Agnis moves through Olbia like a tide slipping between cracks — present but never pinned. By day, she kneels at the edge of seagrass meadows just beyond Porto Romano, documenting Zostera marina density while whispering data into voice logs no one will hear until grant season comes around. Her real work happens after sunset, paddling alone into a crescent-shaped cove accessible only if you time the moon right and don’t mind scraping your knees on submerged stone ruins. There, beneath arches older than maps, she reads poetry aloud to herself, or sometimes leaves handwritten notes tucked inside forgotten paperbacks left behind by tourists who once believed this place was theirs.She met him during a downpour — *a French photographer chasing storm light over Roman columns* — drenched and laughing too loud near the old thermal baths where he’d set up tripod legs in ankle-deep water. Their first conversation lasted two hours standing under an awning drinking espresso from cracked cups handed out by a midnight barista whose cafe had long since closed its registers but kept boiling water 'for strays.' She gave nothing away then except dry matches from her pocket and the fact that olive oil makes rain bead prettier on lens filters.Their rhythm became defined by absence punctuated by collision: midnight paddle outs where he followed her across moonlit channels in silence, only to arrive at the cove and cook her a meal of grilled sardines and lemon potatoes cooked over driftwood — *a recipe from his grandmother’s kitchen in Marseille,* he said, *the one I dreamed about during chemo.* She kissed him for the first time when thunder cracked open a sky already split with stars, her hands shaking not from cold but the terror of wanting someone again after years of love that left fossils instead of footprints.Sexuality for Agnis isn’t performance; it lives in delayed reactions. The way he waits until she offers her hand before stepping off the paddleboard onto slick rock. How they bathe each other under outdoor showers using only salt soap and conversation about migratory bird patterns as foreplay. Her pleasure blooms slowly — like seagrass rhizomes spreading unseen beneath sediment — triggered more by whispered confessions than touch alone. When desire erupts, it does so like flash floods through dry riverbeds: sudden, total, carving new paths.