His words settle like an ember under my ribs.
We finish breakfast in a long, warm hush. And when we step outside into the sunlight, it feels like stepping into a different life.
I have to look away. Out toward the street, the people moving on with their day, unbothered and untouched by the ache that’s settled into my bones.
I have so much to think about. A mess of memories to sort through. And a damn article to write before night falls.
But one thing is suddenly clear.
I think I might be falling again. Falling into something real. Something dangerous. Something new.
And God, I just hope I’m not falling for a devil in disguise. One who steals angel wings and tells beautiful, believable lies.
Because this time… I don’t think I could survive the fall.
The day gave way to something more. He didn’t want it to end with coffee and confessions.
“Come with me,” Dane said, his hand still in mine. “No phones, no plans, no bullshit. Just the day. Just us.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve gone home and buried myself in work.
But I didn’t.
We walked. Through the city, through the quiet lanes where the weekend hum softened into something that almost sounded like peace. His hand never left mine. Every time I tried to pull away, he’d tighten his hold, grounding me.
We wandered through bookshops and old record stores, trading stories in pieces. He laughed at the way I lingered in the travel section, fingers tracing the names of places I’d never been.
“I always knew you were meant to go far,” he said.
I frowned. “You make it sound like you knew me.”
“I did,” he said simply. “You just don’t remember.”
I tried to.
Tried to dig through the blur of high school the after-game parties, the noise, the girls who only smiled if it meant getting close to Blake, the boys who thought trophies came shaped like girlfriends. But I didn’t remember him. Not really.
Bits maybe a boy under the bleachers, long legs, dark hair, ink-stained fingers flipping through a sketchbook. I wasn’t sure if the memory was real or something my heart invented just to make sense of how familiar he felt.
“You were always reading,” he said, eyes soft. “History, art, poetry. You had this look like the world was too loud for you, and books were the only place that made sense. I used to watch you when you thought no one was looking. You’d tuck your hair up with a pencil, chew on the end, scribble like the page would die if you stopped writing.” His voice went quiet. “You had this light. I wanted to touch it, but I was too fucking dirty to try.”
The words caught in my chest. “Dirty?”
He nodded; gaze fixed on the horizon. “My mum… she worked nights. Said it was ‘just company for the lonely,’ but I wasn’t stupid. Men came and went. Sometimes three, four a night. They’d walk past me at the kitchen table I’d be trying to finish homework under the fridge light, and they’d run their hands through my hair, say things like, ‘You’ve got a stunner for a mum, kid. Real talent.’”
He swallowed hard, voice shaking. “They smelled like whisky and cologne and power. Some of them were well-known men businessmen, politicians. I used to hear their names on the radio, see their faces on TV. And I’d think, you fucking hypocrites.”
He went quiet for a moment, knuckles white where his hands clasped together. “Sundays were her day off. The only day she wasn’t someone else’s entertainment. She’d make pancakes and hum like nothing happened. Pretend we were normal. But she drank through it all. Vodka in her coffee, rum in her orange juice. And when she finally passed out on the couch, I’d just sit there. Watch the empty bottles. Listen to the walls breathe. Ihated her for what she became. But I loved her, too. Because I knew she didn’t know how to be anything else.”
The air around us changed. The sun felt sharper, crueller, as if it too was listening.
My throat ached, eyes burning. “Dane…”
He shook his head. “Don’t. It’s just life. Some of us get handed fire and learn how to walk barefoot.”
But I couldn’t stop the tears. They slid quietly down my cheeks, and my hands trembled the way my lip did like I was trying to hold back something that was already gone.
