes.
Mr. Jeung, the new coach, is strict, making sure everyone gives their best in practice. Megan and Yoonchae do their best to keep their glances away from each other during training, trying to avoid the temptation of their connection when the surf is all they should be focused on. But occasionally, a loving glance is exchanged, and they both have to pull themselves back into focus.
But Mr. Jeung, despite his discipline, seems to have a soft spot for Megan. He sees her dedication, the drive she brings to every session, and maybe that’ll work in their favor when the time comes to admit that there’s something else between her and Yoonchae. They’re not quite girlfriends yet, but that label is slowly beginning to feel like a certainty. They’re close. Closer than ever before.
As for the shop? Megan’s still there for the rest of the summer. It doesn't bug her, though — it’s familiar. Her dad’s been talking about hiring a replacement for a while now, but Megan’s in no rush to leave. It’s only temporary. There’s no harm in staying until her dad finds another poor teen to wear the ugly uniform she’s been stuck with.
But for now, she hums along to the Bob Marley song playing softly on the radio, distracted by the rhythm of the shop. It’s quiet this afternoon, the sun outside casting a sleepy glow through the windows. Megan taps her fingers against the counter, lost in thought.
And then the door chimes.
Megan looks up just as Yoonchae walks in, a grin already spreading across her face. The girl’s hair is still damp from the surf, a few loose strands hanging in front of her eyes as she brushes them aside. She’s dressed casually, the sun illuminating her skin in the softest way.
She steps up to the counter, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint Megan knows all too well. “Hey, you.”
Megan raises an eyebrow playfully, leaning across the counter. “You know, we’re out of stock. You have bought everything already, sorry.”
Yoonchae laughs, shaking her head. “No, I’m not here for that,” she says with a little chuckle, stepping closer. She leans in just a bit, enough that Megan can feel the electricity between them, that undeniable tension. “I’m just here for a kiss.”
“A kiss, huh? You’re just going to come in here and demand the poor attendant a kiss? You’ve really got some nerve.”
Yoonchae smirks, eyes locked with hers. “What can I say? The attendant is irresistible.”
Megan’s flushes. She swallows, trying to keep her cool, but the warmth rushing through her veins makes it impossible to play it off. “Fine,” she says, heart hammering in her chest. “But only if you’re buying.”
Yoonchae leans in, closing the space between them, and presses her lips to Megan’s in a soft peck. It’s light, a simple brush of affection, but it sends a ripple through Megan’s chest — something warm and bright and slightly dizzying.
Yoonchae pulls away, eyes soft and full of that quiet affection Megan’s becoming addicted to.
Megan exhales a breathy laugh, her voice lighter than air. “Alright. I guess kisses count as valid payment, I’ll take it.”
Yoonchae smiles, tilting her head slightly, eyes twinkling. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered…” she murmurs.
Megan can’t stop the smile spreading across her face, her heart swelling. “Yeah, well... I guess you’re right.” she says with a grin, feeling light and giddy, like everything in the world has just fallen into place. “But you’re cuter.”
Yoonchae laughs under her breath, that sweet sound that never fails to make Megan’s heart beat faster. She leans her elbows on the counter, chin in her hands, still watching Megan like she’s the best view in the shop — maybe even the island. “For the record,” Yoonchae says, voice low and teasing, “I would’ve paid double.”
Megan snorts, trying to suppress the full-blown smile tugging at her lips, but it’s no use. “Good. Because I should totally charge extra for girls who show up demanding kisses with sea salt still in their hair.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll have to keep showing up then. Make sure you don’t go kissing any other girls.” her not-girlfriend-yet shrugs.
Megan opens her mouth to fire something back — some clever tease, something witty — but it never makes it out. Because in that moment, with the golden light pouring through the windows, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance, and Yoonchae standing there looking at her like she’s the only thing worth seeing, Megan knows she’s all in.
So instead, she just reaches across the counter, links their pinkies together, and smiles. “Yeah,” she says, quiet but certain. “You better.”