1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

17 | delphinus

FALLING IN LOVE ISN'T LIKE THE MOVIES. Instead of pink champagne and soft lullabies, it's flowers and fire: gusts of hot air, panicked touches, and intimate reverb. It's the act of offering someone else a piece of hushed history—of dark secrets—while desperately hoping it'll be cherished.

Right now, she's at a sharp peak and indefinitely torn between two choices. Because she can see the silver lining in his honey irises, and he's looking at her like she's sugar-glazed moonlight, and the words—the words she wants to say don't come out. Can't come out. Body trembling, it feels like she's hyperventilating. Not enough, she thinks wildly. I will never be enough.

Falling in love isn't like the movies.

It's much more dangerous.

***

"You have cinnamon powder on your face."

Leaning over the marble counter, Eloise arches a single brow slyly as she gives him a cheeky once-over. Her boyfriend is dressed in a simple white shirt (a switch-up from his usual black), and she can just make out a slender lick of black ink snaking its way up to his collarbone as the storm in her head quiets. He's so handsome it hurts.

Checking the time on her homescreen, she feels her lips purse together when she realizes that her shift ends in nearly two hours. After roughly five months of dating, she knows that Jonah's fond of waiting for her work to finish as he fiddles with economics homework; oftentimes, he brings her homemade food from Sue's because she runs out of time to eat. So today, on an early Sunday morning, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Eloise doesn't say anything and instead reaches out to fix his headband, which is slipping down his ear. Still somewhat averse to touch, she's unusually fond as he grins her favorite smile (slightly crooked, but still sweet). He taps the spot under her chin twice to regain her attention.

"Baboya," he chides, and she blinks as he presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. He smells good even with the distance between them—like sea salt and grapefruit skies, and she keeps her act up as she leans to the right.

"Why," Eloise drawls slowly, "are you wearing boardshorts?"

Jonah laughs and places his hands on both sides of his bathing suit, muttering something about how it has two pockets. He glances back at the non-existent line of customers behind him and hops the divider between them, headband once again dangling precariously from his hair. "It's beach day," he explains, as if it's completely obvious.

She presses her thumb to the corner of his jaw and winces. "I still have an extra hour before my shift ends," Eloise explains. "And I don't have my bathing suit."

Her boyfriend leans closer and settles his hands on her waist, whispering, "I didn't say you needed one, sweetheart."

Eloise pushes him away and rolls her eyes while hiding the smallest muster of a smile. "You're terrible," she exclaims. A thrill shocks her system. "And—"

"I can cover for you, El," a voice says from behind her. Charlotte Thayer toys with a curl of amber hair and beams. "Really, it's no big deal. Now go," she ushers.

She still feels guilty. "Charlie, I—"

"Get out."

"Are you sure?"

"Now."

That's all that's needed to be said before Jonah (quite literally) drags her out the door.

She's still smiling all the same.

***

Santa Monica is burning with the glistening sun still set high in the sky, a golden sheen warming her skin and offering an illusion of distilled time. It's hot, but it's dry, and Eloise silently thanks the weather for cooperating as she ties messy curls into a top knot (Jonah's favorite style). Next to her, she glances at her friends as they fling water at each other, laughing and gloriously unbothered.