Just Tristan.
Raw.
Lit from within.
Looking at me like I just handed him something breakable and holy.
He exhales my name like it hurts him.
“Stella.”
And then he kisses me.
Not wild this time.
Not punishing.
Not the hard, deep devastation of the plane.
This kiss is slower.
Warmer.
Full of all the things we haven’t said and maybe don’t need to yet.
His hands frame my face.
Mine fist in his shirt.
The wind lifts my hair.
The world narrows to salt air and his mouth and the impossible tenderness of being wanted like this.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly, “how long I’ve wanted to do this right.”
I close my eyes for one second, just to survive it.
Then I open them and whisper, “Show me.”
“Come on, baby.”
He takes my hand.
And this time when he leads me toward the hotel, toward the past, toward whatever version of us comes next?—
I go gladly.
The view is still stupid.
That is my first coherent thought as Tristan leads me through the lobby hand in hand like this isn’t the kind of place where women in cashmere and men with generational wealth come to hide affairs, close deals, and pretend they don’t notice each other noticing.
The ocean is all steel and silver beyond the windows. The Cliff Walk curves below in a dark ribbon along the water, edged in twinkling lights and the last stubborn remnants of late-fall elegance. Newport in summer is loud about its beauty.
Newport in fall is worse.
Quieter. Colder. More expensive.
