Tides of Heat

Friday afternoon hit like a wave of relief—no Titan shift, just the open road to the beachside apartment showing. I pedaled hard, Metrospire's downtown fading into salty air, the $22-an-hour contract fueling my legs. Taco Toro with Jake had been a blur of cards and grease few nights back, but his "jump on it" echoed as I locked my bike outside the faded blue walk-up. The place was real—600 square feet, $900 a month, a balcony with an ocean view I could taste. My lease expired soon, and this was my shot at freedom.

The lobby buzzed with hopefuls—students like me, some with richer vibes I couldn't match. Mr. Torres, the landlord, squinted at us like we were stray cats. "Unit 2B, one at a time," he rasped, clipboard in hand. I waited, scoping the cracked tiles and salt-worn walls—no death-metal neighbors in sight. When I stepped into 2B, the hardwood gleamed under sunlight, the balcony framing a slice of crashing waves. The kitchen was a closet, but I didn't care. I could see my cheap couch here, logistics books traded for takeout, waves drowning out the world. Torres droned—utilities extra, apps due Monday—and I nodded, snapping a balcony pic, heart pounding. This was mine if I moved fast.

Back at the dorm, I hammered out the application, attaching my Titan pay stub like a golden ticket. Sent it off at 5 p.m., fingers crossed so tight they cramped. Jake texted back to my photo: "Bro, that's a palace. You're basically rich now." I laughed—$22 an hour wasn't rich, but it was damn close.

Wednesday morning, my phone pinged, and I nearly dropped it scrambling to check. "Unit 2B approved, lease starts June 1st." I froze, staring at the screen, then let out a yell that echoed off the dorm walls. "YES!" I punched the air, grinning like a maniac, adrenaline surging so hard I could've run to the beach right then. June 1st was tomorrow—this was real! No more ramen nights, no more mildew stink, no more 3 a.m. Slayer solos—just me, a beach flat, and waves I could hear from my pillow. Titan's grind had paid off, and I was on top of the world. I texted Jake a string of "victory" emojis, voice-chatted Mr. Torres to lock in move-in for that afternoon, and dove into action.

Logistics brain fired on all cylinders: bike my essentials—clothes, laptop, a folding chair—in two trips, 20 minutes each from campus to the beach, legs burning but unstoppable. Borrowed Jake's beat-up hatchback for the big stuff—mattress, lamp, a $30 thrift-store couch that didn't sag too bad—hauling it in one sweaty run. By 6 p.m., I was in, boxes stacked like trophies, couch angled toward the balcony where the ocean roared its welcome. I flung open the sliding door, stepped out, and sucked in the salt air, laughing like a kid who'd just won the lottery. The sunset painted the waves gold, and I flopped onto the couch, staring at my kingdom. $900 a month, mine—hardwood under my feet, freedom in my lungs. I'd freaking made it.

Thursday morning, I biked from my new flat to Titan Storage Co., a 35-minute ride along the coast—wind whipping my hoodie, salt tingling my nose, $22 an hour singing in my veins. The warehouse loomed as I locked up, legs buzzing from the beach route, forklift license slip my new superpower. My 8 a.m. shift crackled with energy—certified, legit, a beach king now. Grayson had me on bathroom fixtures, but I was forklifting vanities and shower stalls, weaving through aisles like I owned them. Contractors grunted approval as I dropped loads by their trucks, and I flashed a grin—golden hour, baby. The resentful vets still lurked, muttering near the lumber stacks. "New kid's golden," one spat, loud enough to sting. I shrugged it off, hauling a 36-inch sink cabinet, their glares bouncing off my high.

Khalid swung by at 10, barking, "Carter, aisle 9—48-inch oak vanity, now." His tone was sandpaper, but I nodded, forklift purring as I nailed it smooth. He watched, arms crossed, then stalked off without a word. Progress? Hell yeah. Lars caught me later, grinning. "Heard you aced Voss's test. Good work." I smirked—logistics nerd on a roll, flat vibes unstoppable.

Lunch rolled in at noon, and I was grabbing my thermos when a voice sliced through the warehouse hum. "Hey, forklift guy—coffee run?" It was the scissor-lift girl—short dark hair, reddish uniform—leaning off her machine near the paint aisle, a leather-bound book tucked under her arm. I'd seen her up there, waving, but never this close.

"Uh, sure," I said, still riding my high. "Better than the lunchroom sludge."

She grinned, hopping down. "There's a spot two blocks over—Brew Haven. Beats the zombie vibes in here." I nodded, and we slipped out the side door, dodging the vets' stares. The industrial sprawl stretched around us—warehouses, cracked pavement—but Brew Haven was a cozy hole-in-the-wall, mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus screaming charm. We grabbed black coffees for a buck each and snagged a table by the window, her book thumping onto the wood.

"What's that old thing you're reading?" I asked, nodding at it—leather cover, yellowed pages, straight out of a castle.

She laughed, flipping it open. "The Song of Roland. Medieval epic—knights, battles, badassery. I'm Mia, by the way."

"Ryan," I said, grinning wide. "Forklift certified, beach king as of yesterday. Didn't peg you for a history nerd."

"I'm not," she said, sipping her coffee. "Just an escape from this place. You're settling in fast—saw you dodging forklifts last week."

"Thriving," I corrected, flat joy spilling out. "You're paint aisle queen, right? That lift your throne?"

"Every day," she nodded. "Keeps me above the madness." She glanced out the window, then back. "You adjusting to the tall ones yet?"

"The zombies?" I said, lowering my voice. "Not really. They're freaky. What's their deal?"

Her smile faltered, just a flicker. "Long-timers. Management calls them 'efficiency hires.' Don't ask me more—I don't know." She paused, stirring her coffee. "They're harmless, though. Mostly."

"Mostly?" I pressed, but the clock ticked—break was short—so I let it drop.

"Gotta head back," I said, grabbing my cup.

"Later," she said, that smile lingering, and I filed her "mostly" away with The Song of Roland as we walked back to Titan's steel grip.

Afternoon stretched long—forklifting sinks, dodging Khalid's glares, stacking crates till my arms ached. Near shift's end, Mia's scissor lift hummed nearby. She was up high, adjusting paint cans, and tossed me a wave.

"Surviving?" she called.

"Ruling," I shot back, grinning. "You?"

"Always," she said, then paused, lowering her lift a notch. "Hey, beach king—your place close? Wanna bike there and hit the waves after shift?"

My pulse spiked—spontaneous, perfect. "Hell yeah. Meet me out front at 8 with your bike?"

"Deal," she winked, raising her lift, and I was buzzing. Flat, waves, Mia—Titan couldn't touch this.

Shift ended at 8 p.m., and I met Mia out front, her bike beside mine, uniform swapped for a tank top and shorts, book tucked in her bag. "Ready, beach king?" she grinned, eyes catching the dusk light.

"Born ready," I said, and we pedaled off, tires humming on coastal asphalt, the five-minute ride a blur of salt wind and her laughter trailing behind me. We locked our bikes by my flat, dropped our stuff on the sand, and raced to the waves, the water cold and sharp as we dove in. She splashed me, I dunked her, and we wrestled through the surf, her grin brighter than the fading sun. Twenty minutes melted away, Titan's weight gone, just us and the sea's wild pulse.

We stumbled out, dripping, the evening turning chilly as the breeze bit through our wet clothes. She shivered, hugging her arms, and I caught her eye. "Hey, you're freezing. Wanna hit my place? Got a shower and a clean towel—few steps away."

Her smile softened, warm against the cold. "Yeah, that'd be great." We grabbed our bikes, climbed to 2B, and I unlocked the door, the ocean's hum spilling in. I handed her a towel and pointed to the bathroom—"All yours"—and she stepped inside, leaving the door cracked, steam curling out as the shower hissed to life.

I paced the hardwood, heart thumping, then she emerged, towel-wrapped, hair damp and wild, her shorts and tank top slung over her arm. "Your turn," she said, voice low, and I darted in, rinsing off the salt quick, toweling dry in a haze. When I stepped out, shirtless in spare sweats, she was by the balcony, the sunset painting her in gold. "This place," she murmured, turning to me, "it's alive. Like you. Not like those zombies back there."

"Alive?" I echoed, stepping closer, pulse racing.

"Yeah," she said, eyes locking mine. "You've got this… spark. It's hot." Her hand brushed my arm, and then she was against me, lips finding mine, soft and urgent, tasting of salt and something sweeter. I pulled her in, hands sliding to her waist, and we stumbled to the couch, her towel slipping as we sank into it, laughter breaking the kiss only to draw us back deeper.

"Pizza?" I breathed, forehead to hers, dizzy from her.

"Definitely," she grinned, tracing my jaw. "Then we're not done." We ordered a pepperoni pie—$15, delivered fast—and ate sprawled on the floor, balcony door open, waves crashing like a serenade. Her fingers laced mine between bites, and when the box was empty, she tugged me closer, lips reigniting the fire. The night unfolded—her book kicked aside, blankets dragged from the couch to my mattress, our shadows merging under the ocean's lull, a quiet promise in every touch fading into a timeless glow.

Morning light slipped through the blinds, and I woke to Mia beside me, hair wild, stretching with a yawn. "Hey," she said, voice soft, a smile tugging her lips. "Good night, beach king." I grinned back, still dazed, the flat's glow brighter with her there.

"Good night," I said, sitting up. She pulled on her shorts, tank top rumpled, and grabbed her book, but paused by the door.

"Heads-up," she said, tone shifting. "Some vets are pissed about your pay bump—$22 versus their $18, years deep. Watch your back. And…" She hesitated, glancing out. "Those zombies? I overheard Grayson—something about 'retention protocols.' They're not just weird. They're kept that way."

My stomach dropped, bliss cracking. "Kept?"

"Yeah," she nodded, eyes wide. "I don't know details—just be careful. Something's off." She checked her phone, cursed softly. "Shift's soon—gotta run." She leaned in, kissed me quick, and slipped out, biking off for Titan as I watched from the balcony, the steel fortress across the city cracking open its secrets like the concrete under my feet.