The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft purples and oranges, when Nikos carried a pitcher of homemade citrus wine to the edge of the swimming pool. “Careful—it’s stronger than it tastes,” he warned, grinning as he poured four glasses. Marisol laughed, taking a sip and making a face. “You’re not kidding,” she said. “Tastes like summer… with a kick.” Lila and I sat on the pool’s stone rim, our feet dangling in the cool water, her yellow dress pulled up to her knees. Shell lay beside us, dozing in the warm evening air, and the pool’s string lights twinkled above, casting tiny reflections on the water. “Couple on swimming pool drunked—who’d have thought?” Lila said, nudging my shoulder with hers. I smiled, clinking my glass against hers. “Only with the right people,” I replied.
We’d spent the day at the beach, building sandcastles with Shell and collecting seashells for the memory box, and Marisol had insisted we “unwind properly” that night. Nikos had brought the wine—his grandma’s recipe, he said—and Lila had baked banana shortbread, which we’d laid out on a wooden platter beside the pool. The air smelled like citrus, banana, and the lavender from our porch, and as we talked, our voices softened, laced with the gentle warmth of the wine.
Marisol leaned back against the pool’s edge, staring up at the stars. “Remember when we went to that harvest festival?” she said. “You two danced so bad, you knocked over a vendor’s honey jar.” Lila laughed, covering her face. “We did not! Okay, maybe a little,” she admitted. I squeezed her hand, grinning. “And you two—” I nodded at Marisol and Nikos “—sneaked off to the beach and came back with sand in your shoes. We knew you’d been kissing.” Nikos’s cheeks turned pink, and Marisol elbowed him playfully. “Guilty,” she said. “But in our defense, the moon was perfect.” The wine had made us loose, silly—willing to laugh at the messy, wonderful parts of our stories—and as we talked, the pool’s water rippled around our feet, cool and calm.
Lila took another sip of wine, her eyes shining in the pool light. “I never thought we’d have this,” she said, quietly. I turned to her, and she leaned her head on my shoulder. “A beach house, a dog, nights like this with friends… it feels like a dream.” I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and the citrus wine on her breath. “It’s real,” I said. “All of it. Because we built it—together.” Nikos and Marisol smiled, watching us, and Marisol raised her glass. “To building dreams,” she said. “And to getting a little drunk while we do it.” We clinked our glasses again, the sound soft against the night, and Shell woke up, stretching and resting her head on Lila’s foot.
As the night wore on, the wine made our laughs louder, our touches softer. Lila stood up, pulling me with her, and we walked to the pool’s shallow end, the water lapping at our ankles. The string lights reflected in her eyes, and her yellow dress glowed under the light, making her look like she was made of starlight. “Dance with me,” she said, her voice warm and wobbly. I laughed, putting my hands on her waist, and we swayed to a song only we could hear—slow, messy, perfect. Nikos and Marisol cheered, and Marisol stood up to join us, dragging Nikos with her. We danced in the pool’s shallow water, our shoes abandoned on the stone rim, our laughter mixing with the sound of the waves in the distance.
Later, we sat back down, our clothes damp but our hearts full. Lila curled up against me, her head on my chest, and I ran my fingers through her curly hair. Nikos and Marisol had fallen quiet, whispering to each other as they stared at the stars, and Shell had gone back to sleep, her nose buried in Lila’s dress. “I love this,” Lila mumbled, her words soft with sleep. “Just… you, me, them. No plans, no rush.” I kissed her forehead, my eyes heavy with the wine’s warmth. “Me too,” I said. “Forever.”
We stayed there until the wine pitcher was empty and the stars were bright above. Nikos carried Marisol to their guest room—she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder—and Lila and I walked hand in hand to our bedroom, Shell trotting beside us. Before we went inside, we stopped at the memory box, which sat on the porch table. Lila pulled out a small piece of paper and wrote: “Pool night, citrus wine, banana shortbread. Drunk, happy, loved.” She tucked it into the box, next to the lighthouse photo and the swatch of yellow fabric, and smiled. “Another memory,” she said.
That night, as we lay in bed, Lila’s head on my chest, I thought about the evening—the pool lights, the soft laughs, the way she’d danced with me in the water. Couple on swimming pool drunked wasn’t about being reckless. It was about letting go—of the noise, of the rush, of the need to be perfect—and just being together. It was about Lila, in her yellow dress, her breath warm against my skin. It was about love that felt like a warm drink: sweet, a little strong, and impossible to forget.
And as I drifted off to sleep, listening to her quiet snores, I knew—there would be more pool nights, more citrus wine, more moments like this. Because love isn’t just about the big days. It’s about the small, drunk, perfect nights that make you feel alive. Exactly how we wanted it.
