Page 4 of Heatstroke
He didn't sit so much as sprawl. His skin was gold-bright and damp from the sun, a film of salt still visible in the hollows of his collarbone. He carried with him the scent of the sea—mineral, faintly citrus, and unmistakably human. No sandals. No apology.
"You always eat alone?" he asked, dragging a chair out with his foot.
"I don't always eat," Daniel muttered, then frowned at himself for responding at all.
"Tragic. But today, I come bearing appetite." Thierry reached across the table without ceremony and plucked one of Daniel's fries from the still-steaming plate that had just arrived.
Daniel blinked. "Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious about fries," Thierry said, chewing with infuriating delight.
"You can order your own."
"But yours are here," Thierry replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He reached for another. "And they're hot. The universe delivers."
Daniel forced himself to breathe through his nose, to maintain that crumbling façade of Dutch politeness, the brand he'd worn so long it nearly fit. "Do you ambush every guest who wanders onto this island, or just the antisocial ones?"
Thierry leaned back, his gaze unflinching. "Only the ones pretending they don't want company."
That landed harder than Daniel wanted to admit. He said nothing. Sipped his coffee. Refused to meet the honey-bright eyes staring into him like they had a right to know.
"Eat faster," Thierry said suddenly, standing. "We're going to the market."
Daniel stared at him. "We?"
"Unless you've developed a twin since yesterday."
"I don't need?—"
"You do. You just haven't figured out why yet." Thierry's grin deepened. "Come on. You look like someone who forgot what fruits are supposed to taste like."
The heat had thickened by late morning. At Marché Ti-Flamme, it lay over everything—fruit, skin, metal, spice—making the air taste like cardamom and oil. Daniel walked through it reluctantly, his linen clinging again to his back, his brow damp despite the wide awning strung above the stalls.
Vendors shouted prices in French-Creole, pushing plantains, limes, bundles of herbs wrapped in banana leaves. Steel drums echoed faintly from some far courtyard, their syncopated clang adding a strange rhythm to the chaos. People moved easily around him, chatting, bartering, bumping shoulders without apology.
He hated it.
Yet Thierry moved like he was part of it—calling out to vendors by name, tossing greetings like pebbles into the tide of bodies, catching laughter in return. His dreadlocks had dried now, bleached strands shining under the sun. He held two mangoes in one hand, inspecting them as if choosing between lovers.
Daniel was about to slip away—feigning phone signal, feigning anything—when Thierry turned, caught him mid-step, and pressed a mango into his palm.
"You're not leaving," he said, low and final. Not threatening. Just certain.
Daniel glanced down at the fruit. "This isn't going to change my opinion of you."
"Not trying to. Just trying to remind your tongue what pleasure feels like."
He held the second mango up and used a small blade—where had that come from?—to carve a thin strip of skin away. The scent hit instantly: ripe, sweet, alive.
Then Thierry dipped one finger in the juice and, before Daniel could react, touched it to the corner of his mouth.
Daniel froze. The contact was fleeting. His pulse wasn't.
"Try it," Thierry murmured.
Daniel didn't move.
Thierry leaned in, his voice quiet beneath the din of the market. "You've got this wall around you. Concrete and glass. But even those get hot enough to crack."
