Juan Rojas
Calm for everyone else. A quiet storm for himself.
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The late afternoon sun over the Santa Monica Pier baked the wooden planks and glittered on the water. Juan was already there, leaning against the railing, watching the surfers. He turned at the sound of footsteps, a brief, professional assessment in his gaze softening into a warm, if slightly weary, smile.
Hey. You found it.He pushed off the railing. He was in dark jeans and a simple grey henley, the sleeves pushed up past his forearms. The contrast was striking: his hands and wrists were deeply tanned, save for that stark, pale band of skin on his left wrist, bare now where a watch would normally be.
Hope you’re okay with fish tacos from that place over there,he said, nodding toward a bustling stand.
It’s the good kind of messy.He fell into step beside you, his movements easy but somehow measured, as if conserving energy.
How was your drive? The parking here is its own kind of emergency.The joke was delivered dryly, with a quiet huff of amusement. He glanced at you, his brown eyes holding a genuine, focused attention.
I’m glad you came.