Instead, I felt whole.
Not healed. It was too soon for that, but I was alive.
For the first time in months, I wasn't merely moving through my life. I was inhabiting it.
That terrified me because if I let myself want something again—if I let myself have something—then I was admitting that the part of me that had died with Marissa hadn't stayed dead. And if that were true… what did it mean for everything else?
The sun had climbed higher by the time I stepped back inside. The shadows had shifted, and the air in the bungalow felt warmer. I moved quietly, careful not to break the silence that lingered in the room.
Michael was still in bed but not sleeping. He lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head and the other resting on his chest. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He didn't jump when I came in. He turned his head slightly, met my gaze, and waited.
"Morning," he said
"Morning." I paused at the foot of the bed. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I've been up."
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
"Second thoughts?" he asked finally.
I considered the question. "No. Not about last night."
"But about something."
It wasn't a question. He'd read me already and seen me shifting my weight back and forth.
"It's about what happens after this and what we're doing."
Michael nodded slowly. "We don't have to figure it all out right now."
I crossed the room slowly and slipped out of my shirt. Then, I slid back beneath the sheet.
Michael's body was warm, and his breathing was steady. I didn't reach for him, but I settled close enough that our arms touched.
He turned his head to face me. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he decided not to.
There would be time for words. Maybe not today. Perhaps not even tomorrow, but I wasn't ready to walk away from whatever strange and fragile thing we'd begun to build.
Not when the ache inside me had finally shifted into something I could feel without drowning.
Outside, I heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter, so faint I might have imagined it. Our bungalow was away from areas frequented by other tourists. A chill raced up my spine despite the tropical heat. Perhaps paradise had eyes.
Chapter three
Michael
Thecoffeewasn'tgreat,but the view was almost enough to make up for it.
We sat in a shaded corner of the resort's open-air restaurant, just a few feet above the sand. There were no walls—only beams strung with orchids and a thatched roof that filtered the morning light into honey-colored strips.
A few lazy ceiling fans spun above us, not moving much air. It was a laidback place—slow, sun-drunk, timeless.
Beyond the railing, the beach sloped down to a curve of blue-green water. The marina stretched to the left, lined with yachts and fishing boats bobbing against the docks, their masts swaying gently. A catamaran crew unloaded crates from the deck, their voices full of broken French and laughter.
A bird called out somewhere deeper in the palms—sharp and melodic, almost too perfect.
