Page 62 of Every Shattered Note
Maybe we crash tomorrow.Maybe this thing between us gets swallowed the second we return to gravity.
But for tonight ...tonight, we’re still floating.
And I’ve never wanted to land less in my life.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Alyssa
The jet lands so quietly I almost don’t believe we’ve touched the ground.Outside the cabin windows, San Cristóbal stretches into the distance—dark hills cradling the city, the moon hanging low and thin above the skyline.
An entire crew is waiting for us on the tarmac.Men in matching jackets unload luggage I forgot we brought.A woman with dark braids and a clipboard greets Dexter in Spanish.He answers her with an ease I didn’t expect—his voice low, warm, completely at home in the rhythm of another language.
Of course, he speaks Spanish.
It shouldn’t surprise me.This guy seems like just an average person, but he has a lot of layers tucked beneath that easy smile and quiet charm.There’s a softness in him that doesn’t match the headlines or the swagger I expected.And it’s hard—not just to like him, but to stop liking him.
Hard not to see past the way we met.
Hard not to want more, even when I know better.
We’re ushered into a black SUV that smells like leather and citrus.During the ride, I lean against the window, the chill of the glass grounding me as I watch the road snake through open stretches of desert brush and low adobe homes, their silhouettes quiet under the vast, ink-blue sky.A few windows still glow with life—warm pools of light in the middle of nowhere.
Dexter doesn’t speak.
He just looks at me, his gaze more still than the desert outside.He watches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.Like he’s trying to memorize the way I sit when I’m tired, the shape of my profile.
And something about that breaks me a little.
Because I know that look.
It’s the look people give things they’re afraid they can’t keep what they have: like a view from an airplane window.A song that ends too soon.Someone they never expected to want this much.
I feel it in my throat.In my spine.In that too-quiet part of me that still expects everything good to fade.But somehow I think this is good.It’d be great if it could happen.
And this—whatever this is between us—it feels good.It could be more than good, if we let it.
A part of me wants to believe it’s real.
The other?The other part already misses him.
Like some version of this moment is already ending.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most—not the lies.But how deeply I want this to last, even when I know it can’t.
The air shifts when we pull through a set of iron gates and onto a winding drive carved into the earth like it’s always been there.Low brush lines the road—clusters of agave, a few tall palms swaying lazily in the breeze coming off the ocean.Dust rises behind us, soft and golden under the moonlight.
And then I see it.
The house unfolds in pieces, rising into view slowly.It sits high on the bluff, facing the open water, as if it’s been watching the tide for decades.Stucco walls glow a soft cream in the moonlight, with expansive balconies edged in sun-faded tile and flowering vines that twist along the columns like they’ve grown wild and unbothered.
Light spills from the windows—soft and amber—framed in dark wood.The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and something warm, like citrus and worn stone baked by the sun.
We pull in at the base of a short stone staircase.The front door is already open, warm light beckoning us inside.
But I don’t move.
Not at first.
