Chapter Text
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
During the winter, your town was that gray-stone coastal corner smelling of sea salt and damp moss where everyone knew each other. It was a place where retired fishermen sat on harbor benches, repeating the exact same anecdotes they’d been spinning for forty years, where taverns smelled of cheap white wine, and the slow, lonely rumble of a single car was enough to break the afternoon silence.
It had that duality you loved so much. On one hand, the old-money elegance of a stately promenade lined with granite buildings and terraces showing off expensive seafood to the weekend crowd, while on the other, the wild authenticity of a peninsula that died into fine-sand beaches, protected dunes, and freezing waters where the Atlantic pounded the coastline with force.
But you were already used to the identity crisis the town suffered every first of June.
For you, the change of seasons wasn't just about the sudden heat, the mosquitoes, or the local verbenas echoing from the surrounding villages. It was physical.
It was exhausting.
From autumn to spring, you worked at the bar downtown, where customers didn’t even have to open their mouths because you already knew their regular order. The 24-hour news channel played in the background, the local grandpas played card games, and the few kids left in town would come running in at snack time for a donut. It was predictable.
With summer, however, the beachfront chiringuito owned by that same boss opened its wooden doors, and you knew your grease-scented, sand-filled nightmare was officially beginning.
Working there from June to September meant giving up on healthy feet, decent sleep, and whatever patience you had left. The days started early under a cloudless blue sky, with the sun beating mercilessly down on the canvas roof. By midday, the air grew thick with a heavy, suffocating mix of sea humidity, old frying oil from the kitchen, and that sickeningly sweet coconut scent of sunscreen that seemed to stick to your clothes.
From behind the bar, the landscape was a brutal contrast. The dunes, which in May were wild, straw-colored and pale-green sanctuaries, were now trampled by vacationers who clearly didn't know how to read the "Protected Area" signs. Meanwhile, the ocean, with its deep greenish-blue, was filled with the white foam of breaking waves and the first early-bird surfers cutting through the swell.
As the morning crawled on, the chiringuito's deck turned into a display of tourist fauna.
The first to arrive were always the early-morning athletes, ordering still water or a Red Bull while dripping saltwater onto the pristine wooden floor. Then came the city families, packed to the brim like they were moving houses: grandmas carrying heavy umbrellas that they hammered into the sand before heading off for their mandatory walk along the shoreline, stressed-out parents slathering cream on crying toddlers, and sand-covered kids begging for ice cream before lunch.
After two in the afternoon, the atmosphere grew louder, sweatier, and more chaotic. Hordes of teenagers arrived with their phone music on full blast, city slickers complained that the Atlantic water was practically arctic, and pale couples desperately hunted for a patch of shade to survive the afternoon heat.
You moved among them like a lightning bolt with a crumpled notepad, dodging beach toys, wiping down sticky beer rings, and shouting orders to the kitchen over the general roar of a hundred conversations.
By eight, the sun was finally beginning to dip, painting the sky a thick, golden hue, and the evening breeze at last brought some cool relief to the packed deck. You were mindlessly wiping down the beer taps, your thighs aching and your lower back throbbing, praying to whatever saint was listening that another table wouldn't show up unable to tell the difference between a sangría and a tinto de verano.
It was right at that moment, when the wooden floor of the deck seemed to groan under an unusual weight.
When Reiner appeared on the deck, your first thought was that men of his stature should be legally banned from plastic chairs.
Jesus, you thought, your rag slowing down on the counter. Did he get lost on his way to a lumberjack convention?
He wasn't fat, it wasn't that at all. Quite the... opposite.
He was terrifyingly tall, infinitely broad-shouldered, and carried a physical shyness that was completely identical to an ocean liner trying to maneuver in a tiny fishing port. He stood perfectly still for a few seconds in front of the last empty table on the deck, looking down at the chair with an expression that bordered on genuine concern.
Under his left arm, tucked against a massive torso, he carried a surfboard. It was yellowed by the sun, covered in deep scratches, and sported skate stickers so weathered by the water that you couldn't even make out the designs anymore. He leaned it carefully against the wooden fence, treating it like it was made of glass, before testing the stability of the plastic chair with the flat of his palm.
The furniture gave a dry creak. Reiner froze, his shoulders tensing.
From the other side of the bar, your hand stopped completely. You watched the way his broad back filled out a simple, faded t-shirt, and a sudden, unexpected spark of amusement cut through your shift fatigue.
"It'll hold," you called out, resting your elbows on the counter and leaning forward, "or so I think. We haven't had a casualty since… June?"
It was still in June.
He looked up. His blonde hair was damp from his last dip, slicked back by the water, though a couple of stubborn, thick strands were already breaking free and falling over a forehead heavily tanned by the sun. The skin on his shoulders was starting to turn a dangerous shade of pink, well, the classic mark of someone who didn't respect the midday sun, and he had a ridiculous, stark white streak of poorly rubbed-in sunscreen crossing the bridge of his nose.
He blinked at you, with his dark yellow-brown eyes. "You think?" he asked.
His Spanish was good, honestly, too good for someone you had instantly clocked as a foreigner. There was a hard accent underneath the words, a German cadence you had heard a thousand times from the summer regulars.
"Look, it has survived birthdays, bachelor parties, and even the occasional local brawl." you teased, tucking the notepad into your apron pocket and walking over to his table, "It should be able to handle you. Just don't make any sudden movements."
Reiner glanced at the flimsy plastic out of the corner of his eye, his jaw tensing slightly. "Should it?"
"Well, I’m not making any promises."
For a second, watching the way he hesitated, you honestly thought he’d turn around, pick up his board, and retreat back to the safety of the dunes. But with a heavy sigh, he finally collapsed into the seat. The chair groaned in protest, expanding under his weight, and he immediately planted both of his huge feet flat on the wooden deck, clearly ready for impact if the chair decided to give out.
The furniture held.
"See?" you said, pulling out your pen with a triumphant flourish, "Have some blind faith in flea-market furniture."
"I still think your boss should replace them," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep, a low rumble that you felt somewhere in your chest, "it is a safety hazard."
"Hey, don't ruin the moment."
The corner of his mouth twitched. He didn’t quite smile, but the rigid line of his shoulders relaxed just a fraction. Up close, you couldn't help but notice his hands resting on the white tabletop: they were massive, with thick fingers and rough palms full of heavy calluses you couldn’t match with his surfer appearance.
"What can I get you?" you asked, tapping the pen against the paper.
"A beer, please."
"Right, that narrows it down to about fifty options."
Reiner looked toward the bar, his eyes tracking the glowing glass of the coolers. Inside were rows of Estrella Galicia, Mahou, Estrella Damm, 1906, and two fancy craft brands that almost nobody ordered once they found out the price. He looked slightly overwhelmed by the selection.
"Just... a local one, then. Whatever is standard."
"They’re all technically local depending on which highway you take," you countered, enjoying the way his brow furrowed.
"The one you’d drink when you clock out."
You didn't even have to think about it. You pointed the tip of your pen toward the amber bottles of Estrella Galicia. "That one. No competition."
"That one it is, then," he agreed, nodding once.
"Bottle or draft?"
Reiner hesitated for a beat, processing. "Bottle."
"Congratulations, you passed the first test." you murmured, scribbling it down.
He blinked, suddenly looking alert. "There was a test?"
"There's always a test for the guiris."
His face tensed with such a sudden, intense seriousness that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. He looked genuinely offended, like you had just insulted his lineage.
"I am not a guiri." he stated firmly.
"Oh, c´mon." you chuckled, crossing your arms and leaning back slightly to take him in, "You're blonde, practically a giant, you have a wetsuit hanging off your bag, aaand you have sunscreen right on your nose."
Reiner’s hand flew to his face, his large fingers aggressively rubbing the bridge of his nose to wipe away the white trace of the cream. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red under his tan.
"I’ve been vacationing around here since I was a kid." he protested, his accent thickening slightly under the pressure of his embarrassment, "I know the area."
"Okay, okay. So you're a veteran guiri."
"I know that a proper Spanish tortilla has to have onions," he shot back, lifting his chin with a stubborn, proud look that made him look absurdly attractive.
You measured him with an amused, lingering gaze. The onion debate was holy ground around here. Alright, German, you thought, you get points for that.
"Fair enough," you conceded, a soft smile breaking on your face, "I'll credit you half a point of residency for that. You're officially a high-tier tourist."
He smiled then, and the sudden change in his face caught you completely off guard. The golden evening light hit his eyes perfectly, turning the hazel into a warm, molten gold. It completely erased, in a single flash, that intimidating aura of a man who looked like he could knock down a concrete wall with a single punch. It left him looking exposed. Soft.
Your pen hovered over the paper for a second too long before you forced yourself to blink and snap out of it.
"Anything to eat with that beer?" you asked, clearing your throat and trying to find your professional bearings again.
"What is... zorza?" he asked, his thick finger pointing toward the chalkboard menu hanging by the kitchen door.
"Marinated pork. Lots of garlic, oregano, and paprika."
"Is it spicy?"
"Depends on how sensitive your German palate is," you teased, leaning in a little closer, "I still don't know if sweet paprika is enough to make you sweat."
Reiner crossed his arms over the table, a movement that only served to emphasize the absurd width of his chest against the backdrop of the darkening sea. He looked you dead in the eye, a spark of quiet defiance in his gaze.
"I can handle it."
"That's exactly what all the tourists say right before they order a second basket of bread to save their tongues. Noted." you smiled, turning on your heel to head toward the bar.
"Thank you."
The words caught you so honestly, that it forced you to glance back over your shoulder. It wasn't the automatic, empty politeness of a tourist wanting quick service, it just sounded… raw. Well, sincere, as if he truly valued the fact that you were standing there talking to him.
You gave him a small nod, your heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter under your stained apron as you walked away to fetch his bottle.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼