The villa smelled of coffee and sea salt.
I was flipping pancakes on the stove, dressed in a loose shirt that didn't belong to me, the hem catching at the tops of my thighs. The scent was Caspian — clean and fresh with the slightest whisper of smoke, as if he brought the storm with him wherever he went.
The sun was still below the horizon, pink and orange strobes swishing across the sky like paintbrushes. Balcony doors open, soft touch of waves and distant shriek of seagulls in the air. Sea shone like puddled gold, sunlight flashing upon it and illuminating it.
There was near quiet for a moment or two.
Near.
I piled the pancakes onto a plate, stacking them haphazardly because there was no way I could even consider the guards with guns stationed outside each doorway. Or the one good hour I'd managed to sleep since the break-in. Or Caspian keeping me wrapped in his arms on the beach like he didn't dare let go of me in case I shattered into nothingness.
Normal.
We were improvising.
Playing house as the world ripped wide at the seams.
But I needed this. Needed to imagine that there was something more than the fear. Something more than the ever-present hum of waiting for the next crash.
The sound of creaking floorboards, my heart skipped a beat.
I did not have to turn in order to realize that he was behind me.
Caspian was a living force — a stormcloud against my flesh, heavy and immobile. His was the filling presence of the room even when he didn't move, wrapping around me like an unseen rope.
"Trying to burn down the villa, I take it?"
His voice was deep, still rough with sleep, and it slid down my spine like a slow caress.
I turned off the stove and stood before him.
My breath caught.
He stood in the door, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on me with a ferocity that made my heart stumble. His black sweatpants were low on his hips, the waistband worn to the ridges of his stomach, and he was bare-chested.
There were fresh discolorations coloration his ribcage — black flowers of violence blooming on his body — but he didn't seem to have noticed anything. His dark hair was mussed, as if he'd run his hands through it a thousand times, and the stubble on his jaw line made him look even more formidable.
It was his eyes that killed me, though.
The manner in which he touched across me, slow and measured, touching across my naked thighs, the curve of my throat, the plump of my lips. His purpose was tangible — a presence even at ten feet.
I swallowed.
My throat closed up.
"I made pancakes," I got out, smaller in voice than I'd been.
He didn't move.
Didn't say anything.
Just stood there, looking at me like I was the sole purpose for which he'd exist on this planet.
I swung back out to the plate, shaking as I reached for the syrup bottle. "I wanted to eat on the balcony."
He came out of nowhere behind me.
His body was not fighting mine, but I could feel him — the heat of him radiating off of him in waves against the small of my back, the gentle touch of his breath along the side of my neck. My heart was pounding against my ribcage, every nerve ending in my body buzzing like a live wire.
Caspian reached around me, plucking a pancake from the stack with his bare hand, and bit into it like he hadn’t just shattered my entire nervous system.
“I’ll grab the coffee,” he muttered, voice dark and lazy, before disappearing back into the kitchen.
I gripped the countertop, trying to steady my breathing.
This was torture.
I didn't know how to do this — how to be this, trapped in this insistent, aching push and pull, hanging on the precipice of something too awful to utter.
But the worst part?
I did not want it to end.
We dined on the balcony, on shaky stools with plates balanced on our knees, the ocean rolling out in an unending panorama.
Caspian squeezed in so close our legs grazed each other, his unsocked calf skin bumping against mine as he adjusted every so often. His fingers rested against mine while he spooned syrup into my hand, and he didn't pull away at first — but simply left them there, running his thumb down the curves of my knuckles as if unable to resist.
We spoke not a word.
Films we'd watched. The odd birds that made nests on the cliffs beneath the villa. Whether pancakes would constitute enough food.
Each sentence contained something more substantial within.
Like we both feared that if we didn't speak, we'd be swept under by silence.
Once they'd eaten, Caspian removed whatever he was wearing and plunged into the sea.
I followed behind, water cool and refreshing against skin but I didn't notice.
We did this for hours — backstroke, waves off the shore that sucked us in like the world did not otherwise exist.
He wrapped around my waist once and drug us with him, dragging us down until we broke surface, and when we did he was smiling.
Genuine laughter.
The sound curled something inside me open.
I dove at him, pouring water down his face, and he encircled his arms around my wrists, pulling me into his chest with painful ease.
Our smiles melted.
It was so swift a movement, I hardly felt it.
But then he gazed at my mouth.
And the rest of me froze.
The world had been folded into the space between us — the pressure of his chest against mine, the salt water running from his eyelashes, the way his hands rested over my ribs as if he could not seem to let them go or hold on tighter.
Caspian's lips on mine, his face close to mine so that I could see golden flecks in the colors of his eyes.
For a moment, I thought he would kiss me.
For a moment, I hoped he would.
But he didn't.
He breathed for air, forehead to mine, and exhaled:
"This isn't real, Lily."
He and I both gasped, the lump in my throat aching.
"Then let's pretend it is," I barely managed to say.
His lids shut hard, his arms holding me like famished things to be enveloped by my body.
And did the rest of the day.
Played cards out on the patio. Slept wrapped up in each other's arms on the couch. Laid there looking at stars shining on in the blackness of sky, their glare bitter and brassy.
But when I awoke in the night, my chest tightening with the weight of terrors, I found Caspian sitting beside the window, a gun on the table by his side.
Waiting at the he door.
For both of us knew the silence would not last.
And the storm had already started.