Page 72 of Every Shattered Note
Not really.
He turns back to the grill, lifting the snapper with a practiced hand, plating it beside roasted peppers and something else that smells like lemon and herbs.His movements are calm, precise.But there’s tension in his shoulders, the kind you only notice when you’ve been close enough to feel them relax under your palms.I watch him slice limes, thumb brushing along the rim of the plate before setting it down like it matters how the dish looks, like this isn’t just dinner—it’s a peace offering.
He slides a plate in front of me without meeting my eyes.Then he takes the seat across the table and exhales—long and low—like he’s been holding it in since the second I stepped onto the terrace.
For a moment, we just eat.The only sound is the forks against the ceramic.The sun dips lower, casting everything in this hazy, gold warmth that softens the edges of reality.It would be easy to let it blur.To pretend this is just a late vacation dinner and nothing else.
But we promised to stop lying.
I cut into the fish.Take a bite.It’s tender, citrusy, perfect.
“This is really good,” I murmur, meaning it.
His mouth lifts into the faintest smile.“Cooking’s the one thing I do that’s not tied to music,” he says.“It’s one of the few things that grounds me.My grandmother used to say you should always know how to feed yourself and someone you love.”
I glance up.His eyes are still on his plate.
“Also, it keeps my hands busy when I’m spiraling through an existential crisis or I don’t know what to say.”
“So,” I say, nudging, “you didn’t know what to say.”
He scoffs under his breath.“We needed to eat.But yeah—I still don’t.”
He chews slowly.Sets his fork down like he’s making room for something that’s more pressing than the fish.
“You okay?”he asks.
Just two words.But they land in a place I didn’t expect.He isn’t asking if I’m fine now.He’s asking if I made it through earlier without cracking.If I came out the other side of it whole.If I want to do it again.
I stare down at my plate.“I don’t know,” I say quietly.“I mean, I’m not okay.”
He finally looks at me—and there’s no trace of retreat.No panic.Just something patient and deep.Something that could undo me if I let it.
“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he says.His voice is low, scraped with restraint.“Pretending’s never been good for my sobriety.”
“You did pretend though,” I say, gently.“You let me believe you were someone else.”
“I know.”He nods.“And it would’ve gotten worse if I hadn’t told you when I did.”
I know he’s right.Maybe too much to unpack in one night.But there’s also us.And that feels more urgent.
The air shifts between us again.Subtle.Electric.He leans in, elbows resting on the table, eyes steady on mine.
“Let’s not shove it under the rug,” he says.
I blink.“Now?Over grilled fish?”
He huffs a short laugh.“If we don’t talk about it now, we’ll keep avoiding it.And I—” He runs a hand through his hair, voice almost breaking on the next words.“I don’t want this to be some vacation fuck.”
He says it plainly.Like he doesn’t know how to sugarcoat, or maybe just doesn’t want to.
I study him for a beat.“Everything that’s happened since I met you has been ...”I trail off, searching.“Unexpected?”
“Yeah,” he says.“Exactly.It’s surprising and new to me.”He swallows hard.“I’ve never been in a relationship.Not really.It was easier to just have a five-minute fuck and move on.For years.For too many years.Which, yeah, sounds pathetic for a man my age.”
He pauses.Breathes.
“With you ...it’s not like that.You’re not a habit.You’re not something I’ll forget once this trip ends.You’re not forgettable.”
