“Anything.”
A pause.
Then, low and close to my ear, “You look beautiful when you’re mad.”
My whole body betrays me and softens at once.
“That was manipulative.”
“Was it effective?”
I cross my arms and refuse to answer.
He laughs under his breath and takes my hand anyway.
The drive doesn’t feel long.
Or maybe I’m just too aware of him beside me—his thumb stroking slowly over my knuckles, the quiet confidence in his body, the way he says nothing because he knows anticipation is doing half the work for him.
Eventually the car slows.
Stops.
A door opens.
Cooler air spills in this time.
Not just ocean now.
Memory.
Something in me tightens.
Tristan helps me out and turns me carefully, guiding me forward with both hands on my waist now.
The ground beneath my feet is smoother here.
Stone maybe. Or polished concrete.
Somewhere nearby, a fountain moves softly.
Voices drift faint and elegant from farther off.
My pulse changes shape.
“Tristan,” I say again, and this time there’s no laughter in it. “Where are we?”
He stops behind me.
I feel the heat of him at my back, close enough to burn through the thin fabric of my hoodie.
His mouth brushes my temple once before he speaks.
“Ready?”
No.
Absolutely not.
