The moon hung low over the ocean, silvering the waves, when Lila stepped onto our beach house terrace. She was wearing that 米色 (beige) belly dress she’d found at the village market—loose, flowy, with tiny lavender embroidery along the hem—and her bare feet tapped softly on the wooden planks. In one hand, she held a small pack of mint cigarettes (the kind she only smoked on quiet nights, when the world felt slow), and in the other, a matchbox. “Mind some company?” she said, turning to me with a soft smile. I set down my sketchbook, patting the chair beside me. “Always,” I replied.
We’d said goodbye to Marisol and Nikos that morning—they’d left with hugs and promises to visit again soon—and the house felt quiet, in the best way. Lila had spent the afternoon baking banana bread (extra cinnamon, just how I liked it) and rearranging the memory box, tucking the pool night note next to the lighthouse photo. Now, as she lit the cigarette, the flame cast a warm glow on her face, and the smoke curled gently into the night air. “Women Smoking on belly dress—never thought I’d be that person,” she said, laughing softly as she took a slow drag. I smiled, watching her. The belly dress fit her perfectly, loose enough to feel comfortable, but still showing the soft curve of her waist. “You look like you belong here,” I said. “Like the night was made for this.”
She leaned back in her chair, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ocean. “Remember when we first moved here?” she said. “I was so scared to slow down—always thinking about the gym, the ivy bench, all the things we left behind.” I nodded, reaching over to take her free hand. Her skin was warm, and the mint scent of the cigarette mixed with the lavender from our porch plants. “Now?” she said, squeezing my hand. “I just… breathe. Nights like this, with you, the moon, this dress? It’s enough.” I kissed her knuckles, my heart full. Love wasn’t about grand gestures—it was about these quiet moments, the ones where you could just be yourself, no rush, no pretense.
Lila finished her cigarette, stubbing it out in the small ashtray we’d brought outside, and stood up, stretching. The belly dress rode up a little, revealing a sliver of her skin, and I couldn’t help but stare. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said, grinning. “Or I’ll make you bake more banana bread.” I laughed, standing up to wrap my arms around her waist. She leaned back against me, her head on my chest, and we watched the waves crash against the shore. “I love this dress,” she said, turning her head to kiss my jaw. “It makes me feel… free. Like I don’t have to be anyone but me.” I nodded, resting my chin on top of her head. “That’s the best part of us,” I said. “We get to be just… us.”
Later, we walked down to the beach, Lila’s hand in mine, the belly dress fluttering in the breeze. She’d taken off her shoes, and her feet sank into the cool sand. We stopped at our cove, the one where we’d found Shell, and sat on the six-pack towel, watching the moon reflect on the water. “I want to add something to the memory box tomorrow,” she said, her voice soft. “A swatch of this dress. To remember tonight.” I smiled, pulling her closer. “Perfect,” I said. “And I’ll sketch you—here, in the dress, under the moon. We’ll tape it next to the swatch.” She kissed me, slow and sweet, and the mint scent of the cigarette was still on her lips.
When we walked back to the house, Lila’s belly dress was covered in a light layer of sand, but she didn’t care. She hung it carefully on the porch rail—“To air out,” she said—and we made hot chocolate, stirring in a spoonful of banana honey. We sat on the terrace again, sipping our drinks, and Shell trotted out, curling up at our feet. “I love us,” Lila said, her eyes soft. “All of it—the messy parts, the quiet parts, the nights where I smoke a cigarette in a belly dress and you sketch me.” I nodded, squeezing her hand. “Me too,” I said. “Forever.”
That night, as we lay in bed, Lila’s head on my chest, I thought about the evening—the moon, the smoke, the belly dress, the way she’d laughed when I teased her about the sand in her hair. Women Smoking on belly dress wasn’t about the cigarette or the dress. It was about freedom, about comfort, about loving someone so much that you could be completely yourself with them. It was about Lila, in her loose beige dress, her mint-scented breath, her quiet smile. It was about love that felt like a quiet hug—warm, safe, and impossible to forget.
And as I drifted off to sleep, listening to her soft snores, I knew—there would be more nights like this, more dresses, more quiet moments. Because love isn’t just about the big days. It’s about the small, perfect ones, where you can just be together. Exactly how we wanted it.
