Lyla stirs. Her lashes flutter. For a second, she’s still, eyes fixed on my collarbone, as if she’s processing whether last night was real or a dream she can still wake from.
Then awareness hits. Her body goes taut. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t melt into me again either. I feel the shift in her breath, the subtle tightening of muscles that were loose seconds ago.
I speak softly to her. “Morning.”
She swallows. “Morning.”
We stay frozen for a long moment. Her fingers flex against my side, then still.
“Oh, my god, we…” she whispers, almost to herself.
“Yeah.” I keep my hand light on her back. “We did.”
She glances around, like she’s bracing for impact.
“But it mattered,” I add quietly. “More than you know.”
Her gaze lifts. Searching, conflicted. As if the truth I gave her last night is reshaping everything she thought she knew about me, about us. Her brows pinch. She bites the inside of her cheek, no doubt reconciling the man holding her with the one who disappeared.
She doesn’t speak. Instead, she shifts slightly, her cheek on my shoulder. I feel her inhale, slow and deliberate, like she’s stealing one last breath of me before reality pulls me back.
I press my lips to her hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer, but doesn’t pull away.
We stay tangled until the distant thrum of helicopter blades slices the quiet. First faint, then louder.
Our bubble has officially been burst.
Lyla tenses. “That’s our ride.”
“Yeah.”
She eases out of my arms. I let her go, watching as she sits up. The sheet pools around her waist. Sunlight catches the faint marks I left on her skin. Nothing harsh, just echoes of last night’s reverence.
She reaches for her sundress on the floor and shakes it out. I grab my shorts and shirt nearby. We dress in fragile silence, as though speaking too loud will shatter what’s left.
At the bed’s edge, she pauses, fingers twisting the hem of her dress. “Scott…”
I look up.
“Thank you,” she says, a small smile flickering on her face. “For last night. For telling me everything.”
I nod. “I’m sorry it took us this long.”
Her eyes flicker. Something raw passes through them. Then she looks away. “We should go.”
Every step toward the door feels mechanical, pulling us from tangled sheets and whispered confessions.
Outside, the helicopter waits, rotors spinning lazily. A producer waves us over with a tablet. She looks to be relieved when she sees us.
“Oh, good, you two are still alive,” she says brightly, schooling her expression to a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ready to head back?”
Lyla nods. I place a hand on the small of her back, guiding. She doesn’t flinch but doesn’t lean in, either.
When we climb in, the door seals behind us. The chopper lifts off with the bungalow shrinking below.
Lyla shifts immediately and presses against the opposite door, staring out at the ocean like it holds answers my face can’t give.
