"Hold on tight, chere." His voice was low, intimate, meant just for me, and then the engine roared to life and we were moving, the wind whipping through my hair as the bayou blurred past.
The ride was longer than I expected—maybe forty minutes through winding back roads that took us deeper into the parishthan I'd ever been. The houses grew sparser, the trees thicker, until finally we turned onto a dirt road that seemed to lead nowhere.
He killed the engine in a small clearing and helped me off the bike, his hands steadying me as I found my footing on the uneven ground.
"Where are we?" I asked, climbing off the bike and looking around at the dense trees and dark water, seeing nothing but wilderness and the golden light of late afternoon filtering through the canopy, my skin still tingling from the warmth of his body against mine during the ride.
"My grandmother's place. Well, what's left of it." He took my hand again and led me down a path I could barely see, pushing aside hanging moss and stepping over gnarled roots. "She died when I was sixteen. Left it to me, but I never..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "I never did anything with it. Couldn't bring myself to sell it. Couldn't bring myself to fix it up either." His voice went rough with old grief.
The path opened onto a clearing, and I stopped, my breath catching. A small cabin sat at the water's edge, weathered gray by years of neglect but still standing, its porch sagging but intact. A dock stretched out over the water, and tied to it was a small pirogue—a traditional Cajun boat, hand-carved from what looked like a single cypress log.
"Remy." I breathed his name, taking in the scene, the history written in every weathered board. "This is beautiful." I turned to look at him, watching the way his expression softened as he looked at the cabin, years of memories playing across his features.
"She taught me to play guitar on that porch." He pointed to a spot where two rocking chairs sat, covered in leaves but still recognizable. "Taught me to sing, too. Said music was the only honest thing about our family." His laugh was bitter, his ambereyes darkening with old pain. "She was right about that." He let go of my hand and walked toward the cabin, his shoulders tight.
I followed him, giving him space but staying close enough that he knew I was there.
"What do you mean?" I asked softly, stepping up onto the porch beside him, the old boards creaking under our feet, my hand finding the small of his back in a gesture of comfort as I watched the tension knot his shoulders.
He was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the water, his profile sharp against the golden light.
"The Thibodaux family is... complicated." He finally said, the words coming slow and heavy. "Old money. Old expectations. My father wanted me to be a lawyer. My mother wanted me to be a doctor. My eldest brother actually did both—law degree, then medical school, because one wasn't enough to prove he was better than me." His laugh was hollow, his hands gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white. "I was the disappointment. The one who'd rather play guitar than study. The one who'd rather make people smile than make them proud." He shook his head slowly, his curls falling across his forehead.
"So you learned to charm them instead." I said it quietly, understanding clicking into place, the picture of him becoming clearer with each revelation, my heart aching for the boy he'd been and the man he'd become.
"Gold star for the pretty lady." His smile was sharp, self-deprecating, his amber eyes meeting mine with something like defiance. "I figured out early that if I couldn't be what they wanted, I could at least be entertaining. Make them laugh. Make them forget they were disappointed." He turned to face me fully, leaning back against the railing. "You know what the worst part is? It worked. It worked so well that I forgot how to be anythingelse." His voice cracked on the last word, something raw and wounded bleeding through the cracks in his armor.
I stepped closer, close enough to touch, but I didn't reach for him. Not yet. He needed to say this first. Needed to let it out.
"When did you leave?" I asked gently, my voice soft in the quiet of the clearing, moving to stand beside him at the railing, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, close enough that he could feel my presence without me crowding him.
"The day after my grandmother's funeral." He stared at a spot somewhere over my shoulder, his jaw tight, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Packed a bag, took her guitar, and didn't look back." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "I told myself I was chasing my dreams. Pursuing music. But really?" He met my eyes, and the honesty there took my breath away. "I was running. I've been running ever since." He finished, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Running from what?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer, wanting him to say it, wanting him to hear himself say it, my green-gold eyes steady on his face as I watched him wrestle with truths he'd been avoiding for years.
"From being real. From being seen." He reached up and scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping. "If I'm always moving, always performing, no one can look too close. No one can see that underneath all the charm, I'm just..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Just what?" I stepped closer, reaching up to cup his jaw, turning his face toward me, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Tell me." I kept my voice gentle but firm.
"Just scared." The words came out broken, barely audible. "Scared that if anyone sees the real me, they'll realize I'm not worth the trouble." His amber eyes were wet now, tears he was fighting not to let fall, his whole body trembling with the effort of being this exposed.
"Remy." I said his name soft and fierce, holding his gaze. "Look at me." I waited until I had his full attention, until those amber eyes were locked on mine. "I see you. Right now. The real you. Not the charm, not the performance. Just you." I stroked my thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the dampness there. "And you know what I see?" I asked, holding his gaze without flinching.
"What?" The word was barely a breath, hope and terror warring in his expression, his amber eyes locked on mine like I held the answer to a question he'd been too afraid to ask, his hands trembling slightly where they hung at his sides.
"I see someone brave enough to stop running, even though it scares him. Someone who loved his grandmother enough to keep this place, even though it hurts. Someone who's been breaking his own heart for years trying to be what everyone else wanted." I let my voice soften, let him hear the truth in it. "You're worth the trouble, Remy Thibodaux. You're worth everything." I finished, watching the words land, watching something in him shatter and reform.
He kissed me.
It wasn't like Harper's kiss—desperate and hungry. This was different. Softer. Shakier. His hands came up to cup my face like I was something precious, his lips trembling against mine as a sob caught in his chest. He tasted like salt and honey and something sweet underneath, and I kissed him back gently, carefully, letting him take what he needed.
When he pulled back, his eyes were red and his cheeks were wet and his smile was the most real thing I'd ever seen on his face.
"I'm sorry." He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "This is probably the worst date you've ever been on. I'm supposed to be charmingyou, not crying on you." He sniffled, trying to pull himself together, his usual mask flickering at the edges.
"This is the best date I've ever been on." I said it firmly, catching his hand and lacing our fingers together. "Because it's real. Because you're real." I squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. "That's all I ever wanted from you." I let the words sink in.
He stared at me for a long moment, something wondering in his expression.
