“Go back to the villa,” he orders.
“But—”
“Go.” His voice is final. The kind of quiet tone that ends negotiations before they start.
I hear her huff. Then the soft padding of sandals against sand as she stands and stalks away. She doesn’t argue further. Doesn’t even say goodbye. Just leaves.
Who is she?
Does it matter?
Why do I care?
I don’t.
Definitely don’t.
We’re alone now. Just us and the ocean and five years of silence.
My eyes drift to his clothes... he’s wearing linen.
Linen.
Corin Saelinger always wore wool suits and cashmere scarves.
He takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the angles of his face. I can smell him now. Leather and sea salt and something cedar-dark underneath.
This version of him evensmellslike he belongs here.
Do not spiral.
Do not catalog his clothes and scent like you’re filing evidence.
Do not—
“Amara.” He says my name.
Just once.
Just my name.
And every defense I’ve built over five years catches fire like that paper lantern I couldn’t light on my own.
Fuck.
I should leave. That’s what I do. I leave before things get complicated. Before people can use me. Before I have to watch someone I trusted become someone I can’t.
But my feet aren’t moving.
No, they’re planted in this sand like they’ve forgotten their primary function.
He’s watching me. I can feel it even though I can’t quite see his expression in the darkness.
There’s a question in the air between us.
Or maybe an accusation.
Or maybe just the simple, terrible acknowledgment that we’re both here when we shouldn’t be.
