There was a film showing every week by the town's art council, the open-air, white-sheet-and-projector kind, a summer tradition exclusive to this sliver of the year. Roman Holiday was on tonight. Bonnie straightened her spine a little, Emi on her right, eyes fixed on the faded ink of the canvas screen with the movie poster fluttering in the breeze.

The walk from their beach house to the dunes took about five minutes. They didn't speak much. Emi was on the phone with Bonnie's parents, updating them on their daughter. Her voice, soft and measured, was oddly soothing. To Bonnie, it felt like white noise, the kind she didn't know she'd been missing. So instead of interrupting, she simply tagged along, humming her favorite song, stomping lightly across tall sand with her hands clasped behind her back.

Bean bags were scattered across the sand, already half-filled by early comers. Kids ran barefoot, trailing laughter and sweat, while their parents lounged nearby. Emi finished the call and wandered over to the ticket booth, returning a minute later with two tickets in her hand.

Bonnie stood under a palm tree, her hair loose, catching the last golden threads of sunlight. Emi paused for a moment, breathed in the salted air, and gripped the tickets a little tighter, like trying to hold onto a heartbeat.

"Popcorn?"

Bonnie nodded. It was food, after all.

They found a spot near the front, close enough to see the screen clearly, far enough not to be pulled into small talk with locals. Bonnie sat cross-legged, tugging a light blanket over her knees. She wore a white, flowy dress with thin straps and a soft silhouette, something made for sea breezes and moonlit walks.

Emi noticed it all. The way Bonnie curled her fingers under the hem, the faint freckle on her shoulder, the way she squinted into the dusk.

Every subtlety.

It was beautiful.

"She's fine," Emi said, and there was the barest twitch of a smile. "I like the Vespa scene."

Bonnie laughed under her breath. "Figures."

The movie began as the last of the light faded. Black-and-white scenes flickered gently across the screen, dancing shadows playing on Emi's cheekbones. Bonnie found herself watching Emi more than the film, the way the corners of her mouth reacted to lines she already knew by heart, the way her eyes softened whenever the camera lingered on silence.

As the evening cooled, the breeze became more certain of itself. It threaded through Bonnie's hair, lifted strands like soft questions. The scent of sea salt and sunscreen lingered in the air, tangled with the faint rustle of plastic cups and popcorn bags.

Emi found the sight beside her more cinematic than anything on the screen. Bonnie, tucked into the moment, glowing faintly under the softness of dusk.

Sounds of laughter blended into the night air, but Emi couldn't seem to hear any of it, only Bonnie's. That one stood out.

The breeze was getting colder, slipping under skin in that way that only summer nights could manage. Emi, being exactly the kind of woman she was, took off her plaid shirt and gently placed it over Bonnie's shoulders.

Bonnie startled a little, not from the cold, but from the softness. Emi was kind, sure, but not this kind. Not in a way that felt caring, almost protective.

It caught her off guard.

And her heart, clearly, didn't know what to do with it. It started beating too fast, loud enough for her to hear it herself, louder than the film, louder than the laughter, maybe even louder than the wind.

"What's got into you?" Bonnie mumbled, just loud enough for Emi to catch. She didn't mean it to start a fight. That was just her way of dealing with surprises, blurting things out before her heart had the chance to figure them out first.

"You, maybe," Emi replied in the most neutral tone ever. It sounded as if she didn't care at all, but somehow, just enough to drive Bonnie insane.

She always knew her way around words, around gestures that made you question everything. And Bonnie hated it. Hated how easily Emi got under her skin. Hated every bit of her, just like she had been saying since the start.

Or maybe, that was what she wanted to believe.

.

They didn't speak much on the way home.

The streets had thinned out, a hush folding gently over the town. Every few houses blinked with amber windows, muffled conversations trailing through open shutters. The sound of Bonnie's sandals brushing against gravel echoed beside Emi's steady steps.

Bonnie still wore the plaid shirt that Emi gave.

"So, how was everything until now? Am I doing a great job as your housekeeper?" Emi suddenly asked, hands in her pockets.

Bonnie turned slightly to watch Emi's sharp profile. "Not really."

Emi laughed under her breath. She knew exactly what Bonnie was trying to say with that quiet little "not really." Of course, she liked it, liked that it was Emi beside her this summer, not her family, not her former housekeeper who would not take a step outside of the house for a walk, let alone a movie screening night.

Too confident? Maybe. But that was just Emi. Confidence was stitched into her like muscle and bone. Enough charms to keep people guessing.

Bonnie rolled her eyes.

.

It rained for three days.

The kind of rain that wasn't angry, only persistent, like someone humming a tune they didn't quite know the ending of. The house grew quiet, except for the occasional creak of wood and the patter against glass. Outside, the ocean blurred into the sky. Inside, time bent in strange ways.

Bonnie hadn't expected to see Emi so much, even though they lived under the same roof. But rain had a way of collapsing distances. She found Emi more often now, in the kitchen, stirring something slow and fragrant; in the hallway, reaching for books Bonnie hadn't even noticed before; in the living room, curled up with a blanket she probably brought herself, the edges frayed like they'd belonged to her for years.

"I thought people your age watched Netflix," Emi said one afternoon, not looking up.

Bonnie, tucked on the far end of the couch, one leg slung over a cushion, glanced at her phone. "I get bored easily."

"Books are more patient," Emi replied, fingers trailing a line under the paragraph she was reading. Her nails were short, unpainted. Her voice stayed quiet, like it had learned not to interrupt things.

They didn't talk much, but they talked enough. Small, sideways things. Bonnie would make a comment. Emi would raise an eyebrow. Sometimes they would argue, softly, as if trying not to disturb the rain. Sometimes they would sit in the same room for an hour without saying a word, the only sound being a record spinning something old and honest. Emi liked jazz. Bonnie didn't know if she liked jazz, but she didn't mind it when Emi played it.

Once, during the second night of rain, the power flickered. Not enough to worry, just enough for the lamps to sigh and dim. Bonnie lit a candle she found in the kitchen drawer. Emi brought out a bowl of strawberries and a bar of chocolate she said she'd been saving.

"You're awfully prepared," Bonnie said.

"I grew up with unreliable weather."

They sat by the open window, the air smelling like salt and something faintly sweet. Bonnie watched Emi peel the foil from the chocolate carefully, like it was a ritual. When she offered a piece, their fingers brushed, a brief, barely-there contact.

Neither said anything about it. But something shifted. Subtly.

Later, when Emi left the room to rinse the dishes, Bonnie stayed by the window. The candle danced in the breeze. Outside, the sky had turned almost lavender. And for some reason, Bonnie felt like the house had gotten a little smaller, like it could hold fewer secrets now.

She went to bed that night thinking about the way Emi read aloud, softly and without punctuation, like her voice was just another part of the rain.

.

The third morning came with the rain again. Not stormy, not wild, just a slow and steady drizzle, the kind that blurred the windows and made the whole world feel like it had gone quiet on purpose.

Bonnie came downstairs, wrapped in the soft folds of her oversized hoodie, hair slightly damp from a shower, bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. The house smelled faintly of ginger and citrus, and she could hear the gentle crackle of something being toasted in the kitchen.

Emi was there, of course she was, calmly flipping a page of her book as if the outside world wasn't falling softly into puddles. Her mug sat by the window, steaming faintly. She glanced up just once when Bonnie entered, nodding.

"Morning," she said, like it was just any other day.

"Rain again," Bonnie replied, rubbing her neck.

"I like it."

"I don't."

That made Emi smile a little, not fully, not clearly. Just a small shift in her lips as she reached for her mug.

Bonnie joined her without asking. There was already toast on a plate, with slices of mango and two small spoons beside a jar of fig jam. She sat across from Emi and let the silence stretch between them like a soft thread, not uncomfortable, just there.

"You always get up early?" Bonnie asked.

"Usually."

"Because of the rain?"

Emi shook her head. "Because I like the quiet before people wake up."

Bonnie chewed on that answer, not sure if it was meant for her or just something Emi said out of habit.

The afternoon passed the way quiet days in the rain always do, with music that didn't call for attention, with books traded between hands and glances shared over pages. Bonnie lay on the couch, her legs stretched out just short of Emi's. They never touched. But the space between them had grown... softer. Familiar.

Emi sat curled at the other end, reading something in small print. Occasionally, she'd lift her mug, sip, and glance at the window like waiting for something that wouldn't come.

"Do you always read that much?" Bonnie asked eventually.

"It helps," Emi said.

"With what?"

"Everything."

Outside, the garden blurred with mist. The sea was a grey smudge in the distance. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked gently. The rain softened to a hush.

Bonnie turned on her side, facing Emi. "What if I read to you?"

Emi blinked, a little surprised. "You?"

"Why not?"

There was a moment, a hesitation. But then Emi nodded, closed her book, and handed it over without saying a word.

Bonnie began to read aloud, voice low and unpolished, tripping over a few unfamiliar words but not stopping. Emi didn't correct her. She just listened.

And when Bonnie looked up, Emi's eyes were half-closed, not asleep, just at ease.

It wasn't quite closeness. But it was not distance anymore, either. Bonnie had not seen Emi in this kind of atmosphere ever since she had been here. The scene, somehow, reminded Bonnie that Emi was human after all, that beneath the sarcasm and cool detachment, she had moments of softness, of quiet self-indulgence like this. Emi smelled of wood, sage, and sea salt, with the faint trace of Neutrogena sunscreen clinging to her skin. It all blended like the scent of a dream Bonnie had not meant to remember.

"You're so different," Bonnie said between the lines. She noticed Emi's brows furrow, just a little, before her smile began to take shape, like a thought passing through before she let herself be present again.

"I'm glad you liked it," Emi said, eyes still closed. The Chet Baker vinyl spun softly in the background, its notes drifting through the room and mingling with the gentle rhythm of summer rain tapping on the windows.

Bonnie hated how dreamy it felt, sharing the same roof with her, breathing the same air that always carried a trace of sea salt and something softer, something like comfort she wasn't ready for.