Page 103 of Before Dawn

Warmth bloomed in my chest, stealing my breath as the world shrank, dimming the carnival lights and crashing waves.

Next was the roller coaster, its neon-lit tracks twisting wildly against the sky.

“Are you sure about this one?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted. “But we do it for the experience.”

The second we dropped, my scream tangled with his laughter, adrenaline thrumming through my veins. By the time we stumbled off, breathless and exhilarated, I couldn’t stop grinning.

We wandered through the carnival, our laughter mingling with the excited shouts around us. Every time I glanced at him, he wasn’t just watching me—he was memorizing me, like he didn’t want to forget a single second.

“This is amazing!” I said, spinning in place when we reached the carousel, its golden lights flickering beneath the moonlight.

“It’s even better with you,” he murmured, squeezing my hand.

We followed the scent of buttery popcorn and sweet funnel cakes, indulging in every bite. I licked powdered sugar off my fingers and sighed, blissful.

“This is so good. I feel like a kid again.”

“That’s the magic of America’s Playground,” he said, amusement dancing in his honey-brown eyes. “It brings out the inner child in everyone.”

The night pulled us forward, until we ended up on the beach, the waves stretching dark and endless ahead of us. He pulled me close, his arm warm around my shoulders, my head resting against his chest.

I should’ve been overthinking—dissecting every touch, every look, every word—but I wasn’t. Not when I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

I lifted my gaze, meeting his. And just like that, all the noise in my head stopped.

Some nights fade into memory. Others settle into your bones, unforgettable.

This was one of them.

“Today was perfect,” I whispered, eyes closed, soaking in the feeling.

“Everyday with you normally is.” His lips brushed the top of my head.

The night had fully settled around us now, the stars flickering to life above the water. The waves rolled in steady, rhythmic pulses, a calming backdrop to the quiet between us.

“You come here a lot?” I asked, tracing slow circles on my thigh.

He hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he admitted. “Work keeps me busy. But back in university… yeah. I was here all the time.”

I turned to him, curiosity tugging at my chest. “Why?”

His gaze drifted toward the horizon, his voice quieter now. “It was the only place that felt still.”

Something in the way he said it made me pause. “You needed stillness?”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. College was… hard. Not just the workload. But—” He hesitated, as if debating whether tosay more. Then, finally, he did. “Moving here was a lot. I was a kid, barely spoke English, and suddenly I had to learn fast. By the time I got to college, I had the language down, but the heavy accent, the cultural gaps… they didn’t just go away.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “You think you’re doing fine until someone laughs or mocks you when you mispronounce something. Or acts surprised when you’re good at something. You start second-guessing yourself. Wondering if you belong.”

A pang hit my chest, sharp and deep. I knew that feeling well—the exhaustion of constantly proving yourself, of knowing people had already decided who you were before you even opened your mouth.

“I get it,” I murmured. “That feeling of walking into a room and knowing they’ve already made up their minds. Of having to fight to be seen before you even speak.”

His head turned slightly, his gaze locking onto mine. And for a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, finally, he gave a small nod. “Yeah.” His voice was quieter this time. “Exactly that.”

I reached for his hand without thinking, threading my fingers through his. “You never had to prove anything, Mikkel.”

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