3. Aria
THREE
Aria
Several days have passed since opening day, Ember’s engagement, and the start of something wonderful with Jon.
The memory of that kiss still burns beneath my skin.
The shop is back in order, Ember and Blaze are tangled up in their own bliss, and somehow—against all odds—Jon asked me out on a real date.
“You never said we’d be coming here.”
The gondola creaks as it glides along the narrow track carved into the cliffside, the sea glittering far below.
I press my fingertips to the cool glass, breath catching with each sway.
The coastline stretches out like a painting—jagged rocks, wind-tossed waves, a promise of something wild and unforgettable.
Jon stands beside me, one hand braced casually on the rail, the other stuffed in his pocket.
“Wanted it to be a surprise.”
That rare smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges in a way that makes something in my chest turn over. He holds a softness that I’m only beginning to see. A quiet joy he saves just for me.
The metal carriage slows, settling with a gentle bump against the landing platform on the beach. Jon pushes the door open and extends his hand. His palm burns against mine, calluses from years of fieldwork creating delicious friction that sends electricity racing up my arm.
Salt and freedom saturate the air, mingling with the scent of Jon’s subtle cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely him. Waves crash against dark stones, spray catching rainbows in the fading light. A narrow boardwalk leads down to the rocky shoreline.
Jon’s grip tightens as we navigate the weathered planks. “Watch your step.” His body angles protectively toward mine, shoulder blocking the wind as it whips strands of hair across my face. The way he shelters me stirs something deep in my chest, a dangerous hope I’m afraid to fully embrace.
A wicker picnic basket swings in his free hand.
This beach radiates a wildness—a rugged landscape of smooth, black and gray stones with tidal pools sparkling between them, like hidden treasures.
Nothing like the tourist-packed stretches of sand in Malibu, where people pose for Instagram rather than actually experiencing the ocean.
Above us looms Insanity—a modernist fortress of glass and steel perched atop the cliff like a crown.
“So Angel Fire really lives up there? All of them together?” The question bubbles up through my awe.
Jon nods, never releasing my hand. “They’ve always been more family than bandmates. Forest’s place sits just beyond that northern ridge—he shares it with Sara and Paul.”
We pick our way across the stones toward a sheltered alcove where the cliff curves inward. My curiosity about Jon’s past—particularly the parts he rarely mentions—surfaces despite my efforts to contain it.
“How often do you come here?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” Jon sets down the basket and unfurls a thick blanket with a swift flick of his wrists. “Forest has an open invitation, but I try not to intrude. This place means something to them.”
The blanket settles on the relatively flat stone surface.
Jon weighs down the corners with smooth rocks before gesturing for me to sit.
As I settle onto the soft fabric, the reality hits me—alone with Jon at this magical place, the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen painting the sky in watercolor strokes of gold and crimson.
Jon kneels beside the basket, unveiling containers one by one. His hands—capable of such precise violence when necessary—move with meticulous care, arranging strawberries beside rich artisanal cheeses and crusty sourdough bread.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Emotion rises unexpectedly in my throat, tightening it around the words.
“I wanted to.” Jon looks up, the dying sunlight turning his eyes to liquid amber, warm and rich with something that makes my heart stutter.
The heat of his gaze sparks a fluttering low in my stomach. I turn toward the darkening ocean, needing a moment to collect myself. In the distance, a seabird wheels against the purple-orange sky, free and unfettered.
“Tell me about the tidepools.” My voice emerges huskier than intended, betraying the effect he has on me.
Jon smiles and offers his hand. “Come on.” His fingers intertwine with mine, thumb brushing across my knuckles in a casual caress that feels anything but casual. “I’ll show you.”
We leave our shoes on the blanket and make our way barefoot across the stones. Each rock presses cool smoothness against my soles, worn by centuries of tides. Jon leads me to a collection of shallow pools near the water’s edge, each one a miniature universe glimmering in the fading light.
Jon crouches beside one pool, his finger hovering just above the surface. “Look.” The word holds reverence. “There’s an entire ecosystem in each pool.”
I kneel beside him, our shoulders touching, sending a cascade of awareness through my body.
The pool before us shimmers like polished glass, a miniature cosmos teeming with life.
Bright green anemones wave their tentacles in invisible currents.
A tiny hermit crab scuttles across miniature mountains.
Purple sea stars cling to rocky walls, their forms perfect and alien.
“It’s beautiful.” The whisper escapes me, the words inadequate for the wonder I feel.
“These little worlds survive against impossible odds. Twice a day, the tide leaves them exposed and vulnerable. Yet they adapt, persist, thrive.” Jon’s fingers skim the surface, creating ripples that dance across the pool.
The movement mesmerizes me—not just the water, but the strength in his hands, the careful control.
His words carry weight beyond their literal meaning. My gaze shifts to his profile, strong and defined against the darkening sky.
“Did you come here with them?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. My voice barely carries above the crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.
Jon’s hand stills in the water. Tension hums off him—not angry, just tightly wound. Then he nods, eyes still fixed on the tidepool.
“Yeah. Many times.”
Silence stretches between us, delicate and alive. A sea anemone ripples beneath the surface, curling in on itself, then slowly opening again, vulnerable but unafraid.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Don’t be.” He turns to me then, crouched low but suddenly towering in presence, gaze steady and unflinching. “Charlie and Brett were a big part of my life. They always will be. They’re family. But I’m not romantically involved with them anymore. That chapter’s closed.”
My heart knocks hard in my chest.
“What I want now…” His voice drops, rough-edged and reverent. “Is to explore what this could be. With you. Just you.”
I reach for him before I can second-guess it, fingers sliding over his, our palms brushing. His hand tightens around mine, grounding me.
“I want to build something with you. If you’re in.” Then he lifts our joined hands and gently drags his knuckles across my cheek, slow and warm.
I nod, too full to speak. But my fingers curl tighter around his, and he knows.
The sun dips lower, painting the water in deepening shades of gold and crimson. Jon rises, extending his hand. His touch lingers as he helps me up, thumb tracing small circles on my palm. “Come on. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”
Back at our picnic spot, Jon uncorks a bottle of white wine, pouring it into proper glasses before handing one to me. His fingers brush mine, lingering longer than necessary.
“To new beginnings.” He raises his glass, eyes never leaving mine.
I clink mine against his. “New beginnings.”
The wine’s flavor explodes across my tongue—crisp apple notes with hints of plum and something mineral, like the ocean itself distilled into liquid. We eat as the last light fades from the sky, stars appearing one by one like shy performers taking the stage.
The food disappears, replaced by comfortable silence.
Jon packs away the remnants while I wrap a blanket around my shoulders against the growing chill.
When he’s done, he pulls something from beneath a nearby pile of driftwood—more pieces he must have stashed here earlier, knowing exactly what this evening would need.
“Fire?” Jon gestures toward a small depression among the stones lined with blackened marks from previous flames.
“Yes, please.” I watch him arrange the driftwood, the practiced movements revealing a lifetime of outdoor skills I’m only beginning to discover.
The fire catches quickly, flames licking upward, casting his face in warm light and dancing shadows that emphasize the sharp lines of his jaw. His presence fills the space around us—not just physically, but something deeper, an energy that draws me toward him like gravity.
“You’ve done this before.” The observation slips out, my eyes tracing the confident movements of his hands.
“Spent half my childhood outdoors.” Jon settles beside me, close enough that our thighs touch through layers of clothing. “My dad believed camping built character.”
“Did it?”
“Maybe.” His smile flashes in the firelight, a quick glimpse of white teeth against tanned skin. “Or maybe it just gave me a useful skill set for when I need to impress pretty women on beach dates.”
The casual compliment heats my cheeks more than the fire. Jon’s arm slips around my shoulders, and I lean into him, our bodies fitting together with surprising ease. His scent envelops me—clean sweat, salt air, and that underlying note that’s purely Jon.
“I’ve been having the nightmares again.” The confession emerges quietly as I stare into the flames. “About the van. The needle. Waking up in that warehouse.”
“How bad?” Jon’s arm tightens, his body tensing slightly before relaxing with deliberate control.
“Three nights this week.” I trace patterns in the sand beside the blanket, focusing on the small movements of my finger rather than the memories. “Not as intense as before, but—they’re still there.”