He has no idea how they ended up here with sand in places he didn't even know he had.
The Saturday had begun just like any other since they'd moved to Los Angeles five months ago. The day was overcast and cool, and he slept in while she bustled around the apartment, straightening up and cleaning.
"Benji and his new girlfriend are coming for a visit tomorrow," she says, throwing a pillow at his head, "It would be nice if you'd get up and help me."
"Benji won't care if the place is a mess," he groans into the mattress.
"Maybe he won't, but I will," she tells him as she makes plenty of noise opening and closing the dresser drawers and closet door. "I don't want his girlfriend to think we live in squalor."
He groans again before climbing out of bed and padding down the hallway wearing only his boxers. By the time he eats his breakfast, scans the cable channels for any good movies, and slowly drinks his cup of coffee, it's almost noon. She's scowling at him from behind as he stands up from the sofa, mug in hand. He walks into the kitchen that she's just cleaned and places it on the counter by the sink before turning to leave.
"What, opening the dishwasher and placing the mug in is too much of a strain for you?" she snaps.
He looks at her blankly, "Well I never know if the dishwasher is clean or dirty, so I figure it's safer there."
"That's the worst excuse I ever heard in my life!" she retorts, "Have you ever heard of opening it and looking at the plates to see if they're dirty?"
He just shakes his head and walks out of the room. "You know, I'm really tired, so if we could just get on with our day here, that would be great," he grumbles.
"Oh, I'm so sorry that my trying to make our home clean and organized is inconvenient for you in any way," she says sarcastically.
"Beca," he begins.
"You know I didn't mind at first, because I knew you worked more hours than me, so I figured I'd pitch in here a little more. But I didn't expect you to do nothing, Jesse. Do you know how much work it takes to run a household for us?"
"I never asked you to do any of it!" he exclaims.
"Well, good! Because I'm done," and she grabs her car keys and slams the front door on her way out. He's annoyed, and he stomps down the hallway to take a hot shower, but it does nothing to calm his temper. He stands at the sink, noticing his toothbrush and shaving items lined neatly in a row on top of the shining vanity.
He walks out to the kitchen, fresh from his shower, and searches the refrigerator for something to eat for lunch. The fridge is well stocked with fresh foods and produce, and he makes himself a sandwich before plopping back on the sofa. He gets caught up in the plot of a movie he's never seen before, and when he looks back at the clock he realizes it has been nearly four hours since Beca left.
He looks around their tiny apartment. It isn't much, but she keeps it clean and neat, and there's almost always food waiting for him when he gets home from work, whether she cooked or it's takeout. And his clothes for work are always clean and ready to go. And he never runs out of shampoo or deodorant or anything, for that matter.
He's a jerk.
Where did she go? He searches his brain for a place she might have gone in her anger. And then it dawns on him to look in the last place she thinks he'd want to be. He grabs a sweater and his car keys and heads out the door.
The drive to the beach is a little longer than usual due to horrible L.A. traffic, but around dusk he arrives at the spot they came to when they first moved here and he admitted to her that he hates the beach.
"You hate the beach?" she asked incredulously, giving him the same expression he'd given her when she told him she didn't like movies all those years ago.
"I'd like it if it weren't for the sand," he had replied. "It's gritty, and dirty, and uncomfortable."
"You're so high maintenance," she joked.
He smiles when he spots her car parked alone in the lot, and pulls up beside it. He finds her sitting alone on the sand facing the waves, her legs folded into her chest as she huddles against the cool air. He walks across the sand towards her.
"How did you know I'd be here?" she asks without turning around.
"I decided to look in the last place you thought I'd want to be," he replies, his voice barely audible above the sound of the ocean.
She glances over her shoulder at him, "Well, looks like you were right."
"No, I'm not right, I'm an asshole," he answers, sitting beside her in the sand.
"You know why I do all of those things for you?" she asks him. "Because I'm not good with words or feelings, and I guess it's my way of letting you know I care. But lately, I feel more like your mother than your girlfriend."
"Ugh, please never compare yourself to my mother again," he mutters, grimacing.
"Your mother is lovely, and you know it," she tells him, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.
"Yes, she's lovely as a woman who is completely and totally separate in my mind from my very hot, very sexy, very gorgeous girlfriend. They don't mix, ok?" he replies. "I'm sorry, Bec," he adds, "I've been taking you for granted. I got used to you taking care of me, and it isn't fair. I'm the one who should be taking care of you."
"You do," she answers softly. "You love me. You have never stopped loving me even when I didn't deserve it."
"Ditto," he says, reaching for her hand. "God Beca! Your hands are freezing!"
He pulls her hands into the sleeves of his sweater, warming them against his. Suddenly she stands up, whisking off her top and heading in the direction of the water wearing her bra and a pair of shorts.
"Beca, what the hell are you doing?" he yells after her.
She turns, yelling back over her shoulder, "Come on weirdo!"
He pulls off his sweater and shirt, tossing them into the sand, and heads after her wearing only his boxers. She's wading knee deep into the water, the waves crashing into her in the increasing darkness.
When he reaches her, she takes his hand, pulling him further into the water until they are waist deep, and she runs her hands over his chest before pulling his face down to hers for a kiss. He picks her up, and she wraps her legs around his hips. They kiss passionately as the waves nearly knock him off balance a few times, and he can feel the effect she's having on his body.
"Beca," he moans into her lips, but she doesn't break contact with him.
"Beca," he repeats, "I'm so sorry," he murmurs into her neck as he kisses her, "I love you."
"I love you more," she answers, pushing her tongue forcefully back into his mouth, and he decides he can't take it anymore. He carries them out of the water until they're on the flat plane of sand that has been beaten down by the waves hitting it repeatedly and lays her down before falliing in between her legs. His hands are disposing of her shorts and underwear and hers are tugging expectantly at his boxers. They make love right then and there, with the waves lapping at their toes, in public for anyone to see.
It's hot, and eager, and passionate, and he doesn't care that he has sand in his hair and matted between his toes; all he feels is the heat of her body pressed into his.
Neither of them notices how cold they are until their breathing returns to normal and they're lying in the sand facing the stars, and she starts to shiver uncontrollably.
"Bec, you're freezing," he tells her, standing and scooping her up, carrying her back to their dry, discarded clothing. They dress quickly, and he pulls his sweater over her head to keep her warm. "Come on, let's go home," he says taking her hand.
And it's him that cleans the trail of sand they leave through the apartment leading to their bedroom where he tackles her again.
Ok, so maybe he doesn't really hate the beach after all.
A/N: Based off the song Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood. I'm noticing that I'm not getting as many reviews as before. I'm writing each chapter in an hour, so if they're not as good I apologize. I don't have as much time as I used to!