The last shot of Low Tide wrapped just before dawn. The three of them, Celeste, Damien, and Quinn, stood barefoot on the damp sand as the sun broke the horizon. Celeste’s voice was hoarse, her eyes raw from too many truths spoken into Quinn’s battered camera.
When Quinn finally lowered the lens, no one spoke. There was only the hush of the waves and the quiet tremor in Celeste’s chest, like a second heartbeat that belonged to Damien.
They didn’t rush to pack. They didn’t rush to leave. Quinn disappeared up the bluff to call in the rough cut, her footsteps fading behind the dunes. Celeste and Damien stayed behind. Just them and the morning tide.
“You did it,” Damien murmured, brushing a fleck of sand from her cheekbone. His voice held something like awe, and something older, something th
