For a moment, neither of us says a word. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t try to come any closer. He looks as though he’s waiting. As if he’s trying to process that I’m standing right in front of him.
“I don’t know how to want you without the fear of losing you,” I say finally, my voice quiet but steady. “That’s the honest truth that I’ve been carrying since the first day you walked into that villa.”
He remains perfectly still, listening.
I continue. “I know I shut you down. Not just yesterday morning but also plenty of times before that. But you never gave up. Not once.” My throat tightens. “I’m not here because I’ve stopped being afraid. I haven’t. I’m here because I read your letter, saw that photograph, and realized I’d rather be terrified with you than safe without you. That’s the scariest decision I’ve ever made. But I trust it. I want to trust you.”
Something shifts across his face, slow and complete. Like a door opening from the inside that had been locked for so long.
“You came,” he says, rough.
“I came.”
“Then you know.” He steps closer, voice dropping low as he lifts one hand to cup my cheek. “You have to know I did all of it for you.”
“I know.” I exhale with a shaky breath. “I know that now.”
His fingers trace my jaw, soft and light, as if he were mapping out my face for the first time. I close my eyes, letting the simmering heat of his touch sink straight into my bones.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I whisper.
“That’s okay.” His forehead drops to mine. “We’re together. That’s what matters.”
“I don’t know how to do this without waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You don’t have to control it.” His breath brushes my lips. “You just have to stop running from it.”
I open my eyes.
He’s right there—across a decade of silence, one impossible island, forty minutes in an Uber with the photograph burning in my lap, and now this quiet house he bought when he was still a boy who believed in forever.
“I love you,” I say, because it’s true, and it’s always been true. “And I don’t think I ever stopped.”
His exhale is slow, shaky in a way I’ve never heard from him before—like he’s been holding that breath since he was eighteen.
“I love you, too,” he murmurs. “I never stopped, either, little one.”
He pulls me in—one strong arm around my back, the other threading deep into my hair—and I willingly lean in. When his mouth finally meets mine, the kiss is slow at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Then I open for him, and everything ignites. His tongue slides against mine, hungry and claiming, a low groan vibrating from his chest straight into mine. Ten years of silence, fear, and want pour out in the taste of him: salt, spice, and home. My body melts against his like it was always meant to.
When we finally break apart, we’re breathless, trembling. The fear is still there…but so am I.
Right here.
With him.
Epilogue
Six Months later
* * *
Scott
* * *
The ballroom smells of gardenias and candlelight.
I pull Lyla close to me, her hand folding in mine and head tucked just below my jaw as we sway to the rhythm of the slow music. I take in her scent of vanilla and something definitely her.
