Page 40 of Say You'll Stay
“There was a man,” I murmur, the truth slipping from my lips like water over a broken dam. “At the cafe, I thought I saw him…watching me.”
Louis stills beside me, giving no outward reaction beyond the sudden stillness of a prize cat zeroing in on unseen prey. But I can sense it simmering beneath his composure - a vibration of fury and readiness that sends a chill trickling down my spine.
When he speaks again, his voice is a low, sibilant growl, rough from barely leashed restraint. “Did he approach you? Try anything?”
“No,” I’m quick to reassure him, instinctively recoiling from the stark menace simmering behind those intense green eyes. “No, he…he just watched.”
With painstaking slowness, I feel the tension begin to bleed from Louis’s frame until he’s once again radiating that aura of tranquil, almost preternatural composure.
“That’s unacceptable,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “I’ll have it handled first thing tomorrow.”
It’s not a question or request, but a simple statement of fact from someone accustomed to determining his own reality rather than tolerating the ambitions of happenstance or interference.
There’s a weight to the words, sheathed in velvety tones and delivered with the utmost casual politesse, but noticeable all the same. As if each precisely measured syllable is a tempered razor’s edge capable of slicing straight through any obstacle.
With a shuddering breath, I burrow deeper into the shelter of his shoulder, chasing that oasis of warmth and safety. I don’t ask what he means by “handled” or how far he intends to take matters into his own hands.
The truth is, some part of me simply doesn’t care. That same instinctive corner that first tripped those panicked fight-or-flight signals has receded, quieted by the simple knowledge of Louis’s undeniable resolve and the ferocious promise of protection that radiates from his very being.
Tomorrow can wait, along with all its turmoils and uncertainties.
Tonight, as the car whisks us away through the neon-drenched veins of the city, I am content to simply surrender to the one thing that has always felt steady and true amid the madness that has plagued my life.
Tonight, I am finally, blissfully, at peace.
The San Diego night wraps around me like a velvet glove, rich with the tang of the Pacific and the faintest whispers of revelry. I step out onto the terrace of the sleek Airbnb I’ve claimed as my temporary sanctuary, seeking solace in the warm coastal breezes.
From here, I can take in the glittering cityscape, all towering silhouettes and neon arteries pulsing with vibrant life. A neon sign beckoning to the thrill-seekers and pleasure-chasers, promising deliciously wicked delights under the shroud of night’s murky embrace.
It should seduce me, this tantalizing invitation to indulge in the city’s intoxicating heartbeat. But tonight, the allure feels muted, dimmed by an undercurrent of unease rippling through my veins like a premonition.
My fingers curl tighter around the railing as my gaze scans the deepening shadows beyond the pool of golden light haloing the terrace. Somewhere out there, predators lurk - their eyes glittering with ravenous hunger, scenting vulnerability on the warm night’s breath.
Twisting a strand of hair between my fingers, I exhale slowly, savoring the salty caress of the evening breeze across my heated skin.
Breathe, just breathe.
Escape may prove elusive, but this fleeting illusion of tranquility is still mine to savor while it lasts. Because I know better than to trust in such fragile reprieves.
The other shoe always, inevitably, drops.
My grip tightens until the delicate bones in my hands ache in subconscious concert with the echoing ache pulsing between my thighs. Twin manifestations of the same profound yearning - to escape, yes, but also to surrender.
To revel in the very chaos from which I so desperately seek freedom.
Like gravity’s cruel jest, the treacherous path of my thoughts leads inexorably back to June and the cataclysmic, almost supernaturally charged intensity that arcs between us. We are two star-crossed celestial bodies, fated to collide in an explosive, scorching conflagration that will surely consume us both.
My pulse races at the mere thought of his name, a white-hot spike of mingled lust and despair piercing straight through the armor I’ve tried so futilely to forge around my battered heart.
With a shuddering inhalation, I force myself to turn away from the terrace’s threshold, retreating to the crisply appointed modernity of the rental’s interior. The air-conditioned atmosphere within is a jarring transition from San Diego’s balmy, tropical caress.
As the vapor-trailed scents of salt and seduction fade, I trail my fingers along the sofa’s sleek contours, marveling at the impeccable minimalist aesthetic. Such pristine elegance, I find myself musing, my thoughts turning wry and scathing. How utterly transcendent it must feel to exist in this ephemeral temple of calculated serenity and good taste.
To be unshackled from the eternally messy, fraught burden of emotion and history. To simply be, unfettered by the bruising riptides of sentimentality and all its catastrophic undertow.
Is that what this place represents? An immaculate reliquary of thoughtful design and philosophies of mindful, purposeful living? Or is it merely a sterile monument to the detached, the perpetually vapid and hopelessly self-deluded?
The cynical twist of my lips mirrors the bitter line of my musings. But before I can untangle that particularly thorny thread of melancholia, a hushed thud and soft scrape of sound from the hallway beyond snaps my attention back into razor-sharp focus.