The salty wind off the fjord carried the scent of seaweed and pine as it rustled through the sleepy fishing village of Reine. Mountains rose like silent guardians around the scattered red rorbuer cabins dotting the shoreline. It was mid-July, and the sun barely dipped below the horizon at night, bathing everything in a soft, eerie twilight.
Grandma Sophie's house, perched just above the waterline with its white shutters and wild rosebushes, bustled with the lazy rhythm of a Scandinavian summer. Inside, the wooden floors creaked with familiarity under the weight of returning feet and bare toes. The old woman had taken to knitting by the window again, quietly humming, while her grandchildren and their guests explored the strange, haunting beauty of the north.
Beth stood alone on the rocky edge of the dock, her dark hair pulled into a messy braid that caught in the breeze. Her eyes, deep blue and thoughtful, scanned the still water. The weight of something unspoken hung around her, like fog that never fully lifted.
Behind her, Amanda emerged from the house with a camera slung around her neck, calling out.
"Beth! Come on, we're heading into town. Jefrey says there's a café that serves waffles as big as your face."
Beth half-turned. Jefrey had just appeared on the steps, arms crossed, trying too hard to look casual in his faded grey hoodie and cargo pants. His eyes met hers for a second too long before he looked away, pretending to examine a seagull perched on the railing.
Chris, by contrast, stepped out with theatrical flair, wearing a tight-fitting vintage Lord of the Rings t-shirt that showed off his gym efforts far too obviously. He whistled softly.
"If we're going out, I need a moment to look elvish. Can't disgrace the spirit of Legolas."
Amanda rolled her eyes. "You do know Orlando Bloom doesn't actually live in Norway, right?"
Chris placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "Yet. I'm manifesting it. A love that pure transcends geography."
The four of them strolled along Reine's narrow harbor road, boots thudding against weatherworn planks and gravel. The sea glinted like liquid silver to their right, and pastel-painted boats bobbed lazily in the stillness.
Amanda walked ahead, distractedly snapping photos of the postcard-perfect scenery. Beth walked beside her, quiet and watching the distant sun hang low in the sky like it was reluctant to leave. Chris had fallen into step beside them, arms animated as he launched into yet another tale.
"So there we were, in Cannes," Chris was saying, grinning. "I mean, actual Cannes. I hadn't showered in three days, but we had prime sidewalk real estate. Emily brought this life-sized cutout of Legolas—don't ask how she got it through customs—and Marissa wore elf ears the whole time."
Jefrey trailed just behind, hands in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking between Beth's braid swaying gently and Chris's utterly self-satisfied grin.
"She wore elf ears?" Amanda blinked.
"Oh yeah," Chris said proudly. "Dedicated. They even glowed in the dark. I think the French media thought we were part of a street art piece."
Beth arched an eyebrow. "And you… waited for hours just to see Orlando Bloom?"
Chris beamed like he was describing meeting a saint. "Three-point-seven seconds, to be exact. He waved. I waved. And then he smiled. It was transcendent. A spiritual experience, honestly."
Jefrey rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Bloody hell, Chris. You were with Emily and Marissa and you spent the whole night waiting to breathe the same air as Orlando Bloom?"
Chris shrugged with serene confidence. "I'm not blind, mate. They're gorgeous. But not Orlando gorgeous. There's a difference."
Up ahead, Amanda called back, "Are you two seriously still talking about that actor?"
"Legend," Chris corrected.
Beth turned slightly, her blue eyes catching Jefrey's for a second—just a second—and then flicked away. Jefrey felt his stomach flip. He quickened his pace, brushing past Chris without another word.
Amanda caught the motion and smirked.
"Ohhh no," she whispered to Beth. "That was a look. He's got it bad."
Beth shrugged, cheeks tinged pink, but didn't argue.
The sudden hum of tires crunching over gravel broke the soft rhythm of their walk. The sleek BMW X5 pulled up smoothly to the curb, engine purring before cutting off entirely. All four of them—Beth, Amanda, Jefrey, and Chris—paused mid-stride and turned, subtle but curious. Even in sleepy Reine, things like this didn't go unnoticed.
The first to step out was a tall youth, striking in presence even with most of his face obscured. He wore a black polo cap pulled low, a matching black mask concealing his mouth and nose. Pale arms, lean and almost ghostlike in the cold evening air, emerged from the short sleeves of his black T-shirt. Sunglasses were clipped to the collar. Not a local.
Three more boys followed. They all had the unmistakable look of people used to cities.
The first friend: straight-bridged nose with a soft tip, dark brown hair, fair skin—sharp angles, measured steps.
The second: a bit softer—gentle oval face, medium to dark brown hair parted loosely down the side, fair and smooth skin. His eyes were large, wide-set, thoughtful.
The third: light blue eyes that almost seemed silver in the twilight, almond-shaped and slightly deep-set. His hair was medium brown with red undertones, like wet autumn leaves. He barely looked up as he moved, hands in his jacket pockets.
Then came two young women.
The first: honey blonde hair caught the remaining daylight like spun sugar, seafoam eyes striking even from a distance. She carried two pink suitcases in her arms—one pressed tight to her side like it held something valuable.
The second: darker, more guarded. Hazel eyes downturned at the corners, sunglasses still on despite the growing dusk. Her dark brown hair spilled like ink over her shoulders. She walked like someone who didn't trust places like this.
Chris exhaled like someone who had just glimpsed a divine apparition.
"Mama," he murmured, pressing a hand to his chest. "I think I just fell in love."
Jefrey didn't even have to look at him to know which one had done it. The tall, pale one in black—the masked one. Of course.
"I think I'm going to die," Chris whispered, voice strained like he'd just read a tragic poem under starlight. "Or transcend. One of those."
Jefrey side-eyed him, deadpan. "You probably just want to watch Lord of the Rings again."
Chris didn't deny it. He never did. He was already far away in his mind, looping through mental montages of the masked boy slow-walking through Rivendell while Enya played in the background.
Jefrey sighed.
He knew Chris inside out. His brother's infatuations arrived like sudden weather shifts—unpredictable, dramatic, and always, always with some resemblance to a celebrity. It wasn't actual people Chris fell for, not really. It was archetypes. Glimmers of stardom. Anyone who moved like a movie still or looked like they'd just stepped out of a glossy poster.
And that boy—tall, cloaked in mystery, unspeaking—checked every box.
To Chris, there were really only four consistent truths in life: Celebrity, Christianity, Computing, and Cricket. The Four Cs, as Jefrey had once mocked. In that order of passion, too.
And somehow, Chris lived it out without ever being unbearable. He was kind, weirdly funny, and, objectively, smarter than he let on. But he was also, without question, Bloomsexual. Orlando had imprinted on him like a baby duck seeing its mother for the first time, and every Bloom-adjacent stranger since was just another ripple in that original pond.
Amanda, walking just ahead with Beth, caught a few snatches of the muttered exchange and grinned to herself. "Let me guess," she called over her shoulder, "he's having another spiritual awakening?"
Beth glanced sideways at Chris, who was gazing wistfully toward the now-closed hotel door like it might reopen with orchestral accompaniment. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"More like a celebrity sighting-induced crisis," Jefrey replied. "He'll need three Hail Marys and The Fellowship of the Ring extended edition to recover."
Chris sighed. "God bless that silhouette."
Beth couldn't help herself—she laughed, quiet but real. And for a moment, Jefrey's chest warmed at the sound, though he said nothing.
The sky above Reine stayed soft and golden, unchanged. But something was shifting in the air nonetheless.
"So," Chris said, the dreamy haze lifting from his voice as he effortlessly pivoted—as he always did—from celebrity obsession to real-life analysis. "What college are you planning to apply to?"
The question was aimed at Beth, his tone casual but genuinely curious now.
They had rounded a corner, the hotel already out of view. A small harbor unfolded before them, boats bobbing gently in the still water, their hulls reflecting the gold of the never-setting sun.
Beth blinked, as if surprised by the question.
"I… don't know yet," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've thought about UCL. Maybe Edinburgh. I like the idea of being somewhere with history. Somewhere that feels a little... older than me."
Amanda snorted. "She says that, but she's got brochures stuffed under her bed for Oxford and St Andrews. She's pretending to be chill."
Beth shot her sister a look. "Thanks, Mandy."
Chris grinned. "UCL's not bad. But if you're serious about computing or engineering—or anything with real backbone—Imperial's the place. Brutalist buildings, caffeine addictions, and enough code to build a small dystopia."
Jefrey gave a soft cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Chris continued, unfazed. "I mean, not that I'm biased. But I am currently fighting a supercomputer in our department lab to prove my project doesn't technically violate EU privacy law, so... yeah. Prestige."
Beth tilted her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "So you're telling me to come to London and suffer gloriously?"
Chris beamed. "Exactly! You'll hate your life and feel smarter than everyone else. It's a win-win."
Amanda rolled her eyes. "Only you could make that sound like a dating pitch."
Chris gave a theatrical shrug. "If you're not pitching yourself every time you speak, are you even a student at Imperial?"
Jefrey, walking a little behind the others, watched Beth's expression. She was amused, engaged, thinking. Her arms were folded against the chill, and her hair blew softly around her shoulders.
He knew Chris asked because he liked getting to know people—when he wasn't fantasizing about movie elves. But still, Jefrey found himself wondering what Beth really wanted. And whether she'd ever look at him the way she'd just looked at Chris.
Probably not, he thought. But he still hoped.
As the four of them rounded the corner past the old general store, the red eaves of Grandma Sophie's house came into view, half-covered in crawling vines and shadowed under the slanting light of the never-setting sun.
But it wasn't the house that caught Jefrey's eye.
"Wait," he murmured, slowing his steps. Amanda followed his gaze instinctively.
Across the road, near the hotel, two of the boys from earlier—the one with the soft-tipped nose and the one with that strange copper-red undertoned hair—were slipping back into the sleek BMW X5. The engine purred quietly to life, headlights flaring against the dusk.
Near the entrance stood the masked one, still clad in that black t-shirt like the temperature didn't matter, hand lifted in a casual wave as his friends climbed inside.
Chris, having spotted him as well, made an undignified sound halfway between a gasp and a small emotional explosion.
Jefrey sighed. "Chris'll be delighted that he's staying."
"Oi," Chris said loudly, "I'm right here beside you."
From across the road, as if he'd heard him, the boy with the soft-tipped nose suddenly called out. "You should wear something more than that T-shirt," he shouted toward the masked boy. "You already got bronchiectasis."
The masked one didn't reply—just stood there, hands in his pockets, giving the faintest smirk that no one could see, but somehow… felt.
The car pulled away slowly, tires crunching against the gravel, until its taillights blinked out of sight.
Amanda turned toward the others, an eyebrow raised. "That's a lung condition, right? Like, chronic. Pretty serious."
Jefrey nodded, his expression darkening slightly. "Yeah. You don't just drop that in passing unless you've had to deal with it for a while."
Chris blinked, the dreamy sheen in his eyes shifting slightly. "Wait… like, real lung damage?"
"It means scarring in the airways," Jefrey said. "Usually from infections or something more complicated. Not just a bad cold. It doesn't just go away."
Beth was quiet, watching the now-empty road. The masked boy's figure lingered in her mind—the stillness in the way he stood, how he didn't seem to care about being cold or noticed.
Amanda folded her arms. "He looked... young to have something like that."
"Yeah," Jefrey murmured. "He did."
Chris, for once, said nothing. No flippant remark. No Tolkien quote. Just looked off down the road, a bit more thoughtful than usual.
Inside Grandma Sophie's house, the lights had been turned on. Warm and safe.
But something about the street behind them didn't feel entirely finished. Not yet.