As the sun sets upon Jessieville, painting the darkening sky pink and yellow, the water of the lake remains still, if not for the water lapping at the pontoon and the rocks in the dirt. On the other side, a forest stretches upon the land, majestuous and silent, complementing the peaceful landscape of Lake Ouachita.

Leaves rustle, towering above the patchy grass and the white cabin where sailing equipment is stored during the night. A great blue heron skims the surface, dipping the tip of its toe in the water, until it comes to a halt, plunging both legs instead. It stands there, tall and proud, bending its neck in an S-shape to scratch the side of its head. Then, without warning, its elongated beak dives into the lake, taking out a small fish it doesn't wait to gobble.

Farther on the right, near a colourful half-buried rowboat, a bunch of fireflies dance in the air. The golden dots they form in the obscurity mesmerise and fascinate. Dashing past them, a blue firefly flutters its wings, its course more square than the other insects.

On the left of the pontoon, a few feet away, the blinking eyes of a young frog peek out of the surface, discreet in the perfect picture the Earth offers to her admiring eyes.

With her bare foot drawing an eight-shape in the water, she folds her other ankle under her knee. She stabilises her sketchbook on her leg, clutching her pencil between her fingers as she squints to see the lines she draws.

Behind her, the sound of footsteps echo through the forest, stopping on the shore, followed by five sharp clicks. Rolling her eyes, she throws a glance above her shoulder, noticing the silhouette of a young man with his hands cupped at his mouth. He shakes something with a grunt, disrupting the harmony.

"Ah, fuck."

She presses a finger between her brows, irritated by the interruption. Much to her relief, the man walks away, but her joy comes to a sudden end when the footsteps hit the wooden planks of the pontoon in her direction.

"Hi there," his voice echoes.

She drops her sketchbook onto her lap and mumbles to herself.

"Coc oen."

The young man stops near her, waving his lighter in his hand as he smiles at her. She stares into his eyes, which she can't quite discern apart from the gleam reflecting on their white parts. All she sees is the mass of long brown waves cascading onto his shoulders and collarbones and the white shirt he wears under a sleeveless denim vest.

"Hi, sorry," he greets her again, "didn't want to interrupt. Do you have a lighter by any chance? Mine's dead."

"Sure."

She shoves her hand into her pocket and takes out her own, handing it to him. He crouches there, cupping another hand around the cigarette she guesses is hanging between his lips. With only one click, the lighter produces a bright flame, setting the tip of the tobacco ablaze.

His traits bathe in its short-lived halo, dancing upon his soft cheekbones and jawline. Only now does she see the kind brown irises, not wide enough for them to meet the eyelids around them.

She bites off a piece of skin from her lips as her eyes trace the lines of his face, mentally drawing them. Youth and a certain femininity emanate from them. She finds the masculinity in his brow and jaw, but not one that is harsh, nor clearly defined. It lacks the superficiality of many boys his age she's come across, although it doesn't come off as rough or unkempt. He has the type of face she feels is underappreciated, especially in art.

When a loud splat reaches her ear, she realises that he is holding her lighter up for her to take. A corner of his mouth is turned upwards in a coy smirk.

She was staring. Of course she was. Again.

"Thanks," he whispers, blowing out some smoke.

"Of course."

Without being invited, he comes to sit next to her, facing the water with a sigh of relief, the sweet smoke filling his lungs at last. His eyes roll towards the sketchbook balanced on her leg, making out the delicate lines despite the darkness.

"Nice bird," he comments, recognising the subject.

"It's a heron," she responds with a sigh.

She doesn't like to be disturbed. Especially not during her usual evening drawing session. Days are for entertainment or work, nights are for peace and quiet, she believes. So when this stranger comes uninvited, she can't help the irritation from spreading through her. She doesn't feel unsafe, quite the opposite.

Puffing his cigarette with his head tilted back, he begins to hum a tune. With a groan, she whips her head around to glare at him.

"Will you stop?" she scolds. "Do you have to sit here, of all places? You have an entire lakeshore to yourself!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be a dick," he chuckles, jumping onto his feet. "I love your accent, by the way. Nothing I've ever heard before. Where are you from?"

She considers his question for a moment, hesitating to start a conversation with him after making it clear that she doesn't want him sticking around. Yet, her instinct pushes her to answer.

What harm would it cause?

"Wales."

"Wales?" he repeats, scratching the tip of his nose with his thumb. "Where the fuck is that?"

"Fucking Americans and geography," she laughs.

"Hey, rude!"

His laughter joins her, warm and friendly. It echoes across the lake, ricocheting against the tree trunks and enveloping them in a cosy cocoon.

"It's next to England," she adds with a sincere smile.

"Okay. Where, next to England?"

With another chuckle, she pats the spot next to her, leaving him enough space to sit. He drops back onto his bottom, pulling his knees up against his chest. She flips the page of her book and begins to draw the shape of Great Britain, separating Scotland and Wales from England. She writes down the names onto the hollow spaces before showing the makeshift map to him.

As he cranes his neck to have a look, the ends of his hair tickle her fingers. A musky perfume emanating from his neck reaches her nostrils, intoxicating and hypnotising.

She shoves the thoughts out of her head and taps her drawing with the tip of her pencil before grossly colouring the sea to give him a better idea.

"That's where I'm from. Wales."

"I don't think I've ever heard of that place before. The more you know…"

"Well, have you heard of Princess Diana?"

He snorts, holding his cigarette between his fingers away from his face. Wrinkles form at the corner of his eye.

"Of course. She's hot."

"I guess she is," she shrugs with an eye roll. "Well, she's the Princess of Wales."

"Ooooh. I see. But you speak English over there, right?"

"And Welsh, for some. Definitely not everyone speaks it."

He nods and taps the cigarette above the water, disposing of the extinguished ashes. Once they land on the surface, he tucks the butt between his lips and extends his hand.

"I'm Eddie, by the way."

"Arwen," she replies with a grin, shaking his hand.

"No fucking way."

"Oh shut up, I know what you have in mind."

Eddie smiles from ear to ear, wrinkles his nose and pulls his face closer with a cunning look upon it.

"You little Elvish princess!"

"Oh gosh…"

Arwen flips him off with a grin and picks her pen up again to finish up some touches on her heron sketch. He watches her, impressed that she can even see at all with the lack of light, the park having decided on a policy to switch off all lampposts past 10 PM. Eddie finishes his cigarette without looking away from the pencil strokes, crushing it on the side of the pontoon without throwing it away.

Knowing that he's staring, she's glad that the darkness hides her blushing. He's not that bad or annoying after all, she thinks. He seems rather sweet. And she can't deny that she finds him really attractive, but she tries not to think about it.

"So, Elvish princess, where in Wales are you from?" he asks, crossing his legs in front of him.

"Myddfai."

"Excuse me, what was that?"

She lets out a chuckle, too high-pitched for her own taste. Ugh, get a grip!

"I'm from Myddfai, it's a Welsh name. It's about an hour away from Swansea, which is right here," she points at her map.

"Uh-uh. How come you're here? I mean, it's not every day that people from Wales come to fucking Arkansas."

"My dad's transferring to Pittsburgh for his work, so we're moving there soon. We came for a first visit and then my dad decided to go see a bit more of America. So we came here on a camping trip after the new landlord told him about how nice it is."

"I see. How do you feel about moving to the U.S.?"

Pouting her lips, she shrugs and tilts her head, looking up at the sky.

"I don't know yet. I'm definitely not attached to the place yet. I really don't like Pittsburgh."

"Nobody does," he laughs.

"And you? Are you from here?"

"Oh, no. I'm from Hawkins, Indiana. I graduated high school last year and took a gap year to figure stuff out, I guess. So I saved money to at least go on this trip. It's my first vacation ever."

"No way!"

Her jaw drops at his words. How could a grown man never have been on holiday before? As her pupils scan his face, she understands that it's not a joke.

"How?"

"Well, I live with my uncle and we're not exactly money machines. But I wanted to have a retreat near a lake or something and my friend Steve recommended this place. He came here a few times with his folks."

"How long have you been staying here?"

"About five days now. You?"

"Three."

"Do you have any plans for the rest of your trip?"

She nods and flips the pages of her sketchbook until she finds a list scribbled on the back of the cover.

"I'd love to go kayaking, paddle boarding, maybe try rollerskating somewhere, maybe just go on a rowboat as well."

"Nice! How many days do you have left?"

"About two weeks."

"Same for me!" he chimes. "Hey, wanna do some of those together? I'm bored out of my mind here, and I wouldn't mind some company."

"Sure. Why not?"

"But, but, but, we have to cross out some stuff on my list, too."

Arwen stares at him with a raised eyebrow, slamming her sketchbook shut.

"Better not be sexual."

Eddie chortles and shakes his head.

"Nah, take me out for dinner first," he teases. "I was thinking more like music stuff and maybe a tiny bit of nerdy stuff. Shocking, I know."

"Well, you call me Elvish princess, I think I figured that out already."

"Touché."

He smiles and plants a kiss on her cheek before dragging himself back on his feet. He brushes some dust off his black jeans.

"Say, tomorrow, 11 AM?"

"Huh?"

"For one of the things from your list."

"Oh. sure. Shall we meet here?"

"Okay. I'll see you."

He walks off the pontoon and turns back around one more time to bow.

"Good night, Your Elvish Majesty."