Chapter 1: The Setup No One Asked For
The Uber pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the gauzy twilight, and Daisy Miller was alone with the roar of the ocean and a profound sense of having been cosmically punked. The beach house loomed, a silhouette against the indigo sky, all weathered shingles and the promise of indoor plumbing. Chloe had described it as “cozy.” Chloe, her best friend since forever, who was currently two hours south in the city, probably sipping wine and cackling.
Dizzy hefted her overnight bag—packed with precisely one ironic novel, three changes of clothes, and enough skincare to survive a nuclear winter—and trudged up the sandy path. The key was under the ceramic pelican, just like Chloe said. The door swung inward with a sigh of salt-rotten wood.
And it was… blue. A sickly, overused “ocean blue” that coated every wall, making the whole place feel like the inside of a faded swim cap. The living room was a monument to wicker and sun-bleached nautical prints. But it was quiet, and it was hers for the weekend. A solo retreat to finally shake the lingering funk of a failed work project and a dating app profile she’d deleted in a fit of self-loathing. She could already picture the morning coffee on the deck, the long, solitary walks.
She found the bedroom. Crisp white sheets on a king-sized bed, tangled slightly as if by a phantom breeze. A half-empty bottle of sunscreen sat on the nightstand next to a paperback with a warped cover. A single, slightly askew beach towel was draped over a chair by the window, a surrender flag to a day already passed. The only light came from a sliver of moon peeking through the half-drawn curtains, casting long, judgmental shadows across the floor. It was perfect.
She dropped her bag with a thud, kicked off her shoes, and was about to faceplant into the glorious expanse of cotton when a sound froze her solid.
A cough. A distinctly human, male cough.
It came from the ensuite bathroom. The door, which she had assumed led to a closet, was slightly ajar. A sliver of yellow light cut across the blue floor.
Her heart did a clumsy tap dance against her ribs. Every poorly-written horror movie premise flashed through her mind. She clutched her bag to her chest like a Kevlar shield.
The door opened wider.
And out walked a guy. A guy who looked like he’d been airbrushed onto the cover of a romance novel Chloe would devour. Dark hair, still damp and tousled. Chiseled features that seemed carved by a much more talented god than the one who’d made the rest of the world. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and he was rubbing a towel through his hair.
He looked up.
Piercing brown eyes met her wide, startled green ones.
For three eternal seconds, there was only the distant crush of waves and the hum of the ancient refrigerator down the hall.
“Um,” he said. His voice was deeper than she expected, rough with surprise. He stopped rubbing his hair. “Hi.”
Dizzy’s brain finally reconnected to her mouth. “Who the hell are you? And why are you emerging, all damp and protagonist-like, from the bathroom of my spiritually-crushing blue bedroom?”
A faint pink tinged his ears. He gestured vaguely with the towel. “Liam. I’m… I’m friends with Ben. Ben who’s dating Chloe? She said… she said the place would be empty this weekend.”
The pieces, heavy and stupid, clanged into place in Dizzy’s mind. Chloe’s text earlier: Don’t murder me. Ben’s friend needed a quiet place to finish some big project. I figured you’d never cross paths. It’s a big house! She’d pictured a reclusive poet, maybe a bearded folk musician. Not… this.
“Chloe told me it was a solo wellness retreat,” Dizzy said, her voice flat. “She described it as ‘a journey to reconnect with my inner goddess.’ She failed to mention my inner goddess would have a roommate who looks like he stepped off a yacht catalog.”
Liam’s blush deepened. He stared at a point just over her left shoulder. “I’m finishing a coding sprint. Deadlines. She said you were coming Friday, but I thought she meant… later Friday. It’s only seven.”
“My inner goddess is punctual.”
Another silence, this one thicker, laden with the sheer, ridiculous logistics of the situation. The king-sized bed yawned between them, a continent of white linen.
“Right,” Liam mumbled. He cleared his throat. “So. There’s, um, there’s only the one bedroom.”
“Astute,” Dizzy said, the sarcasm a familiar, comfortable armor. “I was just admiring the sleeping arrangements. Very commune-chic.”
“I can take the couch.” The words rushed out of him. “The wicker one. It’s… fine.”
Dizzy looked past him into the bathroom, then at the towel on the chair, then back at his painfully handsome, painfully awkward face. A strange, contrary impulse rose in her, cutting through the panic. This was a disaster, but it was also, objectively, hilarious. And he looked so utterly miserable, like a puppy who’d been caught chewing the wrong shoe.
“The wicker couch is a torture device disguised as furniture,” she stated, dropping her bag finally. “It’ll permanently fuse your spine into the shape of a question mark. You’re already finishing the project in this sad blue vault. You don’t need a spinal deformity on top of it.”
His eyes flicked to hers for a nanosecond before darting away again. “I can’t let you take it, then.”
“Did I offer?” She sighed, a long, dramatic exhalation. She walked over to the bed and pressed a hand into the mattress. It was firm. Vast. “It’s the size of a small country. We can draw a line down the middle. Build a wall. Start a cold war. It’ll be fine.”
Liam blinked. “Are you serious?”
“No, I’m delirious from the existential dread this wall color induces. But yeah, I’m serious. Unless you snore. Do you snore? If you sound like a chainsaw, the wicker deathtrap is your destiny.”
“I don’t think I snore.” He said it like it was a question, directed at himself.
“Good enough for me.” She unzipped her bag with more force than necessary, pulling out her toiletries. “I’m claiming the bathroom first to enact my elaborate skincare ritual. It’s a ten-step process of self-delusion. It’ll take a while.”
She brushed past him, catching a faint, clean scent of soap and shampoo. He sidestepped carefully, as if she were made of unstable nitro.
An hour later, the room was dark save for the moonbeam. They had performed an absurd, silent ballet of preparation. Dizzy was wearing her most fortified pajamas—old cotton shorts and a baggy t-shirt. She was on the far left side of the bed, pressed so close to the edge she could feel the void. Liam was a rigid, heat-emitting presence two feet away, lying on his back like a knight on a tomb.
The tension was a physical thing, a third entity lying between them.
“This is weird, right?” Dizzy whispered into the dark.
A beat. “Yes.”
“Just checking it wasn’t just me.”
She heard him shift, the sheets whispering. “Chloe and Ben… they probably thought they were being helpful.”
“They’re romantic terrorists,” Dizzy muttered. “They see two single people and their brains short-circuit into matchmaking mode. It’s patronizing.”
Liam was quiet for so long she thought the conversation was over. Then, his voice, quiet and measured. “You think that’s what this is?”
“Isn’t it? Dump the insecure best friend and the shy workaholic in a picturesque location. See what happens. It’s cliché. And I hate clichés.”
“You mentioned that.” There was a hint of something in his voice. Not offense. Amusement?
“I have a list. We can go over it in the morning. It’ll pass the time.”
Another silence, but this one was softer, the edges blurring. The ocean’s rhythm was starting to seep into her bones.
“For what it’s worth,” Liam said, his words slow and careful in the dark. “I didn’t know. About the setup. I just needed quiet.”
Dizzy rolled onto her side, facing the blank blue wall. “Yeah. Me too.”
She lay there for a long time, listening to the waves and the soft, even sound of his breathing. It wasn’t a snore. It was just… calm. Steady. A metronome against the chaos in her own head. Eventually, the rigid line of her own spine softened. Sleep began to pull at her, dragging her under its warm, heavy tide.
Just before she slipped away, she was dimly aware of him moving. Not towards her, just turning onto his side, facing the window and the slice of moon. The space between them, the demilitarized zone of sheets, remained intact. A boundary respected. A strange, quiet truce in their shared, blue-toned world.