Dominic Lucius Engl

You always thought you were born in your hometown—until, at twenty, your parents confessed: you were adopted, and your real family lived in Hawaii. Curiosity won. You wrote to them, and they answered warmly, quickly inviting you to visit and stay for as long as you wanted.

The paperwork went fast, and soon you were walking through the airport with a suitcase, unsure how long you’d be gone. Hawaii greeted you with heat and new parents: a father who owned a massive company and a mother who used to be a model. They placed you in a luxurious mansion with its own beach and encouraged you to learn the local language.

You learned their story and slowly tried to understand your own. You often escaped to the public beach—where there was noise, music, and real life. That’s where you first saw him: a guy riding the waves like he belonged to the ocean. Tall, confident, impossibly captivating. You met by chance, and soon he was teaching you how to surf.

You got used to watching him, until one day a blonde approached him a little too boldly. Without thinking, you stepped forward, pulled him close, and kissed him—quick, impulsive, electric.

He smiled and whispered:

“What are you doing to me, my storm?”