Page 73 of Every Shattered Note
That’s when the air catches in my lungs.
He shifts, voice quieter now.“You make me want things I told myself I’d never get to have.”
The words reach somewhere fragile inside me.I don’t even mean to say it out loud.
“You make me want things I stopped letting myself want.”
He leans back like he needs the distance to breathe.But his eyes never leave mine.There’s reverence in them.Heat too—but quieter.Like he’s afraid if he touches this moment wrong, it’ll vanish.
“That’s the problem,” he says softly.“You make me want more.”
I flinch.Just a little.“A problem?”
His expression tightens—regret flashing quick and clear.
“Not you,” he says fast.“It’s not you.It’s who I am.The baggage I carry with me.The addiction—I’ll always be a recovering addict with a craving that’s hard to control.The headlines.The fucking cameras outside my apartment every time I so much as breathe wrong.I’ve spent my whole life being a walking complication.”
“But you’re not pretending now,” I say.
He shakes his head.“No.I’m terrified—but I’m not pretending.”
And there it is again.That soft ache in my chest that feels like hope trying to take root.
The music keeps whispering—low and aching.
We sit there, half-lost in silence and heat, the air thick with everything we haven’t said.
Undeniable.
Close.
Undone.
And still starving for the parts of each other we haven’t touched yet.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Alyssa
The night settles slowly over the small town beach, the air humming with salt and the faint hiss of the sea.Dinner lingers between us—grilled fish, roasted peppers, crepes drizzled with cajeta.And of course, there’shim.
Unexpectedly dreamy Dexter Vaughn.
His voice still curls around my pulse, the way it did when he leaned close to ask if I was still hungry, his breath grazing my cheek like a dare.I just shook my head before I responded, ‘Yes, for you.’
The sky has gone indigo, the moon a thin, watchful crescent above the palms, and the speakers play a ballad that keeps that quiet, almost wistful ache suspended between verses.
Dexter clears the plates even though I tell him not to.
“You’re my guest.Relax,” he says, disappearing into the villa with a lazy smirk.
I walk to the edge of the terrace.Below, the sea stretches out in molten swells, breathing slow, like it’s trying to lull the world to sleep.I wrap my arms around myself, even though I’m not cold.
The air smells like lime and smoke and ocean.
A minute later, he returns with two glasses of lemonade.He hands me one.Our fingers brush.The touch is fleeting, but it sends something through me—slow, molten, knotted with memory and want.
I take a sip just to avoid the ache that’s building in my throat.
