Page 65 of Every Shattered Note
If only I knew what comes next.
By the time I step out, the villa is still quiet.No sound from down the hall.Just the gentle hum of distant waves and birds I can’t name.I pull on the swimsuit and layer the tunic over it.It slips over my skin like breath.Loose.Barefoot.Bare-faced.
I cross the tile again, this time toward the tall glass door that leads out to the terrace.
I hesitate for half a second—like I might be waking something up—and then press the handle down.
It opens without a sound.
And the air hits my skin like a whisper.
Damp heat.Sea salt.A sweetness I can’t place.Something alive and still ancient.Something that saysstay.
I step outside.
The terrace stretches wide and open, the tiles still cool beneath my feet.A low wall marks the edge where the pool ends and the rest of the world begins—a slow slope down to the beach, where the sand lies golden and coarse, sun-warmed even now.
The sky blushes higher as the sun rises—soft pinks, warm golds, the last breath of night slipping away.I lean on the railing, elbows resting on cool stone, and look out where the water meets the sky.Where waves curl and break and whisper secrets I’d forgotten I was allowed to hear.
I’ve spent so long trying to hold things together—events, timelines, other people’s expectations—that I forgot what it felt like to simply be somewhere.
To not pretend that I’m okay and I can handle everything and anything.
To not apologize for taking up space.
And now I’m here.In someone else’s world.In a house I didn’t know existed until yesterday, with a man who’s rewriting everything I thought I knew about him—and about myself.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I close my eyes, let the breeze lift the hem of my tunic, and try not to think about Monday.Or the silence that might follow this.
The door behind me clicks softly.
I turn.
Dexter’s there—barefoot, bleary-eyed, hair a little wild.His T-shirt is wrinkled, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, and somehow he looks better than he did last night.Less guarded.Like he’s half-dream, half-real.
He pauses when he sees me, his gaze catching and holding like he wasn’t expecting me to be here.Or maybe like he was, and hoped I hadn’t disappeared.
“Hey,” he says softly, like the word might scare me off.
“Hey.”
His eyes scan me and there’s something reverent in the way he looks at me.
“You sleep okay?”he asks, stepping outside.
I nod.“Eventually.”
“I figured you were out cold when I checked in on you.”
“You checked in?”
His expression turns sheepish.“Yeah.Just ...stood outside your door like an idiot for a minute.Knocked and when there was no answer, I walked away.”
“I wish I had been awake.”
“It was for the best,” he murmurs.“If I’d seen you, I might not have let you go.”
