It was noon—prime time for sunburns and short tempers. Rydan sat hunched in the shade of a jagged rock, tugging at his collar and fanning himself with a makeshift leaf. Sweat clung to his brow as he muttered under his breath, “How is she still going...?”

Out in the full glare of the sun, Sandra moved with calm, deliberate motions. Still crouched low to the sand, she continued picking clams with the same steady rhythm as before, utterly unbothered. Her pale skin, despite being grilled under the midday sun, remained unchanged—untouched, almost unnatural in its resilience.

Her sack was already heavy, bulging with clams she had collected so far. She glanced down at it, a small spark of pride warming her chest. But it wasn’t the only thing stirring in her. Her stomach let out a quiet growl, betraying her. Just like the old man said, they really were big and plump. Eating them here and now wouldn’t be a bad idea. The thought barely formed before she shook her head sharply. ‘No. Not yet.’

This haul wasn’t just food — it was proof. Proof that she could thrive here, away from the desert sands she once called home.

Suddenly, a sharp snap! of rope sliced through the air, yanking the bag from her grasp. It soared upward, out of reach.

Sandra kept staring at her hands — dirt still clinging to her fingers — as if the weight of the clam-filled sack should still be there. She hadn’t even realized how long she’d been sitting motionless, lost in the warmth of quiet satisfaction.

Then a mocking voice broke the moment. “Thanks for the haul, suckers!”

It came from a small boat drifting farther out from shore. A thief, clad in a wide straw hat, held her clam bag aloft, his laughter echoing cruelly across the waves.

Sandra’s first instinct was to charge after him — to reclaim what was hers. But as her toes touched the wet edge of the surf, she froze. The sea stretched out before her, shimmering endlessly under the sun, a slow, unyielding sheet of salt and movement.

Her earlier rage drained away, leaving only a tense stillness on her face.

Rydan, on the other side, immediately noticed his maiden’s distress. He looked at her, hesitating at the edge of the water—her usual fierce confidence replaced by a flicker of uncertainty, and maybe, just maybe, the hint of tears threatening to well in her eyes. It was the first time he’d seen her so vulnerable, and something inside him tightened uncomfortably. He hated seeing her like this. She, who usually had a strong attitude, now reduced to someone who would only watch as her hard-earned catch was stolen.

He turned his gaze toward the thief, a silhouette framed by the shimmering waves, the wide straw hat casting a shadow over his face. His eyes were cold—empty even—without a single glint of remorse or hesitation. It was the kind of look that spoke of a man who took what he wanted with no second thought, no care for the lives he disrupted.

Then there he was. Rydan glanced down at his hand, then clenched it into a fist, his eyes burning with determination. He looked back at the sea and gave a small, resolute nod. As if answering his call, a shadow circled beneath the surface before vanishing into the depths below.

Slowly, he raised one hand and lifted his surfboard just enough to let it drop with a solid thud onto the sand. Without wasting a second, he hopped on it, feet steady as it slid naturally beside Sandra.

“Want to give chase?” he asked, voice light but sincere, like a knight offering aid to a heroine clearly in distress.

Sandra didn’t answer. It wasn’t because she was ignoring him. No, this time she was wrestling with uncertainty—wondering if charging into the sea after a bag of clams was really worth the risk.

Rydan caught her silence and added gently, “It’s your call.”

She pondered for a moment, her eyes fixed on the waves ahead. Then Rydan’s words echoed again—“It’s your call.” Something about the quiet assurance in his voice struck a chord deep inside her.

This wasn’t just about a stolen bag of clams. It was about her pride—her sense of control and strength being snatched away, mocked, and discarded in plain view.

Her jaw tightened, fists clenched—resolve hardening like stone.

No. She wasn’t going to just stand there.

Her lips curled into a determined smile, the weight of doubt lifting just a bit.

She stayed quiet for a heartbeat longer, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. A flicker of something primal stirred in her eyes—focused, sharp.

Without warning, she grabbed his hand—firm, deliberate.

“But under one condition,” she said, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips—like a predator that had just locked onto its prey, eager and ready to strike.

***

The wind rushed past them as the surfboard soared just above the waves, skimming the surface like a darting fish. Salt air sprayed against their faces — a sharp, biting sting that Sandra hated but endured — as they closed the gap toward the fleeing thief’s boat.

Rydan grimaced and shifted the sack on his back. “Remind me again… is this really necessary?”

Sandra didn’t respond at first. Her eyes were locked ahead, scanning the bobbing figure in the distance—her clam bag flapping mockingly like a victory banner.

He groaned. “It’s just… heavy. Not that I can’t carry it—because I totally can—but do you really need this much sand?”

“Do you prefer I carry it, then?” she asked, voice calm and flat, without even turning her head.

He flinched as she reached toward the sack.

“No no no, it’s fine!” Rydan said quickly, tightening his grip on the straps. “Actually not that heavy! Not enough to make us sink or anything! Ha... ha…” His laugh came out dry, forced.

Sandra’s mouth curled in amusement, but she said nothing. The wind tugged at her hair, her gaze still sharp.

Rydan muttered under his breath. “Never thought I’d be surfing across the sea carrying a bag of sand.”

She finally spoke. “He’s slowing down.”

Rydan nodded, eyes narrowing. “I see him. Looks like he's steering into shallow waters—maybe thinks we won’t follow.”

“Then prove him wrong.”

Rydan sighed, hesitant at first, but eventually made a small hand gesture below. A shadow stirred beneath the surfboard—graceful and fast. The moment it vanished into the deep, the board surged forward, cutting through the waves with newfound speed.

Because of the sudden increase in speed, Sandra unknowingly embraced Rydan from behind. This made Rydan blush—though only for a moment, as his board began to wobble.

"I know it might sound crazy coming from me… but please don't hug me too tightly. It's kinda dangerous, you know," Rydan said nervously—and most of all, regretfully.

Sandra, now aware of how tightly she’d been clinging to him, let go with a small blush. The board wobbled again.

Moisture thickened in the air around them, pooling with an almost sentient intent—heavier near Sandra, as if the sea itself were watching her every move. She shivered, a ripple of unease washing over her, but swallowed it down. There was no way she could ask Rydan to slow—not now.

Rydan’s eyes flicked to the restless water beside them, narrowing sharply.

“Easy now... don’t read into it,” he muttered, voice tight with something like caution.

The tension lingered, palpable as the waves beneath their board. Then, a slender ribbon of water spiraled up beside them, curling and twisting before vanishing into a fine mist—like a warning whispered only to those who knew how to listen.

Rydan’s breath came slower, more measured. He glanced at Sandra—a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze: protectiveness, or perhaps a silent promise.

He fought the urge to look longer but returned his gaze forward, leaving her pale, soaked skin lingering in his mind. Trouble wasn’t worth the view...

A moment of silence passed between them, heavy and awkward.

Rydan cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. “We’re close—need a hand?”

Sandra didn’t shake her head. There was no need. Her firm voice was enough to deliver her message.

“He’s mine.”

Rydan didn’t argue. With a wave of his hand, he adjusted the board’s course, summoning a growing swell beneath them. The earlier nervousness faded, replaced by a cold, steely focus. “His eyes narrowed, fixed on the thief’s boat—alert, but unmoving. It wasn’t his job to take it down. He was here to bring her there.”

‘It’s not that I hate seeing this new side of her... but I still hate seeing her like this’, he thought.

‘Whoever that guy was, he’d better pray the sea is deeper than her grudge.’