Page 66 of Every Shattered Note
A beat passes.
He walks to the railing beside me, rests his arms on it the same way I did, close enough that I can feel the heat of him but not quite touching.
“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says, watching the water.
“No one?”
He shakes his head.“Not my manager.Not the guys.”He points at everything.“It was my grandparents’.Grandma loved this place.She called it her little piece of heaven on earth.There’s a trust to keep it up.That’s why it looks updated.”
“You come often?”
“Honestly, it’s been a while since I did,” he confesses.“I was too lost to remember the best place.”
I glance at him, surprised.“Why today?”
He shrugs.“Why not?”He responds with a question, but I feel like there’s a lot behind his motives.
I just nod slowly, unsure what to say to that.Unsure what it means that I’m here now.That we are.
“You hungry?”he asks, changing the subject gently.“Isela left fresh fruit.There’s coffee.Or I could make you eggs and burn the toast.”
I laugh.“Let’s start with the fruit.”
He smiles, then glances back at the house.“Come on.Let me feed you.”
I follow him inside, heart full and aching.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Dexter
The day doesn’t feel real.
It feels like I’m borrowing it.As if I’ve slipped into someone else’s skin.Like I’ve stepped into a version of myself I never expected to meet, stripped of all those layers I add so no one could get close to me.I’m somehow raw in a way that feels unfamiliar.Everything about this day feels suspended.Fragile.The air tilts around us, almost listening, waiting to see what we’ll do with this narrow stretch of stillness before the world tilts back into noise.
Sunlight pours across the terrace in wide, golden strokes—bright and bold, not shy about where it lands.It slides over the tile, over the curve of Aly’s shoulder, catching in the damp ends of her hair like it wants to stay there.Her skin glows—still kissed by saltwater.That ocean-blue swimsuit hugs her like it was sewn onto her, clinging to every curve like it knows what it’s holding.The gauzy tunic drapes over her thighs, sheer enough to hint, not enough to hide.
She sits on the terrace, legs folded beneath her, her strawberry daiquiri sweating in the sun beside her.She hasn’t touched it.Hasn’t moved.Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, mouth parted like she’s trying to make sense of something the sea keeps just out of reach.Like it’s telling her a truth so old, so personal, it bypasses language entirely and goes straight to whatever part of her still dares to believe in wonder.
And fuck, I can’t stop watching Alyssa.
She’s not trying to be anything right now.She’s just existing in a moment so unfiltered, so her, it makes my pulse trip over itself.The sun paints her in light so rare, I want to bottle it and carry it.
There’s a reverence in the way she sits there, like she belongs to this place.Or maybe like the place has finally made room for her.
And all I can think—aching, visceral—is how I’d trade every stage I’ve ever stood on just to keep her in this stillness a little longer.To be the one she turns to when the ocean runs out of answers.
Rosie, my guitar, rests against my knee.My fingers drift over the strings—not playing, just touching.Feeling her.The silence isn’t empty.It pulses with something deeper than sound.Like a song holding its breath.Waiting for the right moment to speak.
And then, I hear Aly hum.It’s not a melody, not something you’d catch unless you were listening closely.But I notice.Of course I fucking notice.
It’s almost absentminded.But it moves with rhythm.With intent.
Like the start of something inevitable.
And maybe that’s what this is, a beginning I never expected to want.
I clear my throat, fingers still on the strings.“You hungry?”
