Suffolk Coast
"On the eroding coast near Aldeburgh, erosion researcher Christine studies what the sea takes. When journalist Tom investigates climate change, she gives him more than data."
The Suffolk coast was disappearing—a meter a year, whole villages lost to the sea over centuries, and the rate accelerating faster than anyone had predicted. I'd spent twenty years measuring what we were losing and trying to make people understand.
"Dr. Webb?"
The journalist approaching across the beach was carrying a notebook and determination. Another climate piece, probably, another human-interest angle on drowning villages.
"If you want dramatic quotes about the apocalypse, you're in the wrong place."
"I want accurate information about what's actually happening. Tom Richards. I write long-form pieces for—"
"I know who you are. You did that piece on Arctic ice that was actually accurate." I softened slightly. "That's rare."
"Accuracy should be common."
"Should be. Isn't." I gestured at the cliff. "Want to see what's actually happening?"
Tom spent a month on the coast. Not photographing the dramatic erosion—though there was drama—but understanding the science, the policy failures, the particular tragedy of watching places disappear while committees debated.
"Why do you keep doing this?" he asked during week three. We'd moved from the cliffs to my cottage nearby, professional distance long since abandoned.
"Because someone has to measure what we're losing. Because policy requires data." I stared at the sea through my window. "Because I grew up in a village that isn't there anymore."
"That's personal."
"Everything about this coast is personal. People have lived here for millennia. Now they're having to leave." I met his eyes. "The sea doesn't care. Neither do most politicians. Someone has to care."
"You care."
"I care enough to stay when easier work was available. I care enough to keep measuring even when the news is always bad." I touched his arm. "You care enough to write accurate pieces when sensationalism sells better."
"That's why I'm here." He moved closer. "Christine. I've covered climate stories worldwide. I've never met anyone who made me feel hope."
"I'm not hopeful."
"You're still fighting. That's what hope looks like when it's honest." He touched my face. "Can I stay? Not for the article. Just... stay."
We kissed in my cottage while the sea continued its work outside. His mouth was warm, certain—the kiss of someone who'd made a choice and intended to keep it.
"The bedroom's through there," I said.
"Show me what it's like to live with loss."
The bedroom faced the sea—a view that would eventually be different, eventually be gone. Tom looked at it with understanding rather than pity.
"You watch it every day."
"I measure it every day. Watching is for people who don't understand."
"Teach me to understand."
We made love while the coast eroded, our bodies finding warmth that the cold statistics couldn't provide. Tom touched me with journalist's attention—finding the story in skin, the narrative in response.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for fieldwork."
"You're built for endurance. For fighting." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful things fight back."
We came together while the sea waited for its next inch, both of us finding something solid in a world that kept shifting. When I gasped his name, it was with the same intensity I brought to my work—desperate, determined, refusing to give up.
"Stay," I said afterward.
"How long?"
"As long as this coast. Or as long as we have." I touched his face. "I've spent twenty years measuring loss. Having something to gain would be novel."
He stayed. The article became a series, the series became a career shift—now he covers climate with scientific rigor and human warmth. And every evening, he comes home to a cottage where the view gets smaller, where a woman measures what we're losing while building something that might endure.
"We're fighting together now," he said one night.
"Against the sea?"
"Against forgetting. Against indifference. Against everything that lets places disappear while people look away."
The coast still erodes. My measurements still show loss. But now there's a journalist who became a partner, who helps me remember why the fight matters even when every measurement brings bad news.
That's what climate work really requires—not just data, but connection. Tom found it in my cottage and in me. I found someone who understood that some battles are worth fighting even when you're losing, and that love is one form of resistance against everything that wants to wash us away.