Page 121 of Only Be Mine

We undressed each other without ceremony, hands lingering, smiles soft and unguarded. Trevor traced my skin like he was learning me again, reverent and careful, as if this moment mattered simply because it was ours.

When we finally came together, it wasn’t about heat or hunger. It was closeness. The quiet reassurance of bodies fitting, of being held without needing to explain anything at all.

He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing me in.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

I believed him.

After, he wrapped me against his chest, his arm secure around me as the night settled in. I listened to his heartbeat, steady and sure, and for once my thoughts didn’t drift elsewhere.

I slept curled against him, untroubled by dreams.

Our days settled into an easy rhythm.

Mornings with the curtains open, sunlight spilling across white sheets. Coffee on the balcony while the island woke up around us. Trevor swimming slow, lazy laps in the pool while I pretended to read and watched him instead.

“Are you actually reading?” he called one afternoon.

I lifted the book, then realized I had it turned upside down by accident.

He laughed, really laughed, the sound carrying across the water. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

“So are you,” I shot back. “You keep looking to see if I’m watching.”

He swam closer, resting his arms on the edge of the pool. “Maybe I like knowing where you are.”

His words felt unexpectedly… comforting.

We wandered the resort in the afternoons, hands brushing, sometimes linking without thinking. We shared drinks I couldn’t pronounce. We argued lightly over which dessert was better. Trevor insisted he was right. I let him be.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said once, smiling.

“What thing?”

“Letting me win.”

I shrugged. “Someone has to.”

He kissed my temple, pleased.

I laughed more than I expected to. Real laughter, the kind that surprised me with its ease. Away from home, away from familiar streets and faces, the ache inside me softened. It didn’t disappear. It just quieted enough that I could breathe easier.

“You seem lighter,” Trevor said one evening as we walked along the beach, shoes in our hands.

“I feel lighter,” I admitted.

It was true. Here, John didn’t feel like he was everywhere. The memories stayed where they belonged - inside me, not pressed into every corner of the world.

At night, Trevor held me like he was memorizing the shape of me, his touch steady and sure. I let myself relax into it, into him, into the simple certainty of being wanted.

I didn’t think about what came next.

I didn’t think about what we’d return to.

All that mattered was this.

We wandered into town one evening after dinner, following music drifting through the warm night air. A small open-air bar sat just off the beach, lights strung overhead, a band playing something slow and familiar.