Page 63 of Every Shattered Note
Because this place ...it’s beyond anything I imagined.
It’s beautiful in a way that feels lived-in.
The car stops, crunching to a soft halt on the gravel drive.One of the crew opens my door before I have the chance to reach for it myself, but it’s Dexter who’s suddenly there, hand outstretched, palm open like he’s done this a thousand times and still doesn’t take it for granted.
I hesitate—just for a second—but place my hand in his.
Warm.Sure.
And when I step out, he doesn’t let go.
We walk up the stone steps side by side, his fingers still tangled with mine like we’re about to cross into something sacred and he doesn’t want to lose the thread of whatever this is.He pushes the front door open, and I have to stop.
Inside, it’s even more breathtaking.
The floors are wide-plank wood, sun-warmed and worn smooth.A long, soft rug stretches across the entryway, muted colors woven into an old pattern that feels more remembered than designed.To the left, an open living room breathes with space—high ceilings, arched windows cracked open to let in the breeze.A stone fireplace rests in the corner, framed by low shelves filled with books, driftwood, and sea-worn shells like someone’s been collecting moments instead of things.
I wander forward slowly, brushing my fingers along the edge of a worn leather armchair.
There’s a piano in the corner.
On the far side of the room, a stack of vinyl records sits beside a stereo.One of them is flipped backward, and handwritten notes are scribbled on the sleeve.
Somehow I feel like this house has him in it.Everywhere.But not the version I met at the hotel which he swears he’s let only a few see.Nope.This is the real one.The man behind the music and the fame, the glasses and the smirk and of course the bad reputation.
This is the man who’s letting me see past all of it.
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s still beside me—hand wrapped gently around mine, thumb brushing absent-minded circles along my knuckles like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
His eyes scan the room like he’s seeing it through me, not for the first time, but like it matters now in a way it never did before.As if he’s waiting to see if I’ll stay.
“This place is gorgeous,” I whisper.
He smiles, slow and shy.“I had the feeling you’d like it.”
“You brought me to paradise,” I murmur, still stunned.“On a Sunday.”
“I told you,” he says, stepping closer.“I want your Monday and Tuesday mornings too.”
I don’t know what to do with that.With him.
We linger in the living room, walking through it like we’ve already been here before.Like this is a memory we’re stepping back into instead of a first.
He shows me the kitchen.The tile is old, the appliances new.There’s a loaf of fresh bread on the counter and a note from someone named Isela who apparently comes in the mornings to cook if we want.
He says it casually.Like it’s normal.
It’s not.
None of this is.
And yet I don’t want to leave.
“I’ll show you the rooms,” he says, finally, voice quiet now.“Yours is at the end of the hall.”
“Where will you be sleeping?”I ask, glancing up.
He nods, then motions down a hallway bathed in golden light.“I figured you might want space.”
